The Fiery Cross Read online

  "Let's go!"

  "I've got it. Keep your pants on, will you?"

  Jackson lifted out the box and handed it to Bobby Shelton, treating it with something close to reverence. Shelton, in his turn, faced Bolan, offering the shoe box with a crooked smile.

  "All yours," he said.

  "What's this?"

  "A little contribution to the reverend's building fund. Just think of it as Christmas coming early." Dipping in a pocket of his leather jacket, Shelton came out with a squarish object the size of a cigarette pack that Bolan instantly identified as a detonator. "Radio controlled," the Klansman told him, beaming. "Foolproof."

  "Sure, unless a taxi or police car happens by, or maybe some clown playing with his new CB."

  "Don't worry, son. This isn't what you'd call an electronically enlightened neighborhood." The others laughed at that, and Bolan took the shoe box, grimacing. "We'll cover you from here."

  "Oh, good. I feel much better now."

  "Get on with it," McCullough growled. "We haven't got all night."

  "Don't bust a gut. I'm going."

  Pausing in the alley's mouth just long enough to scan the sidewalks, Bolan crossed the street without encountering pedestrians or motorists. From all appearances, the neighborhood was dead, abandoned, its inhabitants evacuated for the evening. He hoped that was true of Bethany AME, wishing he could see the parking lot on the other side of the building. There might be a watchman or a janitor at work inside the church, oblivious to sudden death approaching through the darkness. If the church was not deserted...

  Suddenly he had another thought. Suppose his cover had been faulty, flawed in some way that had revealed him to the Klansmen as a plant. Would they have put him through the ceremony of initiation, let him work at their camp for two days, only to eliminate him now by the premature explosion of the bomb? He pictured Shelton's finger on the button, silent death pursuing him to strike a spark inside the shoe box, scattering his limbs and viscera across two lanes to greet early-morning drivers on their way to work.

  Would Ritter and his people go to all that trouble when they could have slaughtered him half a dozen times already, free from any threat of possible discovery? It seemed unlikely, but stranger things had happened. He would not let himself relax until the shoe box left his hands and he was safe outside its killing radius.

  From weight alone, he judged the bomb to be of ample power for the intended job. Dynamite would pack less wallop than plastique, but either way he had a lethal package on his hands. Where to place it had apparently been left to him, and as he reached the sidewalk, merging swiftly with the shadows there, Bolan scanned the visible perimeter of Bethany AME.

  He found a service entrance on the side with three steps leading up, and beside the concrete steps a basement window. Bolan wedged his parcel against the stoop, next to the wall of cinder blocks, remembering to check for line-of-sight alignment with his backup waiting in the alley opposite. When he was satisfied that he had done his job, the Executioner retraced his steps across the silent street, relieved to reach the cover of the alleyway intact.

  "Pile in."

  On Shelton's order, everyone got back in the battle-wagon. Jackson turned the engine over, edging forward several feet to give the detonator ample clearance.

  "Show time."

  Shelton aimed the telescope antenna of his detonator at the steepled structure, pressed the button with his thumb — and hell erupted in the house of God. The shock wave shattered windowpanes on both sides of the street as Bethany AME met her fiery end. The southern wall imploded, oily flame erupting in the breach. A flash fire swept the basement and the sacristy at once, igniting secondary blazes in the sanctuary, blowing off the tall front doors. The ancient building seemed to sag, its spirit broken, rafters swinging free like pendulums of fire.

  "I've seen enough."

  With screeching tires, the battlewagon's driver took them out of there. Behind them, in the darkness, Bethany AME was consumed by flames, a Gothic funeral pyre.

  "You did it, man."

  "Nice job."

  "I told you this one was a pro."

  All smiles, Bob Shelton turned around to place a hand on Bolan's knee. "You earned your wings tonight, son. Welcome to the wrecking crew."

