“Lilac.”
The door opens, and Grant walks in, carrying a paper bag and a pitcher of water. I look behind him for Kiernan, but he’s alone.
“Where’s Kiernan?”
He looks confused. “Maybe the bathroom?”
I push past him and run down the hall to the bathroom. I knock. No answer. I bang on the door again and then try the handle. It’s unlocked. It’s also empty.
I head back to the room. “I can’t find him, Grant. Did he come up the stairs with you?”
Grant is next to the window, looking out at the front lawn. “No. He handed me the bag of sandwiches at the foot of the stairs and said he’d be up in a minute. I didn’t think . . .” He shrugs. “Should we—”
Whatever he planned to say is interrupted as a large brick sails past his head, landing about a foot in front of me. It’s carrying a note held in place by a rubber band.
Grant bends down and pulls the note out.
“What does it say?”
He holds it up so that I can see—nigger lovers go home, scrawled in big letters—then crumples it and tosses it on the floor.
After closing the window—something that seems a little counterproductive when they’re throwing bricks—he sits down next to Delia and pulls up the jailhouse on his key. “Something’s happening. I can’t tell what they’re saying, but they arrested three people.”
“What time?” I ask.
“Umm . . . 9:34.”
“Have they taken them upstairs yet?”
“No,” he says. “They’re sitting in the chairs where we were.”
Well, that’s a small break. Abel is currently the only one in the cell block. Things are going to be a lot more complicated if it gets crowded in there.
Bam. Bam-bam-bam.
I jump, and so does Grant. Delia, still in her own little laudanum-laced universe, keeps her eyes on the key. The nurse said one to two teaspoons, but I’m starting to think maybe giving her the maximum dose was a bad idea.
Glancing through the peephole, I see the owner of the Eagle, wearing a stained apron and an angry, frightened expression. She steps in and runs her eyes around the room, pausing on Delia and then traveling down to the brick in front of my feet, which she snatches from the floor.
“Lights out,” she says, reaching up to yank the long string hanging down from the single dim bulb above our heads. Then she reopens the window.
“If y’all ain’t ready to sleep, stay in the other room you rented. I ain’t havin’ them damn fools bust out my windows ’cause you can’t resist peekin’ outside.”
I’m about to argue, but Grant says, “Yes, ma’am. We understand. But—before you leave, what happened? The crowd outside seems to be getting louder and,” he says, glancing down at the brick in her hand, “less law-abiding.”
Her eyes narrow, like she’s deciding whether to tell us, and then she says, “Cramer’s gonna charge your niggra friend with aggravated assault. Willis Felton’s buddies think he’s bein’ let off too easy.”
She leaves, slamming the door behind her. Grant glances at Delia and then says to me, “That’s good news, right? Earlier they were talking attempted murder.”
“Maybe,” I say, remembering Mitchell’s comment from earlier. “But the fact that the crowd got wind of it tonight, when they’re angry and half-drunk, is definitely not good news.”
As if to emphasize my point, two pickups drive into view, with six or seven men in the back of each truck. A few of them are in white hoods, and all of them have their faces covered in some fashion. And they’re all carrying rifles.
“Delia,” I say, grabbing her elbow. “Come on. We need to move.”
Grant follows, his eyes glued to his CHRONOS key. Once Delia’s inside the other room, he pulls me aside and says in a low voice, “They’re inside the jail. Beebe’s going to hand him over. If you’ve got any ideas about how to fix this, now’s the time.”
I’d really hoped I’d have a partner for this, but I seem to be on my own. Damn it, Kiernan.
I run to the window overlooking the parking area out back. There are two or three people standing around, but almost everyone seems to have moved closer to the front so that they can see what’s happening. The Buick is right where we left it, and Kiernan’s truck is missing.
“Do you have the key to the Buick?”
Grant nods, pulling it out of his pocket.
“Okay, I think you can get to the car. Pull it up to the back door. When I see you in position, I’ll head downstairs with Delia.”
“What about Kiernan?” he asks.
“His truck is gone. Wherever he went, he’s on his own. We’re going to have our hands full getting Abel.”
As soon as Grant leaves, I pull the gun out from under the mattress where Delia is sitting. She gives me a mildly concerned glance as I carry it over to the window, and then she goes back to the key.
I open the window and wait for Grant, my eyes lingering on the spot where Kiernan’s truck should be. I don’t know why he lied, and I’m furious that I have cause to doubt him right now, when so much is at stake. He’s definitely hiding something. I don’t know what, and I don’t know why. But the bottom line is no matter which Cyrist is hanging out across the street, I don’t believe Kiernan would be a willing party to anything that would put Abel’s life at risk. Or that would put any of our lives at risk. He probably thinks he’s keeping me safe, which has me angry in an entirely different way.
Grant reaches the car without interference. One guy looks his way, but that’s it, and I’m really glad, because I didn’t want to waste ammo and draw attention by firing a warning shot.
I grab Delia’s arm. “We need to go. Now!”
The biggest challenge is getting Delia to look away from the key long enough to walk down the stairs. We finally reach the bottom, and I half drag her past the kitchen, toward the back door where the car is waiting.
The first thing I notice is that someone cleaned the Buick. It’s not a very thorough cleaning, and there are still smears here and there, but someone at least tried to rinse the crud away. I don’t have time to wonder about that right now, however.
I push Delia into the backseat, and she immediately starts pulling up the stable point in the cell again.
“Okay, Grant—I need you to loop around the block and come in behind the courthouse. I’ll either be there or in the block of trees behind the jail with Abel.”
“How?” Grant asks at the same moment that Delia starts screaming Abel’s name, panic in her voice.
“Go!” I yell, glad that at least I don’t have to try and answer that question.
Because the truth is, I have no earthly idea.
At 9:26 p.m., I jump in at the point I set in Beebe’s office. The patrolman at the desk, whose name tag reads L. Spencer, stepped outside a little over three minutes ago. He’ll be at the front door for two more minutes, then he’ll come back inside, make a quick phone call, and wake Deputy Beebe.
The deputy sounds like he’s pretty well out. He’s snoring softly, facedown on the desk, his head resting on top of his folded arms. I see the keys as soon as I move to the other side of the desk, but the ring is unfortunately wedged between his body and his leg. I try inching the keys very slowly toward me, but Beebe startles, his left hand flying out and knocking a paper cup half-full of coffee onto the floor.
I’d hoped to do this the easy way, but if Beebe makes too much noise, the other guy, Spencer, is going to hear us. I curve my right arm under Beebe’s neck, lining up the inside of my elbow with his Adam’s apple and grabbing my left bicep. Then I place my left forearm behind his head and push downward, squeezing his neck between my bicep and forearm. The move is called hadaka-jime, and every other time I’ve done it, my opponent has tapped for me to release the hold within a couple of seconds. It feels wrong to keep holding. But I do, for a full five seconds after I feel Beebe relax.