Time's Edge

by Rysa Walker

“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.”

  “But why? It was self-defense! Anyone who was there knows that knife belonged to Willis.”

  “Yeah, but your friend hit Willis, so most of them are willing to overlook that. Add to that the fact that he ain’t from here. That’s a negative in your column as well, young man. And even though I was born and raised about fifteen miles from here, the fact that I’m now driving a Georgia State Patrol car means I’m at least halfway to outsider in the eyes of a lot of these folks. We’re lucky they even listened to me today—”

  “Willis hit him first,” Kiernan says. “All he did was say Delia was owed an apology.”

  “I already told you it wasn’t what he said. It was the way he said it.” He exhales just as I inhale, and I’m behind him, so I pull in a lungful of foul-smelling smoke. “The Morrell woman didn’t help matters, screaming out his name like she did as y’all were draggin’ her away. Now we got rumors goin’ round that this Waters guy is doin’ more than just drivin’ her car . . . and that’s illegal in the state of Georgia. It don’t take much to get somethin’ started around here, and men have been lynched for a whole lot less. Nine men were dragged out of that very same jail a little over thirty years ago, tied to a fence, and shot by a firing squad of about a hundred, mostly because they decided the jail was too full.”

  “So what makes you think Abel’s safer in there?” I ask. “Sounds like it didn’t work so well for those nine men.”

 
; Mitchell’s mouth tightens. “Miss Keller, every decent man and woman in this town would like to avoid a repeat of that night, and most of the people here are good people. But then you got maybe fifty, sixty damn fools out there right now who want to drag him out and lynch him just for the hell of it. Half of ’em probably ain’t even from this county, and most of those who are know full well the man ain’t guilty of any crime greater than bein’ an uppity Negro. As the story of what happened today makes the rounds, it’ll get worse—that mob across from the jail will be double by midnight, and most of ’em will be drunk. I’m just hopin’ Cramer’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut about which way he’s leanin’ on sentencing until tomorrow.”

  “So Abel doesn’t even get a trial? It’s up to this judge?” I ask.

  Mitchell shakes his head, and from the look on his face, he must think I’ve asked a really dumb question. He takes another draw on the cigarette and says, “If you think a jury trial would make things better for your friend, you don’t understand the situation at all.”

  He takes the left onto Mars Hill and does a U-turn in the middle of the road, pulling up behind Kiernan’s truck.

  “I’m gonna follow you back to the Eagle. I think you’re both smart enough to know you need to stay inside until tomorrow. The food at the Eagle ain’t the best, but it will keep you alive.”

  Kiernan nods and says, “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Mitchell.”

  “The ride wasn’t nothin’,” Mitchell says. “What you need to thank me for is the advice. I know y’all don’t like what I’ve been sayin’. I don’t blame you. And again, I ain’t sayin’ it’s right. I’m just tellin’ you how it is, so you can prepare yourselves and your friends, especially if he really is her man and not just her driver. There ain’t no happy endin’ where Abel Waters gets back in that car tomorrow and drives off into the sunset.”

  ∞21∞

  WATKINSVILLE, GEORGIA

  August 11, 1938, 9:28 p.m.

  The Eagle’s boardinghouse is small, just four stale-smelling rooms that share a single bath in the hallway. The four of us are huddled in Grant and Kiernan’s room, because it has a window that faces the street. Our view is obstructed, however—partly by the trees outside and partly by the cars along the street, so we’re mostly watching what’s happening through the CHRONOS keys.

  Delia’s eyes have barely moved since we transferred the stable points from the jail to her key so that she could see Abel’s cell. Kiernan is monitoring two of the stable points he set facing the crowd outside the jail. I split my viewing time between the other exterior point and one aimed at the corridor between the cells and the door into the cell block. Grant moves back and forth between the point in Beebe’s office, where the deputy has been catching a nap at his desk for the past twenty minutes, and the one I set near the front desk. He’s looking for a block of at least three minutes where the front desk is unmanned and Beebe is snoozing, but no luck so far.

  Kiernan and I have pretty much concluded that the only way to get Abel out is through the bathroom window downstairs. We’ll have to get the keys, get him out of the cell and downstairs, and all of that’s going to need to happen at a time when the front desk is empty. There are only two bright spots—the office is undermanned, with the sheriff recuperating, and Abel was the last person left in the cells after Kiernan was released. The fewer people in that building when we go in, the better.

  I finally convinced Delia to eat half of a Moon Pie and take another dose of the laudanum around eight. I’m very glad I did, because a half hour later, Beebe strolled past the cell carrying Abel’s dinner—an unwrapped sandwich, which he tossed through the bars and onto the floor. Abel just gave the sandwich an idle glance and left it there. Delia, however, started cursing and was ready to storm across the street and rip Beebe’s head off. If the laudanum hadn’t already started kicking in, we’d have had to physically restrain her.

  Sounds from the street drift in through the open window. The low hum of crowd chatter blends with the occasional addition of a racial slur, drunken laughter, or a war whoop. It seems to have gotten louder in the past hour, although Kiernan thinks that may be due to more alcohol rather than more people. Mitchell’s estimate of the mob across from the jail is about right—maybe sixty in all, although it seems like maybe it’s thinned out a little in the past half hour. There are maybe fifty more hanging around on this side of Main Street and in front of the courthouse, but they aren’t causing trouble. Most of them seem more worried than entertained. The ones across from the jail, however—the ones Kiernan and I are watching through the keys—are obviously ready to rumble.

  When I see the blue flash again, it lasts maybe a second before something moves in front of it, blocking my view. About ten seconds later, I see it again. I note the time and rewind thirty seconds so that Kiernan can watch as well.

  He views it twice before saying, “Yeah, I see a blue light.”

  I tense up, and then what he’s said sinks in. If the light was from a CHRONOS key, Kiernan would see it as green, not blue. “Not green?”

  “Nope.” He yawns and stretches. “Keep an eye on both of those points outside the jail for a few minutes, okay? I’m going down to the kitchen to see if they’ll make us up a few sandwiches and maybe grab some sodas or a pitcher of water. It could be a long night.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Grant says just as I’m opening my mouth to say the same thing. “I need to stretch my legs.”

  Kiernan shrugs and looks at me. “You and Delia okay here on your own?”

  I nod, grudgingly, and Delia mumbles, “We’re fine.”

  They’ve been gone maybe ten minutes when I see the blue flash again.

  I move over to the other twin bed, where Delia’s sitting, propped up against the wall, still keeping vigil over Abel. “Delia, can you take a look at this? Look for a brief flash of light.”

  She pulls her eyes away from her own key and stares at mine. “Hmph,” she says a few seconds later. “Somebody has a CHRONOS key.”

  Okay. It’s still possible that Kiernan isn’t lying to me. “What color are the keys for you, Delia?”

  “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 univer
se, 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.”