Gator tails after Chase. I stay close behind them both, keeping an eye out in case anybody is following us.
The smokehouse has a dirt floor. Even though it has been years since this place was used to smoke meat and fish, the pungent odor of hickory smoke still clings to the blackened walls.
“Dove and me will get you some food and water,” Chase tells Gator. “And a blanket.”
Gator looks around, then sits down on the damp dirt. “Thanks.”
“I should stay here too,” I tell Chase. “If they’ve been out looking for me, what are your mom and dad going to think, me showing up at your place?”
“Nobody’s home. My dad’s out searching for Gator with the others. Mom’s been up in Tallahassee all week visiting Aunt May.”
So nobody is more surprised than Chase when we are standing in the kitchen making peanut butter sandwiches for Gator and Jacob Tully comes barreling through the back door like an angry stallion busting out of his corral.
He looks from Chase to me, then turns back to Chase. “Where is he?” he barks.
Chase gives his father a blank stare. “Who?”
In the distance I hear the howls of the bloodhounds. They are on to the scent. Gator’s scent. The blasting horns aren’t far behind. I run out the back door in time to see Gator tearing out of the smokehouse. The men on foot, the ones with the dogs, are only about a hundred yards behind him. A parade of pickups and cars winds through the Tullys’ backyard. There don’t seem to be as many as there were over at Eli’s place. But I don’t get my hopes up. It’s possible that only some of the men have come back with Jacob. The others might still be out there, looking someplace else.
Travis, Jimmy, Moss, and Spudder are in the lead like some twisted version of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. They act like they’re on some sacred mission. And they are the most terrifying sight I have ever set eyes on.
They surround the smokehouse and shine their lights toward the woods, where I see two of the dogs lunge at Gator just as he gets to the first line of trees.
“Chase!” I yell. But he doesn’t come. I am scared to death for Gator. He has got to be thinking Chase led him into a trap, that he lied to us. I know that’s what’s going through Gator’s mind, because that’s what’s going through mine. I only hope he doesn’t think I was in on it.
I slam open the back door and find Jacob Tully standing over his son. Chase lies on the floor with a bleeding lip.
“You better make up your mind whose side you’re on, boy. And fast!” Jacob pounds his fist into the palm of his other hand. Pounds and pounds and keeps on pounding. I expect him to start in on Chase’s face again, but he doesn’t. When he realizes I’m there, he barks, “Your daddy is looking all over creation for you.” And bam! he’s out the door.
“They’ve got Gator,” I tell Chase.
I run cold water onto a dish towel and try to wash the blood from his mouth. But he pushes my hand away.
“I know where they’ll take him,” he says. He staggers to his feet. We get to the back porch as the last truck is pulling out of the yard. Chase heads straight for the T-bird. I climb in the passenger side.
“Stay here,” he says.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Dove, this is too dangerous. You have no idea what they’re—”
“I’m not getting out of this car.” I reach over and turn the key in the ignition. “We’re wasting time.”
“Promise me you’ll stay in the car, then, when we get there.”
I don’t say anything. I’m thinking about how I broke my last promise, after Chase made me swear not to tell anybody about Travis killing Gus.
“Promise, or I’m going to pull you right out of this car and lock you in the smokehouse.”
“Okay, okay.” I mumble. “Just let’s go.”
I don’t have to ask Chase where we’re going. I already know. To the place where the Klan holds its meetings. To Spudder Rhodes’s house.
“Why did your dad come back to the house?” I ask. “Did the hounds lead him and the others there?”
Chase shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he got suspicious when I suddenly disappeared from the search. He knows you and I are friends.” He looks over at me. “We are, aren’t we? Still friends?”
I swallow hard. “Course we are,” I whisper. It is on the tip of my tongue to say we’re more than that. But I don’t.
“Maybe he came back for some other reason and saw my car there. Or maybe he’s suspected for a while that I wasn’t exactly Klan material and he’s been keeping an eye on me. Who knows how his mind works? I sure as hell don’t.”
