Lady in Flames Read online

  I wave over the officer who just arrived and then turn back to Blake. “I want you to tell him that.”

  A Simple Maniac

  February 26th, 2002 8:15 PM

  Inside Vern Salters’ GMC

  The moon blazes and the vicious cold air whips around the windshield. Gripping the wheel, heat blasts over my cracked hands as I listen to the pop and sizzle of radio with a broken antenna. The frigid winter road lies ahead in a long line of starlit nothing.

  Most of Halgraeve is bedded down for the night, and that’s the usual way of things. There’s not a whole lot that’s changed in the twenty-eight years I’ve called it home.

  The battered street signs look the way they always have, bent and riveted to rusted posts flaking away their green paint. Friday night heroes reign at the bowling alley, its gravel parking lot lined with their second-hand horsepower. And kids still try to score beer at Slick’s Drive Thru when they can.

  I did my time like everyone else, thought about getting out, and then never did. It could have been different. I could’ve taken a job elsewhere, moved to the city. It was just simpler to stay here. I know how things work; I know my environment. What’s coming around the corner usually isn’t a surprise.

  After school, I bought a small house just outside the square in the center of town and then started doing construction engineer work for the county. I may have bypassed opportunities but I’m O.K. with that. There’s something straightforward and satisfying when things are uncomplicated.

  Things haven’t been that way lately, though. Some of the sick and mindless kids in town have taken to beating innocent people for no reason. They don’t take money; they don’t say anything. They just come out of nowhere and take you down. That’s what I hear, anyway.

  Everyone is on edge, and rightly so. There’s not much policing that gets done in Halgraeve and downtown is dead after dark. It would be easy enough to get caught up in something you didn’t want.

  I’m not too worried about it, though. There’s a permit in my wallet that says Vernon Salters is licensed to carry a concealed handgun, and I always have my Sig on me. It’s the best kind of insurance.

  I downshift before going into the next bend, mapping out the rest of my evening. I’ll go at the weights for an hour and probably nuke some leftovers. Then I might have a beer…

  The burning glow of a road flare interrupts. A half-mile ahead, there’s a small car pulled halfway onto the shoulder. The driver waves both arms trying to flag me down.

  Usually I only stop for women or the elderly, but on a night like this, I’m thinking anyone could use a hand. I shift again and let the motor wind down before applying the brakes.

  Coming up behind the disabled vehicle, my headlights douse the scene, illuminating a girl sporting a dark green winter coat. She shields her eyes, backing up a step or two.

  I catch a hint of her simple features and the tresses of auburn hair not covered by her white snow hat, and I’m sure I know her. It’s Melissa Downy; I went to high school with her.

  Seeing her splits me between relief and unease. I’m glad it’s me who came by to give her a hand, but there’s that unspoken something between us that we never did work out.

  Once stopped, I open my door, lean out, and place one foot on the step rail. “Melissa?” I call over the motor.

  “Who’s there?” She can’t see in the glare.

  I step down around the door and walk toward her, voice still raised. “It’s Vern.”

  Melissa’s eyes are red and she’s shaking. “Vern Salters? You don’t know how glad I am to see you!” She sniffs.

  “Are you alright? What’s wrong with your car?” I instinctively reach out to give her a hug, hesitate, and then hold out one arm.

  “I don’t know.” She returns my one-armed embrace, her head planted against my chest. “Everything just kind of died. First the radio, and then my lights went. The engine gave out after that. I tried to get as far as I could before it was completely gone. It’s so cold I didn’t know if I would have to walk.”

  She pauses, as if flustered, and then launches into a spiel. “A few cars went by, but I couldn’t get anyone to stop. I was going to go use the pay phone at the garage up the road, but when I got close I thought I saw shadows moving behind the building. I was too scared to go the rest of the way; I thought maybe it was those kids who are attacking people. So I walked back here, but then I started hearing things in the field…” She stops and looks at me, head tilted like she’s ashamed. “You probably think I’m silly.”

