by Steph Post
Finally, her eyes had landed on the screwdriver sticking halfway out of a pair of Slim Jim’s dirty jeans on the floor. It was better than nothing. Shelia had tossed it into the bag with the money and the clothes and bolted. She’d quickly been able to hitch a ride and had been on her way out of Daytona less than half an hour after Weaver had fired the first shot.
Shelia stretched her fingers and adjusted her grip on the screwdriver. Her hands were sweaty, but also still slick with rainwater. It had started to pour about halfway to Deland. The two drunk frat boys who had picked her up had pulled into the parking lot of a Love’s truck stop and tried to make it clear why they had given her the ride. One had ended up with an elbow to the eye socket and the other with a heel to the dick. She had wound up running again, this time in the rain, her thin-soled tennis shoes sloshing through the mud as she slid down and then clambered up the side of a ditch. At least the boys hadn’t gone after her. Following the highway, but keeping to the brush and the trees along the shoulder, she’d walked two miles until she came to the next exit. There was a gas station, a Denny’s and a Motel 6. Shelia had wiped as much mud as possible from her legs and walked into the lobby with cash in hand. With a hefty tip to the night manager, no questions were asked and no paperwork had been processed. She was given a key to room number 10, the room she sat in now.
Every time a light from the highway panned across the thinly curtained window, Shelia tensed. Her dripping hair hung down in wet strings over her shoulders, but she didn’t bother to push it back. She didn’t bother to wipe her face either. Shelia had made it out of Daytona, made it almost to Deland, to this hotel room, where she was still alive, all without allowing herself to cry. There had been no time. Now, she clutched the screwdriver, rested her forearms on her bruised knees and let the streaks of mascara dribble down her face. James Raymond Ford was gone. He was gone, he had died in a bar, his body was crumpled up on the sticky cement floor and she would never see him again. Never catch his smile out of the corner of her eye. Never hear his braying laughter. Never feel his arm slung over her shoulder, his hot beer breath against her neck. Never. And unless she could think of some way to save herself, she, most likely, would be next.
The Rabbit following too closely behind her started flashing its headlights. Ramey scowled up at the rearview mirror, trying to keep her emotions dampened down to just aggravation. Maybe her Cutlass had a busted tail light, but it was only late afternoon and not even a Good Samaritan would be bothered enough by it to ride up on her and signal her. She didn’t recognize the mint green car with the cracked windshield, so she doubted it was someone she knew. If it was an undercover cop, well then, budget cuts were worse than she thought. A wave of panic rose up inside of Ramey as her mind immediately shot to Weaver. Judah had reassured her yet again that morning, his head still mashed into the pillow, hair sticking up in all directions, dark circles settled in the hollows beneath his eyes, that Weaver wasn’t a threat. That he had worked it out with Weaver, that he wasn’t a problem, that she didn’t need to worry. Just hearing those words from his lips made her skin crawl. Of course she needed to worry. If Judah was telling her not to, then he was either lying to her or lying to himself. She didn’t know which was worse.
Ramey rolled to a stop at the corner of Central and Gains. If it was Weaver behind her, or one of his guys, she could gun it and try to outrun him. But then what? Judah was at the salvage yard, not two miles away, but she couldn’t lead someone there. Ramey reached for the cellphone in her purse on the seat beside her and swallowed hard, preparing to steady her voice. She raised her eyes to the rearview mirror again, not wanting to make eye contact with the driver of the Rabbit, but wanting to be sure it wasn’t someone she knew before calling Judah. Ramey couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw the blonde behind the wheel. The woman flashed her lights again and waved, pointing toward the empty parking lot of a boarded-up Quincy’s. Ramey dropped the cellphone back into her purse and ground her teeth. When the light turned green, she stomped on the gas and turned a sharp right into the parking lot. The Rabbit followed her and pulled up a few spaces over. Ramey yanked the keys out of the ignition and was halfway to the Rabbit before the other woman had even set foot on the blistering asphalt. Ramey barely gave Shelia a chance to stand.
