Excerpts from "Let Me Burn in Peace" by Peter Farris
Editor’s Note: Peter Farris is a new name in Southern fiction and in the South, though he has been very successful internationally, especially in France. Porchlight is pleased to introduce his work to a new, American audience and to be the first journal to publish him in English.
Peter offers this overview of the novel from which the excerpts were lifted.
“Gifted with a pistol, former Georgia Bureau of Investigation special agent Sallie Crews has left a career in law enforcement to pursue her dream of opening a firearms training academy, with a particular emphasis on instructing female shooters. With the help of her boyfriend Tommy Lang, himself a former Sheriff recovering from injuries suffered during a bank robbery, Canebrake Tactical is thriving, and Crews has finally achieved some peace and contentment in all that gunfire.
“But Crews suddenly finds herself the target of assassins after the death of a retired magistrate. She learns of a larger plot involving the judge's unpublished memoir, the book a confession to decades of corruption that threatens the political ambitions of Crews’ former boss, GBI Director Mason Purcell, as well as implicating Crews in a botched drug raid twenty years prior that resulted in the maiming of five-year-old Manny Ponder.
“As former and current cops tied to the raid are murdered and a pair of mysterious assassins close in on Crews and Tommy Lang, Crews is forced to revisit her past and confront the ugly abuse of power by her former colleagues, while seeking help from an unlikely person—the very boy, now grown, whose face was mangled by a police grenade.”
Called a “serious new talent” by Barnes & Noble, Peter Farris is the award-winning author of Last Call for the Living, The Clay Eaters, and The Devil Himself. His latest novel is Lay Quiet in the Fire (Laissez-moi brûler en paix) from Editions Gallmeister. Published in France to critical acclaim, The Devil Himself won Le Prix 813, Best Foreign Novel at the Beaune International Film Festival, was an official selection for the prestigious Grand Prix de Littérature Policière, and named a finalist for Le Prix SNCF du Polar. Among other accolades the novel received starred reviews in Rolling Stone, Hebdo, and Le Parisien, and was picked one of the best mysteries of the year by ELLE and L'OBS Magazine. Also published in France by Éditions Gallmeister, his novel The Clay Eaters was praised in Le Monde, debuted on the Palmarès Livres Hebdo des libraires Bestseller List, selected a Bookseller Best of the Year by Palmarès Livres Hebdo, was shortlisted for le prix Libr'à Nous 2020 and was a finalist for the 2021 Le Prix Lire En Poche. In 2022, Arcade Crimewise published The Devil Himself in English worldwide and a film adaptation is currently in development at Miramax Studios. Peter lives with his family in Georgia.
Excerpts from
Let Me Burn in Peace
From Prologue
There were burn marks where his son had been.
—Where is he? What have you done with Manny?
His wife and daughter were screaming. Chinda pointed to the pillow now shredded. Blood stains on the blanket. He took a step toward Manny’s crib. A cop wearing body armor and camouflage shoved him back. Leveled a carbine at his face.
—Calm down. Your son is fine. Just a little scratch.
Manny’s father knew the police officer was lying.
—This is a mistake. This is wrong.
—Shut that kid up.
Prija continued to cry so he gathered her in his arms. Whispered that it would be okay. His wife yelled at a woman rifling through a dresser, tossing clothes onto the floor.
—What language is that?
—It’s Thai. My wife is from Thailand.
The family huddled together on the floor of the guesthouse. A moment ago, they had all been asleep. Then came the explosions. He thought he heard voices in a dream, telling him to stay down. So many voices shouting at once. He could not understand a word. This is a nightmare, he thought. I’ll wake up from it soon.
But it was not a nightmare. His eyes and throat burned. There was a shroud of smoke above the crib. Acrid. Flashlights swept across his face and the faces of his wife and daughter. He squinted, looking for nametags and identification. He recognized a patch on one of the officer’s plate carriers, the flag of Blackbeard. A skeleton holding an hourglass in its right hand, a spear in the left, the blade pointed toward a red heart dripping blood. For all he knew they were in a war zone and guerillas had come to raid their home.
