Lightning Men

by Thomas Mullen

  “The Klansman who was killed, my Christian brothers, was one of our own. Walter Irons.” Clearly Irons’s death was news to some. Dale heard some muttering, but from too far away, plus the hoods did muffle quite a bit. “I would be lying to you all if I told you that I knew Brother Irons well. But he did not deserve to die, did not deserve to be laid low like that, and certainly not while wearing the holy uniform.”

  Yet another pause. Dale felt a tremendous need to pass gas but he didn’t dare, as if the sound and certainly the smell would mark him as the very offender the Grand Wizard was trying to identify. He needed to go to the bathroom, frankly, needed to curl into a ball and be gone from all this, and he wasn’t sure if he could make it.

  “Brother Irons leaves behind no wife or child, and for that I am thankful, but he does have family back in Alabama that grieves him.”

  It was torture not being able to look at anyone. He wanted to see Iggy’s and Pantleg’s expressions, read what they were thinking. Were they on the verge of ratting him out? Were they frightened themselves, afraid they’d be in trouble by association, even though they didn’t actually take part in that beating?

  He hadn’t told Rake about them. He’d made it sound like only he, Irons, and Mott had been involved. Why? Well, partly it was true—Iggy and Pantleg had split off before they dealt with Letcher. The rest was shame: they had mocked his plan, insulted his manhood, threatened him, even. He didn’t want Rake to know he wasn’t fully respected by his peers, so he hadn’t mentioned them. Yet he’d sensed even then in Rake’s living room that the omission was a serious tactical mistake, and he feared it would be his undoing.

  “The person they attacked is a man named Martin Letcher, a banker and a gentleman of good standing in his community. Why Brother Irons and his two fellow riders were in Coventry that evening is unclear. But because a man has been killed, and under such circumstances, this is a weighty matter that threatens our very organization. I can only assume that Brother Irons’s two fellow riders are from our Klavern as well. Standing here before me right now. Brothers, I ask that you step forward and explain yourselves.”

  The longest silence of Dale’s life. It stretched before him like the agonizing walk before a firing squad, a plank over roiling seas. He told himself to be still, to not turn his head—until he realized that others were turning their heads, in hopes of seeing someone step forward, so he turned his head, too, mimicking their innocence.

  Please, blessed Lord, let Iggy and Pantleg stay quiet, too.

  “My brothers, even if those who took part in that ride are not in attendance today, I ask this: if any of you know anything at all about what transpired, any evidence or even hearsay, the time has come to step forward. Not only is one of our brothers’ reputation at stake, but so is the great cause to which we have dedicated ourselves! So is the blood that has been spilled by generations to protect our families and our homes, to strengthen us against our enemies, to unify us against our foes!” He had switched into an altogether different register. Dale’s fear made a corresponding leap to sheer terror, and even as his heart raced he was certain everyone else’s did as well, that the Grand Wizard’s rallying cry was stirring them, the congregation restless. He was doomed. “We must not allow them to divide us, my brothers! We must be strong like our fathers, strong like their fathers, strong like our founders who defended the Southern way of life!”

  Dale’s unseen compatriots were calling back in the affirmative, some yelling, “Step forward!” to rouse whichever of them was afraid to do so. Dale could feel himself shaking, terrified the others could see it, the entire room vibrating from all the yelling.

  He could see it now, Iggy stepping forward, or Pantleg, removing their hoods and declaring that Dale had led them astray.

  Lord, they would tear him apart.

  Then it subsided. The hollers and rebel yells and commands and even the voices in Dale’s head, the better angel of his nature that seemed to be telling him, Go on and be done with it, be a man—even that damned annoying angel shut up, and the room grew silent.

  He had nearly lost control of his bowels. He smelled something rank and feared perhaps he’d passed gas after all, but no one was saying anything, no sound in the room.

  After a long stretch of silence, the Grand Wizard intoned, “Very well. Perhaps the other riders were from another Klavern. But if there is treachery in our midst, we will smoke it out.”

