Walk In the Fire

by Steph Post

  “Colston. A little farther north. Halfway between Jacksonville and Lake City.”

  Weaver sat up straight and shook his head so that his hair fell away from his face. He drummed his finger on the edge of the table as he thought his way through the plan.

  “They should probably be gotten out of the way first. I’ll be up in Jacksonville this weekend anyway. I can just take care of them on the way down to Silas. I’d barely have to go out of my way.”

  Weaver was studying the faded letter D tattoo. He rolled his finger back and forth on the edge of the table as he looked at it. He raised his eyes when he heard Miguel cough uncomfortably.

  “Yes?”

  The man across from him seemed uneasy now.

  “What are you planning to do?”

  There was no change to Weaver’s voice.

  “Kill them all.”

  Miguel glanced around the bar, but Weaver didn’t bother to follow his gaze. He stared hard at Miguel, waiting. Miguel finally dropped his hands into his lap and leaned forward. He whispered.

  “A kid? A kid that’s probably not even his?”

  Weaver put both his hands on the table and spread his fingers wide.

  “I’m not a monster. It will be quick and quiet with the child and the ex.”

  “And the other woman?”

  Weaver looked into Miguel’s eyes, watching the pupils dart back and forth.

  “Do you think Judah loves her?”

  Miguel nodded, his mouth open slightly with either confusion or concern.

  “Yes.”

  “Then yes. And it will not be quick and quiet with her.”

  Miguel’s face had twisted into a grimace. Weaver narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.

  “You do not approve?”

  It was obvious that Miguel heard the dangerous edge in Weaver’s voice. He responded carefully, haltingly.

  “I just don’t understand. What did this Judah Cannon do to you? I thought you didn’t even know he existed until two days ago.”

  Weaver considered this. It was a fair question. He reached for the empty glass in front of him and poured it full. He added to Miguel’s glass as well, although he knew the man wasn’t going to touch it. He gulped the rum and nodded once toward Miguel.

  “You understand the expression ‘sins of the father’?”

  Miguel didn’t answer, though his eyes were wary, and Weaver continued. He picked up the glass of rum and held it out in front of him, turning it around as he spoke.

  “In 1971, I had a woman. Her name was Cherry. That was her birth name. She had hair the color of honey and she was mine.”

  Weaver took a sip of rum and set the glass down. He spun it around on the table.

  “I was living in Jacksonville at the time, near the base. Navy recruits, coming and going, fouling the town. I tried to enlist for Vietnam myself, but no. They’d take any asshole with a dick swinging between his legs and an intelligence quota barely above that of a brick, but if you had a heart murmur, forget about it. Goddamn hole in my heart. The one I was born with.”

  Weaver pushed the glass away. It clinked against the empty bottle in the center of the table.

  “I was living there, with Cherry. But she left me for a sailor. Didn’t even tell me. Put a second hole in my heart. I saw her with him one night at a bar. Laughing. Touching. She didn’t see me, but he did. He saw me looking over. Watching. He winked at me. He knew he had what was mine. His name was Sherwood Cannon.”

  Weaver stretched his fingers out before him again, feeling the knuckles pop. The cracks. The joints and fissures that had never healed properly.

  “I was too much of a pussy to do anything about it that night. Scared of a bar full of uniforms. I thought I’d get Sherwood sooner or later, but he shipped out the next week. Sent to Da Nang. I prayed every night for him to end up a rotting corpse at the bottom of the South China Sea. Then I came to my senses and started praying that he’d make it back alive. So I could take care of him myself. Eventually, I moved on. Forgot about him. Began to build up what I have now. But with the arrival of his son, all that has changed. Sherwood died in a fire, not by my hand. The rage I am filled with can only be quenched in one way.”

  He raised his dead eyes to meet Miguel’s. He couldn’t tell if they were filled with pity or disgust. It didn’t matter. The man shifted slightly in his seat.

  “And the girl? Cherry? What happened to her?”

  Weaver smiled.

  “Oh. Her. I found Cherry the day after Sherwood Cannon left. I strangled her to death with her my bare hands and dumped her body in the St. Johns River. Filthy, lying whore.”

