Wrath

There was an old barn painted in new blood. It was reddish-black and bleeding, a bloody waterfall, flowing down along the dirt with gouts of gasoline. A fire rose in and around the barn, in a ring, from a singular match. There were cries coming from inside, but the hay sprinkled in the threshold acted as a bulwark of flames that blocked and burned the entrance, and muffled the clamor. A shadow formed from the back wall of the barn, of a hand, reaching upward, as if desperately gasping for air. The shadowed arm grew larger, reaching farther, and suddenly dropped and descended, sinking beneath the uprising of fire and smoke. The fire still bursting from the floor and smoke clouding over the roof through the loft window and sprouting out the cupola like a chimney. The cries have risen in pitch, still audible under the flapping of wading flames. A high wind roared that day, further waving the fire and ash toward the corn fields. The barnyard animals got burned alive, the ones that hadn’t yet were quiet now, of terror, of their home and neighbors being cooked; they would soon be next, no question about it.

The animals beat their feet against muddy ground, splashing and splashing, and it was loud, mercilessly haunting to hear them struggle and shriek their dying shrieks. It felt as if they were sacrifices and almost too quickly it became silent. Immediately a waft of fire protrudes outward like a furnace, and born from it a solitary white horse, dressed in a veil of flames, but not burnt. It races out into the open air, jumps over the fence guarding the corn fields and into the cool corn stalks, rubbing and tackling against it. A substance paints onto the stalk and corn cobs, from the horse it was scarlet blood ,wet and gooey. Not from the horse, no, the horse was covered in blood, not of its own.

End of Statement

“Who made this statement Deputy Malahan? You left a lot of things out, like time, who reported it, where this was—your not back in the police academy, you know to make note of those kinds of details, I want you to do it over aga—!”

“Sheriff!” Malahan interrupted, “A local, in a farm a couple miles over who had been driving near the landowners farm, filed the statement with the county office. Name, George Horrand, a hard working, family man and revered member of Kentucky society, works as minister of the church on sundays, he is also—”

“A poet too, it seems. Malahan there is an order to these things, and structure, and professionalism, I see a written statement, that my kid could of written for his creative writing classes. I want you to write it again, like an adult—better yet, a cop who’s been out his rookie diapers, for 8 years.”

“Yes, but, Sheriff—sir, this is one of the craziest things to ever happen in the state of Kentucky, I had photos from the crime scene sent to me and frankly I’m at odds.” Malahan was disturbed, and had a crazed look in his eye, like he’d seen something totally unbelievable. He continued:

“—I mean the whole barn was--no joke— covered in blood and—and it reeked to high hell like a slaughterhouse. Sheriff, forget the fires and the stanzas and prose of the statement, aside from the burned victim and the white horse flinging out the fire, sir,” he emphasized drawing closer to the sheriff, hands all over papers and folders that were dowsing the Sheriff’s desk, instantly gaining his attention, “ A god-damn barn of blood, that’s above our pay grade wouldn’t you say so Sheriff?”

This fact repeated in his head, this time it had more of an impact. He had actually made an image in his mind of it, too preoccupied at first with the mountains of paperwork, from petty thefts, false accusations, and crimes that could be left with a light fine sprawled on his desk. So mountainous in fact he had to lean sideways just to see who had come in the door. The emphasis made his words ring out in an echo, it had meaning, and Sheriff felt a little shaken.

“Hmmn.” The sheriff grumbled, locking his fingers to his lips staring down, deep in the pervasive thoughts, “I’m hesitating, Malahan, to get guys outside our lineup— hasn’t always worked out in our favor, you remember the Hardlock case right?”

“The whole force does, shit, there are probably pedestrians the population of Lexington who had a backstage pass to see it.”

The sheriff grinned and chuckled under his breath, regaining his composure after the echo repeated into the fore of his mind, a barn of blood it said. He got serious again, like a principal is to a student when he is called into their office. “Malahan,” Sheriff said brusquely, “ This isn’t like anything we’ve ever dealt with, I don’t know how to go about this, maybe bringing in some outside help might do us some good, and maybe not. The Hardlock case was pretty bizarre, but not like this, not like you’ve told me. I’ll make a request to the CIA, the FBI, some PI’s and other agencies but don’t expect them to call us back, and especially not to give us credit or their time if they do, ya got me Malahan!?”

