Walk In the Fire

by Steph Post

  “Because I want something from you.”

  Clive leaned all the way over and rested his forearms on the edge of the window.

  “Let me just be straight with you, Brother Felton. Because I think you’re a good guy. I think you’re a guy who tries to follow the rules. You probably drive the speed limit, don’t you?”

  Felton nodded warily.

  “I thought so. You’re the kind of person who likes to do the right thing, just because it’s the right thing. Which is why I’m so surprised that you just go along with Tulah and all the wrong things she does.”

  Brother Felton frowned.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Clive had been expecting more of a reaction out of Felton.

  “I mean, I know your aunt has done some terrible things. Illegal things. Bribed people. Threatened people. Maybe worse. She is a bad, bad person. She’s hurt a lot of people. You know that, right?”

  Felton slowly shook his head.

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Oh yes, you do. So let me be clear here, Brother Felton. Because I’m tired of standing out here in this stinking, hot, cesspool of a parking lot. You’re facing a choice. You should be thanking your lucky stars that I’m giving you one. And I’m only doing it because I like you and I think you’re a good guy. You can either cooperate with me, help me, or you can go down with the ship and I’ll just be waving at you from the shore as you drown.”

  “What?”

  Clive stood back from the car. He opened his wallet and slipped out a card.

  “I’m taking Tulah down. She’s going to be arrested on so many charges it’ll make your head spin. If you help me, if you give me the information I need, you won’t be implicated. You won’t rot in prison alongside her. If you inform on Sister Tulah for me, you’ll be a hero. But if you don’t, you’ll be nothing more than just another lowlife criminal. And trust me, Brother Felton, I don’t think you’d last very long in a supermax. Not very long at all. And it would be a sad, painful, humiliating way to leave this earth.”

  Clive flicked the card through the window.

  “So, you just take some time and you think about that. You think about that and then you think about what it means to stand up and be a man. If you have it in you to do the right thing. And then you call me. Soon. Otherwise, I’m going to assume you chose to side with the devil on this one. Understood?”

  The card had fallen down between Felton’s legs, onto the floorboard. Felton stared at it, but made no move to pick it up. He didn’t nod or say anything, but only sat there with his head bowed, clutching the soggy box of chicken. Finally, Clive smacked the roof of the Buick and walked away, shaking his head. He hoped it had worked; he needed Felton. Much more than he cared to admit.

  FELTON HAD the box of chicken ready. He held it up where Tulah could see it when she opened the front door. As he had guessed, she was less than thrilled than to see him.

  “I brought you some chicken.”

  Sister Tulah stood in the front doorway to her house and pursed her lips. She didn’t take the cardboard box from him, didn’t even look at it. She did, however, turn and walk into the foyer without closing the door behind her. Felton carefully wiped his feet on the bristly Christ is Lord mat and followed Tulah inside. The house was filled with shadows, the heavy curtains drawn across every window as always. Tulah lumbered into the dark living room and clicked on the lamp next to her La-Z-Boy. Felton waited for Tulah to settle herself before sinking into the middle of a deep, leather couch. He set the box on the glass coffee table between them and nudged it toward her. Sister Tulah looked at it with disgust.

  “Oh, how nice. You brought me your leftovers. You used to eat every meal in this house with me. You used to sit right in there, at my dining room table, eating food I worked hard to prepare for you, and you were grateful.”

  Felton didn’t look where she was pointing. He remembered eating every meal with his aunt, but he certainly didn’t remember her cooking it. Kraft macaroni and cheese was about the most homemade dish Sister Tulah had ever served. She clicked her tongue at him.

  “But look at you now. All up on your high horse. Gracing me with your presence. Gifting me your leftovers, the scraps and bones you don’t want to eat.”

  Felton nodded toward the box.

  “That’s a combo platter in there. The number three. There’s a piece of sweet potato pie on top.”

  Sister Tulah’s one pale eye bored into him.