  Miguel’s eyes were wide. Weaver looked into them and then gradually became aware of the heavy silence settling over the room like a soaking wet blanket. He glanced toward the bar. The blonde and her string bean boyfriend quickly turned away, keeping their eyes on one another. Frank immediately cast his gaze down at the pint glass in his hands. He began to dry it furiously with a rag. Weaver sighed and turned back to Miguel.

  “So. Now you understand.”

  He didn’t wait for Miguel to speak. In one fluid motion, Weaver stood up and pulled the Beretta out from its slot underneath the table. Miguel didn’t even have a chance to be surprised before the bullet entered his forehead and shattered his skull. Weaver turned and found Frank next. The shot toppled him back against a row of bottles and sent them crashing to the floor, along with his slumped body. Weaver twisted around to the couple at the end of the bar. Both had hit the ground already, but the biker had been sitting on the outside of the bar. Weaver got him once in the side of the head and once in the gut when the shot flopped him back against the brass foot rail. He slid out of the booth and fired a few more rounds into the man, just for the hell of it.

  The blonde had dropped behind the bar at the sound of the first shot and Weaver took his time advancing toward her. She was most likely wedged back between the coolers or something, cowering. Praying. Hoping that her sex would protect her. That he would have mercy on her. Weaver wanted to make sure he got her in the face. He moved toward the open end of the bar, opposite from where she had been standing before. He whistled at her, a few notes, as if he was calling a dog. Weaver couldn’t hear a thing. He stepped to the end of the bar and swung to shoot down the length of it, but a searing, shattering pain bit into his kneecap and took his leg out from under him.

  In the next few seconds, he heard the clink of metal hitting the cement floor and then saw the flash of the blonde’s hair as she scrambled over him. He fired off a shot, but it only lodged into a ceiling panel. His left hand found her ankle, but she kicked, stomping her heel into his groin as she twisted away from him. Weaver let go and rolled halfway onto his stomach, aiming the gun out in front of him. He pulled the trigger until the clip was spent, but she had already made it to and through the door. Weaver flung the gun across the floor and yelled after her anyway.

  “I will find you, you stupid bitch! Don’t think I won’t! I will find you and I will butcher you!”

  His voice echoed across the empty bar. Weaver slowly hauled himself to standing and looked down at his leg. Blood was seeping through his pants and when he tried to put weight on it, his knee turned sideways. Aside from whatever gash he knew he would see when he cut his pants away, he was pretty sure his kneecap was dislodged as well. He gripped the edge of the bar to steady himself and then he noticed the rusty pipe wrench at his feet. He leaned over and picked it up, groaning at the pain shooting upward through his leg. He flipped the wrench over in his hand and whispered to himself.

  “I will find you. And I will kill you. I will kill you all.”

  SISTER TULAH wheeled her suitcase out of the Happy Holiday Inn lobby, but stopped abruptly when she passed in front of the entrance to the hotel bar on her way to the elevator. The sign staked out in front of the amber beveled glass doors read Welcome Southeastern Better Business Association! Tulah pursed her lips and adjusted her grip on the handle, trying to dec
ide if she wanted to go in now or haul her suitcase upstairs first. It was nearing midnight, and if the raucous sounds coming from behind the doors were any indication, she was certain the festivities had already begun. Sister Tulah had to be sure all of the other twenty-three council members saw her before tomorrow night. She would stand for no rumors about her not being able to attend this year.

  Tulah glanced down at the white Reeboks peeking out from underneath her rumpled, linen dress. She patted her usually perfectly pinned hair, now slightly mussed from the eight-hour drive, and adjusted the sweaty elastic strap of her eyepatch. She glanced toward the elevator, but before she could decide, one of the double doors swung to reveal a man grinning broadly at her.

  “Tulah Atwell.”

  The man had a booming voice that contrasted sharply with his gaunt, almost skeletal, frame. His sharp cheekbones jutted up high in his face and his dark eyes bulged slightly beneath a wide, prominent forehead. Sister Tulah scowled at the man. In her eyes, he was a mongrel. It was known that he was a descendent of the so-called WIN Tribe out of the mountains of Virginia, a fact which set Tulah’s teeth on edge.

  “George Kingfisher.”