Malahan took it into consideration, “ Alright,” he said, “But Sheriff, didn’t you know, we got an FBI man right in our state, he’s the whole gossip in town --well-- among the residents of Halberg that is.”

“What! We got one here —well—why the hell didn’t you say so! Call the man in black up here!”

Malahan’s face softened this time, and had a grateful look to it. Malahan gandered awkwardly around the room, searching for a phone, besides the one near the sheriff’s desk, because he felt it would be too weird standing close to him hearing him breathe into the phone. Malahan had strange anxieties sometimes. He lunged toward a telephone on a drawer desk up against the wall and punched the number in for the Halberg Hotel, where the FBI man had been said to be staying in. In the same room, the person he had been calling on the receiving end could be heard, that was how quiet the room was. Just as he got connected to the receptionist someone knocked on the sheriff’s door. “Come in,” Sheriff said.

The door swung open, slamming against the door stopper behind it, the rubber making a popping sound and shaking the room a little. Malahan left the phone to his ear, hovering inches away from it and slit-eyeing whoever came through the door. It was Deputy Jerrick, he was sweating, his collar wet and a line ran through the nape of his back, ending just before his rear. He held a paper in his hand along with a photograph.

“What’s the problem, Jerrick?” the sheriff said, now standing with his hands and fingers spread against the table.

“Sheriff,” Jerrick panted, “ I’m actually here to talk to Malahan.” Malahan held the phone a little further from his face —the receptionist calling out to him: “hello, hello, this is Halberg Hotel reception desk, who am I speaking to?” Malahan scanned him, worried, like he knew what it was he was going to tell him.

“Malahan, we identified the bodies,”

“Bodies!? More than one! Jesus! Was it the perp? Did that idiot kill himself in the fire, or maybe that was the plan all along, crazy ass bastard.”

“No,” Jerrick said, “There were footsteps leading out the back of the barn, none coming in, so whoever left, left, and dropped a matchbox there too.” Jerrick continued “Those who were in barn however, have been identified, one being a sixteen year old boy who tended to the farm while the landowners were away, a Charles Milling, and the other—”

The receptionist on the phone spoke louder, he held up the phone and gave a gesture to Jerrick to hold on a minute. He answered her through the phone, “This is Deputy Malahan from Chickadee County Sheriff's Office, I’m calling regarding the whereabouts of a resident in your care, an FBI agent named Chase Lox, do you have someone by that name there?”

It took a moment, Jerrick caught his breath and the suspense in the room felt chilling. Malahan couldn’t wait to end the call and hear who the other person was. She responded. “Yes, it says he has logged out two days ago, I can give you his number though.”

“I’d appreciate that, thank you miss,” Malahan said.

Jerrick was reminded of something, he had that look in his eye, it sparkled in the dark office. “Wait—wait, did you say an FBI man?”

“Yeah,” the sheriff responded on his behalf, “That’s what he said.”

“Well that’s the thing, an FBI man was the other victim of the fire,”

Malahan and the sheriff looked dumbstruck, they looked at each other and then at Jerrick. A triangle formed between the three, of stares, one looking at the other and all over again. It was up to Malahan to break the cycle of confusion, he made a comment, breaking away from the receptionist, "Was it Chase Lox?”

“No, another FBI man,” he said dramatically ,“By the name of Terry Cohen.”

The silence was so loud, that the steps passing in and out the hallway, past the open door, felt like volcanic eruptions, shaking the ceiling fan and moving the two seats stationed near the desk. It was so silent, and they were so lost in thought, nobody in that room realized how loudly Deputy Langley was playing the Rolling Stones song , Paint it, Black. They would be laughing if what was going through their minds wasn't so serious, because although Langley knew the song and was humming it, when he actually spoke the words, it was partly correct and the other part nonsense.