The punch was hard and fast, knocking Shelia into the side of the Rabbit. Ramey kept her fist clenched, took a step back, then another step forward, then another back. She watched Shelia carefully steady herself against the door of the car and then raise her fingers to the corner of her bleeding lip. She looked at the blood and then cupped her jaw for a moment, keeping her eyes away from Ramey. Shelia seemed to be expecting another blow and had made up her mind not to defend herself. Ramey backed away in disgust and then shook out her stinging right hand. She could hardly speak.
“You.”
Shelia kept her head down but turned toward Ramey. Her eyes were wide, still watery from the blow. She nodded slightly.
“Ramey, right?”
Ramey watched the thin line of blood trickling down the side of Shelia’s chin. She crossed her arms and shook her head.
“You got a death wish or something, Shelia? Coming back into Silas like this? Judah or Benji see you and they’re like to kill you. You know that, right?”
Shelia stood up a little straighter.
“That’s why I’m standing here talking to you, not them.”
“You think I don’t want to kill you?”
Shelia ran her tongue along her bottom lip.
“I think want and will are two different things. Are you gonna hit me again? You can, if you want. I won’t blame you.”
Ramey realized that Shelia wouldn’t. She was expecting it. Ramey scowled and then dropped her arms at her sides.
“No, I’m not going to hit you again. But you’d better have a damn good reason for being back in Silas.”
Shelia stood up all the way now and dabbed at the blood on her face. She reached into the open driver’s side door and pulled a paper napkin out of a crumpled Krystal’s bag on the floorboard. She wiped the blood from her lip and chin and then wadded up the napkin in her fist.
“I thought I’d have a better chance of you listening to me than the boys.”
“Listening to you about what?”
“Weaver.”
Shelia pressed the napkin to her lip again and then pulled it away to check for more blood. Satisfied, she tossed the napkin to the ground and rubbed her fingertips together. Ramey stood in front of her, dumbfounded.
“Weaver?”
Shelia raised her eyebrows and nodded.
“Yeah. Tall, scary guy. Has a face looks like it was on fire and somebody tried to put it out with a fork. Complete whack job. Wants to kill your boyfriend. And you, by the way. And anyone else Judah’s ever laid eyes on apparently.”
Ramey had to look away for a moment. She set her jaw and stared out across the empty parking lot. Waves of iridescent heat were rising and quivering at its edges. Ramey wished she had a cigarette. She had left them in the car when she had charged toward Shelia with only bloodlust on her mind. Ramey turned back to Shelia, who was waiting, patiently, but expectantly. She spoke with caution.
“How do you know about Weaver? And Judah?”
Shelia pushed a clump of ratty blond hair back behind her ear and glanced away, her eyes on the road as she spoke.
“I was working at this place down in Daytona Beach. This bar my uncle owned. Or maybe Weaver owned it and my uncle only said it was his. I’d been there a few months and then this Weaver guy comes in about a week ago, starts using the place like it’s his own private office or something. I didn’t ask too many questions, but I got the impression from everything I heard going on around me that he’s some bigshot boss on the east coast. Drugs, guns, whatever. A real professional asshole. Kinda like Judah’s daddy was, but about a hundred times bigger, a hundred times more dangerous…”
Ramey blinked a few times, trying to take in what Sheli
a was saying. Shelia’s voice had grown shaky and Ramey cut her off.
“What about Judah?”
Shelia stared down at the pavement and toed a loose chunk of asphalt with her filthy tennis shoe.
“Your man Judah came into the bar where I worked a few days ago. I don’t think he saw me. I was certainly doing my damnedest not to be seen, that’s for sure. But I saw him talking to Weaver.”
Ramey was breathless.
“What happened? Between the two of them?”
Shelia shook her head and continued to prod at the crumbling pavement.
