We Handle Our Own

I

"And you found no cause?"

"Nossir, found nuthin,'" Gerald Bishop said and spat a stream of tobacco juice, leaning slightly to miss his substantial gut. "She just up and caught fire, like spontaneous combustion, ya know? All of 'em been that way."

Robert Orson stared at the Fire Marshal, as much surprised at the man's knowledge of either spontaneous or combustion as he was taken aback by his seeming incompetence. Buildings do not just catch fire because they're bored, he thought. "How many fires have you had?" he asked.

The man looked to the horizon in strained contemplation, rubbing his forehead just below the brim of his John Deere cap. "Well let's see," he spat again, the spittle causing tendrils of dust to rise from the ashen cinders littering the concrete pad on which they stood. "The Mutton place, the old church house, here, the Greyson place, Wellington House..." He continued listing names and counting fingers for several minutes before coming up with a number. "I'd say 'bout twenty-two this year, give or take, startin' with the old church house last spring."

"Jesus," Robert huffed, and kicked the remains of a pew over to its side, blackish dust puffed into the air. All around them the remains of the fire baked beneath the Mississippi sun; pews and beams turned to ash, the concrete foundation looked like a canvas painting of the night sky, and stray sheets of hymns fluttered, singed at the edges.

"Don't tell Fortner, but I don't think Jesus has much to do with Wilson these days." He said and wiped sweat from his brow. Sticking his hands in his pockets he added, "A house-trailer burnt up last month, killed four kids. The parents climbed out a window with the baby and ran over to the closest trailer in the park a'yelling 'the kids are burning.'" He spat and shook his head.

While Robert had searched the scene the Marshal remained thankfully silent, and he wished now the man would go back to his quietude. But he continued on.

"And a week or so before that Wellington House, the old folk's home caught fire. Six died in that one. Four bedridden patients and two nurses who ran back in to wheel them out."

"And you found no cause in any of the burnings?" he felt beyond shocked. True that he did not find the fire starter during his inspection of the First Baptist Church of Wilson, but this was a week and a half--and two thunderstorms--after the fire. Bishop's entire job was figuring how fires started and he'd actually been inside the building when the blaze began. Robert shook his head in disgust, how did this jackass get this job to begin with?

"Nope, no suspects and no causes. Just fire and death, all's here now," He shook his bland sunburned face in Robert's direction. "And just a little advice: this town isn't nice to outsiders. I was you, I'd hurry my investigation up and head out asap."

Small town politics, Robert decided was the only way this guy got the job. "What about Mrs. Mutton?" he asked, ignoring the Marshal's cryptic warning.

The big man shrugged, "She was a nice, old lady, kinda weird though. In a bag-lady type of way."

"Anyone have issues with her?"

"Well she quit the church not long after Mr. Mutton died a couple years back." A car horn interrupted Bishop, and he smiled and waved at the passing car, a beat up Toyota trailing black smoke. "But, uh, yeah. Miss Gertie got into weird stuff, kinda like scientology or reincarnation or something, ya know? Anyway, just harmless crap, but folks kinda shied away from her after that. We don't live in the bible belt for nothing,' ya know?"

Growing weary of jawing with the town's good ole boy Fire Marshal, Robert skimmed his list of questions to the bottom of the page. "What about her cousins?"

"They left town right after the fire. Left no contact numbers."

Robert nodded and sighed, then lowered his clipboard and thanked the Marshal for his help. As they shook hands before parting Bishop said, "Remember what I said. Wilson can be a good place or a bad place, but it's no good for strangers." Afterward, as Robert was climbing behind the wheel of his rental car Bishop called to him, "If you talk to Sheriff Manning ask about Mutton's statue."

He nodded and smiled as he slammed the door and started the ignition, feeling the man's final statement made about as much sense as the rest of the interview. Gotta love small town America, he thought, specifically small town Southern America. He waited for the Marshal's jacked up F-350 to grumble onto the highway before backing up and pulling onto the blacktop himself--the rented sedan feeling miniscule by comparison.

Driving through the impoverished ruins of Wilson, Robert thought back over the file, over the testaments of the townsfolk submitted to the company.

Gertrude Mutton's funeral was the first, and consequently the only, held in the new church. There had been six weddings in the church's year and a half existence, and regular worship services were also held.  In fact, since the new one opened the old church building was used exclusively for funerals, Rev. Fortner not wanting to soil the cleanliness of the new church with the dead.

