Tested by Fire

by Pat Patterson

  “Well, it’s up to you, Jim, but it sounds to me like God is calling you. I think you should go.”

  “But, Sonny…I’m not…Sid was the evangelist, not me. I don’t know anything about religion. I’ve never even read the Bible. I can’t, I don’t know how, I don’t want to tell other people what happened to me. Right now I’m so confused I don’t know what happened!”

  “You might actually discover that God has a job for you.”

  “But me? Sonny, me?”

  “Why not? Sharing your faith with others, son, it’s as natural as breathing.”

  “What faith? Sonny, I don’t know anything about faith, all I did was…”

  Jim got a sudden blank look on his face. He walked behind the counter. Without saying a word he picked up the telephone, dialed a number and waited. Sonny stepped aside to give him some room.

  “Bill?” he said, turning slightly as if for privacy. “It’s Jim.”

  Sonny moved to the other end of the counter and glanced at the computer screen. The web page showed a satellite image of the East Coast. A heavy mass of purple, red, orange and blue sat just off the coast about a hundred miles southeast of Wilmington. The first tropical storm of the season. He double-clicked the mouse and the image refreshed itself, indicating slow northern movement.

  “I had a message you called,” Jim said.

  Sonny watched Jim’s facial expression change from bleak to cheerful, and back to bleak again in less than ten seconds.

  “I know what I did was stupid, but…well what makes you think I’d even want to come back in after the way you…”

  It seemed that Jim could hardly get in a word. The boisterous voice on the other end of the phone did most of the talking. Sonny couldn’t make out the words but he could tell by Jim’s expression that the news was good.

  “Okay,” Jim said. “I understand. I guess we all made some mistakes that night…right…our shift goes back Monday night. How about then?” Jim shook his head. “I don’t need any time off…no, that cut on my back is only…it should be fine by then…no sir, you know I can’t stand sitting around the house…okay, but…yes sir…yes sir, that would be fine. Light duty, okay. Thank you.”

  Jim hung up the phone. “My supervisor. Guy’s pretty much an idiot. He suspended me yesterday for that fight, but now he wants me to come back in. All he cares about is keeping warm bodies on the trucks.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Excellent. Now,” Sonny said raising a bushy eyebrow. “What about tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Jim walked back over to the picture window and stared across the marina in the direction of East Beach. He sighed. He shook his head. He turned and looked at Sonny as if he had no idea which direction to turn. “It kind of looks like I’m going to a revival.”

  Chapter 21

  Rico hated piers. The mere sight of them tightened his stomach. Maybe it was because he swam like a rock. Or maybe, he thought, it was the fact that he had no idea what swam just beneath the surface of the water. But whatever the reason, as he walked out on the Triple-S Pier, past the breakers and over the deeper water, he got the same uneasy feeling he always did that he was going to fall in. He tried his best to ignore the gaps between the planks and kept walking.

  He reached the halfway point and saw no sign of his connection. Only five other people were even on the pier and they were all fishing. All looked to be locals: leathery skin, fancy fishing gear, no apparent concern for time. They leaned lazily against the wooden railing tending their poles and staring vacantly over the side. One man looked to be asleep. As Rico passed by he heard contented snoring. Another, a toothless gray haired woman in yellow foul-weather gear and rubber boots, reeled in a fish. She lifted it over the railing and tossed it onto the deck in front of Rico.

  “Whoa!” Rico gasped and jumped back. “Is that a shark?”

  The old woman reached down with a gloved hand, picked the fish up just behind the dorsal fin, and yanked out the hook with a pair of needle-nosed pliers. “That,” she said, tossing the fish over the railing, “was a bull.”

  “A bull shark?” Rico leaned over the railing and watched the shark splash back into the surf and disappear. “Are bull’s dangerous?”

  “Hey, Joseph,” the old lady cackled. “Are bulls dangerous?” Rico heard a grumble. The old man didn’t seem interested in the conversation. The old woman chuckled, withdrew a can of snuff, and packed a wad of tobacco into her lower lip. “The big ones are man-eaters.”

