Natchez Burning (11 page)

“You’re not killing anybody,” Tom said, blocking the big man’s path. “There’s three of them, and they’ve certainly armed themselves by now. You sit here and don’t move a muscle. If you make any noise, you’ll have klukkers all over you. And nobody wins a gunfight in a twelve-by-twelve room. I can tell you that from experience. Understood?”

After Luther nodded, Tom grabbed some instruments and went back to the room where he’d sent the Klansmen.

The next forty-five minutes were the tensest of his civilian life. All three Klansmen were accustomed to dealing with wounds, but their residual anger was palpable. Most alarming, they knew the identities of “both them niggers” who’d tried to “personally integrate the Flyway” that night. As Tom probed Sonny Thornfield’s leg for the .25 slug, Frank said, “What you doing up here at this hour, Doc? Your wife said you was on a house call.”

Tom shook his head and kept working. “To tell you the truth, I was banging one of my nurses till you assholes showed up.”

After a moment of stunned silence, all three men burst out laughing.

“I thought you guys were my wife come to catch me,” Tom added. “That’s what took me so long to answer the door. I had to get the girl out with her clothes on.”

“We definitely owe you one, then,” Frank said. “Any time you need a favor, you let us know.”

“Count on it,” Tom said, finally extracting the slug to the accompaniment of Thornfield’s screams.

“Which nurse you bangin’?” Sonny asked, breathing hard. “You ain’t bangin’ that colored girl, are you?”

Tom’s face heated instantly. “Why?”

“Sonny’s jealous,” Frank said, laughing. “He’s got the hots for that one.”

“Bullshit,” Sonny growled. “It was her brother who—”

“Quit your bitchin’,” Frank snapped. “When the time comes, I’ll let you skin the buck who done this. Till then, take it like a man.”

“I’ll make that nigger squeal, all right,” Sonny vowed. Then he went white and vomited over the edge of the table.

“Aw, hell,” Frank groaned, backing away. He picked the bloody and deformed slug out of the kidney-shaped metal tray. “Messing up Doc’s floor for a little pimp bullet like this. Clean that puke up, Glenn. Doc ain’t got no nurse on duty.” Frank punched Tom on the arm and laughed. “Least not no more, he don’t!”

While Morehouse obediently cleaned up the vomitus, Tom finished working in silence. Twenty minutes was all it took to deal with the superficial injuries, but as he worked, he wondered whether Luther Davis had obeyed his order to remain in the surgery. More than anything, he worried how Viola was holding up in the darkness of Exam Three. He prayed she wouldn’t snap and try to check on her brother. Surely she wasn’t that crazy—

“Like we said, Doc,” Frank said expansively. “Anything you ever need, you let us know.”

“Just don’t let this happen again. You’re cutting into my sex life.”

The three men laughed heartily as Tom led them out, Thornfield limping along with Morehouse’s support.

“Get home and rest that leg,” Tom advised. “You can get your revenge next month. Come to the office tomorrow and let me check it. You all need rest, by the way. Head injuries are nothing to fool with.”

Frank laughed. “We’ll rest when we’re dead, Doc. Take it easy, okay? And sorry ’bout your pussy.”

Tom shook his head and shut the door, sweat suffusing his skin in a sudden wave. He’d felt fear like this during the war, but something was different now. In Korea he’d mostly worried about himself. Now he had a wife and two children to protect. And tonight he’d stepped between two warring armies—small ones, perhaps, but as vicious in their hatreds as any on earth.

He shut off the light and went back to get Viola. He found her shivering in the dark exam room, her shirt unbuttoned to the waist. A white bra showed through, cradling her breasts as though for a
Playboy
spread.

“They’re gone,” he said, averting his eyes. “Let’s finish up Jimmy.”

Before she could say anything, he went back to the surgery. While Jimmy and Luther peppered him with questions, he did some of the fastest stitching he’d done since his internship at Charity Hospital in New Orleans.

“They want revenge,” he told Luther. “They recognized you both, and they’re not going to stop looking until they find you. You need to get out of town.”

“I ain’t runnin’ from them cracker motherfuckers,” Luther vowed.

“Then you’re dumber than you look. They’ve got more guns and men than you do, and the cops and courts are on their side. You only have one choice. Retreat.”

“Dr. Cage is right,” Viola said. “Jimmy, please talk some sense into Luther. If ya’ll stay in Natchez, you’re going to die. That Frank Knox is bad all the way through. He’s a killer.”

“She’s right,” Tom concurred, straightening up and surveying his handiwork. “I know the breed. This time, discretion is the better part of valor.”

“Freewoods,” Jimmy said thoughtfully. “We’ll go to Freewoods till things cool down.”

“What’s Freewoods?” Tom asked.

“Nothing,” snapped Luther. “Nowhere. He talkin’ crazy.”

As Tom washed the blood from his hands and forearms, he noticed Jimmy Revels staring at him. “What is it, Jimmy?”

“You don’t mind getting black blood on your skin?”

Tom laughed. “I learned one thing fast as a combat medic: we all bleed the same color.”

Jimmy smiled. “You didn’t learn that being a medic. You learned that from your parents.”

Tom stared back at the serious young man and shook his head. “You’re wrong about that.” Opening a cabinet, he took out some antibiotics a drug rep had left him and handed them to Luther. “This will keep your wounds from getting infected. Viola can tell you about dosage. Now, you guys get out of here.”

“I’ll get the car,” Viola said. “I’ll pull into the garage, then you both get down in the backseat.”

