by Bill Myers
“Tell him . . .” He coughed again. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“Save your strength, don’t talk.”
“No.” Keith tried to shake his head. “They’re moving him.”
“Eli?”
He tried to nod.
“Where?”
The gurgling grew louder. It was more difficult for him to speak. Yet he forced out the word. “Atlanta.”
“Good—that’s good, then.”
Keith shook his head. “It’s a setup. He’ll never make it.”
More coughing, then a deep, unsettling breath that brought gagging and the vomiting of blood. Conrad recoiled, but the blood splashed onto his pants anyway, immediately soaking through. He felt his stomach turning, but did his best to ignore it.
With great effort, Keith wheezed out the word, “hijacking . . .” He took a shuddering, gasping breath, underwent another set of wracking coughs, and ended with the whispered word, “. . . lynching.”
Before Conrad could react, Keith’s hand rose, reaching out for something, anything. Conrad gave him his own hand. The hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 302
302 boy clung to it desperately. “Tell him ...” He pulled Conrad’s hand closer to his face. “Tell him I’m sorry.”
“He knows,” Conrad whispered, his throat aching with emotion. “He knows.”
The fact seemed to give Keith comfort. He released his grip, then lowered his hand back to the bed. Conrad stared down at it, his vision blurring from tears. The kid took a deep, ragged breath. And then another.
“Keith?”
The boy did not respond.
“Keith, hang in there, buddy!”
But there was no answer—just a long, slow exhale that ended in a faint, gurgling wheeze. He did not breathe again.
v
“Why won’t he let go?” Julia asked as she stared down at her father. His breathing had grown louder, more uneven—
sometimes choking, sometimes gasping, sometimes stopping altogether. Then there were the muscle spasms and convul-sions. “Why does he keep hanging on?”
“I don’t know,” her mother whispered hoarsely from across the bed. “He’s always been a fighter.”
Julia looked up at her. The woman’s face was streaked with tears, her hair disheveled. These hours were definitely taking their toll upon her as well. Outside, Julia noticed that the sun was just setting, filling the ICU cubicle with a tranquil, pink glow. It reminded her of the beautiful sunsets that had filled their living room, back in Pasadena.
“Mom?” She cleared her throat.
Her mother looked up.
“Do you remember on my birthday, do you remember when he was teaching me to ride my bicycle? Over at the park on Devonshire?”
Her mother nodded.
Suddenly Julia felt embarrassed. “I know it’s stupid to bring this up, but . . . do you remember when he let go of the bike and I crashed so hard?”
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“Yes.”
“Did he ever . . . did he ever tell you why he let go?” Suddenly she felt emotion welling up deep inside her again. She did her best to keep it under control. “I mean, one minute he’s beside me, promising he’ll never let go . . .the next, he’s broken his promise and I’m crashing into the ground.” She looked back down at the bed. “It’s just a little thing, but I never, I never understood why he let go. I mean, after he made such a big deal and promising and all.”
“He didn’t let go.”
Julia looked to her. “What?”
Her mother shook her head. “No. At least not on purpose.
He fell, Julia. He twisted his ankle, and he fell.”
Julia’s mouth opened.
“You didn’t know that?”
She shook her head in silence.
“He was running beside you then stepped into a hole. He twisted his ankle and fell. He felt terrible about it. I remember him telling me in bed.” She mused quietly. “Had a hard time getting to sleep that night, if I recall.”
“I thought . . .” Julia’s voice grew husky. She looked down at the bed, again struggling for control. She blinked, saw a tear blur her vision, then fall onto the sheet. “I thought . . . he let go . . . on purpose.”
“Oh, no, Sweetheart. He fell. He stumbled and he fell.”
Julia kept staring at the sheet, suddenly very lost, unable to get her bearings. It was a little thing. Not even worth mentioning. And yet, after all this time, after all these years . . .
Her mother continued quietly. “He stumbled, Jules. We all stumble.” Then softer. “The trick is being able to forgive ourselves and get back up. To forgive ourselves, and others . . .”
v
Conrad barely held his panic in check as he raced back across town to the courthouse. If what Keith said was accurate, and he saw no reason to doubt him, then every second hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 304
304 counted. The paramedics had cleaned him up some, but he took no time to change his pants or shirt. He had to get back to the courthouse. This thing had to be stopped.
Parking was impossible. The courtyard was now flooded with people. He pulled the Toyota into a loading zone across from the building and turned on the flashers, hoping that would slow down the ticketing and tow-away process. He scrambled out of the car, dashed across the street, and entered the angry crowd.
He pushed and weaved his way toward the steps. But when he looked up, he saw people at the top being denied entrance by the guard. He might be able to bluff his way in, but he didn’t have the time to waste if he failed. He veered to the left, working his way to the side of the building, where the crowd thinned, and then to the back where there was virtually no one. He spotted a loading bay at the far end and headed for it. The steel cargo door had been rolled down, and a guard was posted next to the adjacent doorway. A guard who Conrad soon discovered had been given the same orders as the one in front.
