The Last Ballad(113)

“They’re going to kill you if they catch you,” Richard said. “Strikers shot policemen.”

“It’s my life,” Hampton said. “Drop me right here and I’ll walk back. If anyone stops me I’ll tell them I was visiting my friend Mr. Richard McAdam of Belmont, North Carolina, and his wife Katherine and his daughter Claire.”

Richard slowed the automobile without saying a word. He turned around and drove back toward Gastonia.

From beneath the blanket in the backseat, Hampton did his best to offer directions to the boardinghouse.

When Richard finally turned onto the street where the boardinghouse sat, he slammed on the brakes, and Hampton’s body rocketed forward. His head slammed into the seat, and his neck forced itself down into his body with an awful crunch.

“The police are here,” Richard said. “A lot of people. Stay down.”

“Outside the house?” Hampton asked.

“Yes.”

“Back up,” Hampton said. For a brief moment, he contemplated throwing the blanket off him and opening the door. He’d run until he could either run no longer or until someone—the police, Richard, Sophia—caught up to him. “Can you turn around? Go up another street?”

“No,” Richard said. “They’ve seen me. Stay down. He’s got a rifle. Don’t move.”

Hampton felt the Essex roll forward. Its brakes squealed as it came to another stop. He heard Richard lower the driver’s-side window.

“McAdam?” a man’s voice said. “What in the hell are you doing up here?”

“Good evening, Mr. Epps. I heard there was some kind of trouble at Loray tonight,” Richard said. “I thought I’d come up and see about it.”

Epps. Epps. The name tumbled through Hampton’s mind. Percy Epps. Pigface. He’d heard Sophia and Ella talk about him. The attorney for Loray, head of security. The leader of the Council.

“Trouble?” Epps said. “I’d say there’s been a hell of a lot more than trouble.”

“What happened?”

It seemed that Epps leaned away from Richard’s open window. Hampton heard him talking to someone farther up the street. He strained to hear what they were saying.

“It’s the communists,” Epps said. His voice was closer, easier to hear. “Beal sent a whole group down to the mill tonight, got the night shift all stirred up. Aderholt and some of his deputies followed the picket back up to the union headquarters. They were fired on.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Oh yeah,” Epps said. “Last I heard, it sounds like Aderholt isn’t going to survive. They shot him in the back, McAdam. Damned cowards. They hit a couple of deputies too. A couple of the strikers were shot, but not enough of them.”

“What’s going on up the road here?” Richard asked.

“That union nigger from up north that I told you about,” Epps said. “Police are looking for him. Goddamned Beal and the rest of them ran off somewhere, but they’ll get caught. We’re watching the trains in Charlotte and Spartanburg.”

Hampton heard a third man’s voice, but he couldn’t tell what the man said.

“McAdam, this is Detective Randall,” Epps said. “Senator Overman sent him down from Washington. He’s been helping us out. Detective, Mr. McAdam is a member of our Citizens’ Council. He’s committed himself to breaking this strike.”

Richard was silent, and Hampton squeezed his eyes shut as tight as possible and prayed to a God he hadn’t prayed to since he was a boy. Make him say something. Make him say something.

“What’s your role on the Council?” the detective finally said.

“Well, I just joined,” Richard said. He stammered. His voice was higher than it had been earlier in the evening. “And I haven’t really had the opportunity to get involved—”

“We could use you tonight, McAdam. And if you can put a call in—”

The detective interrupted Epps, asked him, “Did you call him to come here?”

“No,” Richard said. “No. No one called me. I just heard something happened, and I came right down as soon as I heard.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Epps said. He yelled something up the street, something about moving a car so that Richard could park. “Pull on up here.”

“That’s okay,” Richard said. “I need to, I need to get home.”

“But you just got here,” Randall said. Hampton heard Richard slip the Essex into gear. “Why leave?”

“Yeah, McAdam,” Epps said. “You just got here.”

“And how’d you know to come here, to this house?” the detective asked. “The mill’s a block over that way, and their union headquarters is across the boulevard.”

“Yeah,” Epps said. “How’d you know?”

“Okay, good night,” Richard said. He put the car in reverse and they rolled back down the street. One of the men called Richard’s name. He backed around the corner, stopped, and slammed on the gas pedal. They sped up the street behind the mill.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Richard said. “Jesus.” Hampton heard him punch the steering wheel.

“They know, don’t they?” Hampton said. He lifted the blanket, sat up in the seat. The lights from the mill burned above the northern tree line outside his window.