Saving Grace (The Grace Series Book 2) (4 page)

“Yes, sir. That’s him, sir.”

“He hasn’t been with us long enough,” Stone said.

“Yes, sir, I understand, sir. But I ask you to reconsider. He has excellent leadership skills. And his military background will be beneficial to us.”

“He has not been with us long enough,” Stone repeated.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“If you have nothing more, you are dismissed.”

Not long thereafter, while Luther was again at the helm of the buggy, he asked, “What did Stone mean by no extreme violence? Are we not following his orders? Have we done wrong?”

“You misunderstood him, Luther,” William explained. “He was speaking of Reverend Nash. Even though he’s a Yankee, he is white. Stone meant no extreme violence against our own kind. He wants to eradicate niggers as badly as we do. Everything we’ve done thus far, every raid we’ve conducted, has been in accordance with his instructions.”

“You’re right, I misunderstood,” Luther said, but he was thinking
eradicate
was a strong word. The very idea was not in line with what he’d believed the Sons’ purpose to be. This, however, was not something he could say aloud. And, who was he to question Stone, or William for that matter?

“Congratulations, by the way,” William said. “I don’t envy you. Investigating the spook will be a difficult undertaking.”

“You’re not offended Stone asked me to take over?”

“Not at all. I’m glad to pass on the responsibility. Stone knows I have too much to do as it is,” William said.

Luther listened as William went on, offering suggestions on what he should do to track down the spook. He was glad for the advice, because frankly he hadn’t the faintest idea how to get started on this important assignment. And, as Stone had said, to protect their fellow Klansmen, time was of the essence. The illusive character’s identity needed to be discovered as soon as possible. He decided he would talk to his son-in-law, too. With his military background, Jon Kinsley’s guidance would be invaluable.

While picturing their mighty leader in his mind, it occurred to Luther that Stone was an apt nickname. The Imperial Wizard was like an impenetrable, solid piece of rock. He was not a man to cross. Ever.

* * *

There were thirty-three Klansmen. Two groups from the northeast sector had joined up for this night’s raid. The bulk of them, all clad in their white robes and hoods, were watching the flames engulf the house in front of them. From the intensity of the heat, the windows had shattered. Fire now consumed the rectangular openings. Sparks flew and smoke billowed high as the ceiling rafters broke apart. In minutes the roof folded in on itself. It wouldn’t be long before there was nothing left but charred remains.

For Jon Kinsley it was a victorious night. Under his hood he smiled triumphantly. Before his fellow Klansmen started the fire, he went around the house barring its doors and windows. His goal was obvious. He wanted to trap whoever was inside, and he succeeded. At first there were screams, not just from men, but from women and children, too. Those screams hadn’t lasted long.

Of the twelve raids the Sovereign Sons had undertaken since the beginning of the year, due to interference from the spook, only three had been successful. This was the third. Earlier, expecting another disruption, Jon’s comrades had been antsy. Now that satisfaction was achieved, and they knew the spook could no longer thwart them this night, celebration was foremost on their minds. It was foremost on Jon’s as well.

Soon enough they were mounted and on their way toward the town of Mount Joy. Jon rode between his father-in-law, Luther and his brother-in-law, Trent, but he had his eye on someone else in the group, a broad-shouldered man not far ahead of them. Jon didn’t know him. The only thing he could assume was that the man was newly inducted. He didn’t belong to Whistler’s chapter, which meant he belonged to Luther’s. To his father-in-law, Jon chortled, “Whiskey is calling!”

“What? No excuses to run home to Jessica tonight?” Trent said. As usual, his tone was laced with derision.

“You let him be, Trent,” Luther defended. “He had good reason to go home and you know it.” To Jon, he went on, “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us. All those times you said she wasn’t feeling well, you knew, didn’t you?”

“I knew,” Jon said, “but I couldn’t say anything. Jess wanted to tell you about the baby herself.”

“Jessica wasn’t going to say anything at Christmas either,” Trent claimed. “If you hadn’t asked, Pop, she probably wouldn’t have said a word. Why is that,
Captain?”

