The idea lingered, however, and was picked up in the last decade of the twentieth century by former Democratic Governor Doug Wilder, whose personal beliefs, no less his racial heritage, held that the nation, if not simply the state, still needed such a place to finally and fully address the complexities of what was chastely christened “that peculiar institution.” When he left office, Wilder continued to champion the cause from his post as a professor of public policy at the University of Virginia, eventually garnering a parcel of forty acres of land from a sympathetic developer in Fredericksburg. The site perched, pristine and perfect, in the green hills on the banks of the Rappahannock River near I-95, less than an hour from both Richmond and Washington.
Two years ago, Langley had thrown his weight behind the project. Promising more than a grim repository of culturally embarrassing artifacts, Langley promoted the memorial as a living, interactive educational and healing tool… not to mention a great way of siphoning lasting millions in tourist dollars from the DC metro area.
Political and neocon opponents descended quickly, decrying it as a four-hundred-million-plus liberal boondoggle. They made much of Langley’s financial ties to the proposed site… especially since it was conveniently located near a larger, twenty-four-hundred-acre parcel owned by the same sympathetic developer, in which Langley was purportedly invested, and which was destined to sprout golf courses, resort hotels, stores, and corporate office complexes like mushrooms. They asserted that Langley stood to gain a very large slice of what could be a very rich pie.
Senator Custis had remained visibly outside the fray, though Jackson was sure his public persona of mannered elder statesman was countered by his backdoor benificence with groups like the Sons of Confederate Veterans, which was to Jackson’s eyes merely a gussied-up front for more malign organizations. When President George W. Bush had signed legislation in 2001 to appropriate several million dollars to commission a study on building a National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, and the report came back in 2003 recommending that a museum be built next to the Reflecting Pool, Custis had applauded along with the rest of the august body of the Senate. And then he sent his son Duke to do his dirty work for him.
Duke, while not commenting directly on either the Washington plan or the Langley/Wilder project, quietly moved the board of the Custis Society to align with the hugely underfunded Museum of the Confederacy, located in a smallish 1970’s era building situated in Richmond between Jefferson Davis’s Confederate White House and the Medical College of Virginia. Originally founded in 1890 by a group of genteel society ladies who longed to preserve the fading greatness of their Southern heritage, the museum had fallen on hard times, and stalwart protectors of the Old South feared that it would disappear altogether in the swelling tide of race-mixed liberal indifference. Indeed, the encroaching effects of cultural betrayal had been felt as recently as 1991, when Museum curators, armed with a grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities, had presented an immense show, “Before Freedom Came,” which examined the legacy of slave and slaveholder alike through the prism of artifacts and documents culled from dozens of private collections. The exhibit featured bullwhips, cat-o-nine-tails, leg irons and writs of sale. The board was not pleased.
And then Duke Custis came along. Duke met with them and suggested that they go public with an alternate plan: to expand the existing museum and keep it — and the hoped-for influx of jobs and dollars — in Richmond. The Sons of Confederate Veterans jumped at the idea — anything that screamed ‘jobs’ was a smart play in an election year, especially in the more ethnically concentrated urban centers where votes could swing easily into Langley’s camp. But more, and to Duke Custis, most importantly: it would keep the ability to define the past — and hence, the future — in the hands of those to whom it rightfully belonged.
As the competing plans were bandied back and forth, Duke backed his words with action: installing a museum exhibit at Custis Manor called “To Old Virginny,” which presented the radical but not entirely historically inaccurate notion that some slaves not only supported but actually fought for, and in some cases side by side with, their masters. The exhibit drew fire from all the usual suspects, but it also drew cash: checks written quietly and given without fanfare to Custis Manor, The Museum of the Confederacy project… and to Duke’s burgeoning soft-money campaign coffers.