  13

  Wilson Brown walked slowly through the smoking rubble of the church. His clothes were grimed with soot, the smell of charcoal in his nostrils calling up memories of bygone wars. Remembering the afternoon of Theo's funeral in this church, he tried to make some sense of the confusion, resurrect some memory to make the structure whole again, but it was all in vain. He recognized the blackened outline of the pulpit, found the wooden pews reduced to ashes, walls consumed by fire or shattered by the force of the explosion.

  His foot scuffed something on the floor, and Brown stooped to lift a hymnal, its cover black and blistered from the heat. Incredibly, a number of inner pages had been spared, though they were scorched around the edges, brittle now. With cautious reverence, he started leafing through the book, reading off the song titles to himself. "Onward Christian Soldiers." "What a Friend We Have in Jesus." "Throw out the Lifeline" "On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand."

  Consumed by sudden rage, he hurled the hymn book across the room — but there was no room, and it sailed on beyond the point where solid walls would once have stopped it cold. He watched the book flutter like a dying bird in flight before it fell to earth.

  "Goddamn it! Goddamn it!"

  "Wilson?"

  Reverend Cletus Little stood beside his withered pulpit, a dazed expression on his face. The tracks of tears were shiny on his cheeks.

  "I'm sorry, Reverend."

  "Who could have done this thing?"

  "You know who did it."

  "So much malice in a human heart."

  "I wouldn't positively call them human, Reverend."

  "God's children."

  "Every family has some bastards in it."

  "The Bible tells us we should love our enemies."

  "I'll love them to death."

  "We must not be discouraged."

  Despite his brave words, the minister's voice broke. Brown looked away in embarrassment, sparing the man what he could in the way of dignity. From the direction of the street, a murmur of angry voices reached his ears, and Wilson turned to find a crowd collecting on the sidewalk, spilling over onto lawns and across the lanes of traffic. Several motorists had left their vehicles in the middle of the street with their engines running, to join the crowd and gawk at what was left of the church. Uniformed patrolmen were outnumbered as they tried to hold people back with warnings and riot sticks. One of them was on a walkie-talkie, urgently requesting backup.

  "Reverend?"

  "Yes?"

  "We're needed on the street."

  He waited while the pastor pulled himself together, joined him in the ruins of the sanctuary's central aisle. Together, side by side, they left the ruins, gingerly descending concrete steps still slick with water used in the futile effort to control the blaze. At one point, Reverend Little lost his footing, nearly fell, but Brown was quick enough to slip a hand beneath his arm and steady him on his feet.

  The deputies looked apprehensive as the minister and Brown drew near, for their presence stirred visible reactions in the angry crowd. The muttering became a snarl, and fists were being shaken at the badges now, the front ranks surging more insistently against the flimsy human barrier. Cletus Little tried to speak but could not find his voice; he spread his hands in a mute appeal and shook his head. Impulsively Brown look a long step forward, raised his arms to silence the crowd.

  "Be quiet, please. Be quiet!"

  The murmurs gradually died away. One hundred pairs of eyes were fixed expectantly on Brown.

  "I recognize a few of you," he said, "and most of you know who I am. You know how much I've lost already here in Parrish.

  "Now, some of you have suffered loss. The Reverend Little here has had his church destroyed by me
n who think that they can purge the truth with fire.

  "I know exactly how you feel," he told the sullen faces, and he meant it. "You want to find the men who did this, and you want them punished!"

  "Right on!"

  "But I'm here to tell you there's a right way and a wrong way to achieve your goals. You won't gain anything by turning on these officers or punching out the first white folks you see today. Thai's wrong, because it makes no sense."

  The crowd was silent now. He had them, but he knew his grip was tenuous at best.

  "When I got word my son was dead — that he was killed— I want to tell you, I had murder in my heart. I still have murder in my heart. If I could stand before the triggerman today, I don't know what I'd do. But I know what I hope I'd do. I hope that I would let the sheriff and the FBI go on and do their job. Because if I go out and seek revenge I'll find myself in jail. And then the men who killed my son will know they've taken out two niggers for the price of one."