As always Jon pretended not to notice Trent’s disdainful address. “I don’t understand half of what goes through Jessica’s mind these days,” he complained. “Lately she’s been as temperamental as a hornet.”

“Pregnancy hormones,” Luther said knowingly.

Arnold Whistler rode up, squeezing his bulky mare between Trent and Jon. “Tonight was a good night for the Sons, eh? How many niggers do you think were in that house? At least ten is my guess.”

“Ten less niggers makes the world a better place,” Jon sniggered.

“Amen, brother!” Whistler proclaimed.

At the same moment, the pounding treads of a lone horse sounded from behind. Luther, Jon, Whistler and Trent turned instantly, breaking up their four-abreast position. Several of the Klansmen ahead of them were equally alarmed. Their horses, ignited by the jarring noise, scuttled around chaotically, while their riders tried to pacify them.

“Look what I found!” the man galloping toward them hollered. He, like the rest of them, was cloaked in white. Tucked under his arm, being harshly jostled under the fast pace of the horse, was a colored boy. He was so small he couldn’t have been more than three years old. The whites of his eyes stood out starkly against the backdrop of his dark skin, but he wasn’t crying. He wasn’t making a sound.

“This one must have sneaked out through one of your barred windows, Kinsley!” The rider barreled in and abruptly halted.

“Bellows!” Luther shouted. “Don’t ever come up on us like that! You’re lucky one of us didn’t shoot you! You could have been the spook!”

If any of the others’ adrenalin was as sparked as Luther’s, it wasn’t evident. Some of them were still trying to calm their mounts. Others, Jon among them, were focused on Abe Bellows.

“What are you going to do with him, Abe?” Arnold asked.

“I’m not really sure yet, but I’ll figure something out. Does anybody want to join me?”

“I’m in,” Whistler said. “Jon, are you in?”

“Naw,” Jon drawled. “I’m in the mood for whiskey. Dump the little nigger in the woods. If he doesn’t freeze to death, the coyotes will get him.”

“Jon’s right. Dump him,” Whistler agreed. “It’s too damn cold out here anyway.”

“Suit yourselves, but I’m in the mood for some sport,” Bellows said. “Why should the coyotes have all the fun? I’m gonna let ’im go and hunt him down myself!”

“Bellows, you’re sick!” Trent hollered. “Let him be. He’s just a baby.”

“All the more reason to get rid of him,” Whistler said. “Keep the population down.”

“Bellows, let that child go! Now!” Jon recognized Harry Simpson’s voice immediately, although he couldn’t remember ever hearing Simpson expressing himself so forcibly. He’d been in the line of Klansmen ahead of them, next to the newly inducted man. That man, along with three others, had circled back with Simpson.

“I guess my fun for the night is finished,” Bellows grumbled and then let go of the child.

The boy landed on the frozen ground beside the horse with a hard thump. Apparently, the fall didn’t hurt him. In the next second he was up and running. He still hadn’t made a sound, but the frost from his breath created a halo around his head.

Whistler guffawed. Bellows muttered. Simpson stared after the boy. The broad-shouldered man next to him sat stiffly in his saddle and shook his head. Whoever he was, clearly he wasn’t pleased.

“Simpson,” Jon called out, “why don’t you join us at the tavern? You never come with us.” Pointedly Jon turned to Simpson’s companions. “All of you. To celebrate our successful raid.”

“No, thank you,” the newcomer said. His voice was deep, guttural and authoritative. Jon didn’t recognize it. “We’re leaving. Simpson, let’s go.”

As the two groups split apart, Jon maneuvered close to Luther and asked, “Who was that?”

“Simpson. Harry Simpson. You know him, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know Simpson. Not him. I meant the other man. The stocky one.”

“Oh him. I was wondering the same thing,” Luther said.

“I thought he was a new inductee in your chapter?”

Luther shook his head. “No, never seen him before. But I will tell you one thing. If I didn’t know better, I might mistake him for Stone. Whoever he is, he’s got a voice identical to our Imperial Wizard’s.”

