Trial by Fire (6 page)

W
hen they got back to her brother's house, Issie spent two hours convincing Mike that they were not to call the police. She didn't want to provoke whoever was after her, she said. She needed a few more clues before she went to them.

But the truth was that she didn't want to implicate Jake.

When Mike and Lois finally went back to bed, Issie stayed up waiting for Jake to come home. She didn't know what had gotten into her brother, raising a teenage boy without a curfew. He should know better. If not from his own teenage days, then from hers. She had been a wild one, staying out sometimes all night, watching the sun come up with her dates, then sleeping all day. It wasn't a very productive life, she knew. It hadn't been until she started showing her own self-imposed discipline that she'd even been able to get through her paramedic training. Now she saw Jake following in her footsteps, and the thought worried her.

He rolled in about 4:30. When she saw his car drive up, she went to his bedroom and sat on his bed. She wanted to surprise him.

It worked. He came in and flicked his light on, saw her on the bed, and sucked in a breath.

“Issie, what are you doing here? You scared me to death!”

“I couldn't stay home tonight,” she said through her teeth. “My tires were slashed at Joe's Place, and then when I went home, someone had been in my apartment.”

She could see the guilt on his face, but he straightened and tried to look innocent. “Oh, really? Did you call the police?”

“No,” she said. “You can tell whoever it is that I didn't call them. But I won't be manipulated by a criminal. I want to know what you know right now.”

Jake threw up his hands as if he couldn't believe the accusation. “Issie, how would I know anything about this?”

“Because in my mind it's no coincidence that after I came to your playground and saw what you were up to, my tires get slashed and a dead cat turns up in my bed!”

“Dead cat?” he asked. “Gross!”

She nodded. “Yeah, it's gross, all right. Thank goodness for your father. He came over and got it out of my apartment, but I'm afraid the mattress is ruined. So now I'm stuck for four new tires and a new mattress if I want to sleep in any kind of peace, not to mention the fact that I don't know how they got into my apartment. But I was thinking that maybe someone who had a key let them in.”

“I don't have a key to your apartment, Issie.”

“No, but your dad does, and it's hanging in the kitchen on a hook. It doesn't take a genius to know which key it is.”

He swallowed and turned around, putting his back to her.

“And incidently, I've already checked. It's not there right now.”

He turned back to her. “What did you tell Dad?” he asked.

Her laughter was dry and brittle. “I didn't tell him that I found you in the vandalized house of some old lady who died. So you don't have to worry just yet. He doesn't know anything.”

“That's good,” he said, “because there's nothing to know.”

The obvious lie made her livid, and she got up, crossed the room, and put her face inches from his.

“I know I'm not a whole lot older than you, and I know that I don't have any authority where you're concerned, but so help me, Jake, if that was more than cat blood on the carpet I saw in that fire, you'd better cut yourself loose right now before you wind up in prison. The police need to know about that bonfire and that carpet.”

Jake's eyes hardened. “I wouldn't do that if I were you, Issie.”

“There you go, threatening me again. What'll it be this time? A dead snake in my bed? A
live
one?”

“I'm not threatening you,” he said. “I'm warning you. I don't have a lot of control over some people. I can't be held responsible for what they might do.”

“Then you are threatening me,” she said. “I thought so.” Her eyes began to fill with stinging tears, but she blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. “I'm warning
you
of something,” she said. “You get out of this group or this gang or whatever it is that you're calling it. You get out of it, you remove yourself from those friends, and you save yourself while it's not too late, because, so help me, those kids are going to go down if I have to take them down myself.”

With that, she went back to the guest room, closed the door, and locked it. For the first time in her life, she didn't trust her nephew. She didn't even know who he was.

T
he fact that Nick was single rarely bothered him, though he had expected to marry by now. Most of the time he was so busy that he didn't have time to think about his loneliness, but on days like today when he was getting out of the hospital with no one to take him home and care for him, he inevitably wondered why God had not answered his prayers for a helpmeet.

Though he had only been here one night, it would have been nice to have a wife come from home and bring his toothbrush and his shaving kit, a change of clothes. Last night he had been barraged with visitors, but no one had thought to bring him the necessities that a wife might have thought of.

Now as he signed the papers and prepared to leave, he thought how nice it would have been if his wife had been there to fill out the paperwork for him, to fuss over him and make sure the nurses gave the proper instructions for caring for his burns and his broken ribs. It would have been nice to have someone look at him with concern in her eyes, and maybe even pamper him a little when he got home.