  “I didn’t know we had man-eaters around here.”

  “All kinds. Ever since their food supply started to dwindle off shore and they started moving in.”

  Rico felt his stomach turn. “Have they gotten anybody?”

  “People? Sure. A diver disappeared last week off Frying Pan Shoals. They say a bull got him.”

  “A diver?” Rico gazed at the water and tried to imagine the horror. It made him feel sick to think of it, and yet at the same time he felt strangely drawn to the water. He tiptoed to the railing and ventured a nervous glance over the side of the pier at the huge barnacle encrusted pylons. A large swell rose up like a thick liquid blanket, enveloped the legs, and then just as quickly dropped, its huge mass rolling silently toward shore. Rico felt his stomach twist. He tasted bile in the back of his throat.

  “You can’t blame ‘em though,” the old woman continued. A shark’s gotta eat too.”

  “Yeah?” Rico backed away from the railing. “Well they ain’t eating this mama’s boy.”

  The old lady cackled again and slid a piece of fresh fish onto her hook. “You just be careful you don’t fall through one of those cracks, boy.”

  Rico felt himself jump. He glanced down at the planks and felt himself rise up onto his toes. The old woman seemed to feed off his fear, like a hungry shark drawn to blood.

  “We wouldn’t want you down there floundering around, now would we?”

  “Hey, lady!”

  With that the old woman broke into wild laughter. The old man joined in too, grunting and chuckling, his mouth breaking into a wide toothless grin. Rico felt like a fool. He turned away from them and continued walking toward the end of the pier, chastising himself as he walked.

  “Hey,” the old woman called. Rico stopped and turned. “Be sure to come back soon now. Bull’s like nice looking young fellers like you.”

  More laughter.

  “Aye carumba.”

  Rico quickened his step and continued down the pier. The taunting continued until becoming nothing more than muffled laughter drowned out by the sound of the surf and the whir of the breeze. “Sir?” he heard his earpiece crackle. “Who were you talking to back there?”

  “Some brain-fried old fisherman, er, woman.”

  “Well, stand tall, someone’s coming. Black male, eighteen years old, Chicago Bulls team jacket.”

  “Is it our mark?”

  Rico waited a few seconds for Lance to come back. In the meantime he drew up a mental image of Zee. He remembered the frightened look he’d seen in the boy’s eyes when they’d met on Core. He wondered if he’d see it again.

  “Sorry, sir,” Lance said. “He walked right past me.”

  “Was it him?”

  “Has to be,” Lance whispered. “I’ll never forget those eyes.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He just left the bait shop.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Carrying?”

  “I couldn’t tell, sir, but he looked bloody frightened.”

  “All right, Lance. Stay on line. I’ll call if I need you.”

  “Four.”

  Rico unhooked his pistol guard, folded his arms across his chest, and watched a tall young man exit the bait shop and start up the pier in his direction. He seemed nervous, stopping every ten feet or so to glance over his shoulder, as if he were more afraid of what was behind him than what lay ahead. Rico tapped his pistol grip as he
waited. The young man grew closer. Soon the details of his face emerged and Rico got his first good look at the teenager’s eyes. Yep.

  “That’s him, Lance, stand by.”

  Rico waited until Zee was within speaking distance and called out to him. “We’re all alone out here, Zee. You can relax.”

  “Can’t relax.”

  Rico unfolded his arms. “Let me see your hands.”

  “You don’t need to pat me down, man. I’m packing.”

  “You got a gun?”

  “Got a nine. Can’t take a step no more without worrying for my life.”

  “Tell you what—” Rico rested his right hand on his Smith & Wesson. “You keep your hands in plain sight and we won’t have any problems, know what I mean?” Zee nodded. Rico continued. “Got something to tell me?”

  “You said you wanted information. I can give it to you.”

  “Why would you?”

