CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

By all rights, Sam Brooks should not have survived the night of March 21, 1955. On his side were his war-honed reflexes, an adrenaline-fueled ride from regret, and a handful of luck. The raindrops that pelted his bare face beneath his motorcycle helmet arrived like thousands of tiny needles pricking him in rapid succession.

Rain rides on the Triumph were not unusual for him, but this was an unusually hard downpour. It was also a high-speed ride. What he wouldn’t give for a face shield or a fairing with an attached windscreen. A pair of leather riding gloves and an out-of-season jacket that zipped to the top of his neck protected the rest of him from the tiny onslaughts. His eyes were most important to him, and they were under attack. Sam squinted hard against the wind and rain, relying on his memory as much as his eyesight to guide him through the storm and back to Pete’s.

He hadn’t left on good terms. He had left on no terms at all. Since late morning, he’d cruised the scenic route between Lost Hollow and Hollow River, hoping nature would help him clear his head. When the clouds turned sinister that afternoon, he’d stopped to fill the Triumph’s tank and then set out for home.

But his mind wandered to the argument he’d had with Pete. Over two or three miles, the urge to turn around strengthened in his heart. A twinge of guilt warmed the back of his neck, pinching at it. When the pinches escalated into full-blown twists of daggers that caused his head to buzz and throb with thoughts like what have I done, Sam spun the bike a hundred and eighty degrees in the middle of the two-lane and hauled ass back the way he’d come.

“I must be crazy,” he said aloud, the wind from the ride blowing out his cheeks slightly as he did. “I’m riding back into a storm to try to save a relationship with a nutcase white man who thinks his dead bitch of a mother talks to him from a picture on the nightstand.

“I must be crazy.” He chuckled. “Well, I’m talking to myself, ain’t I?”

Now, Sam was caught in the storms he’d intended to outrun. By the time he reached the outskirts of Lost Hollow, near that general store name of Beard’s that he’d never dared pop into before, Hollow Creek Road had become completely engulfed in the overflow of the creek that ran alongside it. The bridge that connected the road to the store’s parking lot was gone, as was most of the parking lot itself.

Sam thought he could see a few lumps of solid matter standing like flat stones among the rapids in the darkness. He recognized them as the tops of submerged cars. That meant there were people trapped inside. He could see several figures standing in silhouette in front of the light that spilled through the large window on the front of the building. The water rushing beside it hadn’t torn away any of its supports yet, but if this rain kept up and the flooding fattened on it, Sam could foresee a time when it might.

The rapids shimmered in the crests and valleys as they passed through the light from the store’s interior. The effect was like the sheens oil created when it seeped from destroyed military hardware, except it was red instead of black rainbow. Tendrils of the stuff snaked toward him across the top of the flood, seemingly independent from the motions of the water beneath them.

Must be a trick of the light, Sam thought. Nothing I need to focus on right now, anyway.

The Lost Hollow Constable’s Office, the Hollow County Sheriff’s Department, and Peter Mayberry’s house lay on beyond the wash that had flooded the road in front of Beard’s. Sam halted the bike parallel to the water’s edge and strained to determine its depth. Tiny waves of cruddy creek water lapped at his boot. If the pool was just the tiniest fraction of an inch of depth across the surface of the road, he could probably pass through it, make his way to Pete’s house, and call for help. If it was an inch or more, he was apt to lose control of the bike, plunge into the creek rapids, and end up a casualty of the storm himself.

Sam was tempted. In the end, his better judgment won the day. He aimed the bike toward Hollow River and set off away from Lost Hollow. Hollow Creek was the main road into the town, but it wasn’t the only one. There had to be a byroad, a cow path, a foot trail, or some space nearby where he could circumvent the flood. Even if it meant getting slapped in the face by a few wet branches of cedar or pine along the way, Sam was confident he and the Triumph would be more likely to navigate some soggy, clumpy Tennessee earth than survive a flailing trip down an engorged Hollow Creek into God knows where that shit dumped out. Deep, chunky clay mud was no friend of a street bike, but it was better than dying.

He trundled away from Beard’s, but not at great speed, keeping an eye out for a trail, path, or side road he failed to notice on the way in. Thin trails of the red mist that had meandered their way across the gulf of the creek bed and onto the road closely followed. They nipped at the knobs of his back tire, his taillight, and the heels of his boots as he rode. Eventually, they became too thinly stretched to maintain cohesion and dissipated, absorbed by the dampness. Sam rode on, his pursuer unnoticed.

