Conn’s bare feet were scraped and bruised and she was out of breath by the time she got to the tunnel’s opening into Molly’s shed. Feeling immensely grateful that Molly had cleaned the junk out of her way, Conn pushed the shed’s door open and raced down to the house, her feet slipping on the dewy grass. Her knock brought frenzied barking from Vincent and a startled call from an upstairs window, “Who is it? I’m armed.”
Conn stepped back off the porch so she was visible. “It’s me, Connemara,” she gasped.
“I’ll be right down,” Molly said. A moment later, the door was yanked open and she stood there in her nightshirt, shotgun in hand as Vincent wriggled out the door to greet Conn. “What’s the matter?”
“Men. White hoods,” Conn gulped, still out of breath. “They lit a cross in our yard and kicked in the door.”
“Your mother and brother?” Molly asked, heading back into the house. Conn followed.
“Safe for now, down in the tunnel under our barn,” she said. “Can you call the sheriff and get him over there as soon as possible?”
“Of course.” She turned to see Conn heading back toward the door. “Where are you going?”
“To Abraham,” Conn said. “They shouted something about teaching him a lesson. I’ve got to warn him.”
“Conn,” Molly called. “Conn!”
But she was gone.
“Damn that girl,” she muttered as she rushed into the kitchen to call Sheriff Little.
***
By the time Conn got to Abraham’s house, she knew she was too late. Forcing herself to ignore the cuts on her feet that were now bleeding freely, she limped closer. From where she crouched in the undergrowth, she could see a crudely made cross already burning in the yard, and she could see movement in the house where lights were on. A moment later, Abraham was pushed out the door, wearing only pajama pants, his hands bound behind him. Seeing them closer, Conn could tell that the white hoods worn by his assailants were just pillowcases with slits cut in them.
“Over here,” someone called. “I’ve got a rope already strung over this beam.”
They herded him toward the woodshed at the edge of the yard. In the light from the burning cross, she could see a rope dangling from the center beam of the peaked roof. They forced him to climb up onto a stack of firewood, and slid a noose around his neck.
“We didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout stringin’ him up,” one of the hooded figures said.
“The world won’t miss one more nigger,” said another.
“I ain’t havin’ no part of this,” said the first man.
“Then you go pour the kerosene on the house, Grady,” said the second man disdainfully. “Joe, give me a hand!”
“We weren’t gonna use our names,” said Joe.
The other man, whom Conn was now sure was the one called T.R., laughed harshly and said, “Who’s he gonna tell?”
Conn watched in horror as the one called Grady picked up a fuel can and began splashing liquid on the house while Joe and T.R. took hold of the other end of the rope around Abraham’s neck. A couple of other men stood in the yard, watching and weaving a little on their feet.
“I ain’t so sure about this, neither, T.R,” said one of the men and Conn recognized Mr. Walsh’s voice. Abraham seemed to have recognized him as well, for he turned his head and looked at him, though Conn couldn’t tell if he could actually see any eyes through the holes in the pillowcase.
“Are you going to be able to live with yourself, Walter?” he asked in his soft voice.
“You shut up,” Joe said, punching Abraham in the gut so that he doubled over as much as the rope would allow.
Turning to Mr. Walsh, T.R. growled, “You’re just chickenshit. You talk all big down at the store, but when it comes to doin’ somethin’, you turn yella.”
He wound the rope a few times around his hands and called, “Ready, Joe?”
Joe rushed over and wrapped the rope behind his back and together they pulled, hoisting Abraham into the air. As he swung, his feet kicked out, toppling the stack of wood upon which he had been standing.
Swallowing a scream, Conn ran behind the house and around to the woodshed from behind. Joe and T.R. had tied off the rope to one of the posts supporting the roof and were now hooting and clapping as they watched Abraham swing, gurgling noises coming from his throat as he kicked spasmodically.
Conn saw an axe stuck in a broad stump which was used for splitting firewood. Yanking it free, she chopped at the rope where it was tied off against the post. As it split, Abraham crashed down onto the wood below him, still unable to breathe.
“What the hell?” T.R. yelled as Conn clambered over the wood and loosened the noose.
Abraham took great, rasping breaths of air, only partially conscious. Conn tried to untie his hands, but was only able to get the knot loosened a little before she was grabbed roughly by the hair and pulled to her feet.