  “I need your help.” Zee’s eyes reddened. Rico thought he looked like he might cry. “I need out of the gang, sir.”

  “I didn’t think you could get out.”

  “Can’t.” Zee turned and glanced back down the pier. “That’s the problem. Once in, you a member for life.”

  “Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “You know the preacher? The one who died the other night on Core? It think it might be my fault.”

  “Why?”

  “That tent…that revival tent down on the corner of Core…I went to it to see what they was doing. And the preacher, he pulled me aside, preached at me about Jesus, and how I should get saved. I got scared, man. Ran out. But that preacher, he followed me. I mean I think he really cared, you know? You could see it in his eyes.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Jay, man! He just went crazy, man! Beat him up, and then…”

  “Then?”

  “I wanted to do something, man, but I was too scared, I…”

  “Zee—” Rico placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Tell me what happened. Did J-Rock kill the preacher?”

  “I mean, Jay, man…you can’t cross him, man. No one can.”

  “Zee! Did William Jackson kill the preacher?”

  Zee hesitated. “He did. And he’ll kill me too!”

  “We’ll protect you.”

  “Or he’ll get Michael to do it…Michael hates me anyway.”

  “Zee, listen to me, son. Do you know where can I find him?”

  “No, ever since that night, Michael’s been running the gang. He says Jay ain’t coming back, says he ran off to Durham, got friends there or somewhere, but I don’t believe it, I think he’s still here and I think Michael knows where.”

  “Got any ideas?”

  Zee nodded. “There’s an old houseboat up near The Commons.”

  “A houseboat?”

  “I went there with Michael last week. They’re setting up a mobile meth-lab, man, one they can move.”

  “On a houseboat? Do you think you could find it, Zee?”

  “No, it was dark, and I didn’t pay much attention to where we was going to, somewhere up around The Commons, old boats everywhere. But if you can find it, man, you might find the Jay. You watch him, sir. Michael too. He don’t like you. I heard him talking about setting some kind of trap.”

  Rico believed it. Michael Johnson was a force to be reckoned with. And one day, he figured, he’d have to. But at the moment he had another question on his mind.

  “Tell me about the Posse, Zee.”

  “Posse is bad dudes, man.”

  “Tell me what you know about them.”

  “I know the Crew sells their drugs. And I know Michael and Jay make a lot of money off it.”

  “Where’s their operation?”

  Zee’s face seemed to brighten. He looked eager to talk, as if Rico were his priest and the pier his confessional. “They stay all over the place, man, mostly in the woods around Havelock, but I hear they got meth-labs everywhere. They got one here on the island. In the old Northside Grill. They moved in last month. Painted over all the windows so you can’t see in. Got a bunch of tables set up inside, covered with stoves and chemicals and propane tanks and all kinds of junk for cooking the meth. They’re turning out a lot of it too, enough to keep this whole place rolling.”

  “You’re positive about the location? You’ve seen it?”

  “No doubt.”

  Rico listened for the next ten minutes. Zee provided him with information about the layout of the grill, the Posse’s manpower, and standard operating procedures for packaging and delivery. He placed a phone call to headquarters then turned back to his informant.

  “Who else knows about this meeting, Zee?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You’re sure? Michael? One your friends maybe?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Okay, I know of a halfway house on the other side of town. You’ll be safe there. In the meantime I’ll be working out some other arrangements.”

  “There’s something I need to do first. I gotta go back to that revival, man. Tonight.”

  “I can’t allow that, Zee.”

  “But I have to. Gotta set things right with God.”

  Rico gave Zee plenty of time to get away before walking back down the pier. “Lance,” he said, no longer concerned about the spaces between the planks, “I’m on the way out. Is he gone?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Any sign of trouble?”

  “Negative,” Lance responded. “He passed right through and disappeared down the street.”

  “No Crew?”

  “No Crew. Did you get what we came for?”