“It was like a standoff. I couldn’t get too close because I was scared Judah would see me, but when Judah got up from the table to leave, he and Weaver were making threats at each other. The way guys do, you know? Like two rosters, puffing up to fight. Judah left, but I wouldn’t say it was on friendly terms.”
Ramey’s heart was beating fast. She had known things weren’t settled between Judah and Weaver, but Ramey forced herself to keep cool. That last thing she wanted was for Shelia to think that she wasn’t completely in the loop with Judah.
“So, are you here to tell me something I don’t know?”
Shelia jerked her head up and answered abruptly.
“Yeah, actually. It’s what happened after that. I don’t know how Judah took their meeting, but he should know that Weaver is coming for him.”
Ramey narrowed her eyes.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Shelia huffed.
“It means that after Judah left, Weaver told this guy, this Mexican dude, to find out everything he could. The guy came back to The Salty Dog last night and told Weaver all about Judah. Where he lived. About his family. About you. About some ex-girlfriend and a kid or something up in Colston. Weaver wants to kill you all. Is going to kill you all.”
There was something about the way Shelia said it. Not all hysterical or dramatic. Without a hint of a scheme. She was stating it like it was a fact. As if it had already happened. Shelia’s dark green eyes were flat and cold as she spoke, and this was perhaps the most terrifying of all. Ramey’s voice came out as a croak.
“Why?”
Shelia gave a little shrug.
“Something about hating Sherwood like there was no tomorrow. He told Miguel this story, but we could all hear it, because the bar was closed and empty. I guess Sherwood stole his girl like a million years ago back in 1971. Up at the Navy base in Jacksonville or some shit. Weaver never forgave him. He’s gonna kill Judah just because he’s Sherwood’s son. Because he’s a Cannon. And the rest of you because he wants to kill Judah even deader, I guess. I told you, this man is batshit crazy.”
The whole story sounded crazy. Ramey rubbed her temples and then slid her hands back through her hair. She coiled the length of it around her wrist and frowned.
“Why are you here, Shelia? Why are you telling me this? With the history between Judah and the Scorpions….”
Ramey hesitated, but Shelia didn’t miss a beat.
“The Scorpions are all in jail or dead.”
Ramey pursed her lips.
“We know that one of them disappeared. They didn’t arrest one of them and he hasn’t been seen in Bradford County for a while now.”
Shelia dipped her head.
“Slim Jim. He came with me to Daytona.”
Ramey raised her eyebrows.
“Slim Jim, then. It just doesn’t make sense, you coming here to warn us…”
Shelia raised her head and interrupted Ramey again.
“Jimmy’s dead.”
“What?”
The lines around Shelia’s mouth tightened and Ramey could see her jaw working, clenching. Shelia’s eyes were suddenly glassy.
“He’s dead. Weaver killed him. He killed him and he killed my uncle and he killed the guy who told him where to find Judah. He tried to kill me. He’s going to kill me. And he’s on his way right now to kill you. Unless Judah can stop him first.”
Ramey didn’t know what to say. She stood in front of Shelia, dumbstruck, trying to work it all out. She watched Shelia toss her head back and blink back any sign of tears. A smirk of contempt rose to her lips.
“So don’t think I’m here out of the kindness of my heart. I didn’t think there was much more to lose after what went down at that church, but now I’ve lost everything. Everything. I figure the only person Weaver hates more than me right now is Judah, so that’s why I’m here. If Judah knows that Weaver has him in his sights, then there’s a good chance Judah can take him out first. And I won’t have to end up dead at the bottom of a river. You won’t either, for that matter.”
Ramey nodded slowly.
“Judah’s not gonna want to believe this. Coming from you.”
Shelia put her hands on her hips.
“Well, no shit, Sherlock. That’s why I’m telling you first. You can make him believe it.”
“And Benji. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive you.”
Shelia snapped.
