When Ghosts Come Home(53)

He winced when the door flew open, not so much because the force of the swing made him blink, but because of the person the door’s opening had revealed: Ed Bellamy stood just a few feet away from him, breathing heavily, his face gleaming with sweat, from either anger or exertion, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Neither man said a word, each seemingly surprised to be in such close proximity to the other after the stir Bellamy’s march into the station had caused. Winston could see Vicki standing in the middle of the hallway, her face a combination of fear and anger. Winston looked from her to Bellamy, and then he looked back at her. “It’s okay, Vicki,” he said. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

She nodded her head slightly and turned the corner to make her way back toward her office.

Winston watched her go, and then his eyes settled on Bellamy’s. He’d left one hand on the doorknob, and with his other he pushed his glasses back toward his eyes, and then he raised a hand and pointed his finger at the dead center of Winston’s chest. Bellamy didn’t say a word. He just stood there, pointing.

It was clear to Winston that Bellamy was not someone looking for a fight; he was very clearly someone who’d had the fight taken out of him: a father who’d lost a child, a man whose life had been destroyed in the course of a single day. Behind his thick glasses his eyes were damp with tears garnered by grief and rage, and in that single moment of silence that passed between them, Winston understood just how close and inextricably tied together the two emotions are.

Winston did not whisper, but he did speak quietly. “Ed,” he said, “you can close the door.”

Bellamy stood there for a moment, and then he pushed the door closed behind him, his other hand still pointed at Winston in what seemed like an accusation.

“What’s going on, Ed?” Winston asked. He stepped back, felt his desk brush his thighs. He leaned against it as if he were about to relax into a conversation with a colleague who’d stopped by to swap gossip.

“We’re not going to do this again, Winston,” Bellamy said. He waved his finger as if scolding a child, and then he folded his fingers into a fist. “We’re not going to do this.”

“Do what, Ed?” Winston said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He gestured to a chair in front of him, and then he bent slowly and picked up his hat where it sat on the seat. “You want to sit down? Talk this over?” He stood slowly and walked behind his desk to give Bellamy more room to do whatever he decided to do.

Bellamy did not sit, choosing instead to put his hands on the back of the chair and grip it as if preparing to throw it against the wall. He leaned toward the chair, his voice coming out even and clear.

“We’re not going back, Winston,” he said. “We’re not going back to night rides and gunshots. We’re not going to stand for it.”

“Jesus, Ed,” Winston said, “what in the world are you talking about? What gunshots?”

“Last night,” Bellamy said. “Bradley Frye and all his good old boys. They showed up at Rodney’s house and threw something through a window, demanded that boy Jay come out. They were driving through the Grove in the middle of the night in their trucks, revving their engines, shooting off guns. Had their rebel flags flying.” He pushed his glasses up again, and Winston saw that his hand trembled. “They came by my house too, and I was waiting for them. Anybody firing a weapon in front of my house is going to take fire in return.”

“Wait,” Winston said. “Wait, are you telling me that Bradley Frye came to the Grove and shot at people?”

Bellamy’s face changed suddenly, and Winston saw that, for the first time since he’d burst into his office, Bellamy was angry. He stepped out from behind the chair and pointed at Winston again. His voice was louder, more defiant.

“I’m telling you that he came into the Grove like the goddamned golden days of the Klan.” He stopped, his breathing coming rapidly, his forehead again damp with sweat. “And I’m telling you this too: we will not be run out of our homes. Not again. Not by him.”

“Jesus, Ed,” Winston said. “I had no idea.”

“You should’ve,” Bellamy said. “I called 911 last night. It took some fat-ass deputy of yours over an hour to get out there; they’d all left by then. Your deputy didn’t even get out of his damn car, Winston; wouldn’t even come up on my porch and talk to me. I was out there with a rifle. He made me set it down, threatened to arrest me if I didn’t. He said the night looked quiet as far as he could see.”

Bellamy turned and looked at Winston’s closed office door. He lifted his finger as if pointing through it. “And I’ve called her about five times this morning trying to get you on the damned phone, and every time she tells me you’re busy. And I get here and find you sitting on your ass while my son—” He stopped, choked back something, and then continued. “While my son is sitting up in the funeral home because his widow can’t stop crying long enough to make a decision about when to lay him to rest. And now she’s got a bunch of white boys shooting off guns in front of her house in the middle of the night, busting out windows. We’re not going to stand for it, Winston. I’m telling you. You listen to me now.”

“I’m sorry, Ed,” Winston said. “This is the first I’ve heard of what you’re telling me.”