Less than a quarter mile later, he caught sight of a promising break in the tree line. He stopped and pivoted the bike so its headlight shone down what appeared to be a narrow but well-worn cow path off the highway and through the woods beyond. Pete had once told him most of the farmland and wooded areas on this side of Lost Hollow belonged to the Blalock family. This trail could dump into a clearing somewhere on their farm. Since no driveways seemed to connect the Blalock lands directly to Hollow Creek Road anywhere nearby, there must be another road on the far side of their farm that runs parallel to Hollow Creek. If he could get to that road, he could use it to get back to Pete.

Sam downshifted into First and opened the throttle enough to easily walk the bike across the road toward the mouth of the path. The beam of his headlight didn’t reveal as much as he’d like, but he could see it widened a bit just a few feet ahead of him. It seemed to make a straight course. If he kept his feet off the pegs (but ready to ground them, should he start to spin) and maintained a good forward momentum, he could navigate it.

Fifteen minutes later, with the soles of his boots covered in muck and his arms and legs dotted with triangular clumps of stick-tights, Sam barely managed to dodge a headlong plunge into a burned-out tree that had crept up on the periphery of his headlight’s beam. A mouth-like hole gaped at the bottom of it. Dirty smoke, some of it pulsing red in his light, belched out of that hole. The branches of the tree were charred and black. Embers of flame clung to some of them. Despite the dampness, they brightened in the wind, then dimmed again when the breath died down.

Must’ve been struck by lightning, Sam thought. The layer of electrical aroma combined with the odor of burning wood was evidence enough of that. He noted the gaping maw still belching its gusts of fumes and blackish gray fog. Jesus. Looks like a portal to Hell.

Glad that he hadn’t collided with it, Sam chose to forget the tree and press forward. He opened the Triumph’s throttle, allowing the heels of his boots to skim the top of the earth along the way. His thighs screamed at him, unaccustomed to the strain of riding in such an awkward position. It would be easier to use the foot pegs, but if the bike slipped in the muck and went down, he risked breaking an ankle or worse. Better to walk away from a stuck bike than to become stuck beneath one.

Sam caught the occasional flicker of lights through the darkness ahead of him. They were not reflections of his headlights off exposed granite and flint, nor glints off the ashen bark of barren trees. They were electric lights, the lights of the Blalock’s farmhouse. The urgency was getting the better of him. He had to force himself to stay in a low gear and burn minimal gas. His mind kept insisting he was lost, that the lights he was seeing ahead of him weren’t anything but his illusions. Yet they were getting closer.

When the Triumph finally escaped the woods, Sam was dumped onto a gravel path that stretched parallel to the tree line on both his left and right. It wasn’t a road. Not exactly. It looked like a driving path the Blalocks had cut for themselves to travel some of the longer distances over their farm. On Sam’s right, it bent a curve and climbed a slight rise. At the top of that rise was the back of the Blalock farmhouse and, God willing, his way back to an actual county road of some kind.

Sam paused long enough on the gravel to scrape the muck from the soles of his boots. Then he shifted the bike into gear and sped toward the house.

Irritatingly, the front facade of the Blalock farmhouse was Antebellum, also known as plantation style. It was two stories tall, blindingly white, with a front door on the opposite side of a deep front porch. The porch itself featured three square columns on either side of a set of three steps that led to the arc of a keyhole-shaped, gravel driveway. It was made to resemble the home of a high-ranking government official. Or a pre-emancipation slave owner.

What’s the difference? Sam thought.

That impression was most likely the Blalocks’s intent, even though the sides and the back of the place more resembled a plain old Tennessee farmhouse. On any typical day—because he certainly would not be out here most nights—Sam might have shot the place a sly middle finger. It would not have been observable from a distance as he dashed past on the Triumph, but it would have been satisfying.

Tonight, however, was not the night for such luxuries. Sam shifted the bike into Neutral at the spot where the driveway met the steps that led up to the front door. He propped the kickstand in the gravel and dismounted, leaving the engine idling. The foot of the kickstand sank into the soft belly of the gray mud created by the deluge, even on the Blalocks’s tightly packed gravel driveway. The Triumph remained upright, so that was something. He did not bother to remove his helmet.

Although Pete had mentioned them off-hand a few times, Sam Brooks had never come face-to-face with the Blalocks in Lost Hollow. Sam doubted Pete had ever mentioned his Black lover to the lily-white farm family. Tennessee farmers were not exactly known to be friendly to a stranger’s nighttime knocks at the door, either, so he needed to be prepared for anything. He inhaled a single deep breath, exhaled long, and mounted the steps.

He’d barely rapped his knuckles on the facing for the third time when the heavy wooden door swung to reveal a darkened tunnel of hallway. The beam of a flashlight hit him square in the eyes. He winced and raised a hand against it. Before his vision cleared, the cold steel of a wide-mouthed gun barrel kissed him firmly under his chin. It forced his gaze skyward. His hands automatically followed suit. He raised both, open-palmed and thumbs outward, just above shoulder height.