“He doesn’t have to forgive me. He doesn’t have to like me. But he won’t have to worry about either if he’s dead. You weren’t there, Ramey. You didn’t see how Weaver just shot everyone in the bar. Like it was a video game. Like they weren’t even people. You’ve never seen anyone like this. You got to make Judah understand.”
Ramey crossed her arms and took in Shelia’s bedraggled appearance. Her skinned knees and loose, stringy hair. Her red, swollen eyes, the lids and lashes bare. The patchwork of bruises dappling her upper arm. It was hard not to believe her story.
“I’ll do what I can.”
Shelia turned and put her hand on the edge of the open car door. She turned to Ramey, before ducking down into the seat.
“If you can make him listen, I’ll be here tonight. After dark, I’ll wait around. If he wants to come and talk to me, I’ll tell him everything I know. Every word of everything I heard. Anything that will help him. And if he won’t listen, well, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know that, too. So I can try running. Though I’m pretty sure Weaver would be willing to track me down to the ends of the earth. After he finishes up with you all, of course.”
Shelia slid behind the wheel and looked up at Ramey gravely. Ramey nodded.
“Don’t worry. If he’ll listen to anyone, he’ll listen to me.”
THE BATHROOM mirror in room 124 of The Pines had become a web. Clive taped a final notecard to the bottom of the smeared, oxidizing surface and stood back in his bare feet and rolled-up shirtsleeves to take it all in. He took a sip from the Heineken dangling in his left hand and tilted his head. From this angle, it was all pretty impressive.
The bottom and sides of the mirror were cluttered with notecards, each with a name printed in black magic marker. Some had red stars in the corner of the card, others blue, others green. Beside many of the notecards were mini Post-it notes, scrawled with other names, with dates, dollar amounts and question marks. At the top of the mirror, taped up in a neat row, were four solemn cards, each with a name. Each with the abbreviation “Sen.” in front of the name and a big red star in the corner.
All across the mirror, different notecards were connected to one another by thick lines drawn with a black dry erase marker. Some names had more lines coming and going than others, but every one of them had a line leading to the large piece of notebook paper taped in the center of the mirror. In tall, capital letters, Clive had scrawled the name SISTER TULAH. She was the one. She was at the center of everything. He finished the beer in his hand and then snatched up the cellphone balanced on the edge of the sink counter. He had to call Lopez now, before he chickened out. Of course, yet again, his timing was impeccable.
“Jesus Christ, Grant! I liked you much better when you were down in the basement. I only ever had to hear from you once every few months when you came up for air. You do know I have a life, right? You do know I have days off.”
There were people chattering loudly in the background. Was she at a party? It w
as Sunday afternoon. The kinds of parties Clive imagined Lopez going to were not held in the daylight. The sound was getting fainter, it seemed that she was walking away for privacy, but he could still hear a kid shrieking in the background. And then something, a splash maybe?
“Where are you, at a pool party?”
A door slammed shut and then it was quiet except for the sound of Lopez’s biting voice.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. It’s my goddamn nephew’s seventh birthday. I’m surrounded by trolls in sundresses and their screeching brood whose entire mission in life, it seems, is to get pool water in everyone’s drink by way of cannonballs.”
Clive couldn’t help but smile.
“So you should be thanking me for rescuing you.”
“You’re taking me away from the vodka, so this had better be good. I thought I gave you until Monday. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
Clive looked up at the mirror, letting his eyes trace along the connected lines.
“I don’t think so. I’ve found something here. Something big.”
“You said that before. Your preacher lady, buying up land. Did you figure out if she’s developing a commune out in the woods? Building a spaceship? Is she brainwashing all the holy rollers into drinking the Kool-Aid?”
“No. Phosphate mining.”
“What?”
Clive cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder and pried the cap off another beer. It was time to make a move.
“The land. Sister Tulah, she was snatching up all the land, piecing it all together, so that when this phosphate mine opened up, she’d own all the land it was on. She was going to make a killing from mineral rights. An absolute slaughter.”