  Rico walked through the screen door and saw Lance leaning up against the pool table, his hands in his pockets and a curious look on his face. “What we came for and more.” Lance switched off his voice-activated headset and walked over. Rico took a quick look around the shop. A fat man sat behind the counter reading a newspaper, otherwise, the shop was empty. “Old Northside Grill.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Posse’s newest meth-lab.”

  “Do you think the lad’s reliable?”

  “He was scared to death, Lance. And get this—he’s willing to testify about the Drake murder.”

  “He knows who did it?”

  “Saw the whole thing. Says it was J-Rock.”

  “You were right. So what’s our next move, sir?”

  “Find J-Rock. And organize the Knight Squad. We’re gonna pay the Posse a little visit.”

  Chapter 22

  Jim took a swig from the bottle. The liquid burned. It felt good. He took another. He needed the strength. The courage it would bring. He took a third bolt and then replaced the cap and tossed the bottle into the glove compartment. He felt lightheaded, but not because of the whiskey. The small white revival tent at the corner of Club Boulevard and Core looked like about the scariest place on earth. Bright lights. People. A tall skinny man standing at the front holding a Bible and preaching. The thought of walking in and facing a tent full of repentant sinners made Jim’s legs weak. He sat in his pickup truck, gripped his pistol, and nervously flipped the safety on and off while trying to figure out just what in the world he had gotten himself into. Maybe, he reasoned with himself, continuing to fiddle with the gun, I’ll tell Jonas it was all a big mistake. Yeah, that’s it. I’m not ready. He’ll understand, he has to, after all, what choice has he got? He can’t make me do this. It’s not up to him. Jim felt so uptight, so intent on abandoning his mission, so righteous with his decision to back down that he had no idea his index finger was tightening around the trigger. The pistol fired. An ear-shattering boom echoed through the truck’s interior. A semi-jacketed hollow point round shot through the upholstery and into the doorframe just above his left knee.

  “Holy—”

  Jim practically jumped out of his seat. He clicked on the safety, dropped the ammo clip and immediately racked the slide to remove the chambered round. He started the engine, rolled down the
windows to clear the truck interior of cordite, and then sank low in his seat, his heart racing. Apparently no one had heard the shot. Traffic continued as usual.

  “Idiot!” he chastised himself. “What’s wrong with you? Get a grip! Get off your tail and walk over there. Tell him to forget it!”

  Aptly inspired, Jim got out of his truck and locked the doors. Mission aborted. He had no intention of following up on his promise. This guy Jonas was a nut. And Sonny? Well, he would just have to get over it, wouldn’t he? He sniffed his fingers and realized that they smelled like a freshly fired gun. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked across the street.

  Jim walked across the lawn and stopped just outside the tent. He stood for a moment in the relative darkness of twilight and stared inside. What he saw surprised him. It wasn’t the neat, impressive affair he’d expected. Fresh wheat straw covered the floor. The air had a carnival-like aroma. Rows of stringed incandescent bulbs hung from the rafters above ten rows of neatly aligned folding chairs. Two stereo speakers sat on the small stage at the front. Recorded organ music played, just barely drowning out the constant hum of the evening traffic.

  Jim looked around the tent at the dozen or so people already seated. Most, he noticed, were elderly folks. A few youngsters sat scattered about. Jonas Edwards stood at the front of the tent dressed in a plain black suit and red tie. Jim remembered him having silvery hair, but under the harsh lighting it looked more like snow. He seemed taller too, and bent over at the waist as if he were having trouble standing. His sermon was apparently finished. He stood with his head bowed while the taped organ music played. Jim walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Jonas?”

  Jonas spun on his heels and gazed at him for a full second before his eyes flew open wide. “Oh, Jim! Hello! Good, good, I’m so glad you made it. I can sure use you tonight. How’s your head? Are you feeling better?”

  Jim rubbed his temple and nodded. The goose egg had flattened down into a small sore lump. “It’s okay.”

  “Good, good, you looked mighty rough this morning. So?” Jonas spread his arms and smiled. “Welcome to our revival tent. What do you think?”