  Afterward, Dale was one of the last to exit—not wanting to appear too rushed, he had made a point of chatting with his fellows in the later, hoodless portion of the night’s proceedings. He sorely wished alcohol were part of the Klavern ritual, but he accepted their line of thinking that it was a poison of the Irish and Italians and other low folk, even if he happened to enjoy the stuff immensely.

  He had made brief eye contact with both Iggy and Pantleg but had elected not to speak to them, afraid any wrong move might inspire them to reconsider their silence.

  And he was greatly annoyed by what had not transpired tonight. The Klavern had discussed the Hanford Park Negroes but had made no plans for a night ride. What was the point of their coming together if they weren’t going to do anything? The Grand Wizard had hinted that plans were in the works, so why not share them? What the hell was the point of being in a Klavern if you couldn’t run the niggers out of your own backyard?

  He was nearly out the door when he heard the Kladd say, “Dale, may I have a word with you?”

  It felt like being invited into your boss’s office after some failure, if your boss was someone who could have you killed.

  Their hoods were off now, and Dale nodded to the Kladd. Who was more commonly known as Andy, and going bald, his remaining hair drenched in sweat.

  “Dale, meet the Grand Wizard. This is Dale Simpkins, a friend of mine.”

  It occurred to Dale that he wasn’t entirely sure what to call the Grand Wizard, whether “George” was too familiar or “Grand Wizard Ansley” too stilted. “Mr. Ansley” sounded too subordinate, though at that moment Dale did indeed feel small. He elected not to call him by name at all, simply saying that it was a pleasure as they shared the ritual handshake. Without his hood, the Grand Wizard’s face nearly matched the Kladd’s robes, ruddy from the yelling.

  “Dale,” Andy said, “I know Brother Irons didn’t have many friends, but he did work with you at the mill, correct?”

  “Sure. But he got fired awhile back.”

  “Do you have any idea why he might have gone up to Coventry on that ride?”

  “I don’t. I mean, I’d heard he’d been killed up there but hadn’t known ’til tonight that it was from a ride. I mean, wow, that sure is strange.”

  “It is,” the Grand Wizard said, his voice cold, and hoarse from his earlier performance.

  “He was a big man,” Andy noted, looking at his superior but seemingly speaking to Dale, “but he’d never struck me as the sort to do something so headstrong. I fear he may have been led astray by someone else. One of the other two riders.”

  “Could be,” Dale said. Please, God, let this conversation be over. He looked at Andy because he feared the Grand Wizard, feared lying to so powerful a man. “I can’t rightly say.”

  Grand Wizard and Kladd exchanged glances. Just then they were joined by a third man, with short gray hair and a hard stare.

  “Dale, this is Brother Brian Helton. He’s a policeman. He’s also part of the Klokann.”

  Dale shook hands with Helton, who looked familiar. The Klokann was the investigative wing of the Klan, rumored to be staffed only by police officers and detectives.

  “If you do hear anything at all,” Andy said to Dale, “please let us know.”

  “I will, you can count on it.” He could feel all of them studying him, Helton especially. Was Helton investigating what had happened that night? Had he walked over just so he could get a closer eye on Dale? “You know, my brother-in-law’s a cop, too. Maybe I could ask him?”

  Helton offered a cold
smile. “I know who your brother-in-law is. He turned down an invitation to join us.”

  “Yeah, he’s not a real social kind of fellow.”

  “He’s dug his grave,” the Grand Wizard said. He put a hand on Dale’s shoulder and squeezed it, a bit harder than necessary. “Don’t you worry—our Klokann Kommittee is plenty capable. We’ll find out who put Brother Irons in that spot, and we’ll deal with him accordingly.”

  Dale nodded, trying to look enthusiastic.

  “Thank you for coming out tonight, sir. We really appreciate you taking the time to support us out here. These are dangerous times, and we all need to band together.”