“How long you been pretending to be in the Klan?”
Chase draws a deep breath and lets it out. “My dad started dragging me along last year. Not to all the meetings. Just a few—maybe three.”
“And you been helping Gator and the others all this time?”
“Look . . . Dove . . . I don’t want to spoil this Chase the Hero thing you got going on in your head at the moment, but up until picking season started last March there wasn’t any need to help Gator or anybody else. The Klan’s never been all that active around here, not since back in the twenties. Most of the men you saw at the meeting last week aren’t even members. They’re just worried about what’s been going on with the pickers—afraid there’s going to be some kind of uprising or something.”
We turn down the dirt road leading to Spudder’s house. “You remember a couple years ago, when those colored kids wanted to go to that all-white high school in Little Rock?”
“You mean when President Eisenhower had to send in the National Guard to protect them?”
Chase nods. “Some of the folks around here are worried that the government is going to try to run their lives—use the military to make them do things they don’t want to, like letting colored kids go to white schools. The Klan’s been cashing in on those worries, and not just around here.
“Then Gator started organizing the pickers, telling them about strikes and slowdowns and the like. Travis, he’s been out to get Gator for years. He’s always hated that he couldn’t control him. The slowdowns just gave Travis an excuse to go after him. He got his friends, some of them Klan members like himself, to back him up.”
We are heading across the meadow to the meeting place I found over a week ago. “It sounds to me like this is Travis’s personal vigilante group.”
“Yeah, well. He’s the one who’s been stirring ’em up, that’s for sure.”
We are driving down the narrow road that leads to where the Klan meets. Suddenly the glaring lightbulbs from the cross flash on. Chase doesn’t pull into the lot where the other pickups and cars are parked. Instead he leaves the T-bird by the side of the road, about two hundred yards from the cinder-block building and trailer where all the men have gathered. Gator isn’t anywhere in sight.
“What are they going to do to him?”
Chase presses both hands against the dashboard and stares straight ahead. “Anything they can think of,” he says.
“How come they’re not wearing their robes and hoods?”
“I’ve never seen them wear robes,” he says. “Maybe they don’t even have them. But if they do and they’re not wearing them, that’s a bad sign.”
“Why is that a bad sign?”
“If they’re just going to rough somebody up, they’d probably wear robes. That way, if the person tries to press charges, he can’t say for sure he recognized any faces.”
“He could say he recognized the voices.”
“Doesn’t hold up in court. That’s the point.” Chase has his back to me. He’s watching the men across the road.
“They wouldn’t kill Gator, would they? They wouldn’t go that far?” My heart has started to pound like a basketball someone is driving down the court at full speed. Billy Tyler’s horrible picture of the colored man hanging from the tree, eyes bulging, staring at nothing, has crept back into my head. I am trying not to panic.
&
nbsp; Chase shrugs. “All I know is they were planning to make an example of him, send a message to the other pickers.”
I dig my fingers into his arm. “We can’t let anything happen to Gator. We’ve got to do something.”
“We aren’t doing anything,” he says. Chase unlocks my shaking hand from his arm and presses it against his cheek, then kisses my sweaty palm. “You promised to stay in the car, remember?” He opens his door and climbs out. His jacket is still around his waist. He unties it, and the way he puts it back on, it’s as if he’s getting ready for battle. He pulls the keys from the ignition and tosses them to me. They land in my lap. “If things turn ugly, get out of here. Fast!”
I don’t have a chance to ask him what qualifies as “ugly” because he is already crossing the road, heading toward the woods on the outskirts of the open field. It looks as if he is planning to circle around behind the cinder-block building.
Across the way the men have gathered outside. They seem to be waiting for something. Some have shotguns. Some are holding rifles.
A few minutes later the door flies open. Travis Waite and Spudder Rhodes step outside. They have Gator between them. They stand on the steps, looking out over all the faces. Best I can tell from this distance, Gator’s hands are tied behind his back. He has to be scared out of his wits. My whole body is shaking now. I can barely take a breath, my chest is so tight.
