The Hollow Ones(44)

Blackwood said, “I’ve never participated in a fistfight.”

“Perfect,” said Solomon. The only thing to do was get ahead of this. He aimed the flashlight at the oncoming torches, switching it on and off as a signal. “This is the FBI!” he called out. “You are entering a crime scene area!” When the flashlight was off, the woods were as black as sleep.

The torchbearers stepped through the last layer of tree trunks, revealing themselves. White pointed hooded masks, wrinkled white robes, blood-drop cross insignia on their breasts. Ten Klansmen. Ten hillbilly white nationalist terrorists arriving at the scene of a white man’s hanging to find a black man and a very, very white man.

“FBI,” said Solomon again, shining the light on his badge. He let the beam fall upon Blackwood so these Klansmen knew he wasn’t alone.

Their eyes were barely visible through the cutout holes in their hoods by flickering torchlight.

Solomon said, “You ought to be careful with those torches. You don’t want to set the whole woods on fire.”

Or maybe they did. Maybe they had come to burn the hanging tree.

“What kind of badge is that, boy?” said one of the Klansmen.

Solomon smiled through his anger and said, “The kind they hand out with a loaded gun.”

“A white man was hanged here,” said the Klansman.

“I’m here to find out who did it,” said Solomon.

“So’re we!” said another Klansman, jabbing the night air with his torch.

“You’re mistaken,” said Solomon. “And I’m through talking to men in masks.” He ran the beam over their hoods, prompting a few of them to block the light with their robed arms. “Show your faces. Face me like men.”

The Klansmen looked at each other. Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen.

A gust of night wind set the high branches to waving and made their torch flames flicker and flatten. “How about you show us your gun.”

Solomon knew that if he pulled his weapon, it was guaranteed he’d have to use it. The Colt had a six-round cylinder. Six rounds weren’t enough for ten men.

Solomon said, “How about we talk to Sheriff Ingalls about this.”

The lead Klansman turned his head this way and that, as though looking for him. “Which tree he behind?”

The other Klansmen laughed. They were becoming emboldened. Solomon knew even one gunshot from his Colt meant reams of paperwork and the possibility of this becoming a national incident, a black FBI agent shooting at hooded Klansmen.

“You sure are a brave bunch,” said Solomon, “afraid to show your faces.”

Another swift gust of wind whistled through the trees. This was going to be an incident, that was plain. Now all Solomon had to worry about was not ending up on the wrong end of the hanging branch.

Hugo Blackwood, about whom Solomon had almost forgotten, stepped up just behind Solomon’s flashlight arm. “Agent Solomon, do you trust me?” he whispered.

“No, I don’t,” Solomon whispered back. But he was out of options. “Why?”

“Allow me to hold the electric torch for you.”

Solomon did not want to relinquish his only source of light. “It’s called a flashlight. Why do you want to hold this?”

“I think you can use some help.”

“Okay,” Solomon said, after a moment. He needed both hands for whatever was coming. Solomon handed Blackwood the flashlight.

“What are you talking about there?” asked the lead Klansman, moving up a few steps.

Blackwood said quietly to Solomon, “Now, when I switch off this electric torch, be prepared to run.”

Solomon said, “When you…what?”

The other Klansmen stepped forward, following their leader. “What’re you doing there?” he said.

Blackwood said, “And…now.”

Click. The flashlight went dark. For a moment, the torches lit the trees with orange, dancing light.

“Elil,” uttered Blackwood—in a harsh whisper.

A sudden and thorough gust of wind ripped through the clearing. The torch flames whipped back and went out. Blackness fell like a guillotine blade in the disorienting wind.

The Klansmen shouted in alarm.

Solomon felt a hand on his forearm, pulling him. He ran alongside Blackwood, headlong through the darkness, turning quickly this way and that, brushing past—but never once striking—trunks and low branches.

Their steps seemed hushed—muffled—as if they were barely touching the ground, Blackwood guiding him firmly past and above all obstacles, gliding through the dense tree cover like mercury.

He was aware of frantic yelling behind him, the Klansmen either chasing them or simply fleeing the woods themselves. At once, Solomon saw pale moonlight. He emerged from the tree cover onto grass that looked silver, and rough gravel beyond.

There they stopped, Solomon struggling to catch his breath. “How did you do that—?”

Solomon felt something come into his hand. The flashlight.

Then the harried voices of the Klansmen, shouting to each other—Over here…it’s this way…I can’t see shit!—as robed bodies began stumbling out of the woods. The fear in their voices was palpable, and enjoyable.

Solomon hit them with the flashlight beam, and they shouted in fear, covering their eyes. A few of them were on their knees, gasping for breath, the run through the trees having ripped their hoods away, their white robes slashed and shredded, and speckled with blood from branch wounds.