With spirits buoyed, they subsequently staged a rally at the historic Tredegar Iron Works in Richmond, which had once forged cannons for the rebel cause. But the event quickly went awry, as members of the KKK showed up in full hooded regalia and draped the statue of Lincoln and his son Tad in Confederate flags and sang “Dixie,” and members of assorted neo-nazi groups trucked in squads of shaven-headed hoods to scream ‘White Power’ at anything with a lens. Counter-protestors from the ACLU tore down the offending banners and members of the ACH — the African Holocaust Society — set them ablaze. A full-scale melee erupted; twelve people were injured, two critically. The resulting footage was regurgitated twice per news cycle for a fortnight on Fox and MSNBC, the “fair and balanced” tilt of the former landing squarely on the shoulders of the counterprotestors; the passionate umbrage against flag burning, it seemed, extended even to the Stars and Bars.
That was a scant six months ago — long enough to be gone but not nearly long enough to be forgotten. As Jackson stared down at the name emblazoned at his feet he realized that this whole situation made him profoundly uncomfortable, even more so because he was now stuck squarely in the middle of it.
And he was, after all, a black man himself.
Just then his little Nokia cellular phone chirruped; Jackson turned and saw the Channel 3 reporter, a thirty-something sandy-haired stud muffin named Wink or Dink or Chip or something, signaling frantically to his watch: five minutes to live on air. Jackson waved him off and hit the answer key.
“Jackson,” he said, then gritted his teeth. “Yes, Senator Custis…”
28
The chopper sliced through the dusk sky like some primordial insect, banking east over the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay at a tad over three thousand feet, dying sunlight gleaming off its sleek metal hide. It was a top-of-the-line Augusta 109C, generally regarded as the Rolls Royce of copter aviation, and went for a tad over $1.25 million, used. It boasted twin Allison 250-C14 turbine engines with a multiblade rotor system for all-weather safety, an endurance range of two and a half hours or just under five hundred miles, whichever came first, and a top speed of one hundred and ninety-four miles per hour, which meant that it could cover the distance from Annapolis to Tidewater in a little less than thirty minutes without breaking one forty. The VIP interior was done in early executive spartan, with cushy if rather stiff-backed leather seats, deluxe wool carpet, silent soundproofing, and an onboard-refreshment center, should refreshment be desired. It could carry six passengers in a pinch, but at the moment held it only one.
Senator Eli Custis sat, bull-like frame pressed into a window jumpseat, and gazed out at the view, a cellphone in one hand, a drink in the other. The phone was a GSM with 128-bit encryption for added security, but the reception still sucked. The drink, by contrast, was yummy: single malt, expensive, in a crystal tumbler. He sipped it, ice quietly clinking, and spoke over the muted hum of the rotors.
“Chief Jackson,” he said pleasantly, “I understand you have your hands full tonight…”
Jackson’s voice came back, tinny and remote, mumbling stiffed-necked apologies about resources and manpower. Eli nodded, knowing that that was what he would say. “I understand completely,” he said, then added, “I just want you to know that I’m behind you one thousand percent, and I’m sure you’ll do your best. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Jackson thanked him, his tone a mix of relief and vague suspicion. Eli nodded, knowing also that that was how Jackson would react. He exchanged a few random pleasantries and hung up without saying good-bye.
The copter banked inland, heading for the
airport. Eli sighed and finished his drink. One downside of a lifetime spent playing power games was that after a while one knew the moves of the players almost before they were made. The call to Jackson was an exercise of random ass-covering born of habit: if things went well tonight, Eli would be covered; if not, the brunt of the blowback would be borne by expendable underlings. Whatever happened, Eli would be elsewhere. And soon enough, he would be free.
The pilot’s voice squawked over the com: ten minutes to ETA at Norfolk International Airport. Eli fumbled for the buckle on his seatbelt and snugged himself in. His hands trembled ever so slightly: not enough to be noticed by the casual observer — at least not yet — but enough to worry him. It was another sign of the steady attrition of the power that coiled within him, a sign of the ultimate betrayal of flesh to spirit. The power sat in his broad chest like a serpent, slithered through his veins and clutched at the corroded meat of his heart. And as he gazed out at the coming night, Eli beat back the dawning realization that the very thing that had suckled and succored him all these years was feeding off him, leeching his strength as surely as the electrolysis of ground water would eat a steel pipe thrust deep into the earth. He felt hollowed and brittle, as though his body had been reduced to a mere vessel to contain and transport a naked appetite not wholly his own. Eli caught a glimpse of his reflection in the thick glass of the window and realized: where others saw a smooth and practiced confidence, he saw a depleted husk. It scared him more deeply than he dared admit.