The devil, however, had found a way to burn the ninety-three year old First Baptist to the ground. It was race related; the elder members of the small community were certain. This was Mississippi after all and everything was somehow race related.  And poor old Mrs. Mutton passed just two weeks after the old First Baptist building was reduced to smoldering embers. Wilson had no funeral parlor, and now just one church--The new First Baptist Church.

Gertrude Mutton's only living relatives arrived the day after her passing, three cousins (although no spring chickens themselves): Sarah, Sheryl, and Joan Kincade (Mrs. Mutton's maiden name). Sarah, Sheryl, and Joan arrived promptly at noon, and drove their station wagon straight to the deceased's home. No one except Mrs. Mutton had been inside the house since the passing of Mr. Mutton, and the entire town was alight with rumors and gossip as to the disposition of Mrs. Gertie's house. In the two years following her husband's passing Mrs. Mutton grew increasingly eccentric and reclusive, and her cousins seemed to fit perfectly.

The day following the discovery of the body Sarah, Sheryl, and Joan met with Rev. (or Pastor, Robert couldn't remember how Baptists refered to their God spokesman) Fortner to discuss the details of the ceremony. With plans set, the trio returned to the Mutton house, pausing briefly to accept condolences from several townsfolk.

That night the entire town was shaken from its slumber by the roar of flames and the wail of sirens.

Built by Mr. Mutton's father over a hundred and thirty years ago, that the ancient electrical wiring would fail was no surprise to anyone, not even Fire Marshal Gerald Bishop. And so when it came time to file the report that's what he filled in the blank. Regardless of dubious cause once the blaze ignited there was no slacking the flames as they lapped up the old, dried wood of the house quick as kindling in a fireplace, and the cousins just made it out alive, singed hair and all.

The funeral being the next day, the Muttons rented a room at the dilapidated Sands Motel, planning to leave town the following evening and continue their lives. Truth be told the town was ready to be shed of them--feeling as creeped out by the cousins from Out-of-Town as they had about the deceased.

And the Muttons did in fact leave the next evening, but after giving their statements to the esteemed Gerald Bishop instead of after the funeral. By all accounts mid-eulogy smoke began billowing into the chapel from the rectory and panic ensued, including a fight for the exits--Mr. Fire Marshal himself being among the fevered rush for the door.

The church burned down along with Mrs. Mutton's remains as most of the town watched on in horror, heavy smoke choking the sky above. Statements were taken, the Mutton cousins left, and over the course of a week the claim was filed, sending Robert to Nowhereville to access damages and estimate payment.

Wilson, like many small towns across the south, prospered during the times of independent farming and small business, but during the reign of multinational conglomerates and tech-savvy high school millionaires the town slowly withered--dying slowly beneath the blazing sun of progress without a swallow of water to wet their drying gullets. Many of the crumbling brick structures along Main Street were dark, and "Closed" or "For Sale" cardboard signs duct taped the forlorn windows. Traditional southern hospitality waned; people hustled about their business and went home with few smiles or greetings.

Robert grew up in a town just like the one into which he now drove and his stomach turned. As far as he felt, if a town couldn't cope and adjust to change and progress it deserved to die; Wilson included. Smoke clogged the compartment and he cracked a window, cursing himself for having to drive an hour and a half south of his home in Tupelo. Hell, the town sat only forty miles from the Alabama line, for God's sake.

And driving through the town proper he felt content to let the rest follow the church. Cracking the window wider and lighting another cigarette, he thought the town's Main Street looked like cardboard cut-outs made for a middle school play and discarded into the elements to rot thereafter.

Chain smoking after leaving the sheriff's office, he turned the rental south out of town and prayed Sheriff Manning's directions led him to the preacher's house and not a rotten cotton gin. His statement being equally unenlightening as the Fire Marshal's, why should his directions prove accurate?

Only two pieces of information gathered from the sheriff offered the slightest hints of benefit: the three Kincade's hailed from Gertrude's hometown in Washington state, something that sounded like Sunset Valley--not as good as an address but better than the Marshal's info.