“Could it be Stone? Could he be here among us and we don’t know it?” Jon was stunned.

“Goodness no! Stone would never do that!” Luther chortled.

Even though they weren’t moving fast, enough time had passed for a substantial distance to develop between the two groups. Simpson, three others and the newcomer were still together. Looking left, Jon caught a glimpse of the little colored boy. He was still running. He’d almost reached the edge of the woods.

“Bellows, don’t!” Trent’s sudden shout had Jon spinning. Bellow’s revolver was raised, and aimed directly at the small, retreating figure.

“Don’t!” Trent hollered again.

Bellows fired.

Once the smoke from the blast cleared, they could see enough to know the boy’s pace hadn’t faltered. He was still moving as fast as his short legs could go.

“Damnation! I missed the little bastard!” Bellows exclaimed.

Whistler laughed.

“Damn you, Bellows! Let him alone!” Trent shouted.

Bellows ignored him. He fired again. And missed. With a curse, and a hard kick into his horse’s flanks, he started after the boy.

“Damn you!” Trent snarled. Whipping his horse, he raced after Bellows.

Bellows fired before Trent could catch up to him. He fired three more shots, in rapid succession, until his revolver was empty and the little boy’s body was a small, motionless lump on the ground.

“You’re an ass!” Trent roared.

Bellows, having spurred his horse around, moved back toward the group, yipping and hollering, “Got him! Did you see that, men? I got him! Yahoo!”

Jon shrugged. The show was over. The boy was dead. He continued on, alongside his father-in-law, but they didn’t get far before he glanced back. No matter how pitch black the night might be, glowing Klan robes were easy to spot. There were three of them, dismounted and gathered around the little boy’s body. Jon was too far away to recognize them, but he didn’t need to. He already knew who they were. One of them was Trent Emerson, one was Harry Simpson, and the third was the broad-shouldered man with a voice like the Imperial Wizard.

* * *

The tavern was an old, clapboard building on the outskirts of town. The wide, splintery floorboards creaked under the treads of its patrons, and the bar itself had so many gouges one had to be careful where one placed their drink. It was dark and dismal, and it reeked of mold and spilt beer. There were plenty of other taverns in and around Mount Joy, but this particular place was Luther Emerson’s favorite haunt. Jon Kinsley had been there often with his father-in-law. He’d been there with many of his fellow Klansmen. A few drinks in and the nasty odor no longer bothered him.

He, Luther and Whistler, now stripped of their sheets, had claimed a round table near the fireplace. Thereafter, William Hughes joined them. The small party had been celebrating long enough to have downed several shots when a blast of cold air caught them up. The tavern door swung inward and Trent Emerson stormed through it. For a second he stood there, squinting in the dim light. Upon spotting them, he strode over and grabbed the chair between his father and Whistler.

“We didn’t think you were gonna join us tonight.” Jon’s words were already slurred. He picked up a bottle—one of the two on the table that wasn’t empty—and splashed its murky liquid into a glass. Trent caught the glass before it tipped over an uneven plank in the table top. In one swallow he downed the shot, then slid the glass back toward Jon for second round.

“Uh oh,” Luther chortled. “Trent’s in a foul mood. Watch out!”

“What Bellows did tonight was wrong!” Trent spat. “He was just a little boy, a harmless child!”

“Still a nigger,” Jon sniggered.

Whistler guffawed. “Don’t matter how old they are. They still make the world stink.”

“The only good nigger is a dead nigger!” Jon raised his glass in salute. Luther, Whistler and Hughes raised theirs and clinked against his.

“What’s wrong with you people!” Trent seethed.

William Hughes raised an eyebrow. “I think the question we should be asking, Trent, is what’s wrong with you? We’re better off without those animals in our lives. You know that. It’s the principle we stand for.”

Trent shook his head. He was breathing so hard, his chest visibly expanded. His hand on the table was curled in a tight fist. For a second Jon was sure he was going to haul off and pop Hughes in the nose, or worse, throw his glass at the man’s head.