“But I have valuable information,” Conrad pleaded. “I need to speak to someone in charge.”
“I’m sorry.” The balding young man shook his head. “The building is sealed.”
“But . . .” Conrad fumbled for his wallet and produced his press card. “I’m with the media.”
“You and half the people here,” he answered.
Conrad sighed wearily. In the distance he heard the rumbling of thunder. A storm was approaching. He tried another tack. “Listen, I’m a personal friend of his. And I have every reason to believe his life is in danger. Serious danger.”
The guard looked at him, obviously nonplussed. He’d have to do better than that.
“Please, just let me—”
Suddenly the door behind them groaned open and two women stepped out.
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“Suzanne!” Conrad called.
She looked up, startled. “Oh, Connie . . .” She moved past the guard, and the two embraced.
“I’m so scared,” she whispered.
“Me too.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
When they separated, she turned to the woman behind her. “This is Eli’s mother, Mrs. Shepherd. And this”—she motioned toward Conrad—“is Conrad Davis.”
The woman looked up at him and forced a faint smile.
There was something familiar about her. Something about her eyes—their startling blueness. And their compassion. She hesitated, as if sensing something familiar about him as well.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Conrad said.
She nodded, holding his gaze. “Have we met?” she asked.
And then he knew. “Yes,” he answered, “just once. A long, long time ago . . . in a laundry room in Santa Monica.”
She stared at him, in quiet wonder. “You were there?”
He smiled. “Just briefly.”
She nodded, ever so gently.
Then, pulling his eyes fro
m hers, he turned to Suzanne.
“Is he okay?”
She shook her head. “They wouldn’t let us see him.”
“But she’s his mother.”
“They said he fell down the stairs and injured his head.
He got pretty banged up, and he’s in the infirmary now where they’re working on him.”
“Infirmary?” the guard asked.
They turned to him. “That’s right,” Suzanne said. “They suggested we come back in an hour or two. Why?”
“Nothing, I just, uh . . .” It was obvious the guard had something on his mind.
“What?” Conrad asked.
He ignored Conrad and spoke directly to Mrs. Shepherd.
“So you’re Eli’s mother?”
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She nodded.
“My momma, in Oklahoma, she attended one of Eli’s services. Had a bunch of cancer eating up her inside female parts.”
“Was my son able to help her?” she asked.
He broke into a grin. “Next day when she went to the doctor, it’s all gone. As good as new, they said. Never had to bother with no operation. Never needed it.”
Eli’s mother reached out and touched his hand. “I’m glad.”
But he wasn’t done. “And the thing where he raised that guy from the dead in Tennessee. We must of seen that on TV
a dozen times.”
“That was my brother,” Suzanne answered.
“No kidding?”
She nodded.
A relationship was starting to form, and Conrad quickly took advantage of it. “What were you saying about the infirmary?” he asked.
The guard looked back at him, the spell almost broken.
Conrad pressed in. “You said something about an infirmary.”
The man hesitated, then answered, “We don’t have one.”
“What?” Suzanne asked.
The guard shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not here.”
“Then where is he?” she asked.
The guard shifted slightly, glancing away.
“Do you know?” Mrs. Shepherd asked.
The guard said nothing.
“Please. If he’s not in the infirmary, where is he?” Once again she touched his arm. “Please, tell me what they’ve done with my son.”
The man looked away. It was obvious that he knew something, but equally as obvious that he could not tell.
Conrad took another stab. “So he’s not in the building.”
The guard’s eyes shot toward Conrad’s in betrayal. “I didn’t say that.”
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But Conrad had his information and there was little time to waste. “How long ago?”
“What?”
“How long ago did they leave?”
“I didn’t say he—”
“Please, we don’t have much time! How long?”
The guard hesitated.
Conrad pursued. “I’m not asking you to tell me where they took him. Just tell me how long ago he left.”
The guard glanced back toward Eli’s mother.
“Please,” she whispered.
“About ten minutes ago.” He took a breath and continued.
“I’m not saying it was him. But a guard and a driver, they come out with somebody pretty badly beaten. They got in one of our vans over there and took off. ’Bout eight, ten minutes ago.”
That was all Conrad needed. “Thank you.” He reached out to take Suzanne’s arm. “Come on.”
She resisted. “But—”
“We haven’t much time!”
Suzanne turned to the guard. “Thank you.”
“I’m not sayin’ it was him,” he repeated.
“I understand.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Shepherd said softly. “Thank you.”
The guard nodded quietly, then looked away.
Suzanne took Mrs. Shepherd’s arm and the three of them started back to the car. There was more thunder. Louder.
Closer. They skirted around the crowd. Eight to ten minutes.
The van had an eight- to ten-minute jump on them. There was not a moment to waste.
v
“Where to now?” Conrad shouted.
“Stay on 212 till you get to the 16!” Suzanne yelled back.
She peered at the map on her knees. “When we hit the 75, it’s a straight shot north to Atlanta.”
