He appeared to hesitate, but it was no contest. "My name's Morrison," he said, taking the fifties from my hand. "Steele," I said, and walked toward the desk.

The watchers hadn't looked at us. A couple of minutes passed. I gently worked myself away from the clown, watching the watchers. The desk man piped up: "Mr. Morrison, Mr. Albert Morrison, we have your boarding pass." I shot up from my seat, grabbed the pass, and hit the walkway. The little blonde sang out, "Have a pleasant flight, Mr. Morrison," as I passed. I could feel the heat of the hunters' eyes on my back.

I wasn't fifty feet into the runway when I heard, "Mr. Steele, Mr. Henry Steele, we have your boarding pass." I kept going and found my seat in the front of the plane.

I watched the aisle and, sure enough, the clown passed me by, heading for the smoking section in the rear. I thought he winked at me, but I couldn't be sure.

The flight to Augusta was only half an hour, but the plane couldn't outrun a phone call. The airport was a tiny thing, just one building, with a short walk to the cabs outside. The clown passed by me as I was heading outside, bumped me with his shoulder, held up my two fifties in his hand, and gave me a greasy smile. "It's a hard world," he said, moving out ahead of me.

I watched as two men swung in behind him. One was carrying a golf bag; the other had his hands free.

Joyride

Just past midnight on the Old Motor Parkway, outside of town where there used to be factories. They closed the road down years ago—when they closed the mills. Nobody uses it anymore.

My car was standing at the beginning of the two–lane crumbling blacktop road. Me looking straight ahead through the narrow slit of windshield on the chopped–down '49 Ford coupe, Wendy next to me in the passenger seat, her left hand on the inside of my right thigh, smoking. To her right, a new guy. In a snarling Mopar, giant rear tires raking the nose almost down to the pavement.

I didn't know him, an outsider, invading. He'd cruised into the drive–in, looking for me. Offered me out to the highway. Cash, pink slips, anything I wanted to play for.

People were watching. They always watch. I upped the stakes—first man over the bridge takes it. His girl was a busty little brunette with a slashy red mouth, draping her heavy breasts over the windowsill of his shiny car, watching us lay it out in the parking lot.

"Do it!" she told him.

Wendy just watched her. Arched her back. Nodded okay to me.

The road turns to dirt after the first bend and ends with a sharp hook–turn just before the abandoned wood bridge. There's no water under that bridge anymore. My little car was hunched over, waiting. Growling, ticking. I felt what it wanted to do.

Velvet–ink out there but I knew the road. I'd done this before. Slower, in daylight. Practicing my moves.

I pulled the switch for the cut–outs. The motor crackled now, unmuffled. We'd only have a few minutes before the Highway Patrol heard the noise and came after us. I'd be long gone.

They'd chased me before, knew who I was. But they'd have to catch me to hold me.

We don't use a flagman for these runs—Wendy shouts out the count, a white silk scarf in her right hand. We go on Three. I'd feel her quick, sharp squeeze on my thigh just before she dropped the scarf—that was my edge.

I blipped the throttle, looked past Wendy's profile to the other guy. He gave me the thumbs–up, grinning. She gave me a quick kiss—as wet under her jeans as I was hard under mine.

I pressed down the heavy clutch, shrieked the potent engine, grabbed the floor shift and slipped it toward me and down. First gear. I telescoped my eyes down to the little bridge, spit my chewed cigarette out the window.

Wendy squeezed my thigh a split second before Three! as I dropped the clutch. The rear wheels clawed for a foothold and the Ford got burning sideways…straightened out and launched.

I was off first but he was closing. Couldn't see the tach needle—I power–shifted into second, grabbed half a length on him. The bridge: I saw the hook coming, pumped the brake with my left foot, squatting for the turn. The beast screamed on…ignoring me. It was too close. All by myself. One long second left. I gambled: clutch in, tramp the gas, ram the lever back into first. No time now…I popped the clutch, heard the vicious crack! as the transmission dropped and we went freewheeling…no traction. Lost. The shift knob came off in my fist. I crouched low and whipped the wheels inside the opening to the bridge but it was no good—the rear end slid out and hit the wall. We started to roll—I dove for the floor, Wendy's blond hair flying ahead of me. The icy metal of the shift lever stabbed into my mouth, shattering teeth and coming out my ripped cheek just as we went over.

I heard the sirens. Couldn't move. When the law came I was still pinned by the long stick, an insect on their spreading board. Everything in flames.

The young cop was crying when I came to and some white–coated liar was telling me how all right things were going to be.

Lynch Law

 

 May 1959

The predator slouched against the soft leather seat, eyes half–closed. Parked near the edge of a drive–in hamburger joint on a thick summer night, listening to the frightened voices swirl like fog around his open windows. The little weasels were whining about a story they thought only their pitiful little town knew. But the predator knew better—he heard the same story everywhere he traveled: some ancient black madman living in the swamp out past the abandoned factories and mill works; a monster with the strength of a dozen men, escaped from a chain gang years ago and never brought to justice. And he waited out there every night, living on human flesh. You don't give Fear a Christian name in the Bible Belt, so they called him "The Nigger." Those who claimed to have seen him said he had a hideous scarred face and only one hand—the other stump ended in a hooked spike.

The Nigger only lived to make people die.

A stupid myth—the predator had used it before.

And this time, he couldn't miss. Last Saturday night, two of the town's bright little stars hadn't returned from their date. They found them the next morning on the edge of the swamp. Both heads hacked off—not cleanly. The boy's wallet had been torn open and his mouth stuffed with dollar bills. The girl's body was naked except for her underpants, but the investigators couldn't tell who took her that far.

The kids knew. Everybody had known about Rob and Sally for quite a while. Rob talked a lot because it was his first, and Sally didn't care if he did because it wasn't. Or so people said.

The church people got hard around the eyes when they heard the stories. Punishment for sin was one thing, but God wouldn't pick a nigger to do his work.

Frightened wisps of talk floated past the predator's window:

"It was a tramp—some hobo who got thrown off the train. Probably camping out there when he saw them…"

"He didn't take the money."

"An escaped convict…run off from the prison farm."

"It was the Nigger…had to be the Nigger!"

"There is no goddamned Nigger out there."

"Lots of folks saw him."

"Yeah, well, whatever it is, I'm not going out there again without a gun."

"I suppose you'd go even with a gun, huh?"

"I might…"

The predator listened carefully. He was a good listener. Patient, doing his work. Teenagers gathered around his new Coupe de Ville, sat on the hood, lit their cigarettes with the lighter from his dashboard. The predator blended in easily—a professional stranger with soft ways about him. He was twenty–four years old—could look seventeen or thirty, depending on what he needed.