“What the hell do you want?” the gruff voice of James Blalock growled from somewhere in the darkness. “What you got pressed against your scruff is a .410. It’s loaded, and the safety’s off.” The not-so-subtle click sound of the shotgun’s hammer locked it into the cocked position. “You better have a got-damn good reason for setting foot at my door, or I swear to God I’ll scatter your skull six ways from Sunday.”

“We don’t keep money around here, if that’s what you’re after,” a shrill, tremulous voice called from inside the house. Georgia Blalock’s words came from slightly farther away than her husband’s. The beam of the flashlight trembled in his face as she spoke, which meant she was the one holding it. Sam’s heart sank. If James Blalock had been managing both a flashlight and a shotgun, Sam would have had an opportunity to take advantage of the awkwardness to disarm him. He swallowed thickly.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he said. The end of the gun barrel pressed harder into the bone of his chin with each word. “I just came from Beard’s General. The bridge is out, and the road is flooded. There are people trapped inside. I just need someone to call for help. If you’ve got a phone, you could call the constable. Or the sheriff.”

There was silence from behind the barrel of the shotgun.

“I swear,” Sam tried again. “I just need you to report the trapped folks. Then I’ll be on my way. I was just coming in from Hollow River to see a friend of mine who lives a ways down past the store.”

“Jimmy?” he heard the woman stage-whisper. “Eli’s been over at Beard’s for a long time today, even for Eli. I thought he’d be back before supper, but he wasn’t. I figured he and that Beard boy must’ve just lost track of time. I was going to send him to bed without supper when he got home tonight.”

James Blalock seemed to ignore this tidbit from his wife. “If the bridge is out and the road is flooded, how do you know there’s people in there?” he demanded. “More’n that, how the hell did you get to my place from over there if you’re coming in from Hollow River and the road’s out? Knob’s Mill don’t connect to Hollow Creek for another five miles in that direction.” He shoved the end of the barrel to Sam’s left to indicate a direction, then settled it back where it had been.

Shit.

Well, at least he knew which road and which way he had to go to get back to Pete’s place. Knob Mill to Hollow Creek would have him on his way after riding here. If he rode from here.

Trespassing was a capital offense out in the boonies, especially if you were Black. It was a crime for which many white folks believed themselves judge, jury, and executioner. Blalock hadn’t yet hurled the T-word at him, but Sam hadn’t told him that he’d found his way to the house by traipsing over his border and through his lands. If he did, the man might decide that—trapped people or no trapped people—killing Sam was his civic duty. Or moral obligation. Or some other legal rationalization bullshit dreamed up by white men who chose to feel threatened by Sam’s mere existence.

His chest tightened. The muscles in his calves, thighs, forearms, biceps, shoulders, and neck all pulled taut at once. His breath came in short, hot bursts through his nostrils, creating a dragon’s breath effect when it hit the cold air the thunderstorms forced to the ground. He remembered these sensations well from his soldier days, but mostly the nights. Whether he willed it or not, his body was gearing up for a fight. He fought against his instincts to keep from balling his raised hands into fists.

“Answer me, boy!” echoed the voice of the man he could only vaguely see through the gloom from inside the house. “How’d you get here? You been trespassing on my property?”

James Blalock lunged forward with that last sentence, pressing the barrel of the shotgun so far into Sam’s jaw that it caused him to bite down hard on his tongue.Self preservation took over. Sam grabbed the barrel with his right hand and snatched it out from under his chin, shoving it broadside into the exterior trim of the door. A loud crack and a hot yellow flash deafened and briefly blinded him when it went off.

Flecks of white-painted pine blew apart from a nearby porch column and scattered in all directions. The sting of heat and black powder singed his cheek. His ears filled with a cotton-muffled ringing sound. The Blalocks screamed in unison. Or they were shouting something at him that he couldn’t understand. In the confusion, Sam wrapped a hand around the shotgun’s barrel and pried the entire thing out of a stupefied James Blalock’s grip.

He tossed the weapon off the porch, flinging it as far as he could into the storm. It spun longways in an arc that carried it somewhere beyond the range of his vision. Sam bolted, leaping over all three porch steps and landing gracefully on the gravel below them. Once in the saddle of his Triumph, he had it in First with the throttle wide before he’d even raised the kickstand. He turned to look at the startled white couple who had moved outside to their front porch. They gawked at him.

“Call the goddamn sheriff!” he screamed, not knowing whether they could hear him over the roar of the bike, not to mention their tinnitus from the gunshot. “Get help!”

The bike’s rear tire spun gravel when he let out the clutch. Part of him hoped he’d sprayed James and Georgia Blalock with some of it as he rode into the darkness, into the rain, onto Knob’s Mill Road.

Hopefully to Pete.