  He turned to leave, worried his eyes had betrayed him, or his tone of voice. Or perhaps the Grand Wizard really did have some otherworldly power, could peer into Dale’s soul or read his thoughts, maybe through bodily contact, which explained that shoulder thing. Dale needed to save himself, throw out something that might distract this almost omniscient adversary.

  “You know, I did think of one thing,” he said. “One of the last times I saw Irons, he asked if he could borrow my car. Said he had to do a favor for somebody, but I told him no. I’m kind of particular about who I lend it to, is all. Anyway, he’d said he had to do a favor for some fellow, I want to say he called him Mr. Whitehouse.”

  The Grand Wizard and Helton seemed to be looking at Dale very intently. And silently.

  “It was just an odd name, you know, Whitehouse. That’s why I remember it.”

  Another second, and the Grand Wizard smiled. “Thank you for telling us that, Dale. I assure you, we’ll look into it.”

  22

  AT TEN O’CLOCK, Boggs called in to the precinct from a call box and was told by McInnis to report to an address he knew well: Julie’s house. He froze.

  “What happened?” His mind raced: an accident, a break-in, those drug users down the block?

  “Everyone’s fine, but a Julie Cannon says she needs to see you immediately. Consider it your break and make it quick.”

  Boggs left Smith behind, running the quarter mile to her house. He hadn’t yet reached her door when Julie met him in front of the house.

  “It’s about Sage’s dad,” she said. “He’s come back.”

  He needed to catch his breath after the run. “Back . . . to Atlanta?”

  “He’s come by a couple times now, trying to talk to us.”

  He wanted to ask more but told himself to stop, wait, let her say whatever she was so clearly afraid to say.

  She continued, “He’s saying that . . . that he wants to be a part of Sage’s life now. I told him that can’t happen, but he’s not taking no for an answer.”

  Boggs folded his arms across his chest. “Do you know why he even came back? He didn’t like Chicago?”

  “That’s the thing.” She looked down. “I’m sorry, but he hasn’t been in Chicago all this time.” A deep breath. “He’s been in prison. He just got out.”

  “Prison?”

  “For five years.”

  Boggs’s mind reeled. He felt that the ground was askew and he changed his footing as if to balance himself against the swales. “He was in the state pen?”

  She nodded. Her voice sounded very far away, barely audible. “I’m sorry I lied.”

  “You’re sorry?”

  “Lucius, I’m scared.” Her arms, too, were crossed now, hugging herself. “He came by tonight, when I wasn’t here. He forced himself into the house and knocked Mama down. Said he wanted to see Sage, but Sage locked himself in the bathroom ’til some cops came.”

  “What cops?”

  She explained how Dewey and Champ had arrested Jeremiah, sending him to jail in a wagon. Both Julie and her mother had been questioned by the officers.

  “Jeremiah,” Boggs repeated. “So at least you didn’t lie to me about his name. Everything else, though. He has a record? Lord God, woman, what are you trying to do to me?”

  They had barely ever discussed Sage’s father, other than some early conversations to establish the basic details. Or what Boggs had assumed were the basic details. She had been amazingly circumspect, never bringing the subject up, a silence he’d taken as a sign that she had no feelings for the ex. He’d attributed her silence to her strong will, her refusal to let life’s injustices weigh on her. Now he saw that a different kind of self-preservation had been at work.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, a bit louder this time, yet the words still seemed to dissolve in the air and lose their meaning before they could reach him.

  “What did you think, that he wouldn’t come back after he got out?”

  Later, when he would revisit this scene in his mind, he would realize she’d been leaning toward him, hoping he might embrace her, forgive her, protect her. But he stepped back, turned around, shook his head. He looked up at the dark sky for a moment, then back down at the woman he was now a few feet farther away from.

  “His family all moved to Chicago after he went in, so I thought—”

  “You thought you could just hope him away? What was he even in for—am I allowed to hear that from you, or do I need to pull his record?”

