Prologue: From the Lips of Southern Prophets
My papey? My papey, God rest his soul, was as brilliant as brilliant comes. His word was gold. He would say, “Thane, it’s gonna come a time when people won’t care much too much about the world dying around them. It’s gonna come a time, son when people is gonna do what’s right in their own eyes and nothings gonna stop them from doin what they wanna do.”
My papey died in a hit and run, ridin’ a bicycle across the street. I reckon that and his prophet warning is what made me want to keep the world in my palms. The problem is these days…and I always love to hear people talk about these days. It’s always been these days. These days you can’t hardly even tell what’s happening in the world. There’s war and terror and mistrust in the government. In my day if you had told me there was room to keep the government at an arms length, that arms length woulda been knocked off by someone who knew better than to bite the hand that feeds.
The shame is the war and terror…they’re goin right on in our hearts. You can’t pass somebody on the sidewalk without wondering if they’re ready to turn you with a knife to your throat. Even one time in county that old boy, Reb Thompson, short for Rebel, got shanked by an ole’ prisoner who said that he looked at him the wrong way. Well if that didn’t make the warden madder than a
I worked my way up from Sherriff Deputy to top brass in the FBI. They would always say, “Thane, as honest and as much of an old timey straight shooter as you are, you can do anything in this business.” And I reckon I have. What you’re about to find is my last will and testament for the Bureau. These files will tell you some outlandish sorts of stuff an I reckon that only the parties involved will ever know the real truth. But you? You can make your own decision. An’ I’ll tell yah, you should know that some of the names have been changed to fit the integrity of the cases they represent. And by all means, know that these stories are just the way they wanted them, in a voice that fits much like their own...
I just keep thinkin, yeah Papey, I spose you’re right…
and as ol’ Mr. Dylan said…The times they are a changing…and I sure just don’t know what to make of it…
One: A Discussion over Sunday Brunch
“…and oh, yes. I have the fire shut up in my bones.
Tomorrow when you wake up, eat your breakfast. Generic corn flakes with 2% milk because that whole stuff will kill you. A banana for potassium and you’re set.
Orange juice for vitamin C.
and Fiber. Get your fiber.
For a full helping of the gospel, take two parts faithfulness, three parts prayer, one part selfishness and mix. The byproduct is some unholy cross of blessings and curses. These are the things that wake you up at five in the morning to a throbbing headache and numb appendages. Yes, you’re alive. Yes, you feel this.
A shower to steam the wrinkles from the lipstick stained shirt you wore last night. The night before. You don’t worry about cleanliness. If cleanliness is godliness, you’re a heathen.
A Pagan.
Prophet of Baal, repent from your wicked ways. Or don’t. It’s none of my business, yet.
You walk into the closet. Another pair of Dockers slacks and a pressed to perfection pink tie to match the beauty of the lipstick from not so much your wife. not so much your mistress. not so much your lover, friend.
I don’t want to be the one to tell you this, but these things won’t save you.
Your professors would tell you that too much negative anything could kill you. Too much good intentions mixed with too much tranquilizer will kill any sized cow that you put in front of a gun.
Too much blood in your system, yeah, that’s your big worry right? Well, too many red blood cells, that’s called polycythemia. Think athletes, think steroids. Adrenaline laced throughout your body. Too much red blood leads to tumors in your liver. Liver tumors produce too much cortisol. Too much cortisol and you can end up with Cushing’s syndrome. Cushing’s syndrome leads to fat deposits in your face, arms, legs, whatever part of you that you don’t want fat build up, there it is. No dear, you’re not pregnant so don’t waste good money on tests. You’ll want to look into liposuction. You’ll want to look into a good gastroenterologist. And you thought Prometheus had it bad?
I’m going to tell you the truth. Now.
I’m afraid for you. You see, the issue here is that you don’t appreciate your life. You don’t really understand how well you have it…”
And all of a sudden her voice was more than Wes could take. He woke up in a daze, half hung-over thinking about the impossibility of his infidelity once again. He was positive that there was no way he had slipped up again…
His wife began to stir…Could she know?
“The problem is you’re so ungrateful…What do you think orphans in
Chalkboard…fingernails….the answering machine played on…
“For infidelity, take two parts willing participant, 5 parts vodka, 1 part uncertainty and mix…For a broken heart in a wonderful wife take…”
Coffee…Cigarettes…move faster…move sharper…
“Have you wondered what impact you’re really making on the people around you? Your wife? Your boss? Would you like to find out? Do you ever wonder what those small bug bites in the middle of the night that wake you up and make you realize you have to go to the restroom are? The swelling…it’s normal right? Could it be that you’ve put all of your spiritual eggs in the one wrong basket?”
Wes Strickland reached behind his ear…to his calf…these small little bumps beginning to swell. Mosquitoes, he reassured himself…It has to be. Those pricks in the middle of his daze…they had to be bug bites…
“Steroids can do funny things if injected into the right pressure point…Remember the cortisol? Remember the prayer line? 1-800Forgive? I’m not sure that God has a problem with you anymore…but I’m afraid I do…”
He wasn’t sure he had called a prayer line? 1-800for…
“For untimely death mix 1 part mistress, 1 part leaky faucet, 1 part loose shower line and mix…let sit for 3 minutes and cool to taste…”
And all of a sudden his night was crystal clear…and he remembered the footsteps…the chloroform…
“One last thing, Mr. Strickland and I will leave you to the misery of your fat deposits…your cortisol…your polycythemia…don’t take a shower…even the best soap won’t clean up the mess I’ve left you…It’d be in your best interest to run and to never look back. Leave your wife a note and tell her you’ve made your own life miserable…don’t involve her in this. It’s for the better…If you don’t, I can promise it will catch up with you, Wesssss…”
Elizabeth Strickland woke to the shower running, the vivid crash of a glass mug against the floor and the smell of smoke…and her husband nowhere to be found…One day she’d find out how the dead woman had wound up in her bathroom, but it wouldn’t be through Sylvia’s message on the answering machine.
Wes had taken care of that.
He left one tear stained note that simply said, “I’m sorry, it’s best if you forget about
It wasn’t until weeks later that they found his car…and his body with abnormal fat deposits like tumors growing from his calf and bulging from his deformed, waterlogged face at the bottom of
It was said Sylvia had a thing for reading the obituaries and keeping the tally marks of her success. She would paper mache the results on her wall as trophies. For Sylvia Clawson this wasn’t just a pleasure, it was a profession.
Later, her landlord would say that he had made every effort to ensure that his building had the most paper thin walls in the city. He would say that insulation was a luxury. That there was a reason that the A/C vents were always positioned just above the telephone jack. He would say that every once and a while from her apartment you would hear one, two, three…rings and a cough. Then, “1-800Forgive prayer line. What are you struggling with, sweetheart? Tell me all about it and I’ll pray for you, honey.” And by that time it was already too late.