  “Not at all. Here, pop the hood.” I move around her to the front of her rusting Escort. “Try to start it.”

  All I hear is a clicking noise when she turns the key.

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “Probably the alternator.” I lower the hood to a few inches above the engine bay and then drop it. It clangs shut in response. “C’mon, we can call a wrecker from my place—it’s only a few miles away.”

  Melissa grabs a black shoulder bag and her purse from the passenger side and then locks her car. She walks with me over to the truck.

  I help her up into it, making sure she’s settled before I close the door. I do a quick scan of the area as I walk around the back of the truck and then hop in the driver side, rubbing my numb hands.

  “So what are you doing out?” I ask as I put the shifter into first and then ease out the clutch.

  Melissa wraps herself in her arms and shivers again. “Just on my way home from work.” She flexes her fingers in front of the dashboard vents.

  I crank up the heat. “Where’s that?”

  “The nursing home over on Evers Road—Potter Oaks.”

  I nod and steal a glance. She has that same freshness about her…that clean sweetness that always held my attention. I could never put my finger on it; there’s just something about her that grabs me.

  Conversations come rolling back—not specific conversations, but times where I thought we were close to…something. I don’t know if she ever felt the same way. I like to think she did.

  Melissa turns with a polite but tired attempt at a smile. “What about you?”

  “The same. On my way home. I work for the county—we’re working on a bridge down in Brinson. Kind of a late night…”

  A pair of speeding headlights pops into the rearview. I keep my eye on them as they draw a steady bead on us. A half-mile and they’re close enough that I feel the need to double-check my speed, just in case it’s a cop.

  No time—a red light on its roof ignites, urging me to pull over.

  “Son of a…,” I trail off into the rearview.

  Melissa whips around to see. “Are you speeding?”

  “No, not really.” I let up on the gas and steer to the shoulder. Once the truck is at a crawl, the cruiser behind us speeds around to the front and parks diagonal to the berm as if to keep us from escaping.

  Wide-eyed and taken aback, Melissa asks, “What kind of cop is this?”

  My gut tightens when I see there are no markings on the car and that the emergency light is one of those cheesy things you see in police movies from the eighties. Then when the plainclothesman steps out from the driver seat, I reach behind to the small of my back to get my gun. “He’s no cop.”

  Willis Freed—the local crazy, the village idiot, whatever you want to call him—he’s not right in the head. Some people think he’s harmless, so they leave him alone. I’ve got no reason not to, but I don’t trust him. There’s just something about his mannerisms…

  His dull, waxy brown hair is cut close enough to see patches of his scalp. Close-set eyes strain in a near-permanent squint. His mouth is pasted with a reckless sneer. Pudgy, almost heavy set, Willis moves with an “I’ll get to you when I get to you” pace. He motions for me to roll down my window. “Where ya goin’, boy?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Willis steps up a few feet from the door, swaying like he’s got nervous energy. “There was a big chemical fire
down here two weeks ago.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “Well, what was you up to that night? Driving around with your pretty girlfriend?” He leans over to peek at Melissa. “Or was you hanging ’round Union Chemical?”

  Melissa turns away, casting a nervous glance from the corner of her eyes. Her mouth shrinks to a small line.

  I lean forward to block Willis’s view. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but I think you should get back in your car.”

  Willis tilts his head like dogs do when they’re confused. Something in his voice changes—a slight change in urgency. “What? You think I’m not worth respecting? Like I’m some other bozo from town?”

  My pistol hides from view under my right leg. I don’t know whether Melissa saw me place it there, but my hand rests next to it on the seat, just in case I have to pull it. “I’m not who you’re looking for,” I say to Willis.

  He reaches up to scratch the back of his head and chuckles, revealing what looks like a revolver crammed into his belt. “How m’I supposed to believe that?”

  I freeze dead, my eye on his belt. Was that a gun? Who let the psycho have a gun? “Listen,” I say with as calm a tone as I can fake, “we’re on our way home, OK? We just want to get in from the cold. No harm in that, right?”

