by Steph Post
He had spent the entire day up in Starke, a town he had quickly realized contained not much more than the state prison and a couple of bad buffet restaurants. Clive had been shuffled back and forth across the short length of the Bradford County Sheriff’s Office, and in and out of cramped rooms and cubicles badly in need in of wastebaskets and filing cabinets, before he was finally able to find one of the investigators who had been on the Kentsville church case. Clive had grown up surrounded by government bureaucracy. Back at home in Washington, D.C., his father was a retired commander of the fifth district of the Metropolitan Police and his mother was the long-standing principal of Longview Public High School. Still, he was amazed by the lackadaisical attitude that confounded his every attempt to locate the basic information he needed. By the time Clive had finally found himself at the desk of Detective Gail Pricter, an actual person who supposedly knew something about the case, he felt like he had spent the morning running a marathon through streets of molasses.
Considering the Wonder Bread composition of the office, Clive had felt relieved at the sight of Gail and figured that he had lucked out. The feeling was short lived, however, as Gail made it clear that Clive’s skin color wasn’t going to win him any favors with her.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Clive had been waiting beside Gail’s vacant desk for forty-five minutes and it was the first thing she’d said when she pushed past him and settled herself, plunking a plastic bag down on the mess of coffee and ketchup stained papers in front of her. She had only briefly glanced at him before pulling a foot-long sub out of the bag. Clive had rested his elbow on the desk and given her a winning smile.
“Is it that obvious?”
Gail didn’t respond. She slid the sub out of the paper wrapper and opened it up on her desk to inspect it. Clive cleared his throat, waiting for her to ask what he needed, but she was busy picking the banana peppers off the lumps of lunchmeat with her long, turquoise nails and then flinging each one into the trashcan at Clive’s feet. Clive finally took out his notebook and flipped it open to a blank page.
“So, you and Detective Isen were the investigators working the arson and homicide at the Last Steps Church down in Kentsville, correct?”
Gail didn’t look up from her sandwich.
“Goddamn peppers. If I wanted peppers, I would’ve asked. I don’t know why they gotta go and put them on everything over at Lou’s. It’s disgusting.”
Gail dug around in the plastic bag and pulled out a handful of mustard packets.
“And I don’t see why they can’t put the mustard on the damn thing for you. They pile the peppers on, but then you ask for mustard and they give you these Mickey Mouse servings. Don’t make no sense.”
Clive clicked his pen a few times, trying to get the detective to focus on him and not her lunch.
“Is that right? You were on the church case?”
Gail ripped open a packet with her teeth and then spat the triangle of plastic out onto her desk. She cut her eyes over at him as she squeezed out a curl of mustard.
“That’s right. You need to see my badge or something? You don’t believe me?”
Clive shook his head and tried to laugh.
“No. I just, I spent an hour this morning waiting on Detective Isen and then ten minutes talking to someone I thought was him, but who apparently is in charge of animal control.”
Gail obviously didn’t think this was funny. She squeezed on more mustard.
“Yeah, Bob’s out on leave. Gave himself a hernia trying to move some of those file boxes out of the way. Clean the place up a bit.”
She waved vaguely across the office and Clive followed her hand. The entire room was a maze of stacked cardboard boxes bursting with paper. He turned back to Gail.
“But he was on the case with you.”
“Yeah.”
Gail, finally satisfied with her sandwich, squashed it closed. She licked the mustard off her fingers and took a bite. Strings of pale lettuce fell to the desk when she pulled the sub away from her mouth. She was chewing loudly and Clive, who hadn’t eaten since a snack machine candy bar five hours earlier, felt faint for a moment. He needed to get the hell out of there.
“All right. That doesn’t matter. I’d like to ask you a few quick questions about the case, if you don’t mind.”
Gail slid open her desk drawer and pulled out a warm can of Shasta. She tapped the top of it and then pried it open with her fingernail.
“Who are you, anyway?”
Clive almost rolled his eyes. He’d figured the woman taking up space behind the front desk would have already told the detective who he was and what he was doing there. He tossed the notebook onto the desk, next to the pile of empty, twisted mustard packets.
“Special Agent Clive Grant. I’m with ATF. They sent me down from Atlanta to look into the church fire in Kentsville.”
Gail took another bite and spoke with her mouth full.
“Why?”
“Because the arson was in a church. There’s this federal hate crime law on the books...”
Gail slurped her soda.
“Okay.”
The word “federal” had obviously made her tune out, so Clive decided it was best not to go into detail.
“Anyway, I’m just down here trying to determine the reason the fire was set in the first place. If the location was purposeful or incidental. Because with the shootout and the homicide in the mix, it makes the whole thing more complicated.”
“Why?”
Clive rubbed his forehead. He was starting to feel like he was talking to a two-year-old.
“Because from the information we already received from the state’s attorney’s office, it seemed as if the shooting was the focus of the event. It sounded as if the location was inconsequential and the arson almost an afterthought.”
“Okay.”