  A whisper of astonishment spread through the throng like ripples in a pond.

  "You cannot reach the men who did this evil thing by going out from here and punishing the innocent at random. It's ridiculous. It's senseless. In fact, disorganized revenge is worse than useless; it's destructive. Stop and think about what happens in a riot. Who gets killed? Whose shops and homes get burned? Is it the Klan that suffers?"

  "No." They were warming to him, slow but sure.

  "I look around, and I'll be damned if I can see a Klansman anywhere. How many of you want to trash this neighborhood and make the whole place look like this?" He stabbed an angry finger toward the ruins of the church. "How many of you want to help the bombers finish what they started here last night?"

  "We can't just take it!"

  "Men have got to stand!"

  "That's right!" he answered, moving closer to the crowd, aware that it could still go either way. "But men stand up in self-defense. They guard their homes, their families, the ones they love. No man did this. I want a show of hands. Who wants to go to jail for whipping on a lousy two-bit yellow dog?"

  Another angry murmur in the crowd. No hands were raised.

  "Who wants to leave his family and go to prison for the fun of taking out a rotten, spineless coward?"

  And again, no hands.

  "These officers have got a job to do," he said. "You pay their salaries, and their job is to stop you if you try and do more damage here today. The longer you make noise down here, the less time these police have to find the trash who lit this fire. You want to help the Klan? You want to help the Vanguard? Go ahead! Go on! Get to it! Finish what they started! Burn down your own damned stores and houses!"

  "No, sir!"

  "That ain't the way."

  Behind the mob, a line of black-and-white patrol cars coasted to a halt, their colored lights revolving, their engines idling. The doors sprang open, spilling uniforms and nightsticks, boots and helmets, mirrored shades. From where he stood. Brown saw the Chatham County sheriff circling the angry crowd.

  "Here are more officers arriving now," he told his audience. "They're here to do a job for you, and they can't do it right unless you let them be. They can't be tracking down the bombers if they're busy fighting you. Go home, now. Go to work. Go on about your business. And for God's sake let the officers get on with theirs. Bethany Church shall be rebuilt. The men who did this shall be punished. But you cannot do it as a mob, no better than your enemies."

  Reluctantly the crowd dispersed. Brown watched pedestrians drift away and saw the traffic jam untangled with assistance from a couple of the deputies. The sheriff glowered as he crossed the narrow strip of lawn, approaching Brown and Reverend Little.

  "My men would've handled this," he growled by way of introduction.

  "They were losing it. You might have had a riot on your hands."

  "My men can handle rioters."

  "I'm glad to hear it, Sheriff. Can they handle bombers? How are they with murderers?"

  "You know I've got detectives working overtime to find who killed your boy."

  "I'm not concerned about the hours, Sheriff. I've been looking for results, and so far I've seen zip."

  "We can't just pull a suspect from a hat, you know."

  "You might try looking underneath a hood or two.'

  "Those boys have airtight alibis."

  "Well, that solves everything."

  "I hope you're not insinuating anything."

  "You can always hope, Sheriff."

  The lawman cast a sour eye in the direction of the burned-out church. "I don't take kindly to this kind of shit inside my jurisdiction. 'Scuse the language, Pastor. You may not believe it, Mr. Brown, but I'm as interested in taking down these boys as you are."

  "And suppose the trail leads back to certain civic leaders. Will you still be interested?"

  "I don't deal in speculation. Show me evidence."

  "It's not my job to show you anything. If your detectives can't collect the evidence they need, then hire someone who can."

  The sheriff bristled. "Don't tell me how to do my job."

  "Sir, I wouldn't dream of it. I will tel! you to ao your job, no matter what it takes. Next time I may not be around to talk the people out of kicking ass."

  "What makes you think there'll be a next time?"

  "Common sense," Brown answered. "Terrorists don't stop until they're forced to. Lock them up or kill them — either way, you have to take back the initiative. Right now, the rabble is in charge."