The second nugget of information while ultimately unhelpful towards the claim was satisfying in answering some curiosity Robert felt toward the woman herself. Around the time she left the church Mrs. Mutton received a package from backhome Washington: a moss green statuette. A wolf-crocodile hybrid creature, the sculpture appeared a mish mash of Asian terracotta and American Indian totem styles, and Mrs. Mutton carried the thing around like a baby, often whispering to it as she walked. The community believed it an idol to some ancient deity that escaped eradication when the Europeans first settled across the country, adding to their indignation at the elder woman's sudden occult fixations.

Inquiring as to the piece's whereabouts Robert's frustration grew upon hearing it was the only memento the cousin's carried home with them; actually the single item they rescued from the flames of the deceased's home. While not central to the investigation Robert's fascination of American Indian lore rose within him and he silently cursed the town of Wilson again at his inability of examine the artifact. Crocodilian totems are common to tribes in the south where alligators are native, but it would be a rare sculpture indeed to come from Washington state depicting such an animal.

Driving now into the tangled wilds surrounding the town he smoked and wished for the chance to hold the sculpture, until regaining himself and attending to the route at hand--all he needed was to get lost in bumfuck Mississippi a couple hours before sundown.

Propagating in the sub-tropic climate, vegetation could take hold and swallow an area if left alone for a blink--give an inch and kudzu will take a mile...and more. So, as is typical in the area, after turning off the highway he could easily see signs of plant life retaking its lost territory from humanity, and the darkened, crowed roads became mere paths through a jungle.

Between smokes he crunched Aspirin to alleviate the throbbing above his eyes; a whole morning wasted on two fruitless interviews, a face of ash, and a hastily thrown together file. After nearly an hour of driving gravel roads outside of town he finally arrived at the Fortner residence, nearly swerving into a ditch at the sight of the place.

The magnificence of the house stood out from its dilapidated neighbors and the subdued scenery like an eyesore. Wilson was a small town, very poor, and the houses reflected this. Creeping kudzu almost wholly smothered the natural flora. In the midst of such desolation Fortner's home was nothing short of a mansion; seemed the Lord paid his servants well.

Sweat beaded the reverend's brow and stained the underarms of his buttondown shirt, he met Robert in the dooryard with tie loosened and sleeves rolled to his elbows. Despite wiping his palms on his pants, the hand he offered Robert was slippery, and Robert wiped his own pants after shaking.

"So Mr. Fortner, did anyone in town have any grievances against the Church? Hold any grudges?" he asked after the introductions.

"Lord No," he screeched. "No, No," he settled himself. "The Book states the Word is the Law and in this town everyone believes such."

"Everyone except Mrs. Mutton?"

Robert thought a streak of anger flashed over the man's countenance, but as quickly as the grimace flashed a grin spread over it. "Everyone. That's why there is only my denomination here, because everyone believes in my ministry."

"Alright. What about you?"

His brow furrowed, "What about me?"

"Think of anyone holding a personal grudge against you?"

"Of course not, I'm merely a servant of the Lord. Why would anyone have a problem with me?"

"With all due respect Pastor, after seeing the town, your neighbors, and then your house... your circumstances might instill envy in some."

"Sir," he spoke slowly and Robert felt certain he hit a nerve. "My circumstances are due to inheritance. I devoted my life to the Lord in hopes of earning my privilege; everyone in town knows as much. I was raised here and raised with the people here; they know me. There is no envy."

"Then what about Miss Gertrude Mutton? She left the church, anyone take offense to that?" he asked. As before with the mention of Mrs. Mutton lightning streaked across the reverend's face before being smothered by controlled meekness.

"Ah, Mrs. Mutton," he began. "She was a dear, sweet woman, but sadly she turned from the path-"

"She was practicing witchcraft? Had to rankle some feathers her ceremony taking place in the church."

"So you've heard some rumors?" he continued, unfazed by the claim adjustor's interruption. "I believe she fell to the black arts soon after Mr. Mutton passed, considering her background. It's sad; she was such a Godly woman. My Sunday school teacher as a boy, and to see her condemn her soul to hell..." he sighed, and Robert could not tell if he was genuinely moved or wearing a fade. "I tried to help her, but she refused. Said she knew everything the Book had to teach. Very sad." He fell silent and shook his head at the ground.

"What about the townsfolk?"

"They were frightened; both by and for her. At my request they treated her no different. The easiest way to push someone away is to condemn them to their face. Until the end I held out hope, but..." he trailed off and the men stood in silence."