—Where’s your warrant? Show me your goddamn warrant.
He handed Prija to his wife and tried to stand but a cop put a boot to his shoulder. Knocked him down.
—Zip him.
Another officer dropped a piece of paper in his lap.
—Here’s your fucking warrant.
—I am not resisting. I just want to know where my son is.
They ignored him. Continued tossing the family’s belongings onto the floor. One of the officers flipped the mattress off the box spring. Another cop opened the drawer of a nightstand. Motioned to the one who appeared to be in charge.
—You plan to tell us you had a gun?
—Must have not heard me over all your yelling.
He looked down at the warrant. Read in disbelief.
—'Trafficking in illegal drugs’? Are you crazy?
His wife asked him to explain. He spoke to her in Thai.
—There’s no reasoning with them. Keep quiet.
—Find anything?
—Not a goddamn thing.
—Where’s my son? Where’s Manny?
—Your son is being cared for. Now sit down and shut up.
—You should be ashamed of yourselves. This is a mistake. And you’re not soldiers. You are not at war. I would know. I’m a veteran. I served this country.
The officers wore ballistic helmets with night vision goggles. The goggles were flipped up and he could see their eyes and although the officers remained silent, he saw a look of anxious knowing pass among them. He gestured to the cloister of agents in the living room, bodies exaggerated by armor, faces concealed by balaclavas, rifles at the ready.
—This is not America.
From Chapter 19-21
In the town of Fawn Drop, Rebel Raceway is an institution.
Perhaps not as well-known as Soldier Field or Fenway Park, but if you have racing in your blood, well, the short track known to locals as “The Reb” is tantamount to a cathedral.
Constructed in 1952, the family-owned 3/8-mile clay oval has seen NASCAR royalty like Earnhardt’s, Allison’s and Petty’s as well as a who’s who of dirt track racing legends compete at the famed bullring and played host to national and regional touring series since Lang was in diapers. I know he has been coming to the iconic track since he was a boy, and for a time in his early twenties had raced late models, Lang and his father turning wrenches late into the night, fine-tuning their piece for the A-Main feature.
He tells me he even took home a few checkered flags, lost a few heartbreakers and tore up more equipment than he cares to admit. When his daughter was born the demands of everyday life took precedence. His dreams of racing stardom faded, but Lang never lost his love for the sport.
On the contrary, I never gave any form of auto racing a second glance, wondering what the appeal was. Just rednecks riding around in circles, I’d tease him, but for a long time Land insisted.
Let me take you to the track, he’d said. You’ll have a blast.
And he was right. Now it’s our thing.
Prior to our first date at the speedway, Lang primed me with a thorough Racing 101 tutorial, and I found The Reb—advertised as The Greatest Show on Dirt—with its 1950’s era control tower, pre-race pageantry and the southern-fried concession stand menu, to be a charming celebration of postwar Americana. But it’s the visceral power of a V8 410 cubic inch engine, the potpourri of exhaust and race rubber, and the taste of grit as a cloud of dust blows across the track during hot laps that has kept us coming back.
I remember our first race, when two drivers with very different opinions about a wreck came to blows on the backstretch. During the melee I leaned over and told Lang, “Call me a convert.”
Full racing programs at The Reb are a Saturday night tradition, and draw racers from all over the southeast, competing for cash prizes and the prestige of winning The Reb’s signature gold cup trophy. On race day, trailers, flatbeds, and haulers are a common sight around Fawn Drop, and I’ve come to love seeing the rag-tag outfits, often family operations, pulling their super bombers or pony stocks down the highway, knowing just how much sweat, elbow grease and money that husband and wife or father and son has put into their car.
Some folks, Lang included, stop by the track the afternoon before to stake a spot in the concrete grandstands, The Reb’s version of reserved seating. Other fans park up on one of the three hills that overlook the racetrack, or back their tailgates up to the catch fence over in Turn 2.
