Thomas Cook - Streets of Fire

Ben got into the car and sat silently as Luther headed down the street, turned left, then continued northward until the short, brick skyline of Birmingham was miles behind them.

‘We’re going out of our jurisdiction, Ben,’ Luther told him. ‘But I guess you have to say that things like that have gotten sort of blurry lately.’

There was a strained quality in Luther’s face, a determined stiffness, as if he were trying to keep himself under control. Sometimes it looked like fear, sometimes anger, but whatever it was, Ben realized that it was different from anything he’d ever seen in Luther before.

‘I was born up here,’ Luther went on. He smiled gently as he looked at the landscape which surrounded them. The morning light had now brightened enough to reveal the thick green woods which spread out to the north of the city. Lines of gently rolling mountains rose on either side of the road, and the sound of crows and hawks could be heard occasionally over the rattle of the engine and the whir of the wind that poured through the open windows.

‘Where are we going?’ Ben asked.

‘Used to fish and swim,’ Luther went on obliviously. ‘Met my wife up here. She was a mountain girl.’

‘Where are we going?’ Ben repeated.

Luther cleared his throat roughly. His eyes shifted over to the left, out the side window, then returned almost immediately to the road. ‘I got a call this morning. The sheriff up here, he’s an old friend of mine.’ He smiled briefly. ‘He had the sweets for my wife way back when, a million years ago, when everybody still had a little piss and vinegar in their goddamn veins.’

Ben leaned toward him slightly, his eyes watching him closely. ‘What were you doing at Breedlove’s this morning?’ he asked.

‘I got a call, just like I said,’ Luther replied.

‘About what?’

‘About Breedlove,’ Luther said. He turned back to the road, slowing the car more and more until they came to a narrow unpaved road. Then he made a hard right turn and headed down it until they reached a clearing to the right. He pulled far over to the side, vines and low-slung tree limbs brushing across the side of the car.

‘Get out,’ he said as he brought the car to a stop.

Ben suddenly felt himself trapped in some sort of net he had not seen.

‘Get out?’ he asked.

Luther nodded. ‘That’s right.’

Ben stared about. ‘Where are we?’

‘Jackson County,’ Luther said. ‘Like I told you, my old stomping ground.’

Ben pushed the door against the thick brush that pressed in against it and got out of the car.

‘It’s just a little walk from here,’ Luther told him. ‘Just follow me.’

Luther headed briskly down the narrowing dirt path until they came to a second car. It was painted light blue and it bore the letters SHERIFF’S OFFICE in large white letters. The man who got out of it was dressed in plain khaki pants and a white short-sleeved shirt with a silver star hanging loosely from the pocket.

‘Hey, Luther,’ the man said.

‘How you doing, Fred?’

‘Not good, but I guess you already know that.’

‘Where is it?’ Luther asked.

‘Up top the hill,’ the sheriff said. ‘Nobody tried to hide it, that’s for sure.’

Luther patted the sheriff on the shoulder. ‘Thanks for letting me know, Fred. We’ll go on up by ourselves if that’s okay with you.’

‘Sure enough. Just let me know what you want to do’

‘Okay,’ Luther said. Then he turned and headed up the hill, waving Ben along to follow him.

The air grew cooler as they continued through the deep wet grass. Luther was silent, his eyes fixed on the curved hill which rose above him. He walked slowly, determinedly, but from time to time he would glance back toward Ben as if trying to study his face or the loose sway of his body.

Ben could feel his body tightening. ‘Somebody called Leon Patterson yesterday,’ he said.

Luther said nothing.

‘They wanted to know how long you could tell what race a person was after they’d been buried,’ Ben added significantly.

Luther continued forward, now breathing heavily after the long pull up the hill, his forehead beaded with sweat.

‘Leon thought that maybe whoever it was that called, that he might be planning something.’

‘To murder somebody,’ Luther said casually, as if only partly interested. ‘To murder a colored guy.’

‘That’s right,’ Ben said.

Luther continued to drive himself forward, his heavy legs staggering through the lengthening grass. His trousers were wet with dew, and Ben could see them clinging to his thighs and backside.

‘So,’ Ben added, ‘if what you’ve got up here is a –’

Luther stopped just as he crested the hill. A long flat field spread out before them, and near the middle of it, a tall elm stood, its large green leaves fluttering slightly in the breeze.

‘There it is,’ Luther said as he pointed to the tree. His eyes glistened slightly in the light, and for a moment he seemed lost for words.

Ben stared at the tree. It was only a few yards away, and it was easy to see the body hanging from its large trunk. The head was slumped downward, the feet together, the arms flung out and, as Ben could see clearly after a moment, strapped to two large branches.

‘Breedlove,’ Ben whispered.

‘Fred said he looked like Jesus,’ Luther said. ‘Like Jesus on the cross.’

Neither of them moved toward him. For a moment they simply stood together and stared at the body. A thin early morning haze surrounded them, as if to cover the harsh details which Ben began to see as he continued to look at the body. It had been tied at the wrists, the feet roped together.

Luther shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think there must be a curse on us.’ He looked at Ben. ‘Like voodoo or something. Some of the colored believe in that stuff, don’t they?’

Ben said nothing.

Luther stepped forward slightly, his eyes squinting hard as he peered toward the body. ‘I didn’t know him very well, did you?’

‘No.’

Luther looked at Ben. ‘You got any idea where his family is?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t see them at all last night?’

‘No.’

‘Got any idea what he was doing out here?’

Ben shook his head.

Luther wheeled around to face him, his eyes red-rimmed, his body trembling. ‘Don’t hide nothing from me, Ben,’ he cried. ‘Don’t be that stupid.’

‘I don’t know anything.’

‘Bullshit,’ Luther snapped. ‘What the hell were you doing parked outside his house?’

‘I was just waiting for him,’ Ben said.

‘Because of that gun thing?’

‘That’s right, Captain,’ Ben said firmly.

Luther stared at him intently. ‘I don’t know whether to believe you or not,’ he said. ‘That’s why I wouldn’t tell you anything on the way up here. I wanted to keep an eye on you, maybe shake something out of you.’

Ben’s eyes shifted over to Breedlove’s body. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with this.’ He turned back to Luther. ‘And I don’t have any idea who did.’

‘What about his family?’ Luther asked. ‘You know where they are?’

‘No.’

‘You got any idea how long they been gone?’

‘No,’ Ben repeated.

Luther continued to watch him doubtfully. ‘Don’t hold anything back on me, Ben,’ he warned. ‘If you do, I’ll bust you down. You’ll be lucky to have a foot post in a cemetery.’

‘I don’t know anything, Captain.’

‘All right,’ Luther said weakly. ‘I don’t have any choice but to believe you.’ He looked back toward the center of the field. ‘Let’s go see what we can find out.’

Ben followed along at Luther’s side, stepping quietly through the tall grass until the two of them stood beside the body. Breedlove’s shirt had been ripped open, and the word INFORMER had been crudely cut into his chest.