A Longer Fall (Gunnie Rose #2)(63)

“You should have known that drastic change doesn’t come about without turmoil and bloodshed.” Eli looked… serious.

“I didn’t count on all hell breaking loose,” Jerry said, and now he was turning angry and bitter.

“This cause is a noble one, backed by our church,” Eli told him in a low, steady voice. “A noble cause doesn’t mean all the people who will benefit are noble. Or that the process of achieving our goal will be painless.”

“This town will go up in flames!” Jerry said between his teeth. He was wound so tight he might explode.

I wanted to leave the room, go to the window at the end of the hall overlooking the street, to see what was happening. But I did not dare to. I was locked in on Jerry. He didn’t sound exactly levelheaded. He and Eli were focused on each other.

“First off, maybe all hell needs to break loose here,” I said, to break the glare-down. “When people are held down like this, they’re going to rise up. Bad stuff will happen. There isn’t any sweet, reasonable way to do this.”

“This violence didn’t have to happen,” Jerry said, almost snarling. “I thought the bones of a saint would make the change… peaceful. We only have a rumor about the bones of Moses the Black, and everything is going to hell.”

Eli didn’t know what to say.

“What do you want?” I asked. Get it over with.

“I want you to bring the damn bones to town to see if you can calm things down.”



* * *



As soon as Jerry Fielder left, I went to look out. For the first time, I noticed how quiet the hotel was. I didn’t think there was anyone left who would have heard Jerry, even when he’d raised his voice a bit.

The hush was eerie, especially since there was so much noise outside. Since we’d come in the back way, we hadn’t registered what was happening on the main street. I saw whites running down the sidewalk throwing their luggage into their cars, driving away like they were possessed. The reason? The street was sprinkled with little clusters of men armed to the teeth. Some clusters were white, some were black. None were mixed.

As I watched, a brawl started. Neither of these groups was carrying guns—yet—but there were rocks and two-by-fours and iron palings and baseball bats.

I didn’t need to watch them slug it out. And they’d be running home to get their guns soon.

I went back to the room and nodded at Eli. “Bad outside,” I said. “Jerry was right. All hell is breaking loose.”

“We have to go back out to the Ballard place. We have to get a car.”

“I know where one is.”

“How so?”

“There’s a man out on the front sidewalk, dead, right by a car with its door open. I’ll get his car keys.”

Before Eli could object, I ran out of the room and down the stairs. I had my gun in my hand and I looked both ways before I ran out to the body. Keys were still in the dead man’s pocket, which was a stroke of luck.

The car was well-kept and old, an early model of the Celebrity Tourer that Eli and his late partner, Paulina, had rented for our trip to Mexico. It was a luxury car, with a panel in the roof you could fold back. That had already been done.

We piled in with all our possessions. We were not coming back to the Pleasant Stay. “You drive, I’ll shoot,” I said.

Getting to the road we’d followed before was not easy. For a while we were followed by a crowd of armed black people, who were ready to kick some white butt. I didn’t blame them. There was no way for us to explain we were on their side.

No sooner had we gone fast enough to lose them than we were surrounded by a white group coming around a corner just as we passed through an intersection. They were angry because they were sure we were fleeing. “Stay and fight!” screamed one man, waving a rifle in our direction.

“This is depressing,” Eli said.

That was not the word I was thinking of, but it was that, also. “At least we got away.”

A brick hit the hood and bounced to the ground.

“Spoke too soon,” I muttered, and Eli sped up.

I’d been threatened and chased. Someone would pay for the tension that was making my muscles tighten and my nerves hum.

When I saw a man running straight for the car with a burning bottle in his hand, I popped up through the roof and shot him. Lucky I did. The bottle blew up in his hand when he hit the ground.

Eli yelled. My gun going off had been a complete surprise. He hadn’t seen the man coming, he’d been concentrating so hard on driving.

And that was why he needed me.

Eli was more alert to our surroundings after that. “Group coming up on the left,” he said, steering closer to the curb on the right. I was up and pointing both guns at them before he finished. It was a group of black men and some women, too.

“It was her,” one of the women shouted, and I recognized the maid, Myra, from the Ballard place. “She’s good.”

And they all halted in their tracks, and let us go by.

“Did she mean ‘good’ as in ‘good shot,’ or ‘good’ as in against the forces of evil?” Eli said.

“Don’t know, don’t care. As long as they held back.” All of a sudden I felt how tired I was. It had been a long, long day and it was not yet over. We were on our way back to the Ballard house. I dreaded it.