The men fall back, leaving a narrow opening for the three of them to walk through. Spudder and Travis shove Gator along in front of them. Some of the men stab burning cigarettes at Gator, in his face, on his head, his arms. Gator kicks at their legs, swings his broad shoulders, and throws his body at them. He knocks a few of the men off balance.
I send frantic mental messages to Chase. Hurry. Hurry. You have to stop this. I look for him, but I don’t see him.
I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I made Rosemary a promise to look out for Gator. My promise to Chase to stay put doesn’t seem real important right now. I get out of the car and make my way across the road to the field, to where the glaring cross is so bright it almost looks like daylight out, to where these men are burning Gator with their cigarettes. And I don’t doubt for a minute that this is just the beginning.
25
I climb in the back of somebody’s pickup and peer over the roof. There are fewer cars and trucks here than there were at Eli’s, even fewer than there were at the Tully place when they came to get Gator. From where I am, I count eight. There aren’t as many men either. Only about fifteen. It seems a lot of folks have dropped out along the way. Maybe they have decided they don’t have the stomach for this ugliness and have gone on home.
I look for my dad, but I don’t see him.
Travis Waite and Spudder Rhodes are tying Gator to the telephone pole below the lighted cross. They pull his arms around the pole and tie his hands behind it. They bind his feet. I am worried sick about what’s going to happen.
“Maybe you want to say a few words to the boys, here, before we get started?” Travis says to Gator.
Gator looks Travis square in the eyes but doesn’t say anything.
“Cat got your tongue, nigger?”
Gator has still got his eyes on Travis. Travis wallops him across the face with his fist.
I hear a muffled grunt coming from Gator, but he doesn’t yell out. He doesn’t say a word.
“Tell you what, nigger. You apologize to everybody here for all those fires you set and maybe we’ll consider letting you go.” Travis’s laugh sounds like a bull snorting.
Gator says, “Everybody here knows most of those fires were caused by lightning. Or they were accidents. Nobody set ’em.”
Travis takes another punch at him. He looks around at the other men. “Anybody else want to take a crack at this jigaboo?”
Moss Henley breaks from the mob, slinging those bulldog shoulders of his, slipping off his belt while he’s walking. He tears Gator’s red T-shirt right off his body. The belt buckle catches Gator across the eye and then the chest. I feel it coming down on me. I feel the thud of metal on the side of my face. I hear it in my ears.
Travis shoves Moss aside. He gets right in Gator’s face. “You cost me my job, you damn nigger!” he yells. “You got me fired. My crew doesn’t show up for two days, and I lose my job. You think you aren’t gonna have to pay for that?”
“Your crew didn’t show up because they found out you killed Gus Washburn,” Gator says.
I can’t believe he’s talking back to Travis like that. It’s like throwing gasoline on a fire. I am scared to death for Gator.
Spudder steps out of the crowd and moseys up to Gator. “Travis’s employment problems aside, boy, we got us a more important matter. Concerning the whereabouts of Lucas Alderman’s daughter.”
Dead silence. They are all waiting to hear what Gator has to say about this.
“Now, a few of the boys here”—Spudder nods to the others—“they found this picture in a shack out back of Lucas’s place. In the swamp, right, boys?” Some of the men nod. “A picture drawn on some old table. Fresh drawn, they tell me.” Spudder tugs at his lower lip while he slowly paces back and forth in front of Gator. “Now, Travis here, he tells me you’re always drawing.”
“On the job,” Travis yells to the others. “When he’s supposed to be working.”
“He’s seen your pictures,” Spudder says, not missing a beat. “And he says you done this one. The one on the table. That true, boy?”
Gator just stares him down.
“Uh-huh. Well, now, to hear the boys here tell it, that picture’s the exact likeness of Dove Alderman, the missing girl in question. Now, I don’t know about you, but it surely does look to me like the two of you were in that shack together. Am I right?”
Gator doesn’t so much as blink.
