Elms’s haunted illumination, we are ink spilled on darkness. Nevertheless, Evelina pulls my arm.
“Tom isn’t here yet,” she frets. “Oh, I wanted so for him to be here already, even if I’ll be in the hottest water of my life. Peaceful assemblies are one thing and burning crosses are another. He’d be furious, just livid.”
“Where is he, then?”
“I don’t know. But . . . surely the search party won’t come out of the woods at all, if they see a flaming cross?”
“They won’t see it. Any black would’ve lost his last marble to walk toward that thing, but the Klan set it up behind that copse there. The search party will be carrying bright lanterns. They’ll be awfully tired. And it’s miles of forest on the other side and the river bordering.”
“You’re saying it’s a bottleneck, aren’t you?” The grip on my arm tightens. “One they won’t spy until it’s too late. Can we get around and stop them first?”
We slink like cats. There is no moon, thankfully; hung from that strangely pristine canopy, the moon would serve as well as a great chandelier. So despite my injury and Evelina’s exhaustion, after two minutes we’ve nearly reached the gentler slope where the search party should emerge.
But nearly only counts regarding horseshoes and hand grenades.
“You best believe she’ll be sitting up for me with supper on the table!” an unknown voice calls. A second chuckles, and a third lets out a weary hoot.
Evelina gasps, and I clap a hand over her mouth—gently.
“Evelina,” I mouth in her ear, “if you’ve heard any stories where a white woman shrieking as a gang of blacks approached led to a picnic, discount ’em. It leads to funerals.”
She sags in defeat.
“You been married to Gracie for six months and you think she’ll still wait up half the night for you?” the voices continue.
“Damn straight! Nursed me through fever sweats just last month.”
“Aw, hell, I’d take her nursing if I didn’t have to eat her biscuits. Andy, no offense, but does Gracie savvy the difference between flour and cement mix?”
This last voice belongs to Maximilian. A chorus of guffaws heralds a dozen lantern beams crisscrossing like rockets.
One of the lights catches us, snags, momentarily blinds me.
“Saints alive! What on—Mrs. Vaughan, is that you, sugar? And with Miss James?”
Mavereen Meader strides toward us, exclamations surrounding her. Evelina and I wave our arms.
“Quiet, oh, do please keep quiet,” Evelina pleads. “We’re here to warn you!”
“What kinda warning might that be, Mrs. Vaughan?”
Max appears, tall and calm, and despite the thrill I can’t control, I’m dreadfully keen on the notion of his being elsewhere. Argentina has a dandy ring to it.
“The Klan,” I report. “Look, over there, they’ve—”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Max growls.
The search party takes in the scene. I can practically smell the quick surge of nerves.
Mavereen groans. “Oh, no, not while our boy ain’t yet found. ‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life: of whom shall I be afraid?’”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Dr. Pendleton curses in a different sort of prayer. “Just when I think I’ve seen enough shit for one lifetime.”
“Oh, hell no,” comes another voice.
“Those bastards. Those yellow-bellied bastards.”
“Lights out!” Max orders. “Shut ’em down on the double!”
A dozen lanterns are extinguished.
Click-snap. Clink-scrape.
Then we turn, as one crouched animal, toward the cross with the red snakes’ tongues flicking upward.
Max’s hand, steady and surprisingly warm, smooths down my arm in the darkness, and I can’t decide whether to think yes, yes, do that forever, or run and run now.
“We got no time for chitchat, Alice,” he murmurs, “so I’ll play it straight, like. I ain’t happy to see you here.”
“Don’t use up all your flattery in one go. Consider a girl’s poor heart.”
“I’m gonna wring your neck, matter of fact.”
“I only hope you get the chance.”
“Angels of mercy defend us,” Mavereen whispers. “What do we do? Take cover in the woods?”
“Nah.” Max spits on the ground. “That’d only bait ’em, see? They’d come in beating the goddamn bushes like we was rabbits.”
“She’s right. We should run,” a voice suggests.
“I didn’t run from Jerry and I sure as hell ain’t gonna run from a pack of hooded clowns. Anyhow, if we ain’t running, they can’t chase us.”
The lights, once tightly grouped, are separating. Drifting and bobbing like malevolent sprites. Shouts reach our ears.
Some of the torches seem to be heading this way.
A soft chorus of swearing erupts.
“Whaddaya say, Doc?” Max questions evenly. “Do we figure