  Willis leans in, one hand on the door frame. He stares with a deranged focus and exhales deep, musty breath. “What if I don’t want you to go home yet?”

  Melissa shivers, the open window having sapped the cabin’s heat.

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” I’m ready to draw my gun when headlights burst over the horizon.

  Willis turns to watch them and steps back from the window.

  The headlights grow larger and then decelerate. The silhouette of the vehicle betrays a light bar on the roof. It’s a Sheriff’s car.

  “Oh, thank God,” Melissa says, breathing again.

  The gray cruiser comes to a halt on the other side of the road while the driver side window rolls down. A weathered, mustached face leans out. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Willis is taken aback, almost apologetic. He steps away from the truck and stumbles over his words. “Sheriff Hildersham, uh, nothing, sir. I mean, we was just having a conversation.”

  The Sheriff, a tall, solid man, steps out from his cruiser. “Willis, what have I told you about pestering people? Do we need to have another talk?”

  Willis inspects his cruddy boots. “No, sir.”

  The Sheriff turns to us and signals. “You folks go on and get out of here.”

  I waste no time shifting into reverse. As soon as I have enough room, I’m back into first gear and I steer between the two vehicles. Hammering the shifter into second, Melissa and I ride in silence. Neither of us looks back.

  The Doubt of a Righteous Man

  February 26th, 2002 8:42 PM

  Mordecai Mothersbaugh walking home

  My bones and sockets protest as they swivel in their awkward gait. The biting air works its way in and around each ligament, tendon, and spur, drawing out the dull ache I’ve known all my life.

  One leg, strong as timber, strides forward and plants itself into the soft powder. The other, weak and stunted, drags behind in a struggle to keep pace. I was born with what doctors call a leg length discrepancy.

  The apostle wrote about the thorn in his side. I’m sure this is my own thorn, but I’ve found strength in my weakness. Daily the Lord helps me overcome the frailty of a temporary body. I’m a tool in His hands, made perfect in His care.

  I’ve relied on His strength for the twenty-some years I’ve manned the pulpit at the Shepherd Church and even longer before then; it’s what enables me to stand before the congregation and deliver His bold message with confidence. I pray those in worship won’t see a broken man, but rather the grace of God.

  Every Sunday, the parishioners file into the sanctuary, their tired feet plodding heavy along the warped, wooden floorboards. They plant themselves at irregular intervals in the stiff pews, withered husks carrying an uneven but sincere tune. They’re my flock, entrusted to me by the Lord.

  The church doesn’t have a parsonage. Each night after I finish my study of the Word, I read through the list of prayer requests for the week, then lock the hefty door and shove off for home.

  My spartan apartment is a two-mile trek from doorstep to doorstep. Blistering sun or deadened cold, I make the trip twice a day, six days a week. On Sunday we have morning and evening services, so I commit myself to the road four times on those days.

  Only the piercing cold stands guard tonight. I continue to push hard along the berm, carving a broken trail through the dirty snow as I cross into the square nestled in the center of town. A lamppost on each corner illuminates humble glass storefronts, a glimmer of a simpler time.

  To the left, a handful of bars sit clustered together like they’re up to no good. Working my way past the squalid Ale House, I’m reminded that Sunday attendance is hurting, as is the offering plate. There isn’t much to go around lately, though it seems people still make time for drink—raucous music and mixed voices burble behind a fogged window.

  Next door is Lady Luck, another sorry pit. Brick-red corrugated metal siding wraps the length of the popular dive. Two smokers linger near the door, swapping stories of an explicit nature. They only offer a passing glance.

  That’s usually what I merit—a quick, unconcerned look. Sometimes their eyes will say, “Don’t come near me, Preacher. I’ve got no use for religion.” Most people know who I am and leave me be whatever their reasons.

  I can’t force people to believe. They’re either searching or they aren’t. No matter what sense of misery grips someone, whatever depth of shame, there’s still some rebel independence coursing through their veins.