Tonight was an auspicious occasion, one that he had both longed for and dreaded for nearly forty years. The ceremonial changing of the guard, with all its attendant loss of power, was also a welcome relief — because with it came the lifting of the burden. Eli was old, and tired, and his efforts of late had lacked a certain… enthusiasm… that the paterfamilias considered essential. He had known for some time that it was time to cede the mantle, and Lord knew his firstborn was champing at the proverbial bit to get his clammy hands on real power. As for the other…
Eli winced at the thought. The news he had received today was distressing in the extreme, particularly so close to such a momentous and delicate event. From this night forward, the Custis mantle of power would be borne by Duke. Duke would call the shots. Duke would sit at the head of all manners of Custis family business, in this world and… elsewhere. And, perhaps most important of all, Duke would have to feed the nganga.
But if there was always a devil in the details, this one’s name was Joshua. Eli knew too well that his sons had always been a study in contrasts, as if God himself had deigned to mock the Custis gene pool by splitting it neatly down the middle, granting each that which the other was denied in almost equal measure and thus rendering them equally, if inversely, vulnerable. Duke’s natural appetite for cruelty was matched by Josh’s all-too-tender sensibilities; Josh’s natural intelligence was countered by Duke’s evident and obvious intellectual shortcomings. Duke had mastered the art of sublimating himself to power; Josh resisted any such assertions, even to end up outcast… but in the end, Eli wondered if it were not Josh rather than Duke who was the true leader of the two. And the more dangerous.
Eli had not spoken to his youngest son in over twenty years. Joshua had always been a problem child — soft yet strangely willful, defiant even under the sternest strap, and seemingly determined to go his own way. But now it would appear that Josh’s way was on a direct collision course not just with Duke, or even Eli, but with the Custis way. And lest he think otherwise, the power reminded him: that could not be allowed. Under any circumstances.
Eli shuddered and steeled himself for what was to come.
A black limo was waiting on the tarmac, lights off, motor running. The driver stood outside the passenger door, one of the clean-cut, lantern-jawed, pig-eyed thugs comprising the bulk of his son's political machine. He lowered his head and opened the door as Eli approached. Duke was seated comfortably inside. He smiled as Eli entered.
“Hi, Pop. How was your flight?”
Eli glared and smacked him across the face. The blow resounded sharp and harsh in the luxurious confines. Duke’s eyes watered, but his placid expression did not change.
“That’s for screwing up today,” Eli hissed. “You said you had this under control.”
“Relax, Pop. It’s gonna be fine.” Duke was still smiling, but his eyes showed no mirth. As the car pulled away, Duke reached for the minibar, poured two fingers of Old Granddad into a tumbler with some cracked ice, and handed it to Eli. Eli hesitated a moment, then accepted.
“It better be,” he muttered.
“It will,” Duke assured him, then added: “The bundle’s already on board.”
Eli’s blood went cold. The ‘bundle’ was six years old, still alive, trussed and thrust into the deeply carpeted interior of the limo's trunk. Eli flashed back to his own rite of passage, back in ’53, and realized anew the sickly pallor his own father had shown. It was part of it: the shift in personal strength, Duke waxing tough as Eli waned into frail contemplation of his ever-more-perilous mortality. The drink was cold comfort in his hands. But he could always have another.
The car thrummed along I-64, the hum of the tires neatly masking the whimpers from the trunk as they headed for the manor.
They arrived at the gates as darkness fell, the sky quickly deepening from blue to indigo. The grounds sprawled before them, a faint breeze rustling through the trees. Armed security manned the gates, eyes glinting from headlight glare as the limo glided past. They nodded.