"Everyone respected your wishes as far as Mrs. Mutton?" Robert asked after a moment.

"Of course," a haughty expression replaced the one of sadness. "My flock loves the Lord and wants the best for all His children--even the wayward."

"Sir," he was nearing the last of his questions and surprise, surprise was no closer to finding answers. "What do you make of the unexplained fires?"

"In the Book, Job was stricken with much tribulation and yet remained faithful to the Lord. I am confident Wilson will do the same."

"So you believe God is causing the fires? Some kind of test?"

"Yes, I do," his eyes seemed to sparkle, wholly in his element now--and Robert didn't need three guesses to know what came next. "Mr. Orson, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?"

Robert parried the question, and had the reverend walk him through his account of the funeral and fire. Reverend Fortner recounted the same basic story Robert had read in the police report and claim file, and he found himself going through the motions. Afterward the men said their goodbyes and he left the preacher standing in his yard. Head pounding harder than ever, he drove slowly down the winding path back to town, itching to wrap the case and leave Hickville for good.

II

He returned to town, and parking just off of the crumbling Main Street, unwrapped the sandwich he'd packed before heading out that morning. Eating slowly, he leaned against the car's hood and lost himself reviewing the case file.

"You that insurance fella?" an old man asked, shaking him back to reality.

"That's me," Robert introduced himself and extended a hand.

The old man, who now appeared ancient, leaned on his scuffed cane, the tip of which was splintering. He looked from Robert's hand to his face then back to the hand, then turned and spat a long string of tobacco juice onto the pavement. "Investigatin' the fire up to the church?"

Robert placed his hand in his pocket, and confirmed that he was investigating the fire.

"Get outta town," the elder gruffed.

"Excuse me?" he asked, taken aback.

"You heard me; there's nothin' you can do."

"So you, like Mr. Bishop, believe the fire was accidental?"

He cackled and swayed on his cane. "Jerry Bishop is a mooncalf. Doesn't have the smarts to pour piss out a boot before tryin' it on."

"D'you know something about the fire, or just wasting my fucking time?" Robert asked, beginning to feel like the butt of a joke to the whole town.

"Son, I know there's some shit goin' on that don't concern you, and that you can't fix"

"Mrs. Mutton?"

The old man glanced away for an instant; just a blink but long enough. "She was old. She died." He shrugged. "That's what happens." Then looking dead center he added, "Sometimes before old age arrives."

A chill crept over Robert but he pushed it away, "Was she a witch?"

"A witch?" He cackled again, but this time it lacked the force of his previous laugh. Just below the surface fear swam like brim in a fetid lake.

"Yeah, a witch; that's what the rumor is anyway. What about her unexplained death; lot of rumors about that too."

"She was an old bat, and she died," he repeated. "A small thing will put old bodies to sleep."

Robert fought to conceal his grimace--another dead end. "I have an appointment to get to," he lied, and turned away. "Good talk." Not.

With surprising strength the old man grabbed his arm and jerked him around until they were face to face, stale tobacco smell wafted out between blackened nubs of teeth. Eye to eye, inches away the man said, "Get outta here. We can handle our own."

Robert wrestled from the elder's grip and walked--hell, nearly sprinted--down the cracked sidewalk. Looking back, he stood near the rental leaning on his cane and watching, but several steps later when Robert turned again the old man was gone.

Ducking into a mom and pop coffee place, he found himself in another informal interrogation, this time a young woman sipping a latte spoke. After hearing a new twist on an old wives' tale he excused himself and made for his car two blocks away. According to Lindsey Garrett, many in town believe someone from the church started the fire in order to burn Mrs. Mutton's remains--prevent the witch from coming back and haunting Wilson's christian inhabitants. Of course it didn't help that Mrs. Mutton died the night of a full moon. God, how many superstitions could these people cram into one funeral, he wondered.

Either everyone in Wilson was completely off their rockers or he'd been the subject of a town wide practical joke, so in exacerbation he drove to the Mutton house remains, feeling determined to kick around the ashes to prove nothing supernatural existed before returning home and denying the church's insurance claim. These assholes wanted to play jokes, they could eat crow.