“He’ll never get that far,” Conrad called, as he glanced out to another of the dozens of side roads leading into the Oconee hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 308
308 National Forest. “If they intercept him, it’ll be out here somewhere in the sticks, under cover of the woods.”
He wiped his face. It was practically noon, and the heat was sweltering. The air conditioner in Trevor’s car had given up the ghost long ago, and even with both windows down there was little escape from the July heat. Only the thick thunderheads moving in offered promise of relief. “You sure that’s not too windy back there?” he shouted to Eli’s mother.
“Don’t worry about me,” she called.
Any other time the drive would have been peaceful. Thick canopies of pine and hardwoods lined the road. A dozen different smells and fragrances blew in. From time to time the pristine white wisteria caught their eye, and of course the kudzu, always the kudzu—the thick green vine from Japan that was slowly taking over the state of Georgia.
They’d been on the road fifteen minutes. Conrad pushed the Toyota a good twenty to thirty miles per hour over the speed limit. There had been no sign of the van. There might never be—particularly if Dr. Kerston or whoever he’d hired was doing his job correctly. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the scenario: If Kerston and his little group wanted Eli moved, they certainly had enough political clout to get Eli moved. And if there just happened to be a bunch of vigilante types who got word of the move and took matters into their own hands by hijacking the van . . . well, it would certainly be a tragedy, but one that the good Dr. Kerston had no control over. And why an old-fashioned lynching? Maybe the good ol’ boys just liked the symbolism.
“There!” Suzanne pointed. “Back there!”
Conrad hit the brakes, quickly slowing the car. “Are you sure?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t see a van, but there were a bunch of cars moving down a dirt road.”
Conrad nodded, slowing the car enough to make a U-turn.
The worn tires squealed on the hot asphalt as they turned and doubled back.
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“There!” Suzanne pointed down the dirt road. “See, down there.”
To their left, three or four hundred yards away, a group of cars was moving under the trees through the mottled sunlight.
It was a long shot, but the best they had. Conrad turned sharply off the highway and sped down the road—not fast enough to draw attention, but fast enough to catch up. They were practically there when the group reached the top of a small ridge and began turning to the right. Dropping in behind, he followed. They pulled into a large overgrown field, apparently the remains of a forgotten farm. And there, under a grove of hickory, sat a gray county van.
Conrad brought the car to a quick stop, threw open the door, and climbed out. Suzanne and Eli’s mother followed.
“No.” He turned back to them. “You two stay here.”
“He’s my son,” his mother insisted.
“Mrs. Shepherd—”
“Please. He’s my son.”
Conrad turned to Suzanne, but she was already nodding in solidarity with the woman. Resigning himself, he motioned for them to hurry.
The wind had picked up, blowing the tall grass against their thighs as they waded through it. In the distance there was a flash of lightning. The storm was much closer. Conrad counted about a dozen cars, some newer models, some older.
He spotted a circle of shouting men ju
st beyond the van and picked up his pace.
As he approached, he caught glimpses of someone on the ground inside the circle. Between the legs he saw boots kicking him, hard. It looked like a game. One man would step into the circle, deliver a powerful kick or two with the appropriate oaths, then step back, making room for the next assailant who would enter and repeat the process.
Conrad finally arrived at the fringe of the circle and began pushing some of the men aside, pulling others out of the way.
“What are you doing!” he shouted. “What’s going on!” Some hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 310
310 resisted, others pushed back. But most were too absorbed in the proceeding to notice.
Breathing heavily, he finally forced himself to the front
. . . where a flash of lightning forever froze the scene in his mind. There on the ground, bleeding and gasping, was what had once been Eli Shepherd. Only now he was a beaten pulp—his face so bloody, so swollen he was nearly impossible to recognize. Coughing blood and choking, he flew first in one direction, then another as the men’s boots landed mer-ciless blows, kicking him in his chest, his gut, his groin, his face.
Another flash of lightning lit the scene, and suddenly Conrad was no longer staring down at Eli. Suddenly, he was staring down at himself! Suddenly, he was the one on the ground, he was the one being beaten, he was the one coughing blood.
The image lasted only a moment, just through the flicker of the lightning, and then it was gone. But there was no denying what he’d seen. He closed his eyes and opened them. Now it was Eli again—wearing his favorite jeans, his favorite T-shirt, both covered in blood and mud and clay.
Conrad broke from the group and staggered into the circle, pushing the current attacker aside. Someone grabbed his shoulder. He tried to break free, but the man’s grip was strong.
Instinctively, he spun around and swung for the man’s face, landing a blow. The pain in his hand was instant. It felt like he’d broken it, but he’d worry about that later. As he turned back toward Eli, someone caught him around the waist and flung him hard to the ground—so hard that the air was knocked from his lungs. Then, before he could catch his breath, a boot landed square in his gut. And then another.
They continued—three, four, a half dozen—he lost track.
Most were to his stomach and chest, one caught his face, another his left temple. He began losing consciousness.