As the limo rolled down the long, winding drive, Eli felt his nerves tingle and the heaviness in his chest seem to shift, as if awakening and taking a little stretch. Duke seemed to feel something, too, judging from his expression, which subtly shifted from smug serenity to a barest hint of unease.
Then they were at the house, and the sight of Jimmy Joe and his posse standing by the town car made Duke happy again. Father and son exited the limo and strode to the waiting servants. Jimmy Joe nodded to Duke, then thumbed a remote and the trunk of the town car clicked open. They peered inside. Nestled within the carpeted interior was a drugged and trussed girl named Ally Marsh, plucked from the street so neatly that the wheels of her bike were still spinning when they left. And tossed at her sneakered feet, an extra prize, wrapped in a Hefty bag. Duke opened the bag, revealing Justin’s hand, dirty and somewhat the worse for wear, but theirs again.
Duke turned to his father. “Like I said, Pop. Gonna be fine.”
Eli looked from the severed appendage to the darkened house. Duke watched his old man carefully. “You wanna go in?” he asked.
“No.” Eli replied, a little too quickly. “Let’s just do this already.”
“Whatever you say,” Duke smiled. “You’re the boss.”
Eli looked at him and for a brief moment their eyes met: and though Duke was smiling, Eli could feel the contempt his heir’s expression masked, and the unspoken coda implied in the look. But not for much longer…
Taking the stolen limb, and the bundle, they trundled down to the little skiff that would ferry them out to the island. And the final stage of Transition.
29
Custis Manor. Underworld.
Justin lay, head swimming with visions. He did not know how long he had been there, his consciousness ebbing and flowing in strange swirls and eddies, the obscene and disorienting hellscape leaving him feverish and disoriented. He lay back, trying to arrange his random fragments of thought like a skittering rosary of liquid mercury.
He remembered a man with skin like polished ebony hovering over him, speaking soothing words in a tongue he did not understand. He remembered the taste of hot copper on his tongue, followed by an ethereal warmth in his chill and aching flesh. He remembered entering the glistening aperture of the mirror, cold hands pulling him inexorably into its depths. He remembered the faces of the guards, warped and distorted. He remembered hot hands wrenching him back, gripping his arm…
Justin opened his eye
s with a start. He was on a creaking rope bed in a small hut. A low fire burned in the hearth, casting deep and flickering shadows. He looked down. His right hand was gone.
Justin tried to sit up, only to sag back, weakened and depleted. He closed his eyes and wiggled his fingers, felt a strange and tingling sensation where his right hand had been, as if it were responding from some vast and indefinable distance. Yet when he took a deep breath and forced his eyes open, he beheld the stump. The edge of the wound sparkled faintly, as if his life force were made visible and slowly seeping away. But this was more than some bad acid phantom-limb twitch; if he lay very still he could make out faint sensation: a jumble of random nerve messages his brain struggled to interpret. They told him his hand was moving, being transported. And like mindless nerves transmitting not merely synaptic information but emotion, his transposed flesh seemed to radiate something else back to him.
Fear.
Justin sat up fully this time, eyes focusing on the dim-lit interior of the shack. A figure knelt by the small hearth fire, draped in a long, hooded cloak. As he moved the rickety bed frame creaked; the hooded figure turned toward him, eyes flashing from within the shadowed folds. It stood, almost gliding across the hard-packed earthen floor; as the figure neared its arms raised, pale hands reaching up to throw back the hood…
…and Justin gasped, as he realized there was another fear that had gnawed at him, quite apart from the horrors of this place or the sensed dread of his missing hand, and altogether deeper. The terror of seeing Mia again. And being judged not worthy.
And yet there she was, suddenly revealed before him after so many years. There were no words to describe it, no thought that his intellect could possess, just a pure and fierce rush of love and longing and ripped-raw naked emotion. He trembled as he said her name, part whisper, part prayer.
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