  “What do you want, Felton? I am sure you are aware that I’m leaving in less than an hour. I have a long drive ahead of me.”

  Felton glanced around the room. Not one stick of furniture, not one collector’s plate or empty glass vase, had been moved since he had decided to live on his own. Of course, nothing had been moved really since he was seven years old, coming to live with his aunt and uncle for the first time. Uncle Walter had been dead for twenty-two years, but his corduroy armchair still haunted the corner of the room and no one was allowed to sit in it. Felton lamely turned back to his aunt.

  “Can’t I just come by for a visit?”

  Sister Tulah clasped her hands in her lap and leaned back in the chair, rocking it a few times.

  “Ever since you decided to leave me here alone and move into that tin can out in the woods, you only come to my door when you want something. Need something.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is if I say it is.”

  Felton thought about reminding her that he had saved her life. That if he hadn’t taken up the heavy cross and bludgeoned Sherwood Cannon in the head, Tulah wouldn’t be sitting across from him right now. But he dared not. It was true that his confidence had been building since he had rescued Tulah in the church, but that didn’t mean he still wasn’t held in abject terror of his aunt. As he and everyone else should be.

  Felton also considered telling Tulah about his conversation with Agent Grant in the parking lot of Sir Clucks, but held back. She probably knew the ATF agent was out to get her and most likely already had some plan concocted to take care of him. If he brought it up now, it would only be a distraction from his real purpose, which was going to make enough waves as it was. Felton rested his palms on the wide mounds of his knees and sucked in a deep breath. This was going to take all of his courage.

  “I know you’re leaving for The Recompense.”

  He looked up into Sister Tulah’s eye. He was glad she was wearing the eye patch over the crater where her other eye had once been. Tulah’s mouth twisted into a sneer.

  “Well, whoop-de-doo for you. I hope you’re not asking to tag along.”

  “No, of course not. I would never.”

  “Because you are certainly not worthy and, trust me, never will be.”

  Brother Felton nodded emphatically.

  “No, I know, I know. That’s not what I’m asking.”

  Sister Tulah pursed her lips.

  “Well then, what? Get on with it. I have important preparations to make and I don’t have time for your sniveling.”

  Felton rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think of the best way to frame what he wanted to ask.

  “You’ll still be gone tomorrow, and I was just wondering who was going to lead the services in your absence.”

  Sister Tulah huffed impatiently.

  “I arranged for a visiting pastor to come up from Gainesville. I can’t even remember the man’s name, but he’s done it before. Why?”

  “Because, well, you’ll probably have to pay him, right? For both the morning and evening service?”

  Tulah sniffed.

  “Yes, I suppose so. The Elders are taking care of it. Get to the point, Felton.”

  Brother Felton tried not to squirm.

  “Well, I was wondering if you might think about letting me preach tomorrow night.”

  Sister Tulah laughed so hard she snorted and started coughing. Felton sat through it, his ears and cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He wanted to run from
the living room, flee from Tulah’s house and hide safely away in his camper, but he kept the image of the copperhead fixed in his mind. Finally, Tulah gained control of herself and wiped her eye.

  “You’re joking, right? I mean, you’re not serious.”

  Felton sat up as straight as he could and spoke earnestly.

  “I am serious. I want to preach on Sunday. Just Sunday evening. I feel called to do so and I think it would be a good time.”

  Sister Tulah hiccupped and echoed him mockingly.

  “You think it would be a good time?”

  Felton nodded vigorously.

  “You won’t be there, so I won’t be hindering your message in anyway. And it will save you money since you won’t have to pay that other preacher for both services.”

  “And you’ll make a complete fool of yourself and the church will laugh you out of town. What’s gotten into you, Felton?”

