by Randy Alcorn
Dani watched as Zeke and five others met some white folks down by the swamp. They put them on a wagon, overloaded and slow moving. All seemed to be going smoothly until back at the slave quarters the overseer discovered they were gone. Men on horses and others on foot with hound dogs launched out into the night, chasing them. With Zeke was a family, a man, a woman, and two children, a vulnerable group to attempt escape. When the search party got closer, Zeke jumped out of the wagon, hoping they’d follow him instead of the others. The driver quickly told him he’d meet him in a day and a half at a prearranged place six miles away.
Zeke ran off into the woods, running with his arms outstretched to fill the air with his scent, hoping to attract the dogs away from the wagon. Dani noticed his bulging pockets. After he jumped in the river and swam to the other side, he took out two onions from his pocket, broke them open and rubbed them all over his body.
“Nothin’ messes up a hound like onions,” Zeke laughed. “That was some night. I crossed that river like it was the Jordan itself. Ran like that through the night and into the next day. I heard them hounds abayin’. Elyon went before me and my guardian Zyor, he protected me from the rear. There was a pack of dogs and six men after me, all carryin’ rifles.” Dani saw it in the portal. “Should have caught me long before, but I got them clean away from them other runaways.”
Dani watched with horror as a rifle fired and the bullet exploded in Zeke’s right shoulder, the blood spilling on the thick leaves as he continued to run. Despite his injury, he made it to the rendezvous point and was taken away in a buckboard, laid in the back, supported by a pillow and concealed with blankets. A white woman tended to him while her husband, the driver from two nights before, drove the wagon.
Dani watched as the white family in the buckboard wagon was stopped by the men chasing Zeke, led by the overseer Daniel.
“Lookin’ for a runaway nigger. Winged him good,” Daniel said.
“Haven’t seen him,” the soft-spoken man said. “The Misses and me, we’re just taking our daughter to the doctor.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Scarlet fever. You can take a look at her if you want. She’s wrapped up in the blanket back there.”
“Uh, no, got to be goin’, find them darkies.” The slave chasers backed away from the wagon and disappeared.
Zeke looked at Dani and laughed loud and long. “Scarlet fever, can you beat that? You never seen them boys move so fast. Those peoples in the railroad, they knew what they was doin’, I tell you. They loved Elyon and loved their neighbors, just like Elyon told them to. The Footwashers, Quakers you know, they was like angels of mercy to us. Helped slaves escape all the way to Canada. See, up in Canada black folk could be free and not has to worry about bein’ stole back to the south. Heard it was cold up in Canada on the outside, but always wanted to go there, ’cause freedom’s always warm.”
Dani watched as the Footwashers tended his bloody right shoulder, got him to a sympathetic doctor, gave of their time and money, and risked years of imprisonment to help him. Dani looked on as Zeke died in the arms of the Quakers. They wept over him and gave him a Christian burial.
“Never supposed I’d see my own burial, but I watched it from heaven. They said kind things about me and read Elyon’s Word. And I knew I’d be seein’ them again up here someday. Jacob and Alexandra Marcus. As fine a folk as you’ve ever met. They rescued my friends and took care of me, with other kind white folks, until I left that world for this one.”
“I’d like to meet them,” Dani said.
“Jacob and Alexandra? I’ll take you to them now.”
“Please. I want to thank them for taking care of you.” She put her arms around him. Then they turned and walked, arms on each other’s backs, Dani leaning her head on her great-grampa’s strong right shoulder, no longer bleeding, no longer scarred, no longer in pain.
“How’s Geneva?” Jake asked.
“Still a little shook,” Clarence said. “Hattie Burns is keeping an eye on her. So’s Frank, next door.”
“The shotgun’s in my car,” Jake said. “You sure you want it?”
“Positive. Can we get it now?”
Clarence had never kept a gun in the house. He’d thought about getting one, but Geneva wasn’t comfortable with it. She said she was afraid he’d use it. “That’s the point of having it,” he’d told her. But he remembered the seductive draw of the gun he’d had in Cabrini Green. He’d never pressed the point.