“It’s that Mitchell brat,” said Joe. Conn swung her fists wildly, trying to punch him. He laughed. She got hold of the pillowcase and ripped it off his head. She could smell the alcohol on his foul breath as he leaned close and said, “You like this nigger so much, fine. You can die with him.”
“Wait a minute, Joe,” said Mr. Walsh, real fear in his voice now. “You can’t. She’s just a kid.”
Even T.R. hesitated, saying, “This changes things, Joe.”
“She knows who we are!” Joe roared. “What’re you gonna do, let her tell the sheriff who all was at this little party?”
He grabbed Abraham’s bound hands and yanked him to his feet. Abraham yelled in pain as the motion nearly dislocated his shoulders. Still holding Conn by the hair, Joe forced both of them toward the house. Shoving them inside, he pushed them roughly to the sitting room floor. Looking around at the books, he pulled a couple off the shelves, ripping pages out and throwing them at Abraham, the loose pages fluttering to the floor like injured birds. “You think you’re better than the rest of us,” he leered. “You and your books can burn together.”
From outside the house, they heard a chorus of yells, “Grady, no!”
Through the windows, Conn saw flames leaping up the exterior walls of the house. Every direction she turned, the house was on fire, the flames greedily lapping the kerosene that had been freely thrown at the wooden frame.
“You idiot!” Joe screamed in panic. He rushed toward the front door, looking as if he might try running through the wall of fire, but the flames lunged inside, reaching for him.
He fell backward onto his rear. Looking about wildly, he saw the entrance to the kitchen and began crawling in that direction.
Conn shook Abraham. “Get up,” she said. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Abraham sat up, coughing. In the minute it took Conn to finish untying his hands, he seemed to have fully regained consciousness.
The old, dry wood of the house was being rapidly consumed by the fire.
“Upstairs!” Abraham croaked, pushing Conn toward the stairs. They ran up to the second floor, and into one of the bedrooms where there was a tree a few feet away from the house. He forced the window open as wide as it would go and pushed the screen out. Hastily, he pulled back inside as flames were now licking up nearly as high as the second story.
“We’re going to have to jump across to that tree,” he said. “Can you do that?”
Conn nodded, terror making her mute.
Abraham picked up a chair and used it as a battering ram to break out the entire window, glass and sash, so that they could stand on the sill. He picked Conn up and placed her on the sill where she could feel glass underneath her feet. Gritting her teeth, she looked down and saw a solid wall of fire below her. The heat was incredible and the flames were already reaching up to her.
She turned back to Abraham, throwing her arms around his neck and cried, “I can’t do this!”
He held her for a second, kneeling on the floor and then took her arms and pulled her free so that he could look her in the eye. “You can do this,” he said calmly. “You are the bravest person I know. I’ll help you.”
Making up her mind, she nodded. Abraham placed her back on the window sill and said, “On the count of three, you jump, all right?”
The flames were higher than the sill now, and burned her feet as he counted. Instinctively, she withdrew first one foot then the other. When he shouted, “Three!” she leapt awkwardly as he threw her toward the tree.
Flailing wildly, she grasped at the tree branches, trying to get a solid hold on one. Branches cut her face and chest as they broke under her weight and she began to fall. She continued clawing and was able to grasp one larger branch that was strong enough to hold her. Scrambling farther onto a stouter part of the branch, she turned to see Abraham already standing on the sill, ready to jump.
He gave an enormous leap, and fell further than Conn before he was able to grasp a limb strong enough to support him. Vaguely, she could hear shouts from below as the others saw what they were doing. She could also see the flashing lights of sirens as both the sheriff’s car and the firetruck pulled up to the house.
Inside the house, a shout could be heard. A moment later, Conn saw a shadow through the flames now almost completely obscuring the window.
“Help me!” Joe called from inside the bedroom.
Conn hesitated for a moment, as a part of her felt a cold wave of hatred. All she had to do was… nothing, and he would get what he deserved. It only lasted a couple of seconds, and then she shouted, “You have to jump! I’ll help you!”
She could see Joe approach the window, terror in his face. “You’re not strong enough to catch me!”
Suddenly, Abraham was behind her on the branch. He leaned out as far as he dared, reaching toward the house. “Come on!” he yelled. “We’ll catch you, but you’ve got to jump now!”
Even through the flames, Conn could see the hatred twist Joe’s face as he hesitated. Without warning, the floor gave way and he disappeared with a scream. She pressed her face into Abraham’s shoulder as the screams continued to rip the fabric of the night. When they finally stopped, all that could be heard was the roar of the flames as they devoured the house.