Barbara’s second reaction to the shotgun muzzle was that here was the nasty emergency she’d been expecting all along, and thank God she had the short-barreled .38 revolver in her right hand under her thigh next to old KKK, and if she had to, she hoped she could whip it up and start shooting through the window — though if that just got Benjy and Hester blown to bits in the front seat it wasn’t going to do any good, even though the motor of the Rolls was idling softly. If they just had a few seconds’ start -
Her third reaction to the shotgun muzzle was to see the fresh rust on it and wonder if its cartridges were wet, in which case she might hold the balance of power and needn’t actually fire, only threaten — but that was guessing.
The voice from behind the shotgun had a buzz in it that was lazy yet menacing, rather like the horsefly going back and forth against the inside of the sedan’s rear window.
“This is an inspection point We’re collecting toll. What were you doing—”
“We were only changing a tire,” Barbara answered sharply.
“—back in Trilby?” the buzzing voice finished.
So that, she thought, was the name of the miserable smashed village through whose crookedly choked main street they’d zigzagged twenty minutes ago. They should have called it Svengali!
Aloud she said hurriedly, “We were just coming through from Palm Beach. We can pay the toll,” but as she fumbled with her left hand at the black bag on her lap, two thick-corded sun-reddened arms came through the window and took the bag and one horny hand shifted to her chin and tilted her face up, and for a second she glared into a thin, unshaven, fish-eyed face and fought down the impulse to put a bullet in it or bite the hand, and then the arms went away with the bag, and the voice behind them said: “Hey, the old geezer must be one of them Palm Beach millionaires. Lots of paper money here.”
Barbara said, “He’s very sick. He’s in a coma. We’re trying to get him to—”
“One of them Yankee millionaires,” the buzzing voice cut her off, “who come down here and lord it and pay nigras white man’s wages and then run like chickens when the Lord tests us. We’ll take the money for the Jubilee Fund and we’ll take the two nigra gals — they’ll make the hill a little more comfortable. Get out, you two, quick! — or I’ll blow a hole in your high-yellow chauffeur.”
And he rested the muzzle of his gun against Benjy’s side.
This is it, Barbara thought, but as she started to bring up the revolver she felt old KKK’s clawlike fingers grip her hand on the gun with startling strength, holding it down. He cleared his throat hawkingly and next he was speaking in a voice louder than she’d ever heard from him, a voice that rasped imperiously.
“Did I hear some goddam turkey-necked cracker questioning the color of my son Benjy? I thought by your words you were Southrons out there, not mud-eating gophers!”
There was a murmuring outside, angry but uncertain. The gun pulled away from Benjy. Then old KKK, his features creasing like an old vulture’s as he stared at the men in overalls, intoned portentously, “When will the Black Night end?”
Slowly, almost as though it were drawn out of him against his will, the one with the buzzing voice replied, “With the dawn of the White Jubilee.”
“Hallelujah!” old KKK responded. “Convey to the Grand Chanticleer of Dade City the greetings of the Grand Chanticleer of Dade County. Benjamin, it would pleasure me if you drove on!”
They were moving forward — a foot — five — fifteen — then they were going faster, and Hester was saying, “Don’t hit that stump, Benjy!” and the Rolls veered abruptly and veered again, and then they were going faster still, and Benjy was laughing his whooping laugh, only this time it was pretty hysterical, and finally he was wheezing, “Old KKK sho live up to his name!” He glanced back. ” ’Scuse me…Dad!”
Hester said, “He cain’t hear you, Benjy. He pass out again. It take all his stren’th.”
Helen stared back wide-eyed. “I never suspect he Kluxer.”
Hester said: “You just be grateful, gal.”
Chapter Thirty
Doc took charge of the business of striking the rock-slope camp, as greenish dawn shifted through chartreuse to lemon yellow. He operated with a high-handed mysteriousness that would have been even more irritating if it hadn’t been for his sardonically-tinged high spirits. In particular, he refused to discuss the question of their next objective or the problem of the boulder-block until they were organized for departure.
He scaled down by one-third the breakfast ration Ida and McHeath presented for approval, prescribed penicillin for the flushed and fretful Ray Hanks on the latter’s recollection that he wasn’t allergic to it, and answered with a curt headshake Hixon’s suggestion that they make this a permanent camp and send out foraging parties.
The two sedans were searched. In the glove compartment of the first there was turned up a loaded .32 revolver and on its back seat a black hat. Doc appropriated both objects for himself, clapping the hat on his bald dome with a grinningly callous, “It fits.”
Wojtowicz, resting his left hand on his belt to ease his bandaged shoulder, protested: “Don’t wear that, Doc, it’d be bad luck,” while the Ramrod said somberly: “I wouldn’t want my head contaminated by particles from a sadistic murderer’s aura.”
“And I don’t want mine worse sunburned than it is,” Doc laughed back at him. “Murderer’s dandruff I can stand.”
The first sedan coughed and purred at once when Doc turned the ignition key and touched the gas to test it, but the second’s battery seemed to be dead. Doc refused to let Wojtowicz study around under the hood, but as soon as it had been drained of gas and oil, he let off the emergency, cut its wheel sharp, and ordered the others to help him push it off the road down the rock slope.
It went over the edge with a fine scrape and bound, and five seconds later its crash drifted up, shortly followed by three buzzards.
Doc snapped his fingers and muttered: “Certainly didn’t mean to disturb their breakfast, if it’s what I think it was.”
Mrs. Hixon heard him and made a sick face.
Next Doc tested the red Corvette, cutting it back and forth dashingly, tires on the road’s edge. “Sweet job,” he commented as he stepped out. “This is for me.”
As breakfast was finishing he quietly gathered Hunter, Rama Joan, Margo, and Clarence Dodd and drew them off with him back of the truck.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded of them. “Do we keep on for the Valley or cut back to Mulholland and try for Cornell or Malibu Heights? Got to keep this outfit moving or it’ll lose heart.”
“If we decide on the Valley, how do we get around the boulder?” the Little Man asked.
“Table that one, Doddsy,” Doc told him. “First things first.”
Hunter said, “A few of us could take the sedan and scout the Valley.”
Doc shook his head decisively. “Nope, we can’t afford to split up this outfit. It’s too small.”
“I know some artists in Malibu,” Rama Joan began tentatively.
“And I know some on Cape Cod,” Doc shot at her with a grin and a wink. “They’re probably swimming for Plymouth Rock.”
“But I was going to say,” Rama Joan went on with an answering grimace, “I vote for the Valley.”