Playing With Fire

by J. J. Cook

  Everyone was always saying she drove too slowly, but that was to be expected from someone not used to the back roads and steep inclines. She didn’t think she was any slower than they were—just more careful.

  She looked at the clock in the Cherokee when she reached Walt’s cabin. Fifteen minutes. That didn’t seem too bad.

  She got out and locked the vehicle, another thing Ricky and the others laughed at her about. No one in Sweet Pepper ever locked up. Most of the shops and restaurants left their doors unlocked as well, despite the police asking them to lock up when the day was over.

  For her, it was a habit after growing up in the city. She couldn’t imagine not locking her doors, except at the cabin, where Eric took care of the whole breaking-and-entering risk. She’d actually feel sorry for anyone who tried it there. They’d get more than they bargained for.

  Of course, being the ex–police chief, Walt’s cabin door was locked. There were chinks in some of the walls that she could put her hand through, but he had still locked the door.

  Stella picked up a rock and broke one of the windows to let herself in. She’d have to get that fixed for him, but finding him as quickly as possible felt like a priority. She didn’t want to wait for John or a locksmith.

  Once inside the rustic old cabin, she could tell that Walt hadn’t been back for a while. The coffee cup she’d seen earlier had green fuzz growing on the bottom. It was still on the table, in the same spot she’d seen it earlier.

  It looked to her like Walt had been gone for going on three days—considering it was already almost one a.m. She’d been willing to believe he was out hunting or poking around, until she saw his email. Now she thought he was hoping to be rescued.

  She focused on finding the DMV records he’d printed out. Unless he’d guessed where he should go, he’d probably found an answer in those documents.

  The pages were splayed out across the large old stump he used as a coffee table in his living room. These were covered in coffee rings and had a few food stains on them, but she was able to read them.

  She sat in his torn brown leather chair, as he would have, and started looking through the documents. Several times she paused as she heard noises like mice—or maybe snakes—in the walls around her. She hoped it wasn’t scorpions.

  Stella wished Eric was there. It was hard to imagine her life without him anymore. She knew it was ridiculous. He was dead. Nothing she could do would bring him back.

  She didn’t care. He was a large part of why she wanted to stay in Sweet Pepper. She didn’t want him to be alone again.

  Of course, there was also John. He was important too. So were all of her fire brigade members. Her fire brigade. No wonder Eric had fought so hard, ultimately giving up his life, to keep his group together. She understood the attachment.

  Ricky, Petey, and the rest had become like her family. It was even different than her family at the fire station back home. These people she’d handpicked for the group. There weren’t many of them, but they worked well together. That meant something to her.

  “There you are.”

  She found some scribbled notes on one of the pages. She couldn’t tell what Walt had written, but she could read the typed listing. Beside the information about the Impala was a listing for a black 1984 pickup, license number SR 1357. It was registered to Thelma Carriker.

  “Walt probably found this and went after Carriker,” Stella said to John’s voice mail on his phone when he didn’t answer. “I know I said I wouldn’t leave here without you, but I’m going to see if I can find him. Maybe you can come and find me.”

  She also left a message for Agent Whitman whose voice mail said he was in Knoxville until the next morning.

  She looked at the phone for a long minute, trying to decide if she should call Chief Rogers. It wasn’t a difficult decision. She slipped the cell phone back into her pocket and took the DMV list with her, without calling him.

  It was only about another twenty minutes to the Carriker farm. There were no streetlights down the long, twisting, gravel road that led there. The farm was dark too—no outside or inside lights that she could see.

  Walt could be anywhere on the property, including the farmhouse Jack shared with his mother. Her memory of the place told her that all of the buildings seemed to be made of that same rough lumber that Eric had pointed out in the picture. She wasn’t sure where to start looking.

  Jack had a shotgun, maybe more weapons too. All she had was her cell phone.

  She suddenly recalled that Ricky had said Jack was at the firehouse on the day Chum had come to talk to her. Had he heard what the deputy had said?

  With a plan forming in her brain, she slowly drove the Cherokee into the long, rutted dirt drive. No house lights came on. She took the flashlight out of her emergency kit and got out to look around.

  There was no sign of Walt’s old pickup in the yard. It could be in one of the dozens of outbuildings with him. The shack they’d found the Impala in had been big enough to hold more than one vehicle. He could be there, or in one of the other buildings.

  Reminding herself that help could be coming right behind her, Stella proceeded to start searching the buildings closest to the house. It was so dark, even the flashlight beam had little effect. There seemed to be skittering, slithering sounds coming from everywhere along with crickets, frogs, and owls.

  She wished she could yell for Walt. Even if she could, he might not be able to hear her. She glanced around. How hard could it be to locate a grown man and a truck?

  Two whole buildings and three black snakes later, she wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t even certain she could find all of the outbuildings she’d seen when she’d been there during the day, looking at the Impala.

  There were still no lights from inside the house and no sounds from that area. She hoped Jack and his mother were heavy sleepers.

