Omar collected David’s gun and sent him off to Shelburne City. He sent the handcuffed boy in another car. He told the deputies they’d each have to give a statement at the end of their shift. He sent one of the deputies back to Shelburne City for a camera, then told the deputies who had rushed to the emergency, and who weren’t normally assigned to the camp, to go about their normal business.
“Boss.” Merle’s voice quiet in his ear. “I need to tell you something.” At Merle’s hushed tones Omar felt his heart sink. His son, he thought, trembled on the edge of the abyss.
“What is it,” he said, and the words almost failed to leave his throat. Merle drew him aside. “David got a little carried away, there,” he said quietly. Omar licked his lips. “Tell me.”
“The kid drove off, okay? David drew and fired, and the car went across the road and into the ditch.”
“It’s martial law,” Omar managed. “That was justified.”
Merle nodded. “Sure, Omar. But what David did next was maybe a little, I don’t know, dire. See, that Negro wasn’t dead when he crashed the car. David pulled him from the car and shot him twice when he was lying on the road.”
Omar’s mouth went dry. He took off his hat, wiped sweat from his forehead.
Merle put a hand on Omar’s shoulder. “I’ll stand by your boy, okay? We’ll look after David. He’ll be all right.”
“Any witnesses?” Omar said.
“Some of the other deputies. They’ll be okay.” Merle looked sour. “But some people in the camp, yeah. They saw it. And Morris, he saw it, too.”
“Reverend Morris,” Omar repeated.
“Yeah. Morris. He was in his car, about to leave the camp just when the whole thing happened, got a bird’s-eye view.” Merle nodded toward the camp. “There he stands, with the others. Watching us like a black buzzard settin’ on a power line.”
Omar closed his eyes, felt himself sway like a willow in the wind. Even with his eyes shut he could feel the touch of Morris’ hooded gaze.
“I’ll talk to him,” Omar said, “and we’ll see what he says.” He crossed the road and took a long stride across the bar ditch and walked through the grass where the people at the camp had parked their cars. As he came closer he could see the tension grow in the knot of people around Morris, see the shoulders hunching as if against a blow, the fury blaze brighter in the stony eyes.
There were white people in the camp, Omar knew. A few, anyway. Where were they?
Omar politely touched the brim of his hat. “Reverend Morris?” he said. “I understand you may have been a witness to the shooting?”
The preacher’s eyes did not leave Omar’s face. His words were enunciated with care, with great precision. “I saw the crime,” he said. “Yes.”
The crime. Not the accident or the pursuit or the shooting. The crime. Omar felt his face prickle with heat. Kept his voice under control, kept his hands calm, thumbs hooked over his belt.
“Do you want to come to the courthouse and make a statement?”
“Possibly,” Morris allowed. “Possibly I will make a statement. Possibly I will reserve my statement and give it to the federal authorities at a later time.”
Omar’s head swam. He licked his lips, managed to speak. “Why would you do that, Reverend?” he asked.
Morris hooded his eyes and pretended to consider. Black bastard was enjoying it, Omar thought. He couldn’t beat me in the election, but he’s got me whipped now. Whipped like a cur dog in a hailstorm.
“I saw your son shoot that boy,” Morris said. “He put two bullets into him without reason. What would be the point of giving a statement to you?”
“You tell him!” a woman called from the back of the crowd. “You tell him!” There was a chorus of assent. Omar stiffened. Behind his sunglasses he looked at the faces in the crowd, tried to memorize them. The faces he already knew he was going to need to remember. The hostile masks swam before his gaze. His heart fluttered in his chest.
“If you want to make a statement,” he told Morris, “you can make it any time.” Omar turned his back carefully and walked away through the grass and between the parked cars to the highway. He had turned his back on more than the camp, he knew; he had turned his back on his life, his position. Every thing he’d achieved, every advancement to which he’d clawed a path. His future.
“Is there anybody else from Shelburne City in the camp right now?” Omar asked Merle.
“There were some church people in there, but they left before the shooting. Morris is the last.”
“Nobody leaves the camp,” Omar said. “Nobody but Morris.” He got in the car and got on the radio. He got ahold of Micah Knox, and told him that he and the rest of the Crusaders were relieved from their regular duty and should meet him on the highway by the John Deere dealership north of the Corp limit.
Omar knew that his own life—that everything he’d built and stood for—was already lost. But if he had to move heaven and earth to do it, he was going to save his boy.
Trucks began rolling into the compound in late afternoon, bringing people back to the men’s camps. Jason was introduced to the leader—“guide”—of his unit, a lanky red-haired man named Magnusson. Mr. Magnusson had a band on one arm that had probably once been white. Though he looked and for the most part smelled as if he’d been working in the hot sun for days, his chin was shaven blue and there was an alert look in his eyes. He called everyone by their surnames, as if first names were too much to bother with.
“We’ll be heading in to dinner when we’re called by the PA, okay?” he said. “We’re the Samaritans.”
“Samaritans,” Jason said. “Right.”
“Thing to remember is, you don’t leave the camp unless you’re working, or unless you’re called. People are doing important work out there, and they don’t need you bothering them.” Jason didn’t like the sound of this. Everyone was supposed to stay behind a fence made of string?
“When can I see my friends?” he asked.
“Morning and evening services.” Mr. Magnusson squinted as he looked down at Jason. “What denomination are you, by the way?”
Jason hesitated. He had a suspicion a truthful answer—his mother’s belief in pyramid power and Atlantis, and his father’s lack of any religion whatever—would not be received well.
“What kind do you have around here?” he asked.
“Well, Reverend Franklin, he’s sort of his own denomination—or he’s multidenominational, depending on how you look at it. He’s Charismatic and Fundamentalist, anyway. We’ve also got Baptists and Pentacostals, okay? Lots of Lutherans, but our pastor was killed in the first quake, so we’ve kind of split up among all the others. The Catholics—uhh, the same. Not that there were so many Catholics to begin with.” He narrowed his eyes and looked at Jason. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”
“I’m Presbyterian,” Jason said.
“Well,” Magnusson said, “we ain’t got any of those. So I guess you’ll just have to pick a congregation from the ones we got.” A gleam entered his eye. “I’d recommend Brother Frankland’s,” he said. “He saved me.”
Jason had hoped that Presbyterianism might leave him out of this issue altogether. “I’ll pick the one that my friends join,” he said.
Mr. Magnusson nodded. “Fine. Any questions?”
Jason pointed at the man’s arm. “What’s the white armband mean?”
“It means I’m in charge. Any more questions?”
“I guess not.”