Clive looked up at Gail. Her large brown eyes were pretty, if framed by too much mascara, but they definitely had a dull cast to them. He wasn’t sure he was getting anywhere.
“So. I just need to know what your thoughts are. Based on the investigation you’ve conducted over the past few months, and the evidence you’ve been able to collect since, do you think the arson was indicative of a religious hate crime?”
Gail dropped her sandwich and rubbed her hands together. She leaned on her elbows and seemed to consider what he was actually saying for the first time.
“A hate crime? Like, against the church?”
Clive did everything he could not to groan.
“Yes. That’s what I’m asking. When a member of the Scorpions…”
Clive flipped back a page in his notebook.
“A, um, man known as Ratface, when he threw the incendiary device through the church window, was he purposefully committing an act of arson motivated by intolerance of the religion practiced there?”
Gail glanced up toward the ceiling, thinking.
“No. I don’t think so.”
Clive waited for her to continue, but she took another bite of her sub instead. He was really beginning to hate that sandwich.
“Can you tell me why you think that?”
“Well, when we first questioned the Scorpions, right after they were arrested, the one who threw the bottle of gasoline at the church said he did it because he was pissed off. The whole club has pled not guilty to everything, but I remember he said that when we were hauling the boys in. Bob about slugged him. He don’t tolerate language like that.”
Clive jotted this down and then cocked his head.
“He said he was pissed off? So, he was angry. Was he angry at the church?”
Gail gave him a blank stare.
“Angry at the church? Why would he be angry at the church?”
Clive slapped the notebook back down on the desk. He was fed up.
“That’s what I’m asking. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Was this motorcycle gang against the religion practiced at the Last Steps Church
? That’s all I need to know. It’s simple.”
Gail whistled and then looked away.
“Boy, you need to watch that attitude. Talking like that won’t get you nowhere around here.”
Clive grit his teeth.
“Listen. I’m not trying to be disrespectful.”
“Uh-huh. You come down here from your big city of Atlanta, thinking you’re all that and a bag of Ruffles. That we don’t know what we’re doing down here in little old Bradford County. You’re trying to show off, I guess. Educate us a little. Teach us a few things we don’t know. Is that it?”
Clive shook his head vigorously.
“No. That’s not it. That’s not it at all. I just need some information so I can make my report. That’s it. What can you tell me?”
Gail was apparently as fed up with him as he was with her. She picked up the last bite of her sandwich and answered him dismissively.
“No.”
“No?”
“No, I don’t think the fire was a hate crime. I don’t see no reason why anyone involved would have something against the church or Preacher Tulah. I think the arson location was, what did you call it? Incidental. And I think the ATF needs to keep their nose out of other people’s business and let people do their own damn jobs. That’s what I think.”
Clive scribbled this in his notebook, but then caught himself. He looked up at Gail and narrowed his eyes.
“Preacher Tulah? Do you know her?”
He watched Gail’s eyes dart away from him.
“I know of her. Sure, everybody in the county knows of Preacher Tulah.”
Clive leaned forward.
“What can you tell me about her?”
It was like a door had slammed shut in his face.
“Nothing. I can’t tell you nothing.”
“But you know who she is.”
Gail shook her head stubbornly
“Like I said, everybody knows who she is. She’s just an old preacher lady down in Kentsville. Does a lot for the community. That sort of thing.”
“Her church is a little different than most, though, right? I met her yesterday and then spent some time looking into a few things. Last Steps is one of those old time religion churches. Pentecostal. Like, whooping and hollering, rolling on the floor services.”
Clive bit his tongue as soon as he said it. He wasn’t back in the office in Atlanta. Probably everyone down here was part of some kooky church. Gail’s vacant expression turned venomous.
“You, Mr. Smarty Pants, might not have respect for God where you come from, but down here, we do. And if you had any brains in that fool head of yours, you wouldn’t be talking about no preacher like that.”
“Even Preacher Tulah?”
Gail stood up from her desk and crumpled the paper sandwich wrapping in her hands. It was obvious that the conversation was over.
“Especially Preacher Tulah. If you know what’s good for you.”
Clive stared at the laptop screen; he still hadn’t touched the keyboard. He stood up and grabbed another beer bottle out of the sink. He struggled to open it and then threw the cap against the wall above the television before sitting down on the edge of the bed. Clive tried not to imagine what could be crawling around between the sheets.
After his meeting with Detective Pricter, the rest of the day had been a landslide downhill. He had spent the afternoon trying to track down the fire marshal, only to discover that he was on vacation in the Bahamas. He’d eventually been able to get his hands on the fire investigation report, but it hadn’t told him much more than the fact that, yes, there had indeed been a fire in the church. By the time he’d finished up at the courthouse, Clive had been ready to wash his hands of Starke for good. He’d driven back to The Ramada Inn and the news that a pipe had broken on the second floor and his room, and most of the hotel, was under an inch of water. All of the other guests had already been moved to The Best Western, which was now full. The manager had only shrugged and told him to try Kentsville. Hence, his current situation of sitting in the dark in a $29.99 room at The Pines.