  Brother Felton would have died before telling her about the snakes and how they had spoken to him. They were his signs. The messages had been delivered to him. And though he did not know exactly what he needed to preach about on Sunday, he knew that he must. The snake on the path had told him to rise up and use his voice. He would do so, and hopefully the Holy Spirit would handle the rest. Felton dipped his chin as he looked at his aunt. It would require Sister Tulah’s blessing, however, to assume her place at the front of the church. There was no question of that.

  “Please, Aunt Tulah. This is something I want to do. Need to do. Please.”

  Felton watched anxiously as Sister Tulah twitched her mouth back and forth, trying to decide. He cast his eyes down to the floor, waiting. If he had interpreted the sign correctly, she would let him. He believed it. Finally, Tulah reached for the box of chicken on the table. She pulled it to her and popped open the top.

  “If it’s that important to you, go ahead. You’re going to look like an idiot, but at least I won’t be there to witness it.”

  She pulled out the piece of pie sealed in cellophane and set it on the coffee table.

  “And hopefully it will bring you to your senses and remind you of the humility and shame you should carry with you every day. I fear that you have lost your way, Brother Felton. But hopefully this failure will set you back on the path you need to follow.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you, Aunt Tulah! Thank you!”

  Felton jumped up and banged his shins against the coffee table. For a moment, he felt filled with light. He thought of the snake. He was rising up. He was really rising up. And she wasn’t going to stop him. Sister Tulah didn’t even glance at Felton as he stumbled away; she was too busy unwrapping her pie.

  At the sound of the heavy door screeching open and slamming shut, Weaver slowly lifted his eyes from the warm glass of Cruzan he held slackly between his fingers. Miguel was late, and perhaps he had heard the rumors of how volatile the transgression could make Weaver. Or maybe he was simply being respectful. Either way, Miguel stood with his back against the door, a mixture of anticipation and caution playing out across his face. Weaver grinned, baring his teeth. Yes, he liked this guy. Miguel’s roving eyes finally landed on him and Weaver tilted his head, beckoning him over.

  Weaver watched Miguel cross the empty bar. It was late and The Salty Dog was closing down for the night. After botching two rum runners in a row, the Neanderthal bartender had been fired and sent home at Weaver’s insistence. If he could ever get his hands on enough blackberry liqueur, Weaver would fill a bathtub with it, find the bartender, and drown him in it. The yappy blonde was still hanging around, standing at the far end of the bar, pigging out on a pizza with her washed-up boyfriend. Weaver didn’t like the look of him. It was obvious from his tattoos, and the way his shoulders twitched, as if still missing the weight of a leather cut draped across them, that the lanky man had recently been part of a motorcycle club. Weaver had no use for bikers and even less use for quitters.

  Aside from the misfit lovebirds, Frank was the only other occupant of the bar. He stood behind the register, counting out the till and keeping one eye on Weaver. He had dropped the cash in his hands when the door banged opened and now he carefully resumed his count, licking his thumb before peeling each bill from the stack. Weaver turned away from the bar and waited for Miguel to sit down across from him in the booth. He eyed the man.

  “I am lonely tonight and surrounded by imbeciles. Drink with me.”

  Miguel shrugged.

  “Okay.”

  The bar was small enough to be heard without it, but Weaver shouted anyway.

  “Another glass!”

  Weaver turned to watch Frank jump. He looked forlornly down at the money his hands, and Weaver knew he’d have to start counting all over again. Frank smacked the bar to get the blonde’s attention and then he jerked his head. Weaver frowned.

  “No. Not her. You.”

  He kept his eyes on Frank as the sweaty man carefully set the cash back in the drawer and brought over an empty rocks glass. He set it on the table in front of Miguel and scurried back to the bar. Weaver poured and raised his own glass to Miguel.

  “Salud.”

  Weaver swallowed the warm, sweet rum and watched Miguel take a small sip of it. He laughed when Miguel set the glass back down on the table.

  “Let me guess. You prefer tequila. Isn’t that what you people drink? Or Corona. With a festive wedge of lime.”

  Weaver barked out a guttural laugh, but Miguel only looked at him blandly.