“So we’re all thinking maybe you took that poor little girl from her home. Maybe kidnapped her to get back at her daddy for keeping Travis on all these years. Now, that’s assuming you believe all those lies going around about how Gus Washburn got himself killed.” He stops pacing, spreads his legs for balance, and hooks his thumbs in his belt. He’s wearing his gun. He looks Gator in the eyes. “Does that sound about right to you?”
Gator doesn’t say a word.
“Then there’s this other matter of a bag we found at Eli’s place. Seems it had Dove Alderman’s school books and all in it. So we’re thinking maybe you got Eli to help you hide your victim. That being Miss Alderman, of course. I guess that makes him an accessory to the crime, now, doesn’t it?”
My duffel bag! I’d forgotten all about it. Now they will surely go after Eli too. Where the hell is Chase? I look around but don’t see him.
Gator is still not talking.
Spudder says, “Well, maybe the boys here can help jog that memory of yours.” He steps back and Moss comes in swinging that belt again, until Jimmy Wheeler grabs it out of Moss’s hand. For one hopeful minute I think he’s going to make Moss stop. But then Jimmy takes a crack at Gator himself. Two more men come forward, swinging belts. I shove my fist in my mouth to keep from yelling out.
The belts crash down on Gator. I taste blood in my mouth and realize I’ve bitten into my knuckle.
That’s when I see Chase coming from around the side of the cinder-block building. Slowly he makes his way up to the back of the crowd. The men don’t notice him, which I’m pretty sure is what he was counting on.
They are shouting, “Get him good, Jimmy!” Shouting, “Beat the crap out of him!” Shouting, “Kill the nigger!” Their voices rise into the hot night air. Gator’s chin drops to his chest. I can’t tell if his eyes are closed because there is so much blood. Blood runs from his head, from his chest, from his arms. He is bathed in red. I am shaking all over. But I can’t let this nightmare go on for another minute. I have to tell them that Gator didn’t kidnap me. That I’m fine.
I start to climb down from the pickup just as Chase steps out of the crowd.
He walks
up to Jimmy and takes the belt. He says, loud enough for them to hear him over in the next county, “I think Gator’s had about enough, don’t you?”
The men stop their shouting and whooping and laughing. They stare at Chase with glazed eyes. They look at the belt in his hand, expecting him to use it like the son of a respected Klansman should. They are waiting for him to draw more blood.
But Chase throws the belt on the ground. “Dove Alderman is fine. Gator didn’t kidnap her and my father knows it. He saw Dove and me together in my kitchen not more than a half hour ago.” He turns away and starts to untie Gator from the telephone pole.
Travis grabs Chase by the arm, spins him around, and lands his fist right in his face. The back of Chase’s head bounces off the telephone pole.
Jacob Tully shoves aside two men and steps forward. In the glare of that lit-up cross, I can see that his face is red with rage. I’m expecting him to beat the tar out of Travis for hitting Chase.
The two of them stand there—Jacob and Travis—exchanging looks. Jacob turns to the mob. He takes in all their faces. He swings around to confront Chase. “Looks to me like you’ve made your choice, boy. Now you’re gonna have to live with it.” His head is bobbing up and down, like this is about what he expected. Then he says to Jimmy, “Tie this nigger lover up with his friend here.”
It’s like I’m seeing Jacob yank Chase from that tractor and dislocate his shoulder all over again. I’m so stunned I can’t think straight.
Jimmy looks from Jacob to Chase, raises his hands like somebody has yelled “Put ’em up,” shakes his head, and takes a step back. Not Travis. He grabs Chase’s arms. Chase breaks away and lands a few good punches on Travis’s face before two other men come running up and grab him. They tie him to the other side of the pole. He and Gator can’t see each other, but their hands press against each other’s backs. Some of the other men exchange worried looks. I can tell they don’t like the way things are going.
Travis whirls his belt above his head a few times like a lasso and takes a crack at Chase. I can’t let this happen. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that if this goes on much longer, these men will end up killing Gator and Chase.