The charred remains of the house leaned ominous and black in the red sunset as Robert parked the rental beneath singed branches overhanging the deceased's driveway. Despite inspecting countless burnings throughout his career his steps were slow and tentative as he moved among overgrown weeds to the cinderhouse, feeling oppressed by the foul air engulfing Mrs. Mutton's land plot. A dingy white fence surrounded the area and seemed to withhold fresh air as if he and the remains were encased beneath a dome designed to keep the death stench from escaping into the world.

A dollar store flashlight illuminated the ruins enough to keep him from stepping on an exposed nail or bashing his shins on an overturned beam, but the sickly yellow light helped little more and the feeling of descending into an abysmal sarcophagus itched at the nape of his neck. In one room's remains several large shapes were arranged in a circular pattern, and upon inspection he found them to be stones roughly the size of travel chests. Wondering at how a little old lady could have sneaked these into her home without someone noticing, he brushed loose soot from the top of the nearest stone and inhaled in surprise at the myriad of arcane symbols etched into the rough surface.

The sight of the runic symbols brought back his conversation with the pimply woman from the coffee shop. In hopes of seeing her deceased husband again Mrs. Mutton called up something from beyond, and when she couldn't control what she summoned it killed her. Or so the woman said, speaking between an expansive gap in her teeth that Robert concentrated at not staring throughout the strange conversation.

While inspecting the marks, a huffing sound behind him like a giant taking deep controlled breaths startled Robert. Whirling the weak flashlight through the remains, he at first detected nothing, but then a small tendril of dust floating into the last rays of the setting sun drew his attention toward the rear of the house.

Flashlight shaking, he held his breath as he eased through the fire's leavings, flinching at each crunch of cinder underfoot. Finally he reached a hole in the floor half obscured by a surprisingly unburned plywood board which when moved revealed the hole to be a stygian pit beneath the house's foundations. Few southern homes had basements, and below the floorboards the depression looked more like a large sinkhole than anything else. No ladder or steps led into the black basement, and only the singed and frayed remains of a coil of rope hung into the darkness.

The rhythmic inhalation/exhalations were coming from within the pit and he called down, "Hello?" The breathing abruptly ceased and only his calling echo answered.

Just before turning away, a faint scuffling crept to his ears followed by a graveled voice that seemed more felt than heard. "Your kind shall say 'surely the light will protect us. And fires will burn throughout the night, and then the dark will be as day.' But the darkness descends and even the daylight is shadowed, for the darkness is the light for us who come to the feast."

A scream clogged his throat and Robert felt as if he would choke before the black pit. Finally words stammered forth. "Who's down there?"

"I am one who lives not as you have lived, and will not die as you shall die," the deep blackness below said. The voice seeming to contain a great gulf of night within itself, as of a thousand whispers coming together to form audible words.

At hearing the thing from below Robert's pulse quickened, and he staggered amid the wreckage of the Mutton house. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a great precipice, a dark void that had swallowed many men before him and would swallow many after. Not the physical hole before him now, but one that would change everything he knew about the world, the universe, and himself, and now he found his addled mind cursing him for investigating the ruins, for pushing too far. Robert Orson wished more than anything he could unhear the voice, and above all else, that he never hear it again. Whatever knowledge it would impart, however horrible or beautiful, he wished not to know. Before either he or the disembodied voice from the pit could speak again someone called to him from the front yard.

"Insurance man!" a male voice called again, and he half jogged and half stumbled to the blackened stoop where he froze in surprise.

Standing in the knee high grass of Mrs. Mutton's front yard was some-thirty odd townsfolk, headed by the speaker, Sheriff Manning, holding a flashlight in one hand and his service revolver in the other. Several others among the throng held flashlights, and he saw a few shotguns as well. From behind the sheriff came a mumbling of prayers.

"Its time for you to go, Mr. Orson," The sheriff stared long and hard at Robert shaking on the stoop.

Without a word Robert walked toward the crowd which blocked the path to the rental car. As he neared, the people of Wilson stepped aside, forming a human hallway through which he could reach his waiting car. The old man Robert encountered earlier leaned against the tree next to the driveway and, shaking his head in Robert's direction, laughed between asthmatic wheezes. Reverend Fortner seemed not in attendance.

In the rearview mirror Robert watched the flashlight beams move into the house as he pulled away. With that he left Wilson for good, chancing running out of gas in order to fill up one town over in Highland City. A month later, after Robert's investigation closed and upon his recommendation, the city of Wilson, Mississippi received a settlement check from the insurance company. Paid in full. No follow up required.