  Stella stumbled on some lumber hidden in the darkness and cursed softly, hoping no one had heard her. Something sharp had gone in through the bottom of her boot. Probably a nail. It stung, but she didn’t stop to check it.

  “Who’s there?” Walt’s voice was more raspy than usual as he called out of the darkness. “Stella? Please tell me that’s not you. Or you’ve got the police with you.”

  She shone the flashlight toward the sound of his voice but there was nothing. “Keep talking. I can’t see you.”

  “That’s because Jack shot me in the leg and dragged me into this old storm cellar.”

  Stella followed the sound of his voice and found a hole in the rocky ground close to the house—too close. She glanced up at the dark shadow of the house again. No one seemed to be stirring.

  The flashlight picked out rough stairs carved out of rock leading into the cellar. Carefully, she lifted what was left of the wood door that covered the opening. The light immediately flashed on Walt’s dirty, gaunt face.

  “Are you alone?” he asked in a bare whisper.

  “Yes. But John is on the way.”

  Walt swore with much more colorful accents than Stella had when she’d run into the woodpile.

  “I didn’t mean to send you that picture,” he complained. “It was supposed to go to John. He wouldn’t have come out here alone.”

  She went carefully down the stairs and put down the flashlight so the beam was pointing into the small cellar. “Well, next time, resend. I’m the only one who got the message, and that took a while. You’re lucky I came at all.”

  Walt continued to complain while she untied him. She wished she’d brought a knife to cut the thick, rough rope that bound him. Eventually, he was free and she helped him stand.

  “Not that I’m ungrateful.” Walt groaned from the pain in his injured leg. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “You’re welcome.” She put his arm around her shoulders and put his weight on her as they went slowly up the stairs. “Let�
��s get out of here.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  As they reached the ground level, a bright light shone in their faces and a shotgun clicked.

  “Well, what have we got here?” Jack Carriker asked. “Chief Griffin. I don’t see a fire. What brings you out here tonight?”

  Chapter 30

  “You might as well let us go,” Stella said. “The police are right behind me.”

  Jack laughed. “You know, they always say that in the movies. They don’t mean it, but they say it. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Plenty stupid,” Walt said. “Bad enough you killed poor Chum. You’re just like your murdering father. Did Ben Carson put you up to this?”

  “The old man had nothing to do with it.” Thelma Carriker joined her son with another gun in her hand. “That deputy was going around saying my Shu killed the old fire chief. I wasn’t letting him get away with that. I didn’t care if he was going to another country. Jack took care of him, didn’t you, honey pockets?”

  “I told you not to call me that in front of anyone,” Jack complained. “But since you’re out here, you kill her and I’ll finish him. We can bury them in the cellar tonight.”

  Walt laughed. “You don’t have the guts. Why didn’t you kill me when you shot me in the leg? It’s one thing to drive up and shoot Mace Chum where he couldn’t face you. It’s another to look someone in the eye and do it.”

  Stella wished he’d keep his mouth shut. Her eyes searched the road that ran by the farm, praying for headlights to show up. What was keeping John?

  “Look.” She hoped to gain some temporary control over the situation. “I’m not kidding about the police being right behind me, Jack. I’m the fire chief. I’m not armed. I wouldn’t come out here without knowing there was backup.”

  Thelma looked at her son in the dim light coming from the porch. “Let’s take our chances, boy. If they can’t find them, they can’t say we did anything.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, old woman,” Jack sassed. “I said we should shoot them. Go ahead. Shoot Chief Griffin and I’ll finish up old Walt here.”

  Stella rationalized that it looked as though she and Walt might die before John could get there. No point in standing there, waiting for it to happen.

  Jack was right in front of her. His shotgun barrel held toward her head.

  “Look! There they are now! I told you they were coming.” Stella pointed toward a set of headlights coming toward the farm.

  “Where?” Jack turned his head to see what was going on.

  Stella took a quick step and put her knee into his groin. He doubled over with a groan and she grabbed his shotgun, but not before Thelma’s shotgun went off, the sound of its retort echoing through the quiet night around them.

  The kickback from the gun pushed Thelma down hard on her butt. Walt limped over to the woman and jerked the shotgun away from her. “I swear, Thelma, you should’ve known better.”

  Thelma started crying and rolled over next to her son. “Jack? Are you okay, honey child?”

  “Leave me alone,” the object of her affection snapped. “I’m dying here. Call an ambulance.”

  The headlights Stella had pointed out, and used to advantage, went by the farm without stopping.

  John, Chief Rogers, and Agent Whitman weren’t more than a few seconds behind. Their vehicles pulled into the driveway, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

  John ran from his car, his gun drawn as he took in the scene. “Everyone okay here?”

  “I need an ambulance,” Jack said. “And I want to sue Chief Griffin for assault.”

  Walt started to sway and Stella propped him up with his arm around her shoulders.

  “We need an ambulance,” she told John. “Walt’s been shot—blood on his boots in the picture.” She grinned at him.