On that particular Saturday we arrive an hour before sundown, parking in one of several grass lots at the 150-acre facility. Lang loves to get there early and take a stroll through the garage area, mingling among the carburetor cowboys, as he liked to call them. With a national touring series in town and both late models and winged-sprint cars competing, there’s a bonanza of activity.
I can sense Lang’s excitement as we approach the main entrance. Somebody down in the infield garage cranks a motor and I can feel it in my bones. Rumbles echo from the pits, followed by a guttural roar.
We crest the hill and join the growing crowd at the ticket gate. With the race so close to Halloween many of the kids are in costume for a contest, mostly comic book heroes, Barbies and Tinker Bells but I’m amused to see more than one Richard Petty, an Earnhardt. The track announcer has already begun his running monologue over a pop country tune, touting sponsors, reminding folks where the restrooms are, enticing race fans to try the fried pickles and be sure to visit the merchandise trailer over by turn four and pick yourself up a souvenir t-shirt. I’ve always been impressed with the announcer’s endurance, his verbal tics hypnotic. Today is no exception.
I tell you what, we’ve got Johnny Ingram here, ready to defend his championship in that iconic baby blue number nine…
After purchasing tickets and getting a handstamp, Lang and I walk to our camping chairs positioned at the top of the grandstands. Pickups and wreckers circle the track, and I’ve learned it takes the groundskeeper hours to prepare the racing surface, starting with a grader to level and shape the clay, a rake to loosen the top few inches of dirt, if need be, followed by a sheepsfoot roller to penetrate the soil for better water absorption. The track prep itself, as Lang has explained to me, is a bit of an art, influenced by soil content and weather patterns among other factors.
I tell you what, take the kiddies and head on over to the souvenir stands because Buster’s is having their annual costume contest…
We settle in while Lang shakes hands with several regulars, who like him, know every driver’s name, and listen to the action from race control via a radio headset. A stocky driver with shoulder-length hair and a roofer’s tan ascends the grandstands, where his relatives—wearing matching shirts bearing his car number—have gathered in support. I reach into the cooler and pop the top on a soft drink. Close my eyes and relish that first sip. It’s one of the few occasions when I allow myself such a lethal treat. And not just any soda, either, as I have no doubt you could strip the paint off a barn door with something as potent as Mountain Dew.
Remember, folks…Dirt’s for racing…and asphalt is for gettin’ there…
I look over at the concession stand, not surprised to see them doing swift business, The Reb’s “world famous” double-bacon corn dog by far the most popular item on the menu. Lang follows my eyes and then pats my knee, as though reading my mind. Fifteen minutes later he’s back with one of those corn dogs, which we split, and an obscenely large bag of boiled peanuts.
I tell you what, let’s keep the Clanton family in our hearts and prayers as Corey’s grandfather recovers from surgery…
A few minutes later the program is underway and the first dozen late models come out for practice, or hot laps as they’re known. The big, heavy late model dirt cars slide through the corners, practically sideways, and then gun it down the straightaways, power plants under the hood approaching 9,000 RPMs. I’m fascinated by how these drivers wheel their cars, recalling a little of the counter-ambush and maneuver training I undertook at the bureau. These racers literally turn the tires right to go left. Lang has a good eye for speed, too, and points out a couple of contenders. These hot laps are the last chance for teams to see how their cars handle and consider any last minute tweaks and tune-ups before qualifying laps.
I shift around in the camping chair, can feel the holster against my belly. The Glock 26 in the “appendix” position, in am inside-the-waist holster with a spare magazine concealed by a boxy plaid top shirt. Lang’s watching me, so I grab his hand and give it a squeeze.
Perched in a stand above the start-finish line, an official waves the yellow flag, slowing the field as the next batch of drivers make their way onto the racetrack. Children run along the catch fence, cheering on the passing cars, hoping to catch a glimps of daddy or maybe a big brother or cousin as darkness creeps over the speedway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first heat race is just a few minutes away when Lang cocks his thumb at the adjacent garage.