He didn't like to admit it, but it had been nice having Issie stay with him through the worst of the treatment yesterday. She had held his hand, talked him through the agony, pleaded with the doctor on his behalf. He wasn't used to that, but he had appreciated it.

A knock sounded on the door. He looked up and saw Jill and Dan Nichols standing in the doorway.

“Hey, guys,” he said, his voice still raspy from the smoke inhalation. “Thanks for coming.”

“We were glad to do it,” Dan said. “Somebody's got to get you home, man.”

Jill came in and hugged him. “How are you feeling, Nick?”

“Sore,” he said. “I'm not liking these burns too much, but it could have been a lot worse. Voice is shot, but that's no big loss. Some people will love having me shut up for a while.”

She looked around the room. “Where's your suitcase?”

He chuckled. “What suitcase? They brought me here in an ambulance.”

“But no one brought you any clothes?”

He stood up carefully, showing her the T-shirt and gym shorts he'd been wearing when he was brought in. It was what he'd slept in at the station, and he had pulled his turnouts over them. “If I'd had a change of clothes, do you think I'd be wearing this?”

Jill tried to muffle her laughter.

“It's you,” Dan said. “I really like the look.”

“Hey, buddy, you were wearing the same thing when we got called to the fire. But you got to change.” Nick grinned and went back to signing the papers. “I'm expecting the fashion police to arrest me in the parking lot.”

“Hey, why didn't you get one of us to go by your house and get you some clothes?”

“Last night I didn't think of it. It never occurred to me until this morning that I didn't have anything to wear. I'll be fine. If you can just get me home without anybody seeing me, then I can change clothes and go visit Ray and Susan.”

“Visit Ray and Susan?” Dan asked. “Nick, you need to be in bed. You don't need to be out visiting people.”

“I'm not visiting ‘people,'” Nick said. “They lost their son. I'm their preacher. I have to go see them.”

Dan shot Jill a look that said they weren't going to be able to change his mind.

“Well, use your own judgment,” Jill said quietly. “I hear they're taking it real hard.”

“Of course they are.” Nick's voice caught, and he shoved the papers away. “I never thought I'd be burying one of their children.”

He got up and drew in a deep breath. It caught in his bruised side, and he winced. And putting weight on his legs made his burns hurt worse. “Let me just go find the nurse and get these forms turned in and we can go,” he said.

He walked carefully as he stepped out of the room. But it wasn't his wounds that were keeping him down now, he thought. It was the heaviness of his heart over a destroyed church, a broken family, and a sense of failure that had enshrouded Nick since the fire yesterday.

S
tan and Celia were waiting at Nick's house when Jill and Dan got him home, and he was grateful to see that Celia had vacuumed and dusted and put away the few scattered things that he had left out. Already, at least a dozen casseroles lined his countertops. Someone had loaned him a freezer, and had delivered it to his carport this morning. Celia was trying to figure out what dishes could be frozen and which could not.

They'd moved his furniture around slightly so that he could rest more easily in the recliner and still reach reading materials and coffee on the table next to him. He hadn't thought of arranging the furniture quite that way before, but the woman's touch certainly added something. He gave Celia a hug and thanked her.

“Now sit down,” she said. “Let me get you something to eat. You must be starved. I know how that hospital food can be.”

“No, I can't. I've got to go visit Ray and Susan.”

Celia's silence spoke volumes. She had been trained well, being married to the one detective in town. She knew better than to lecture him about taking it easy or being careful. Stan never listened.

“I'll go with you,” Stan said.

Nick frowned. “It's not necessary, Stan. I can do it myself.”

“No, you can't,” Stan said. “I've been kind of putting it off. I need to talk to them about the case anyway. I think maybe we can answer some of their questions.”

“Okay,” he said, “but let's not wait much longer. I feel like I should have been there yesterday when they were going through the worst part of it. I just need to change clothes.”

Celia grinned. “You sure you want to? Your gym shorts make a nice statement.”

Nick looked down at his bandaged legs and the shorts he'd slept in at the station. “Yeah. It says, ‘I'm an idiot.'” He shot her a grin and limped back to the bedroom.

He sifted through his drawers, looking for a pair of khaki shorts. Were they dirty? It was October, but it was still shorts weather most of the time in south Louisiana. He'd worn them just a couple of days ago. He began to feel overcome with weariness, and he sat down on the bed and tried to think. Had he washed them? If so, had he folded them, or did he need to go look in the dryer to see if they were still there? He dreaded the walk back in there. The scorched skin on his legs was covered tightly with bandages, but every flex of the muscles seemed to stretch the skin and cause undue agony. Just standing was an ordeal.

