He watched out of the back window as they sped away leaving the fire behind them. The whole town had been engulfed in the inferno, the church standing almost unharmed in its wake. More fire trucks flew past them in the opposite direction, racing to gain control of the blaze, and Mark sat back, breathing in the fresh air of the cab. They crossed over the town line and were back in the darkness of the country. Mark pulled out his cell phone to call his son.
“We’re fine,” his son said from the other line. Mark had forced them to leave in his vehicle to go to their grandparents as he had learned of the impending flames, and he felt comfort knowing they were safe. As the paramedics worked feverishly on Ashton, getting control of the open wounds and burns that he had covering his body, Mark sat quietly in the confines of the ambulance.
At the hospital he watched as the staff scrambled around as the onslaught of fire victims streamed through the emergency room. It was a catastrophic event. He sat amongst an altered crowd in the waiting room, unsure if their family members had made it or had succumb to the fiery hell that lay in Acadian Springs. He recognized some faces, beneath the soot and blood, but remained silent as they come and gone throughout the night. The television had a captive audience, including the desk employees of the hospital, as it reported on the story that soon would become headline news all over the United States. With the backdrop of the flames and smoke, reporters began to line the outskirts of the town as a state of emergency was called, leading many other parish’s emergency services to the burning streets.
Time seemed to stop and Mark was nearly asleep when a doctor came to grab him from the waiting room. Ashton was asleep when he arrived in the room, cleaned up from the mess that he came in as. His wounds were treated, the gash in his head sewn up once again. Mark pulled a chair up next to the bed, grasping onto the man’s hand. What he had witnessed at the church, he wasn’t sure, but even as Terry pulled the trigger, it felt just. The beeping of machines began to lull him into sleep as he rested his head on the plastic bedrail and just as he closed his eyes, he felt a squeeze on his hand and he lifted his head to look at Ashton. The man’s eyes were wild, searching desperately around the room.
“Where’s Dillon?” Ashton asked quietly. Mark had been at the Boudreaux Plantation when they pulled the man from the wreckage of the burnout building and he wasn’t sure how to answer.
“He didn’t make it, I’m sorry,” was all Mark could muster and he watched as Ashton eyes filled with tears.
“Didn’t make what? What happened?” Ashton inquired, pulling at the tubes that were spread out on the bed. Mark was confused at the line of questions, as Ashton had been in the church and had spoken with Terry only a few hours prior.
“Do you want me to get a nurse?” Mark asked as the man stopped and looked directly into Mark’s eyes.
“No! I want to know what happened!”
“You were there,” Mark began, “What do you remember?” He watched as Ashton began to seek out the answers in his own mind.
“I don’t remember, I don’t remember anything,” Ashton cried, “Everything is so foggy.”
“The fire…” Mark pressed.
“I don’t remember,” Ashton said again, beginning to unravel, “Did the house burn?”
Mark started from the beginning of the night and watched as Ashton’s face twisted into anguish. Once Mark informed him that Dillon hadn’t gotten out of the house, Ashton broke down in tears, wailing loudly enough that a nurse popped in to check on them.
“Everything alright in here?” the nurse questioned.
“I want him back! Please, let me see him! Please!” he wailed, and Mark waved away the nurse. He embraced the man as he cried loudly into Mark’s shoulder and he tried his best to console him. The tears began to soak his shirt and he, too, began to cry for all that was lost. Everything he had ever known was gone now, his childhood home, his life he had built with his wife; it was now turning to ash in the blink of an eye, and although the materialistic items could be replaced, it was the memories he feared that would be charred forever.
Ashton let go of him and sank back into the bed, his eyes red with emotion. The sadness disappeared from his face and he made a grimace, his head tilting towards Mark, “What about the preacher?” he demanded.
“You were standing right there. He took his own life,” Mark said, sitting back in his chair.
“Fucking coward, that fucking coward!” Ashton yelled, pulling at his blanket, “He deserved to be punished.”
“I have faith that he will be,” Mark stated, “I know he will be.”
The room fell silent as Ashton quieted down and Mark once more grasped on his hand. Shlepp had many demons, some he shared with the church, others he kept under lock and key. What Terry had preached for years hadn’t been the word of God, it had been a list of his own insecurities and rules. Mark and many of the patrons of South Belle had fallen victim to his ways, toting him as the closest connection they had with God, but as the cards played out it was a ruse for Terry to feel superior to those around him. It was true, Terry had his own demons and they had won.