“Sure, let’s go,” I tell him. Looks like a sell-out crowd as we make our way to the pit stalls. Tailgaters filled every spot along the catch fence, and space among the five-buck hillside spots overlooking the racetrack is hard to come by. I can see rows of pickups and campers up there, smoke rising from portable grills, folks glassing the action with binoculars, others relaxing in lawn chairs, sipping cold beers or cocktails. Further in the distance, I can barely make out a black 4X4 with a bed camper that has off-roaded to a spot well beyond Turn Three. Must be quite a view, I imagine.
The garage thrums with activity as teams ready their cars for time trials. The din never stops. I can feel my teeth rattling at the sound of impact wrenches, hissing air hoses and short, earth-shaking bursts of horsepower. Lang takes my hand and I let him lead me through the crowd, walking the edges of the main thoroughfare, traffic thick with fans and push trucks as the big late model racecars line up for inspection.
We stop to appreciate a purpose-built forty-foot trailer with a lift gate, one of a dozen or so parked in the garage. No doubt it belongs to a well-funded driver, a pro on the touring circuit, his mechanics wearing matching uniforms, the crew chief circling the car as if it were about to speak. The late model has polished panels, the body painted apple-green and decorated with shiny sponsor decals. Rumbling under the hood is a 410 cubic inch Chevy small-block engine. Lang once told me those motors cost five figures. Even for the hobbyists, racing at The Reb doesn’t come cheap, but as I came to appreciate, there is an air of unpretentiousness to dirt track racing. Here we are, mingling with the racers and mechanics, no VIP passes required.
Heat races are about to begin so I pop a pair of ear plugs in to spare my hearing. Not long after about two-dozen winged sprint cars uncoil like a pack of hornets down the front stretch. I look out at the tailgaters along the catch fence, many of them wearing goggles as a cloud of dust rises above the speedway. The dirt and grime will find everyone tonight.
We’re walking back to our chairs when my cell phone buzzes. I glance at the Caller ID and answer.
“Mr. Ponder? Bit loud where I am. Is everything alright?”
“No,” he says. “We need to meet. I have something very important that you need to see.”
“It’s awfully hard to hear,” I say, having to yell into the phone. But my nerves are frayed as the open-wheeled sprinters buzz through Turn Two. “What’s this about?”
“Judge Breedlove…Manny…can’t trust…you…I think my life is in danger.”
“What—what about Breedlove?”
“Where are you?”
“Rebel Raceway. Can you meet me here?”
“Half an hour,” Ponder shouts, and hangs up before I can say anymore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
According to their dope sheet, the bullet will drop three inches or one milliradian.
A chip shot.
Of course, Black Dog performs a quick calculation in his head, too, the Rifleman’s Method of multiplying the cosine or shooting angle by the ballistic drop of the chosen cartridge. Same conclusion.
He inserts a loaded magazine and racks the charging handle, chambering a round into the 18” carbine.
Even with a light variable wind, at that range and elevation, his position a tick under 400 yards from Rebel Raceway, and about 1,000 feet up the hill overlooking the track, Black Dog is certain he can place a round into the kill zone of any human or animal within a quarter mile.
Laying prone on a platform inside the blacked-out camper shell of a Chevy 4X4, Black Dog takes a reading with a Swarovski laser-guided Rangefinder, getting the angle and compensated distance to the grandstands and garage area. Clear line of sight, and the stadium lights provide ample illumination. From his roost on the hillside, the racetrack resembles some spaceship having landed in the valley, an otherworldly, shimmering bowl of noise and light.
He ranges a heavyset man standing in line at the concession stand. At the push of a button, the Swarovski emits a laser beam that bounces off the man’s chest as the range finder’s high-speed clock measures the distance via the total time it takes for the beam to reach the target. The calculation is instant and thanks to good reflectivity—very accurate.
323 yards.
A woman, seven or so months pregnant, posing for a photograph with her husband and daughter.
289 yards.
To three boys running jauntily toward the catch fence, waving as the pack trucks
turn laps.
265 yards.
To a little girl atop her father’s shoulders, eating cotton candy. He puts his eye to the riflescope, focusing on the first subtension in the reticle.
246 yards.
To Red Dog, as she strolls the midway, following Sallie Crews and Tommy Lang.