  “I don’t drink too much.”

  “And when you do?”

  “Budweiser. Coors Lite. Whatever.”

  Weaver made no move to order the man a beer. He looked down at Miguel’s hands, resting lightly on the edge of the table. His fingernails were clean. Weaver drained the rest of his rum and poured another inch into the glass.

  “What are you doing here, Miguel?”

  Miguel’s eyes narrowed and he combed his fingers through his goatee.

  “You asked for information on Judah Cannon. I have it.”

  Weaver shook his head.

  “In good time. I mean, what are you doing in Daytona Beach? In Florida? In this country?”

  Miguel picked at the top button of his tropical print shirt.

  “I was born here. My parents came over the border to get a better life. The usual story.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Weaver rolled the glass between his palms.

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m curious.”

  “Don’t you want to know about Judah?”

  Weaver brought the glass to his lips.

  “I want to know about you. I like you. You work for me now and I prefer to know the people I employ.”

  Miguel shrugged.

  “There’s not much to tell. My mother is gone. My father owes La Familia Michoacana. He’ll never get free of them. He’s a mule going coast to coast. Once, maybe twice a week, from Tampa to here and back. He drives a van. That’s his whole life. Or, it will be anyway, until one day he gets caught by the police or shot.”

  Weaver sipped at the rum.

  “But you do not owe La Familia anything.”

  Miguel cast his eyes down and shook his head.

  “No.”

  “And you do not help your father with his debt.”

  “No.”

  Weaver nodded in approval.

  “That’s good. A young buck. Doing your own thing. Making your own way. Do you have a dream?”

  Miguel leaned back against the black vinyl of the booth.

  “A dream?”

  “Yes, a dream. Something you wanted to be when you grew up. Something you still think you can be one day.”

  Miguel blinked at Weaver, hesitating only a moment.

  “A professional DJ. Sometimes I spin sets at Stingrays on the slow nights. I’m pretty good.”

  Weaver finished his rum and shoved the glass to the middle of the table. He didn’t move to refill it and he didn
’t respond to Miguel’s dream.

  “Did you find out what happened to Nash?”

  Miguel seemed confused for a second, but quickly recovered.

  “I think Judah was telling the truth. No one’s seen him since Wednesday. One minute he was in some bar in Palatka and the next, poof, he’s gone.”

  Weaver’s face was expressionless.

  “Did Judah kill him?”

  Miguel looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

  “Maybe. What else would Judah have done with him?”

  Weaver considered this for a moment and then tilted his head slightly, keeping his eyes on the empty rum glass.

  “Tell me about Judah Cannon.”

  “He lives in this town called Silas, in south Bradford County. Middle of nowhere. You drive through and it’s like that zombie show. Except that everybody is the hick who sawed off his own hand to get away. There’s only three towns in the whole county.”

  Weaver dipped his head as he listened and his dark, heavy hair closed in even further around his face.

  “Go on.”

  Miguel ticked off the information on his fingers.

  “He’s been out of prison for three months and picked up business where his dead father left off. Low-key, some gambling out of a few bars. Nothing big. No guns, no drugs. He runs out of a chop shop. That’s his base, right off the main drag. There’s him, there’s his brother, Benji, and his woman, Ramey. He’s got an older brother, Levi, but no one’s seen him since the fire where Sherwood died.”

  “Anyone else? Is there anyone else Judah would care about?”

  Weaver was staring intensely at him and Miguel’s brow furrowed.

  “Well, there’s the two guys who were with Judah when he came here.”

  Weaver shook his head dismissively.

  “They’re already roadkill. Anyone else?”

  “The mother died when the boys were all kids. There’s this ex-girlfriend, Cassie. He’s not with her no more, but there’s a daughter the woman used to say was his. Stella. The ex likes to change her mind about it, but it don’t sound like the kid is really his.”

  Weaver steepled his hands on the table.

  “And where is this woman and her child?”