Things were different now. When he got home after she’d been accosted, he fixed her a cup of hot chocolate and let her cry on his shoulder. He told Geneva he was getting a gun, maybe a couple of them. He was ready for her to argue. This time she didn’t.
Jake opened the trunk of his Mustang in the parking garage, and took out a shotgun, a Mossberg twelve gauge with a pistol grip. He handed it to Clarence, giving him two different types of shells.
“Like I said, I’ve got another shotgun, a Remington, so you can just keep this one. I don’t need both.”
“I’ll buy my own eventually,” Clarence said. “But it’s nice to bring something home today. Thanks.”
“If it’s a home invasion,” Jake said, “and you want to stop them in their tracks, use these double-aught shells.” He handed him a full box. “Twelve .33-caliber pellets in each shell. At close range it’s lethal.”
Clarence took out and fingered one of the shells.
“You have to be sure, though, Clabern. Once you pull the trigger, there won’t be much left of them.”
Clarence pumped the shotgun there in the public parking lot, not noticing a businessman forty feet away ducking for cover behind his car. Clarence put the shotgun in his trunk, and he and Jake walked back to the Trib.
After writing his column, Clarence walked down the street to the nearest gun store, with its barred windows and security cameras.
If jails were this secure, nobody’d ever escape.
“Can I help you?”
“Looking for a handgun.”
“What’s it for? Target practice? Home defense? All purpose?” The man behind the counter talked like a vacuum cleaner salesman wanting to select just the right model for just the right job.
After a dozen options, the man showed him a nine-millimeter Glock 17. The boxy gun with a flat black finish had a polymer frame, steel slide, and a steel barrel and internal parts. Clarence held it.
“How does that feel?”
“Pretty good.”
“It holds seventeen rounds. That’s a lot of ammo.”
Seventeen rounds. If he had to, he could shoot up a whole gang before reloading.
“Yeah, the Glock’s a winner,” the salesman said. “It’s popular on the streets. But not many are equipped with this baby.” He took out another Glock 17 from behind the counter and pressed his hand against the back of the gun. A ruby red light projected a bright dot on the chest of a man in a picture on the wall.
“A laser?”
“Yeah. The Glock’s one of very few handguns with a laser inside the slide. I mean, there’s been lasers on handguns for years, but they’ve always stuck out under the gun or from the front of the trigger guard. But in the Glock, the laser replaces the full-length recoil spring guide rod.”
Clarence didn’t understand all the terminology. He figured Sergeant McCamman and this guy could probably be best friends.
“How’s the laser powered?”
“You put these batteries back in the rear of the frame behind the magazine well.” He pointed. “The laser’s activated by a pressure switch here, right on the rear of the grip. Go ahead. Try it out.”
Clarence held the gun and targeted different objects in the store with the laser. It gave him a power surge, like holding the HK53. It took him back to that first .22 pistol in Cabrini Green. He remembered how disenfranchised he’d felt back then, how alienated from the mainstream of life. The gun had made him feel differently, as though he had the power to alter fate, to give life or
take it. To step out from under the control of other people and take control himself. The power to be god. He walked up to a mirror and stood six feet away and centered the ruby red beam first on his forehead and then in the center of his chest, the bright dot glowing, inviting him to pull the trigger. He did. Again and again and again.
“That gun’s a shooter and a half,” the man lobbied.
“I’ll take it,” Clarence said.
“Okay, great. We’ve got a little paperwork here, just a little background check.” He handed him some papers that asked about committing felonies and being hospitalized for mental instability.
“All you have to do is come back in fifteen days and it’s yours.”
“I really have to wait that long?”
“That’s the law.”
At least I’ve got Jake’s shotgun, and Geneva’s got her pepper spray. That’s a start.
“While you’re here, can I talk you into a knife? Big sale. Forty percent off everything. Best prices in town.” He pointed to the display case.