He forced himself to get up and look in the next drawer. He found them there, carefully folded, then sat back down to put them on.

Is this how it's going to be?
he asked the Lord.
Is every movement going to wear me out?
He was going to have to do these things for himself, because soon he would be alone.

He could do this, he told himself. Carefully, he stepped out of his gym shorts and stepped into the khakis. The seam hit his bandage on the way up, and he winced. But he got them up, then sat there a moment, trying to catch his breath. His lungs felt as if they'd trapped half the heat of yesterday's fire in them, and his throat and trachea felt parched. He needed something to drink but didn't want to take the time.

His mother would come to take care of him if he asked her. But that wouldn't work, because she might bring his dad. The last thing he needed was his military father rummaging through his things and lecturing him on the need to do something with his life. No, he didn't need his father calculating what rank he should be, had he joined the military, or what income bracket he would be in. He didn't want him reminding him what kind of house and family he should have at age thirty-two.

No, he wasn't up to that now. He could handle this himself. In just a minute…he would catch his breath…and the pain would cease, and he could go visit Ray and Susan.

He slipped on a pair of flip-flops, and as he did, he thanked God that the burns hadn't been over his joints. At least he still had mobility in his feet and knees. It could have been so much worse.

He trudged back into the living room. Stan was ready to go, and he leaned over and gave Celia a kiss. “Pray for us,” he said.

Celia nodded. “I will. You know I will. I've been praying for Ray and Susan all night. You too, Nick.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I needed it.” He didn't know why he got choked up as he walked out to the car.

N
ick had hoped he and Stan would be able to visit with Susan and Ray alone, but he was surprised to see that the house was full of people when he got there.

Susan's parents were in the kitchen organizing the food that people from the church had already brought over. He figured they had doubled the recipes, and he had the counterparts at his house. Vanessa, Ben's sister, sat in the living room with her eyes swollen, talking on the phone in quiet tones. Several cousins and aunts and uncles milled around the small house. Susan was nowhere to be found, but they discovered Ray in the backyard hammering nails into a trellis he had been building during his time off.

Grief was a funny thing, Nick thought. Some people kept busy, some withdrew, some chattered. Some curled up in bed and cried, while others ate. He never knew what he would find.

After the introductions, Nick stepped into the living room to speak to Vanessa. He gave her a hug and she burst into tears. He told her how sorry he was. She nodded, suddenly unable to speak even with the phone next to her face.

“Where's your mother?” he whispered.

She shrugged. “I don't know. Probably in the bedroom. Mama's not feelin' well.”

That didn't surprise him. He looked around and found Stan at the back door, saw that he was about to go out and talk to Ray. Nick crossed the room and followed him.

When they stepped out into the yard, they saw that Ray was hammering with more strength than was necessary. He didn't look up as they came out, just kept hammering as if his life depended on finishing this trellis and making it stand.

Next to the trellis, Susan had already planted jasmine, and Nick supposed that within a year the fast-growing vine would be covering the whole structure. Life went on.

They crossed the yard and finally caught Ray's eye. Nick put his hand on his shoulder, but Ray just kept hammering. “Thought you was in the hospital,” Ray said.

“Just got out.”

“You s'posed to be out and about?”

Nick shrugged. “I figured this was important enough.”

“You didn't have to come.” Ray stood back, surveying the trellis. “I was lookin' for a weak spot that needed a nail.”

Stan looked down at his feet and saw some of the nails that Ray had already dropped. He bent down and picked a couple up, rolled them around in his hand.

“Do you think we could talk to you and Susan?” Nick asked. “Is there someplace we could go?”

Ray dropped the hammer to his side and looked down at it. “I don't know if Susan wants to talk. She's in the bedroom feelin' sick.” He gave Stan a thoughtful look. “Is it about the investigation?”

“Yeah, it is. I wanted you to know where we are on this.”

“Okay,” he said. “I can go get her. I know she'll want to hear that.” Ray dropped the hammer onto the fence next to the trellis, dusted off his hands, and started back into the house. “Let me just give Susan some warnin',” he said, “and then we can go talk to her in the bedroom. It's the only private place in the house right now.”

“We'll just wait out here,” Stan said.

Ray went into the house, and Stan sank down onto a patio chair.

Nick sat down next to Stan and looked out across the yard, thinking how miserable it felt to come here like this, to minister to a couple who had lost a child with no explanation, no warning. It was the part of his job he liked the least.

They sat in silence until the back door opened and Ray stuck his head out. “Come on in,” he said. “Susan's waitin' in the bedroom.”