  “I’ll call for that.” John took her hand and scanned her face in the bright glow from the police car’s headlights. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “If you’re talking to me, I sure could use some hard cider about now,” Walt said. “Never mind that ambulance. I’ve shot myself worse than this cleaning my gun.”

  Chief Rogers stepped in at that point, demanding to know what was going on. Agent Whitman had his own questions. Stella was there long after the ambulance had come for Walt and Jack. Thelma was handcuffed in the back of John’s police car.

  It took a lot less time to explain everything to her parents and Doug when she got back. Sean had been up, rummaging around for a snack, and had seen her note on the table. Both he and Doug said she should have woken them and taken them with her.

  Stella smiled at Eric who was sitting on the stairs as she told the story. She’d made her decision about leaving Sweet Pepper. All that remained were the details.

  • • •

  “Did you say we’re stuffing these peppers with sweetbreads?” Stella asked Eric as she looked inside the hollowed, candied pepper shell.

  “I said we’re stuffing them with sweet bread,” he corrected as he stuffed the first batch of peppers with the mixture from a large glass bowl. “This is fruit bread. Remember, you bought the candied fruit for it? I baked the bread yesterday while you were at practice. Now we’re stuffing the peppers with it. At least I am.”

  “Sorry. I was picturing, you know, insides stuffed in the peppers. I know what sweetbreads are.”

  He laughed at her. “That’s amazing from a woman whose main diet is Pop-Tarts and Doritos. Are you stuffing the peppers?”

  “Yes.” She made a face as she picked up a handful of the bread mixture. “It looks pretty in there. I hope it tastes good.”

  “Try one. Then you’ll know.”

  “Not that it matters.” She put her first stuffed pepper on a cookie sheet lined with baking paper. “It has to go in today. As long as people don’t get sick eating it, it’s going as is.”

  “Just try it. It’s good.”

  “Easy for you to say—you don’t eat.” She did as he advised and was pleasantly surprised. “Mmm. You’re really good at this. I shudder to think what I’d be taking to the festival if I had to come up with ideas by myself.”

  “So do I. Now, stuff.”

  They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes.

  Stella didn’t regret her decision not to leave Sweet Pepper. It had been difficult to tell her parents that day they’d left in August, but she still believed it was the right decision. She’d had a long time to think about it when she drove back to Chicago, packed up most of what she owned, and sent it to the cabin.

  Some of her things had stayed behind in her parents’ attic. No matter what, her space in the cabin was limited. She’d respected that fact and was happy with the result.

  Stella hadn’t brought any furniture back with her. She liked Eric’s old stuff, but the deer antlers had to go. He’d given her a hard time about a few things but they’d compromised in the end and it had all worked out.

  Eric had seemed surprised when she’d returned, despite her telling him that she would. She knew when she’d seen his face again, after being gone most of the month of September, that she’d done the right thing.

  “How are you going to transport these?” He held up a tray of finished peppers. “We really need something with sides to keep them in place.”

  “No problem.” She whipped out a box of plastic wrap. “They won’t go anywhere once I wrap them up in this. And it won’t stick to them either. My mom said last night that she swears by it.”

  That was another addition Stella had to make. She’d put in a landline phone so her mother could keep in touch, apparently at any time of the day or night since she’d called after eleven last night to ask about the festival recipe.

  “She likes to talk on the phone,” Eric observed. “She must really miss you.”

  Stella shrugged. “I�
�m sure she’ll figure out ways to come down all the time. A free place to stay and a wealthy father makes that very attractive.”

  “Someone’s here.” Eric glanced out the window. “Ricky Junior. Did you miss practice today?”

  Stella wiped her sticky hands on a wet towel. “Like I’d schedule a practice on the first day of the festival. It must be something else.”

  Ricky Junior knocked on the door and it opened before Stella could get there. He looked at it and smiled. “Was that the ghost or do you need to get your door fixed?”

  “Maybe both,” she said. “With Jack out of the picture, I guess I need to find a new handyman.”

  She was glad to see a smile on Ricky’s face. While his father had been going through his court proceedings, Ricky had lost his ready smile and unique sense of humor. He’d even started driving more slowly.

  “Would you like to try a stuffed candied pepper? They’re good.”

  “No thanks. I’m here to let you know that I have to quit the fire brigade, at least for right now. I’m sorry, but my mom needs me a lot more at the café. I can’t get to all the practices and promise I can show up for calls.”

  Stella had been expecting this—and dreading it. She depended heavily on Ricky to help with the vehicles as well as driving the engine/ladder truck to calls. “I understand. I hate it, but I understand. How’s your dad holding up?”

  He shrugged. “About like you’d expect. He doesn’t complain, but he’s lost a lot of weight and he looks really bad. I hate that he carried that secret around about Carriker and the old fire chief for so long. Things like that eat at you. I guess it was a relief being able to talk about it, but jail’s no picnic, you know?”

  She smiled at him. “You’re always welcome back when you can.”

  He scuffed his tennis shoe on the wood floor and looked away for a moment. “Not like you really need me anymore. Now that you’re not leaving and the town council gave you that ten-year contract, you can always find another driver.”