  Sister Tulah narrowed her eyes. Tomorrow night, it wouldn’t matter that Kingfisher was the epitome of all that Tulah found repulsive about mixed-race breeding, but tonight they were both still living in the real world. And it didn’t help that Tulah was painfully aware of Kingfisher’s elevated status as the newest member of the Inner Council. She had heard that he was now the Ox.

  Kingfisher held the door for her and smiled.

  “Welcome to The Recompense, Sister Tulah. May the Fire and the Light be beneath your every step.”

  Sister Tulah bumped her suitcase over the threshold and maneuvered it awkwardly into the bar. She grunted.

  “And yours.”

  “Come in, come in. We’re so glad you’re finally here. There was talk of you not returning this year. What with the fire and the scandal. What with…”

  Kingfisher gestured toward Tulah’s eyepatch.

  “And your final tribute was almost late. It did not arrive until yesterday afternoon. There was concern that with the events recently befallen your church, you might not be able to afford to join us any longer. I mean spiritually as well as financially, of course.”

  Tulah glared at Kingfisher with her one pale, burning eye. There had never been any love lost between them, but this was going too far.

  “Well, my tribute wasn’t late. And I’m standing here, aren’t I? Anything else you want to tell me that I already know?”

  Kingfisher bobbed his head.

  “No, of course. Welcome, Sister Tulah. Say hello, have a drink, enjoy yourself. We are so glad you are here.”

  He reached out and squeezed her arm. Tulah looked down at his long, bony fingers gripping her sleeve. In Kentsville, no one ever dared to touch her. Ever. She touched them. Sister Tulah held her breath until Kingfisher released her and turned to talk to a man with a bulbous red nose and a black bowtie. This was The Recompense, she reminded herself. Things were different, and she was by no means the most powerful person in the room. The fact rankled her, yes, but also filled her with pride. These were her people. The Order was where she truly belonged.

  Tulah dragged her suitcase over to an empty seat at the bar and parked it next to her. She hefted herself up onto a stool and looked down at the paper cocktail napkin in front of her. Bamboozles. The Os had been replaced with two smiling orange balloons. She pressed her fingers lightly, almost reverently, against the napkin. The Day Recompense had been held at the Happy Holiday Inn in Cave Spring, Georgia since the early ’70s. More than a decade before Tulah had secured her place in The Order. Bamboozles was the only bar she had ever had a drink in. She let her shoulders sag as she leaned against the back of the maroon leather stool. Sister Tulah nodded to the bartender when he came by.

  “Glenlivet on the rocks.”

  She loved the sound of the ice cubes settling in the glass. Not until she had taken the first, tentative sip of scotch did she allow herself to survey the room. Even though she recognized every single face, she mentally ticked each person off. All twenty-three were present, so she was indeed the last one to arrive. But that was all right. At least she wasn’t a sloppy drunk like Jim Rickson, head of Springwell Ministries, or a pig like Ona Sherpa, the uppity reverend from the Unitarian megachurch up in Charlotte. Ona was predictably standing guard at the buffet table set up against the back wall, her paper plate stacked high with toothpicked sausage balls and cubes of cheddar cheese. Tulah had heard a rumor that Ona had been chosen as the Crowned Woman, but she found that hard to believe. The honor almost always went to the svelte Pastor Linda McCormick or Sister Mary Matthews, who even now wore her black-and-white habit as she laughed nervously at the crude jokes flying around her. Sister Tulah rolled her eye. Aside from herself and the three other women in the room, The Order was, due to its nature, a boys’ club.

  Tulah rattled the ice in her glass and took another sip. She hated this part of the event. They weren’t in their true forms yet, and there was an unspoken rule that business wasn’t to be conducted until after The Night Recompense. Therefore, this little soiree was nothing more than a bunch of catching up and schmoozing: two things Sister Tulah had no patience for. Still, she was asserting herself and her right. Tulah had already caught a few curious glances and quickly averted eyes from the others, standing alone or corralled in small groups around the room. She was sure everyone had heard about the fire, had heard about her eye. Well, she was still standing. She could still prove her worth. Sister Tulah would show them all.

  At the tinging of a metal fork against glass, the room began to quiet down. Brother Michael leaned over the bar and whispered something to the college-aged bartender, who quickly dropped the towel in his hands and hurried around the bar. He wedged his way through the crowd and exited through the double doors. Tulah watched as they were locked behind him. The tinging continued until the room was silent and all eyes were on the four Inner Council members, standing together in a line.