Nick got up, trying not to wince when his legs protested, but he headed in and Stan followed him. They cut through the crowd of people meandering through the house and made their way back to the master bedroom. It wasn't a big room, just large enough for a full-sized bed and dresser, but one of the uncles had brought some chairs in so they could all sit together and talk.

Susan was already sitting in one of them, looking out the window.

“Hey, Susan,” Nick said softly. He bent over to give her a hug, but she didn't respond at all. He squeezed her shoulders and backed away. Stan didn't even try.

Ray took the seat next to her and held her hand, and Stan and Nick sat on the bed across from them. Nick had never seen Susan like this. Her eyes were dull, and her face was as lifeless as Ben's had been.

“What you got to tell us, Stan?” Ray asked.

Stan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Ray, Susan, we think this killing was racially motivated. Witnesses saw several people in a car leaving the scene, and the car had a swastika and a KKK sticker on the bumper.”

Susan's face twisted as those words sank in. “My son was murdered because he was
black?”
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and shook her head. “God help me! God help me!” she whispered.

“I think it's possible,” Stan said. “The church burning could have just been a way of disposing of the body, or it could have been racial. We are a mixed congregation. If the KKK was involved, I'd say it was some kind of statement against us.”

Ray's lips stretched tight across his teeth. “What statement could they have to make with my son?”

“I don't know,” Stan said quietly. “They've been pretty quiet for a number of years. Sidney Clairmont, the grand wizard, is in his seventies. Probably doesn't have the venom he used to. Recruitment's way down. On the other hand, this could have been his way of letting us know that their activities are starting up again.”

Ray got up and started walking around the room. Susan's dismal eyes followed him. “All these years,” he said, “I've raised my children not to think of theirselves as bein' a different color. I told them that you could be anything you wanted to, that God had plans for everybody, no matter the race. Here I am, fire chief of Newpointe, and my son was a year away from havin' his mar-ketin' degree at LSU. He was gon' be somebody. And you're tellin' me that because of the color of my skin, somebody come along and shot my son, burned down my church, all for some kind of sick statement he wanted to make?”

“I don't know for sure,” Stan said. “But it's a lead.”

Ray's face turned marble hard as he met his wife's eyes. “I'm gon' go out there and find 'em, Susan. I'm gon' find who did this and I'm gon' kill 'em with my bare hands.”

Nick drew in a deep breath. “Ray, I know you feel that way now, but you can't go off half-cocked and try to do something about this. You have to let the police handle it.”

Stan shifted in his seat. “Ray, we're not going to let this go. I have a personal interest in it. I don't take it lightly when friends of mine are murdered. Calvary was my church too. I'm going to find who killed Ben, and we're going to put him behind bars and he's going to stand trial and suffer for what he's done. You've got to let us do it.”

Ray sank back down into the chair. Susan touched the back of his head. “He's right, Ray. I don't want to lose both the men in my life. Let Stan do it.”

Ray began to weep, and Nick found himself staring at a spot on the carpet, making a valiant effort not to break down himself. When Ray had pulled himself together, Nick tried what he had come for.

“Ray and Susan, I need to talk to you about the funeral, if that's okay.”

Ray drew in a deep breath and wiped his face roughly. “We didn't know if you'd be up to it,” he said, “so we asked Susan's Uncle Thomas to do it.”

“Oh, a relative?” Nick was not sure whether to be relieved or offended. Truth was, he really
wasn't
up to it, but he could have mustered the strength for them. He told himself this decision wasn't rejection of him. He didn't have time for wounded pride. “Well, that's understandable. I can see why you'd want him.”

“I gotta tell you, Nick,” Susan choked out. “We're mad at God. Real mad.”

“I understand,” he said. “That's normal. I think God understands that too.”

“I want answers,” Susan said through her teeth. “I want to know why—with all the violent, hateful, malicious people in this world—why did he take Ben?”

Nick met her eyes. He had always loved Susan. She had been a dynamo in the church, was always the encourager and the one to bring food when someone needed it, the one to baby-sit kids or take in a family who was down on their luck. She was always willing to give. Now she needed for someone to give back. He wished he had the answers for her. “God allowed this to happen for a reason,” he said. “We may never know why, Susan.”

“Don't matter
why,”
she said. “There was no
reason
good enough to get my baby shot through the head and left in a ragin' fire to die. None! You hear me, Nick? And God and I won't be on speakin' terms till he convinces me otherwise.”

She looked out the window again as tears rolled down her face. Nick dropped his eyes. Her child was gone and she couldn't hear reason. There was no rationale, only questions that couldn't be answered.