  We’re all guilty of that, of course. It’s Man’s way. Trying to mend the broken relationship between God and humanity is a burden under which I often stumble. Stuck in the mire with shaky hands, I have nothing but the Cross to cling to.

  I’m ashamed to say I haven’t been clinging as hard as I should. Toiling away at my calling, I feel as if I’m a lone beacon of light in a dismal, murky world. How long until I’m snuffed out?

  The muffled clamor of the bars behind me, I shrug my overcoat closer round my neck. Halgraeve is rotting from the inside out. It suffers from a spiritual blight as old as the dirt-caked foundations on which this square is built.

  Godless generations hand down their lustful inheritance, gluttonous heirlooms of greed. Borderline addicts slip into the dregs of despair. Hopelessness maintains a chokehold on those who would find solace in a well-being they may never recover.

  The moral decay of this town is as varied as the pock-marked asphalt, but it all stems from love of self. Disregard for one’s fellow man and an all-consuming glorification of one’s own deeds is what has this place so steeped in sin.

  I came to town with canvas duffle in hand and a few hundred dollars in my pocket. I walked as much of it as I could and tried to get a feel for what cried out for salvation. Where was the Lord leading me? Could I make an impact here? The run-down century homes, the idle farms, and the lonely shut-ins—they all spoke to me in a voice clear and true: Save us.

  The quiet gloom is still here. Now past the square, cramped homes creep up onto the road on either side. Which of them houses abuse? Which reeks of alcohol? Which is a hell-hole? There’s no way to tell. The weak glow from frosty windows betrays nothing about what misery lives within.

  Just yesterday I was speaking with one of the farmers who raise corn. He found his wife to be unfaithful and wasn’t sure he wanted to live anymore. They have three little ones at home…

  It’s hard to console a man when something he holds dear is ripped from him. The sanctity of his family, sullied and disrupted, may never be mended. I prayed with him.

  Last week it was a woman whose son stole her roll of twenties she kept saved in a shoe box. He shoved her out of the way when confronted about
it. She’s more worried he might be on drugs than she is of mounting bills.

  The general lack of respect characterized by today’s youth is alarming. Even more so is their lack of humanity. Around town, reports run rampant of how groups of them seem to randomly select someone for a beating. The first, several weeks ago, was an isolated incident. The second was a signal that something wasn’t right.

  This sick, mindless collusion has no reason about it. What is the profit? What is gained? There is no theft, no motivation for revenge apparent in their actions. How far off-center must they be to lash out at their fellow man for nothing more than what appears to be an angst-ridden disdain for society?

  “The righteousness of the blameless makes a straight way for them, but the wicked are brought down by their own wickedness.” Truer words were never written, but even the psalmist asked, “How long will my enemy triumph over me?”

  I don’t know whether my toils have any efficacy here. The moral fabric of man continues to disintegrate and the Lord’s people lose their foothold. There is no vivacity, no zeal for the Word, and the number of the faithful dwindles. When should I shake the dust off my feet and leave?

  I feel I’ve arrived to find life so deadened as to never see the light of the sun again. The primary reason for us to exist, to fellowship with the Lord in all of our being, is lost in the hearts of nearly all. The fire of our souls needs stoking. I just don’t know if I’m the man to do it.

  Again, I’m shackled by doubt, a doubt so inconsolable I feel as if it’s in the room with me when I wake up. It tails me as I tread this worn-out road. When I stand up to preach, it sits in a pew, glaring back at me.

  What if I’m wrong? What if this isn’t my calling? Can I leave these people to themselves, to feed and fend off each other? Is Halgraeve lost for good?

  These questions plague me without answer. I’ve prayed for direction, but nothing is clear. The weight of my uncertainty is like the icy overhangs on these gutters, layer upon layer built up over time, threatening to tear down under the heaviness of their presence.

  I trudge on, fits of insecurity undermining my search for hope. My feet continue to swish through the slush until I’m sure I hear rapid steps behind me, but I look over my shoulder to see nothing at all.