  The sheriff softened slightly. "I don't like this situation any better than you do," he grumbled, "but until I have enough hard evidence to let the D.A. run with, my hands are tied. I can't build cases out of hearsay speculation."

  "I think you're running out of time."

  "Is that a threat''"

  "An observation, Sheriff. People hereabouts don't have the patience that they had six months ago. They've seen too much. They've suffered too much, and they're tired of going unavenged."

  "I won't have any vigilante action in my county."

  "You already have it. Now the only question's whether it can cut both ways."

  "I hope you're not about to test me, Mr. Brown."

  "Not me." He repeated it for emphasis, forcing a smile. "Not me." He turned away and headed for his boarding house, a few short blocks down the street.

  The blast that had shattered half of Bethany AME had wakened him like thunder in the night, and he had dressed in hurried, careless fashion, jogging to the scene as quickly as his artificial foot would allow. He had been on the scene before the fire trucks with their ladders, lights and hoses, the men in rubber overcoats and outsize helmets doing what they could to save a hopeless situation. He had been there when the minister had arrived to find his world in flames. And he had been there, waiting, when the angry crowd had begun to gather at the curb, their solemn faces bathed in firelight.

  Wilson Brown was tired of being on the scene too late to help and make things right. Too late for Theo. Too late for the church. It was the story of his life, and it was getting old.

  His landlady, a shriveled prune of a woman, was waiting as he entered, her eyes alight with morbid curiosity. "I heard it was the church," she said.

  "You heard correctly, ma'am."

  "Was anybody hurt?"

  "Not this time."

  "Praise the Lord."

  Her offering of thanks rang hollow, and Brown was convinced it would have made her day if someone had been fried or blown to bits. He walked around her, started up the narrow flight of stairs and made it halfway to the top before she stopped him.

  "Mr. Brown?"

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "You had a phone call a little while ago, when you were out."

  "Who was it?"

  "Didn't leave his name. I asked him, but he wouldn't say. No message, neither. Said he'd call you by and by."

  "I see. Well, thank you, anyway."

  "I asked him for his name. He wouldn't say."

 
; "Yes, ma'am."

  His room was tiny but immaculate. A cleaning woman in the prune's employ came by every afternoon to dust and vacuum, changing the linen twice a week. He stretched out on the rumpled bed, ignoring how the wrinkled sheet made little knots along his spine. Closing his eyes against the light, he tried to think of anything except his son and a burned-out church.

  He was roused from a troubled doze by the insistent shrilling of the telephone downstairs. The shadows on his wall had scarcely changed position, and he guessed he had been asleep no more than half an hour. It seemed to take forever for his landlady to answer the phone.

  "Mr. Brown?" Her voice was lilting, almost girlish, as she summoned him. He matched it in his mind with her wrinkled face and broke up, laughing in spite of his discouraged mood.

  "It's him," she whispered hoarsely as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "He still won't give his name."

  "I've got it, thanks."

  Reluctantly she turned away and shuffled toward her room.

  "Hello?"

  "I'm sorry, Wils."

  A little chill raced down his spine as he recognized the big man's voice. "Not your fault, man. You told me all you could."

  "It wasn't good enough."

  "So what's the story? Are you in or what?"

  "I'm on the wrecking crew."

  "All right. Now we can start to whip some ass."

  "Not we, Lieutenant."

  "Say again?"

  "These boys are on the razor's edge right now. There's nothing they'd like better than to take you down."

  "There's nothing I'd like better than to have them try."

  "I wouldn't recommend it."

  "Didn't ask you, did I?"

  "Wils, have you considered backing off on this one?"

  "Oh, hell, yes. It took me all the best part of a second to decide. I'm staying."

  "Then be aware. They've got a list, and your name's at the top."

  "I wouldn't want it any other way."

  "I figured. Listen, just because I'm on the team, it doesn't mean they trust me absolutely. There's no guarantee I'll have a chance to tip you when they make their move."

  "I understand."

  "You'll have to watch yourself."