The Hollow Ones(70)

“No sign of foul play, I’m told,” said Macklin. “The boy was sick? Wandered off?”

Solomon acutely felt the scratches under his collar, the bruises on his side and back. “Family’s refusing an autopsy.”

“That’s not good,” said Macklin. “That means the story will grow and grow. The sheriff can insist.”

Solomon said, “He can but he won’t. You think he wants something found? Something he’d have to go after?”

There was an exchange of words down the street, a colored man pointing at a handful of whites standing together, yelling back. Two deputies wandered over to quell it.

Macklin said, “Both sides spoiling for a fight. This goes any further, they’re going to get the National Guard in here to keep the peace.”

“You want peace kept?” said Solomon. “Or you want justice served?”

Macklin looked at Solomon. “I want you to talk to your people, put a lid on this grease fire.”

“They aren’t ‘my people,’” snapped Solomon, his stress level reaching a breaking point. “I don’t have control over them just because we look alike.”

Macklin said, “Easy now.”

Solomon wasn’t having it. “Am I a Negro or am I an FBI agent? Because anybody you ask thinks I’m the opposite and can’t be trusted. If I was brought down here because of some perceived advantage, being both—well, that backfired mightily.”

Solomon’s raised voice attracted the attention of Sheriff Ingalls, who ambled over. “There a problem over here?”

Solomon said, “You just walked over to the one place in this town where there isn’t a problem.”

Sheriff Ingalls frowned at Solomon’s tone. “Funny you should mention that. I got a complaint about you.”

Solomon said, “Oh?”

“Some fellers say you gave ’em a hard time out in the woods by the hanging site.”

Solomon looked past the sheriff to the crowd, focused on the eager-looking men standing in the front with cuts and scratches on their faces. “These gentlemen here?” said Solomon, pointing them out. “Why, I didn’t recognize them without their hoods on.”

Sheriff Ingalls was unfazed by the remark. “Between that and finding the sharecropper boy, you been spending quite a bit of time in those old woods.”

Solomon looked at Sheriff Ingalls, trying to gauge whether he was accusing him of something or just fishing. “I don’t know what the complaint is. Their torches went out and they panicked in the darkness.”

One of the white Klansmen said, “Hey, where you from, boy?”

“Where you boys from?” said Solomon. He turned to the sheriff. “You make a practice of allowing outside agitators to dictate what goes on in your town?”

The sheriff scowled. “These are concerned citizens. They have every right.”

Solomon nodded. “Indeed, that’s the letter of the law. So if a group of black folk show up, as concerned citizens, you’ll show them the same courtesy and consideration, I’m sure.”

Sheriff Ingalls was no longer smiling. He said, “You here, ain’t you?”

SAIC Macklin stepped gently between Solomon and the sheriff before things escalated.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re all on the same side.”

“No, we ain’t,” said Sheriff Ingalls. He pointed past Solomon. “And who’s that you got with you now?”

Solomon turned. The sheriff was referring to Hugo Blackwood—who was walking down the other side of the street, toward the black church.

“A concerned citizen,” said Solomon, stepping off, going after Blackwood.



Solomon knelt in the last high-backed, hand-milled oak pew in the rear of the church. Pastor Theodore Eppert preached with tears rolling down his face, the collar of his violet vestment soaked deep purple. Mourners sobbed. The Jamus family, now only eighteen children, filled the first three rows.

Solomon hung his head. He was fighting his memories of the demon child who attacked him the night before. Blackwood stood behind and to the left of Solomon like a dark specter. Solomon didn’t know how he was able to be here at all. His rage at the killer standing behind him burned anew.

Solomon had been raised Christian, but he hadn’t prayed to God in quite some time. Now he asked God for forgiveness. He asked Him for guidance. He asked for assistance.

Pastor Eppert said, “Vernon was the best of us,” and the congregation answered, “Praise the Lord.” Pastor Eppert said, “Vernon was the most innocent of us,” and the congregation answered, “Praise the Lord.” Pastor Eppert said, “Vernon will be waiting for all of us in the Better Place,” and the congregation answered, “Praise the Lord.”

“Praise the Lord,” said Solomon, a few beats too late.

After the special service, Pastor Eppert came down off the altar and had family and friends gather around him. The grief was oppressive, draining. Solomon felt like his own soul had shriveled to nothing inside him. He felt empty, worthless.

He wasn’t aware of the mourners exiting the church until they were almost all gone. They were back out on the street where the opposing mobs were, and Solomon had to find the strength to join them. He stood in the empty church, leaning on the high-backed pew in front of him, looking up at the cross hanging from two cables over the altar, the simple wooden pulpit, the doors flanking the worship area, and tall candles that remained lit. He turned to exit, passing the landing of one of the paired wings of staircases leading to a rear balcony, where organ music played a somber hymn.