“And there is no . . . romantic . . . involvement between Miss Morrell and either of them?”
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that the goal is to get everyone out of here alive, not to school this guy on his racist attitudes. Then I paste what I hope is an offended expression on my face. “Well, I would certainly hope not! Like I said, I think Grant is her cousin. And Mr. Waters, well . . . why would you even suggest something like that? Did you ask her that question? No wonder she looked so—”
“I think that’s all we need, Miss Keller.” He shuffles the papers in front of him. “You’re staying at the Eagle until the arraignment?”
“Since we’ve been told not to leave the area, yes.”
“Then we’ll be in touch if we need any more information. Could you send in . . .” He glances down at the paper in front of him and flips back to my statement. “Mr. Oakley.”
I give him a curt nod and go back to where Delia and Grant are seated.
“You’re next,” I tell Grant. “Have fun.”
“Yeah,” he says, glancing around the office. “You, too.”
Delia’s eyes aren’t as glazed as they were earlier, but the circles below seem darker. She washed up at the hotel, but sitting next to her, I see that her hair is still matted together in spots from the blood. And I suspect the laudanum is wearing off. Her shoulders are stiff, and she’s shaking slightly, like she has chills or maybe she’s on the verge of losing it.
“Are you okay?”
“They won’t let me see him,” she says in a whisper almost too soft to hear, her jaw clenched, her lips barely moving. A single tear sneaks out and is instantly soaked up by the gauze bandage across her face. “I need to see him.”
I reach over and squeeze her hand. “We’ll get him out, Delia.”
It’s after six when Grant comes out, his hands curled into tight fists by his side. “He says we can go.”
I tug at Delia’s sleeve, and we follow him outside onto the small porch attached to the building. Kiernan is parked in front, the rear passenger door lined up with the base of the porch steps. There’s no question why he decided we needed chauffeur service, even with the Eagle barely a block away. The crowd across the street is twice the size it was when we entered, and the window on the driver’s side is smeared with mud and other substances that I can’t—and probably don’t want to—identify.
As we’re getting in, an egg splats against the back of the car. A few younger guys step out in front, and Kiernan guns the engine threateningly. Others are moving toward us, and then everyone stops, looking past us toward the jail.
“Y’all quit causin’ trouble. I don’t wanna have to write you up.” It’s the first time I’ve seen Beebe standing, and my eyes slide down to the belt around his waist—a gun on his right and a key ring clipped to a loop on his left.
A gangly-looking guy, who seems to be the ringleader, says, “What I don’t understand is why you ain’t out here with us, Rudy.”
Beebe’s face turns red, and everyone starts laughing. Then the one who spoke to him spits on the windshield of the Buick and struts back across the street.
I scan the faces in the crowd as Kiernan drives away. It’s mostly men, although I see a few younger women sitting in the back of a pickup truck. Some older kids, too—a few of them look like they’re no more than nine or ten.
We’re almost to the intersection when a bright flash of blue light pulls my eye toward one of the cars near the back of the crowd. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared. Two patrol cars are parked on that side of the road, a few yards beyond the crowd. It was probably just a reflection, but for a moment, it looked like a CHRONOS key. I turn back to see if I can get another look through the rear window, but it’s nearly as gunked up as the sides.
“Did you see a flash of light over there?” I ask Kiernan.
“What kind of light?”
“Blue.” I glance pointedly at his chest.
“You’re sure?”
“No,” I admit. “Not even slightly. It was probably a reflection from outside . . . maybe even from inside.”
There are, after all, four CHRONOS keys in the car, and even if they’re tucked inside clothing, they still cast a bit of light.
“Never mind. I probably imagined it.”
He reaches over and squeezes my hand, then turns the car into the lot behind the Eagle. The tavern is busy, with about a dozen cars in the parking lot already.
“I’m going to pull up to the back door,” Kiernan says. “You three get out, and I’ll park.”
“Let Delia and Grant out. It’s mostly men, and they’re less likely to cause trouble if I’m with you.”
Kiernan glances skeptically at Delia’s face in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah,” I say, “but Willis didn’t plan that. I doubt he regrets it, but it wasn’t planned. If you’re alone or with Grant and someone picks a fight, it’s your word against theirs. If it’s you and me, more people will believe they started it. Although, the mood I’m in right now, if one of them even looks at me wrong, he’s going down.”
A tiny smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “Then I guess it’s you and me, love.”
He seems to think I’m joking, but I’m not. I don’t know if it was being at the jail or the creepy sensation of everyone watching us when we walked out or maybe that probably-imaginary flash of blue, but the whole thing has me on edge.
Just as Grant opens the back door, a dark gray car marked Georgia State Patrol pulls up.
Mitchell rolls down his window, glancing down at the crud on the side of the Buick. “Looks like y’all encountered some mud puddles. And a henhouse. Maybe an outhouse, too.”
“Not by choice,” Kiernan says.
“Yeah, I seen ’em over by the jail. Mostly kids who are bored—not much to do around here—but there are a few troublemakers in the bunch, too. Anyway, I just drove by Mars Hill Road, and I see your truck’s still there. Not a good idea to leave it aside the road like that. Why don’t you walk Miss Keller inside, and then I’ll drive you out to get it?”
Mitchell must catch my expression, because he shakes his head and laughs. “Or Miss Keller is welcome to ride with us, if she’d prefer. Go ahead and park. If you’re worried about the folks under the trees over there, they ain’t gonna be a problem. They’re just watchers. If they were the rowdy type, they’d be over with the boys who used your car for target practice.”
Grant gives me a nod and takes Delia inside. Kiernan parks the car, and then we both get into the back of Mitchell’s sedan.
“I hope they weren’t too rough on you and your friends over at the jail, Miss Keller. Was it the sheriff or Rudy Beebe givin’ you the third degree?”
“You can call me Kate,” I say. “It was Beebe. He wasn’t too rough on me. Haven’t had much chance to talk to Grant and Delia, but I think they got the worse end of the deal.”
“Yeah, I figured it was Beebe. Sheriff Parks had his appendix out on Monday, so I doubt he’ll be in unless things get crazy.” Mitchell fishes a cigarette out of his pocket. “I don’t know if your fiancé mentioned it, we’ve got a bit of a balancin’ act goin’ on here. There’s not much love lost between me and Sheriff Parks, or the judge for that matter, but neither of ’em want to see your Negro friend wrongfully prosecuted. Less sure about Beebe, but . . . he’ll do what his boss tells him. The bigger issue is that the sheriff and judge don’t want to lose the next election. And Willis is Judge Cramer’s second cousin on his mama’s side. Even though Cramer knows Willis is a lyin’ fool, he’s probably gonna pretend to believe him. My guess is he calls it aggravated assault and your friend’ll be out in a year or so.”
I stare at him in the rearview mirror. “A year or so? For something he didn’t do?”
“That’s the best I think you can hope for, yes. Less than that and I think we could have some trouble. The whole reason you got that crowd across the street right now is that they’re worried Cramer’s gonna be too soft—and some of them are going to say anything short of attempted murder is too soft.”