A knife. Why not?
Clarence perused the display case, featuring a small sampling each of nine different manufacturers—Colt, Hibben, United, Case, Western, Sog, Buck, Ole Smoky, and Schrade.
“We can special order anything you want. Don’t have room to carry any more.”
“These are too big. You got something that doesn’t make me look like Daniel Boone?”
“Sounds like you want a boot knife.”
“Don’t wear boots.”
“No problem. The clip on the sheath can go inside your belt. Here, try one.” He reached into the display case and grabbed a rosewood-handled knife labeled “Classic Western boot knife.” He handed over the black leather sheath and showed Clarence how to put on the clip and conceal the knife.
“Hang on. Your hand’s too big for this one.” He stared at Clarence’s hand, as if it were a catcher’s mitt. “I’ve got a bigger handle here.” He reached in and snatched up the knife’s bigger brother, the handle and blade each an inch longer. “Okay, this baby’s eight-and-five-eighths inches, a little big for a boot knife, but it looks about your size. It’s a 440 stainless steel blade, full-tang construction,” he said, as if he were Einstein explaining relativity, only with a greater sense of importance. “The sheath uses a compression spring band for an easy, smooth draw. How does that feel?”
Clarence gripped it. He put it into the sheath and clipped it on the belt on his left front. He crossed over his right hand and drew it out a few times. “Feels good. I’ll take it.”
“Can I interest you in anything else?” The salesman scanned the store, looking for other weapons he might sell him, thinking that if he had a basket of hand grenades he could probably peddle Clarence a few of those too.
“No. That should do it.”
The thought of the shotgun, the Glock, and the knife brought Clarence strange comfort. He wouldn’t shoot to injure and go to court and get sued for hurting some poor criminal who’d be out of jail in a few months if he ever went at all, free to hurt other innocent people. If anyone would sue him, it would have to be the criminal’s relatives. Because the next guy who attacked anyone in his family would die.
He walked out of the store, reaching to the knife and drumming it with his fingers.
Clarence walked into Lou’s Diner and nodded at Rory, the manager. He saw Ollie in the far corner, looking at the menu like a marksman at a bull’s-eye.
“Clarence,” Ollie said. “Hey, how can you tell when the Saints are going to run the football?”
“Don’t know.”
“The back leaves the huddle with tears in his eyes.”
Clarence smiled.
“What’s the difference between the New York Jets and a dollar bill?”
Clarence shrugged.
“You can still get four quarters from a dollar bill.” Ollie’s forehead wrinkled as he reached back for another one. “Did you hear Tampa Bay’s offensive coordinator does the work of three men?” He paused. “Larry, Moe, and Curly.”
“Ollie,” Clarence said, “you leave me speechless.”
Rory took their orders with an earnestness greater than any sandwich deserves.
“Day before yesterday I finally got that full ballistics report I’ve been waiting for,” Ollie said. “Can’t believe how backed up they are. But I think we’re on to something important. See, the night of the murder I looked at maybe ten of the cartridge casings, and they were all the same. Not that I expected those stripes would lead us to the exact weapon—McCamman gave us that. Anyway, I assumed the other casings were the same as the ones I looked at, and I got distracted while the criminologists bagged everything up for ballistics. So yesterday I finally get the report back, along with the shell casings. Brought along two of them for you. They’re clean, so you can handle them.” Ollie passed him two brass-colored cartridge casings.
“They both look like what you showed me before,” Clarence said.
“One’s the same, the other’s different—look here at the case heads.” He pointed to the back of the casings. “Different manufacturer, different year. Now, that’s not so uncommon. I mean you can load some of your rounds from one box and some from another. Our lab ran tests on the bullet fragments. Turns out two rounds were completely different from the rest—they were frangible ammunition.”
“Frangible? What’s that mean?”
