The Steep and Thorny Way(31)

“Do you think anyone’s in there?” I asked in a whisper.

“I don’t see any lights through the slats. I think it’s probably a boathouse. Or maybe a place to store fishing gear, like Mr. Paulissen’s shed used to be.”

“Or a whiskey still?”

“I doubt it. It’s too quiet.” He edged down the low embankment, his soles scraping and sliding across the damp earth.

I cupped my hand over the holster against my thigh and followed him. My feet snagged on tree roots and other obstacles I couldn’t see without any light.

At the bottom of the slope, I parked the picnic basket and blanket next to a bush. “Let me go ahead of you,” I whispered. “I’ve got the gun.”

“I don’t want you shooting some poor raccoon.”

“I’ll be careful.”

He snorted. “Like you were with that deer?”

“I didn’t shoot that damn deer, did I?” My shoes squished through the soft soil, toward the direction of the door, and I kept my hand pressed against the holster.

The moment I reached the door, my gut told me to act, not to hesitate. I lifted the wooden latch and kicked the door open.

Darkness.

Deep-down-at-the-bottom-of-a-well darkness.

Something moved inside, and I could have sworn I heard my father whisper, “It’s not safe here. Go!”

I jumped backward and bumped into Joe, who shrieked, which made me shriek.

“What’s in there?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t see a damn thing.”

“Why’d you jump?”

“I thought I heard my father warn it’s not safe in there.” I rubbed my neck. “Christ, Joe, where are we? What are we doing out here? I’m scared to death.”

Joe crouched on the ground and shuffled around in his bag, but I could scarcely see him down there in the pitch-dark.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Looking for matches so I can light the lamp.”

He struck a match, and a flame hissed to life with a burst of light that illuminated his chin and his hands. I saw that scar on his lip again—the one that looked like a wound that had healed up all wrong. He turned a little apparatus that raised the lantern’s glass chimney, and he set the burning end of the match to the flat cotton wick. The lantern awakened and glowed against the side of the cabin, revealing thick logs covered in moss and holes created by either woodpeckers or insects. Joe blew out the match and lowered the chimney.

“I’ll go in and see what’s there.” He rose to his feet.

“Be careful. I could have sworn I heard something.”

With cautious footsteps, he sidled his way into the cabin. The lantern’s light fluttered against the uneven floorboards within.

“Joe?”

“It’s empty,” he said. “Just some used-up bottles of booze and French postcards.”

I dared to step inside after him, and my eyes widened at the sight of naked white ladies—a half-dozen bare-breasted, bare-bottomed beauties—posing on postcards nailed to the log walls. The lamplight flickered across their smiles and flirty eyes and gave the impression that they were all winking at us. The air inside the cabin stank of whiskey and cigarettes. Fiction magazines and newspapers littered the floor in the far-right corner.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“Don’t know. But someone must come here to hide out and drink.” Joe wandered over to one of the empty bottles and picked it up for a sniff. “Moonshine—that’s for certain.” He sniffed again. “Potent moonshine.”

I crept over to the pile of reading material to see if the contents would offer any clues about the inhabitants. A few editions of the crime-and-adventure magazine Black Mask lay on the floor in front of the toes of my shoes, but my eyes veered straightaway to a copy of a newspaper called the Western American. The front page featured illustrations of Klansmen in hoods and robes gazing at the Statue of Liberty. Beside the newspaper rested a pamphlet the color of porridge that bore the words THE TRUTH ABOUT THE JUNIOR ORDER OF KLANSMEN.

My stomach dropped.

I knelt down and picked up the pamphlet with the very tips of my fingers, as if the paper might singe and blister my skin. Down at the bottom of the front page I found a series of handwritten notes, scribbled in pencil.


Konklave, July 2, 1923. New members needed. White, Protestant boys aged twelve to eighteen.

Initiation planned. Necktie party?

The problem of Joe Adder. Moral degenerate.

Pancake breakfast set for Saturday at the Dry Dock. Money raised will repair potholes on Main Street.

“Joe,” I said in a suddenly raspy voice. “Look.” I stood up and stuck out my hand with the pamphlet.

Joe walked over and took the paper.

“Do you know anything about the Junior Order of Klansmen?” I asked.

His eyes dropped down to the notes penciled in at the bottom. His breathing quickened, which made me breathe twice as fast as usual, and the combined sounds of our panting gave the unsettling impression that a dozen other people crowded around us.

“Did you read it?” I asked.

He plunked the lantern onto the ground and ripped the paper down the middle.

“No!” I clamped a hand around his wrist. “That’s evidence.”