Clive rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the bunching knots, and then glanced over at his laptop. All he had to do was type up the damn report. It was obvious that the incident didn’t fall under the CAPA law and wasn’t a federal matter. It was a local case and not worth the ATF’s time. Period. End of investigation. End of story. The report would take him less than half an hour to write and send. He didn’t even have to stay the night if he didn’t want to. He could be on the road north by ten and back in Atlanta before the sun came up.
Clive pulled his BlackBerry out of his pocket and stared at it. But then there was Sister Tulah. Clive couldn’t figure it out. Sure, she was unnerving. With her one lurid eye and her steely, commanding voice. With her office in the back of the creepy furniture store and the silent old men surrounding her, looking for all the world like geriatric FBI agents. But it was more than that. Detective Pricter had made it clear that he shouldn’t be asking questions about Tulah, and she hadn’t been the only one. Clive had made sure to mention Tulah’s name to others on his way out of the sheriff’s office, and at the courthouse, and the responses had been similar: either silence or praise. When he’d come back down to Kentsville, Clive had decided to ask some of the locals, too, just to see what would happen. From the bank manager to the teenage girl at the checkout of the Save-A-Lot, the reactions had been the same. And behind each comment about Tulah, Clive detected traces of the same emotion: fear. Though he was sure no one would admit it, he was certain that everyone he spoke to was terrified of Sister Tulah. It didn’t make sense. She was old. She was a woman. She was a preacher, for Christ’s sake.
Clive ran his thumb over the smudged screen of his phone and took a deep breath. He dialed the number for his supervisor, not sure if he wanted the call to be answered or not. It was picked up on the first ring.
“Special Agent Grant.”
As always, she said his name like it was some sort of sarcastic joke. Like she was amused that he still existed. Clive swallowed the rest of his beer and set the bottle between his feet.
“Vickie.”
Clive knew that his boss hated to be called her by her first name. He assumed she even made her boyfriends call her Special Agent Lopez in the sack. Last year, the office had all chipped in to buy her a cake with Happy Birthday Victoria! written across the top in purple icing. She’d been so pissy about it, she hadn’t even blown out the candles.
“What do you want, Grant? I’m busy.”
She sounded out of breath and Clive figured she must be at the gym. Lopez was the type to keep her cellphone stuck in her sports bra while doing miles on the treadmill. Clive rolled his eyes.
“I wanted to ask you if I can take a few more days here.”
“Where are you again?”
“Florida.”
“Florida?”
Clive grit his teeth.
“Yeah, Florida. A podunk town in the middle of nowhere. You sent me here to look into that church fire for a CAPA report remember? You owed some friend at the Tampa office a favor or something, so we picked up the case? He couldn’t be bothered to send one of his own agents all the way out here.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. You need more time?”
Clive knew he couldn’t tell Lopez that something about the town and Sister Tulah was needling at him. She’d think it was ridiculous and order him back to the office immediately.
“Just a day or two.”
She sounded bored with him already.
“Grant. It’s not rocket science. Talk to the detective on the case, talk to the fire marshal, write up the report. Sending you down there was just a formality. The state’s attorney we already talked to made it clear—this isn’t ATF’s jurisdiction. Just dotting Is and crossing Ts. Got it?”
It sounded like Lopez was still running. Clive could imagine her high, perky ponytail swishing with every step. He ground his teeth and swallowed his pride.
“Are you kidding me? Do I need to come down there and hold your hand through this?”
“The case doesn’t seem as clear as the state’s attorney made it. I just want to look into a few things.”
“You know that if you say this arson is federal, Krenshaw’s going to shit a brick. There’s a list a mile long of cases with a higher priority. You know, cases that actually matter.”
Clive stood up from the bed.
“I know, I know. I’m not going to rock the boat. I just want to be sure that I do this right.”
Lopez snickered.
“Don’t want to screw this up and get sent back down the dungeon, huh?”
Clive squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced.
“Yes. Exactly.”
“You’d better not be staying at a Hilton. That’ll be a pain in the ass to explain on the expense reports.”
He hoped Lopez’s shoelace got caught in the treadmill belt. He hoped she fell flat on her sweaty face and broke her nose.
“Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing above a two-star hotel for a hundred miles in all directions.”
“Jesus. All right, do what you got to do.”
Clive started to say thanks, but Lopez had already hung up on him.
For Judah, Lesser’s absence was more noticeable than his presence had ever been. Judah had never really paid too much attention to Lesser at the salvage yard, but now he kept expecting to see the kid pass through the bay doors, the sunlight haloing his lanky silhouette, on his way to grab a soda from the mini-fridge or change the station on the boom box. Ramey had turned on the radio when they came in that morning and it now occurred to Judah that the classic rock station had stayed the same all day. Lesser hadn’t been there to twist the dial over to a new station every half hour.