“It’s a highly specialized ammo, designed not to overpenetrate. See, one of the big problems with using the .223 round in a civilian context is the danger of over-penetration. The small caliber makes people think it’s like a little .22 fired with a slingshot or something. Well, it’s not. I mean, this is the same round fired by the M-16 Jake and I carried in Nam. Wish we would have had one of these HKs. It’s a lot smaller, a lot smoother than our old M-16s. Jam-o-matics, that’s what we used to call them. Anyway, this .223 stuff is great for fighting wars, but it’s risky on the streets.”
“Because it travels too fast?”
“Yeah. I met with McCamman again and took some notes.” Ollie looked down at a yellow legal pad. “The fifty-five grain bullet coming out of the HK53 travels faster than three thousand feet per second. Pretty good chance the round will go right through the person shot. Plus you may miss him in the first place, and that’s even worse. Remember how McCamman said the SERT team uses HK53s rather than the nine-millimeter alternative?”
“Yeah?”
“The main reason is to penetrate perps wearing body armor. But for a general police weapon, chasing guys down streets, this baby packs too much wallop. So, they’ve got the option of the frangible ammo, for situations when there’s no body armor you need to pierce and you’re exposed to the public. You can still use your same weapon of choice, but you minimize the penetration danger.”
“But how do you know for sure when to use them and when not to?”
“You carry several identical magazines, except a few are clearly marked with a different color tape, say green, those are the frangibles. If there’s civilians in range, you pop it in. It’s that simple.”
“Okay, I can see why police might use them. But why would gangbangers?”
“They wouldn’t.”
“But you said—”
“That’s the whole point. Perps don’t care about overpenetration. Conscience isn’t their strong suit. They’re not going to shop around for frangibles. Pay extra money to get less fire power? When hell freezes over.”
“So what are you saying, Ollie?”
“The manufacturer traced the lot from the headstamp. They confirmed they sold that whole lot of frangibles to a dozen different police departments around the country. Without a doubt two rounds of this ammo—at least—came straight from the police.”
Clarence peeked into his father’s room as the old man sat staring at one of Dani’s paintings. He sang under his breath. “Soon I will be donna wid da troubles of da world, goin’ home to live wid God. No mo’ weepin’ and awailin’, I’m go
in’ to live wid God.”
Clarence wasn’t sure the move to Dani’s had been best for his father. There was so much to remind him of her. One song moved into the next, and though the voice was thin and weak, Clarence remembered vividly the strong and hearty voice he’d heard from his father thirty years ago singing the same songs with more gusto then, but more anticipation now.
“Git on board, li’l children, git on board. De gospel train’s acomin’, git on board.”
Clarence could barely hear him, the haunting melody almost imperceptible to human ears. He felt empty as he looked at his father. Every day the old man appeared to be drifting more from the present and into the past or future. He seemed more and more out of touch with reality.
Dani watched as English and American ships docked in West Africa. She was aghast as she witnessed them capture and pile onto their ships children, teenagers, and young adults. She looked at the names of the slave ships. Among them were Jesus, Mary, Liberty, and Justice.
The portal of the past showed her 150 slaves crammed in the bottom of a filthy ship, chained and living in their own excrement. Only forty survived the crossing of the Atlantic and made it to America. She watched one young woman in particular. She saw her cleaned up and sold as a slave. She saw her taken advantage of by the master and giving birth to mulatto children. She watched one of these children grow and become the father of Zeke. There it was. She had white blood in her, slavemaster blood. She’d always thought it, but she’d never known for sure until now.
The ability of a man, in this case the slave owner, to ignore his children repulsed her. She saw how the lighter-skinned black children were despised by the plantation mistress, the wife of the master. Dani saw white women weeping late at night as their church-going husbands took their late evening strolls. The wives knew where they were going and why. To lie with another woman. The black women hated it, the white women hated it, and the black men hated it too. The children of blacks and whites alike suffered the shame in silence. It corrupted the souls of the white men who succumbed to it, though many did not. Dani saw how slavery brought misery not only to black families but also to white ones.