  Kingfisher, being the most recent initiate into the Inner Council, took a step forward and raised his glass. Tulah noticed that it was filled with white wine. Of course. As if she needed another reason to despise the man. Kingfisher actually had the gall to find her eye and direct a smirk toward her before beginning his toast.

  “To my fellow Morning Stars. To those who look with me through the Sacred

  Wall. To those who walk the path of the Fire and the Light, who stand fearlessly before the Wheels in the Whirlwind.”

  A few members cheered, but Kingfisher kept his glass raised.

  “Tonight we are friends, but tomorrow we meet as we are known to Him. You all have your roles, your tasks, you understand what you must do to honor Attar and prove your worthiness to be at His side when the Latter Rain is ushered in and the world is washed clean. Tonight we meet as we are to the others, but tomorrow we will be free of these worldly fetters as we stand before the God of our brothers Ezekiel and John.”

  Kingfisher looked over at the three men standing slightly behind him.

  “To the Inner Council.”

  He then gestured wide, encompassing the twenty other members watching him.

  “And to the Outer Council. To The Order of the Luminous Sevenfold Light.”

  He raised his glass even higher and every member did the same. Even Sister Tulah. The room erupted in cheers and the clinking of glasses. Sister Tulah nodded to a few of the men standing closest to her and then she raised her glass to her lips. It wasn’t scotch on her tongue; she could taste the blood of the True God sliding down her throat.

  SHELIA CLUTCHED the yellow rubber handle of the screwdriver as tightly as she could, but her hands still wouldn’t stop shaking. With her knees drawn up against her chest, her body wedged down into the narrow space between the wall and the untouched bed, she stared at the deadbolt chain on the motel room door. She knew it wouldn’t ho
ld. If Weaver’s men found her, if they wanted to get in to kill her, the flimsy brass lock would snap off the edge of the door in seconds when they kicked their way in. Shelia knew this. She’d seen it happen before. This time, though, it wouldn’t be a police raid or a jealous ex-boyfriend she could send away with either a blowjob or a baseball bat. These men would kill her. They would kick in the door and shoot her in the head and all she had to defend herself with was a goddamn Phillips head screwdriver.

  Shelia tried to steady her breathing. She was pretty sure she had taken out Weaver’s kneecap with the pipe wrench, so she didn’t expect him to come after her himself, but she knew that within two minutes of her escaping through the door of The Salty Dog, Weaver had been on the phone, calling up his men, putting a hit out on her. Her first instinct had been to just run, as far and as fast as she could, in any direction away from the bar, but as soon as she cleared the parking lot, a heightened sense of calm had descended upon her. Shelia had made getaways before and she knew that losing her head wouldn’t make her any safer or get her any farther away. It was a twenty-minute walk from the bar back to the Sundaze. Shelia, cutting through parking lots and alleys, had made it in five.

  In less time than that, she was back out the door. Shelia had careened through the motel room, tripping over the mess, and slid on her belly to get halfway underneath the sagging bed. Feeling around blindly and frantically, she had located the roll of bills Slim Jim had taped to the underside of the box springs. Shelia had ripped it loose and scuttled back out and onto her feet. Her purse was still on a shelf underneath the bar, so Shelia had scooped up a wad of clothes from the floor and shoved them into a plastic grocery bag. She had pushed the wad of the cash into the middle of the clothes and then glanced frantically around the room. A baseball cap, the front airbrushed with two Ss inside of a pink heart, was wedged in between the overflowing trashcan and the TV stand. Shelia had snatched it up and squashed it down on her head. There was no time to change her clothes, but she had thought the hat would help. Shelia had finally turned in a circle, looking for a weapon. The knife she always carried was, of course, still in her purse back at The Salty Dog. Slim Jim’s knife had been on him. She had squeezed her eyes tightly as she pushed him from her mind. Shelia hadn’t seen where he had fallen, hadn’t even seen his body, but she had heard Weaver’s footsteps. She had seen the one shot to Miguel’s head and the other to Frank’s chest as he bled out next to her behind the bar. The rest of the shots must have been for Slim Jim.