EPILOGUE
The town of Acadian Springs was a near total loss, most of its buildings were left in a ruins. The only structure that had survived the blaze had been South Belle Baptist Church, the brick fortress that had provided so many memories for the town that surrounded it. Much like a major hurricane, the populace that was able to evacuate were dispersed around the country as many people in neighboring states opened their doors for the victims, each with their own set of scars from the incident that had occurred in their wholesome southern town. Most had to rebuild from scratch, losing all of their personal effects as they watched their homes burn to the ground in their rearview mirrors. It had taken over a hundred men and women to get the fire under control as it spread in all directions, ending right at the “Welcome to Acadian Springs” sign that had invited people into the false sense of welcome. Now it beckoned people to the scorched earth where a town once stood, where lives had been destroyed in the name of religion.
Media swarmed into the rural area pressing anyone that would talk for sound bites and quotes. Ashton had been left with nothing but inconsistent memories and a few wounds. The greatest loss was Dillon, his husband and best friend. The media hounded him relentlessly, the circus beyond anything Ashton could ever imagine. He had returned to New Orleans, back to the home he had shared for many years with Dillon, and still he was answering non-stop phone calls and knocks on his door. It was the biggest hate crime the nation had ever seen, one that reduced a small Louisiana town to ash and soot. Ashton had been pushed between reporters, both local and national, and interviewed by the biggest names in media. It was hard for him to continually answer the same questions over and over again, the pure exhaustion of it all weighed him down. By the time the trials began for those that remained of the original nine arsonists, Terry’s band of cult followers, Ashton was worn down to the bone.
He could see the exhaustion in his face; the dark circles that had become a part of existence way before the fire, his skin a rough desert stretched taut across his lean face, but he was determined to press forth and provide testimony at the trial of the century. He had lost Dillon to the pure hatred of Shlepp, one of the 918 that had perished that night in Acadian Springs. After his moving testimony the outcome of the trial was set in stone but the lawyers on the other side of the case tried to plead insanity on grounds of brainwashing. The judged had laughed out loud, the premeditation of the crime written in bold red paint months before the incident. As cameras flashed and news outlets streamed live, they were all found guilty. It was a moment of relief for Ashton and, as the sentences rolled, his relief turned to elation. All were sentenced to life in prison plus several hundred years tacked on for the countless innocents lives that were lost. Shlepp’s minions would never see freedom again.
Months later and the appeals over, Ashton sat alone in his house nestled in the French Quarter. Letters had pour
ed in from across the globe, some as far away as Australia, hailing him a hero, but it was the was the letters from displaced residents from Acadian Springs that he enjoyed the most. They were filled to the brim with apologies for the bad apple within their community, their own transgressions against him and his husband, and for the loss of Dillon. One letter stood out among the rest, addressed on a plain white envelope from Mark Batton and Ashton smiled as he read the letter within:
“Dear Ashton,
I hope this letter finds you well, as I know of the whirlwind that has happened to you since the events in Acadian Springs. Although tragic, it opened my eyes to what the true meaning of good and evil is and that it is not always black and white in the terms we all believe. We are all capable of truly remarkable things, but even in the purest of intentions something so appalling can be rippling below the surface.
Standing outside of the town I called home for my entire life, watching the flames destroy everything in their path, I started to see this as a miracle. After a tragedy a rebirth can occur and much like the sugarcane that lines many roads in Louisiana, regrowth begins. You were not the presence of evil in our town, the true wolf was among us all along, hiding expertly in sheep’s clothing. I have so many words of condolences, so many apologies that not only I but the entire town owe you for our ignorance and our blind eye to the man many of us considered a pillar of our community.
As for me, during the entire process, I found my true self and for that I am grateful for both you and Dillon. Please know, you are loved and that even in the darkest hour, your light has shined through. I hope this world changes quickly as this fire has our lives, and becomes a safe haven for you and the LGBT community. Be strong, Ashton.
Warmest Regards,
Mark Batton”
Ashton sat the letter down as a second line parade passed by his home and the sounds of New Orleans penetrated his soul. The city felt more alive to him at that very moment, and although the streets were littered with parties from the night before, it was the cleanest and purest city he had ever happened upon. He stood up and opened the door to the city beyond, walking down his steps as the sun warmed his skin. He trailed behind the parade, the loud music creating a rhythm to dance to, and followed them towards the center of the Quarter. He was home and, best of all, he was free.
The House the Devil Built Page 22