  “He worked in the train yards, during the war. He fell in with some boys who were stealing from the cars.”

  “Great. Excellent. Sage has thief blood, that’s wonderful.”

  “Don’t you say that about my boy.”

  He regretted the comment instantly, but those words were out and he could not take them back.

  “And now this man wants Sage? What, he wants to raise him? Teach him to fish? Or does he want you?”

  “He probably does, but he ain’t getting me. And he ain’t getting Sage, either.”

  The ain’ts had always grated, but now they were like thorns lashing him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and told himself to calm down. He’d been in the midst of far more dramatic family situations than this, but always someone else’s drama. He felt the bottom dropping out of his stomach, felt how hard it was for the people whose lives he was always intervening in and judging.

  “So he’s in jail now. But he’ll be out in the morning. Where is he staying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he ever threaten you or Sage?”

  “No.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  She looked him in the eye, then away.

  “Did he ever get rough with you?” He hated even having to ask that.

  “No. I never saw him get violent. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Jeremiah was always different. He was sweet—I mean . . . Some people used to say he was touched.”

  “Touched, like he was simple? Not right up there?” He tapped his forehead.

  “When people felt like being mean about it, yeah, they’d say that. But in my heart I know that’s not true—sometimes he’d say things that just didn’t make sense, that’s all.”

  “So we’ve gone from Chicago to convict to crazy convict.”

  “Some said crazy, some said he was called by God. I don’t know. All I’m saying is he was always sweet with me, until the end. He was just . . . He fell in with the wrong people. And they changed him.”

  He tried to take this in, but every thought hurt. “I cannot believe you kept this from me. Why? What else are you hiding?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. How many times do you want me to say it?”

  They were outside so perhaps others could overhear them. But that wasn’t why he felt he was surrounded. He felt his father was there with them, shaking his head and tut-tutting, his mother fanning herself and raising her eyebrows. This is why I wanted you to keep away from this woman, the reverend would be saying. Not because I’m prejudiced against those less fortunate, but because I have worked so hard to spare you from things like this. I have worked hard to no longer live on the sorts of streets where you’re asked for spare change by shifty men who have one hand outstretched and another in their pocket fingering an ice pick, worked hard to su
rround you with people who would not be stealing drinks from the liquor cabinet or sifting through our jewelry cases between dinner and dessert, worked hard so you wouldn’t have to wonder when a certain relative’s parole hearing was scheduled, worked hard to give you a life free of funerals for the young and doomed. Yet here you’ve chosen to surround yourself with that world, immerse yourself in it. That girl brings with her an entire universe I tried to eclipse from your view.

  Julie said, “I didn’t tell you the truth because I knew damn well that if you heard I’d been with a man who was in prison that woulda been the last time I ever spoke to you.”

  “It still might be.”

  She flinched. “Don’t say that.”

  “What do you expect me to say? You lied to me. And because of that, I lied to my family! What am I supposed to tell them when this other man shows up one day knocking on our door? Or crashes our wedding? Lord, woman, look at the position you’ve put me in!”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “First you lied to me about having a child, and I accepted that, and I accepted you, and you swore to me you’d never lie to me again. But I guess that was just a line, right, another con?”

  A hinge turned, her eyebrows shifting from penitence to fury. “Fine! Run back to your snooty parents! I’m too much trouble, huh? I don’t deserve their son, do I?”

  “You have no right to yell at me, I’m just—”

  “Course I have no right, I have no right to be anything but thankful to Mr. Officer Lucius Boggs who swooped up and saved me! I’m just so grateful for everything you did, because without you I’m just a poor ol’ nigger girl, right? That’s all I am without you, right? And after all your promises, you running off at the first sign of trouble! First sign that maybe life with Julie won’t be as easy as you thought, you runnin’!”

  His fists were clenched at his sides. Her mother’s silhouette lingered in the doorway behind her.