“Backseat, my ass,” said Luther. “We gettin’ in the
trunk
.”

Tom waited in a darkest corner of the freezing garage while Viola carried out her plan. He watched the two men fold themselves into the trunk of the Pontiac, quite a feat considering Luther’s bulk. After Viola slammed the lid shut, she didn’t walk around to the driver’s seat, but into the corner where Tom stood. She was only a dark shape in the shadows, but he knew her scent as well as any on earth. She stepped close and took his hand.

“I don’t have words,” she murmured. “You saved my brother’s life.”

“Viola,” he whispered. “This isn’t just dangerous. This could get you killed. All of us.”

“I know. And you shouldn’t be any part of it.”

“What’s Freewoods?”

“A place where people don’t care what color you are. White, black, Redbone, it doesn’t matter. It’s safe. Not even klukkers go back up in there.”

“Then get those boys there tonight.”

He sensed more than saw her nod in the dark.

“Will
you
be all right?” she asked, squeezing his left hand.

“I’m fine. You’re the one at risk. You—”

Before he could continue, her arms slipped around him in a hug so fierce that it stole his breath. Unlike the embrace after he’d gotten Gavin Edwards fired, this was no simple act of gratitude. This time Viola’s body molded against his from neck to knee. A dizzying rush swept through him, triggering delayed shock from the ordeal they’d just endured. He felt his balance going, and then a wave of desire so powerful that he pulled Viola against him as though trying to merge their bodies through their clothes.

A muffled bang froze them in place—then Viola jerked back as if a spark of static electricity had arced between them. Jimmy and Luther were hammering on the inner lid of the trunk.

“
Be careful,
” Tom said to the darkness. “If a cop stops you, tell him you’re making a house call to a Negro place for me. If he gives you trouble, tell him to call me at home.”

“I will,” Viola assured him. “I’ll be all right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As she walked to the driver’s door, fear blasted through Tom like Dexedrine.
What if I never see her again?

“You’d better be here, damn it,” he said.

Seven hours later, she was, as perfectly dressed and coiffed as always. Tom, on the other hand, hadn’t slept more than a few minutes at a stretch all night. In the span of one hour, by a simple act of decency, he had placed himself beyond the pale of his own tribe and put his job, his life, and his family at risk. Worse, after years of repressing his feelings for Viola, he’d felt something change deep within him, a tectonic shift that could never be undone. By the standards of their ongoing mutual denial, that few seconds’ embrace in the garage had been a consummation of sorts, an admission that they shared something so powerful that they lived in constant fear of it, something that could sweep their present lives away.

“
Dr. Cage, is that you?
” asked a muted voice.

Tom blinked in confusion. Then he realized that someone was rapping on the window of his car. A man of about fifty stood on the other side of the glass, waiting for Tom to roll down his window.

“I thought that was you!” the man exulted as Tom pressed the power window button.

The last wisps of Viola’s memory were snatched away by the wind that blew into the car when the glass sank into the door frame.

“What you doing down in this part of town, Doc?” asked the man, as though he’d caught Tom in the midst of having an affair. “I’ll bet you’re thinking about old times, aren’t you?”

Could his thoughts be that transparent?

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” asked the man.

“Ah …”

“Jim Bateman! You used to be my doctor. I grew up around the corner, right over there. Your lab lady used to make me milk shakes sometimes, with that barium drink mixer.”

“Oh,” Tom said, vaguely recalling a chubby boy who used to hammer at the rear door until someone let him in. “Jim. Of course I remember you.”

“I’m right, huh? You were thinking about your old office here. Weren’t you?”

“I was,” Tom said softly.

“It’s just a regular house now,” Bateman lamented. “Don’t seem right to me. When you were here, this place was
full
of people. The whole block always felt so alive. Now it’s just a sleepy old house.”

“It is a little disorienting.”

Bateman looked at the paint peeling off the old clinic. “You know who I think about sometimes?”

“Who?”

“That black nurse you had. Miss Viola. She was so nice. All these years, and I’ve never forgotten her.”

Tom nodded in amazement.

“Whatever happened to her?”

“She moved to Chicago.”

“That right?”

He nodded dully.

“Well, you lost a good one there. You ever hear from her after that?”

Tom swallowed and tried to keep his composure. “She died, Jim.”

“Aw … don’t tell me that. When was this?”

“This morning.” For the first time the full weight of Viola’s death crashed down upon Tom. Not until this moment had he realized all that had passed from the world with her.

“What?” asked Bateman, clearly confused. “In Chicago you mean?”

“No.” Tom looked up at last, into the man’s dazed eyes. “Right here in Natchez. She was very ill. She came home to die.”

Bateman shook his head in wonder. “I’ll be dogged. That just … it makes me hurt inside. Kind of like when Hoss died on
Bonanza
. You know?”

“I know.”

“No wonder you’re out here.” Bateman patted him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry I bothered you, Doc. I’ll let you be. I talk too damn much. My wife tells me all the time.”

“No, I’m glad you stopped. It’s good to know Viola’s remembered. You take care.”

Bateman waved and slowly walked north up Monroe Street, looking from side to side like a man seeing where he lives for the first time.

Tom reached down and put the BMW in drive, then let his crooked fingers fall as he pulled away from the curb, steering with his left hand. For the first time in many years, he began to cry.

HENRY SEXTON WAS
sitting at his desk at the
Concordia Beacon
in Ferriday, Louisiana, when the receptionist transferred a call to him and yelled from the front desk that it was important.

“Who is it?” he shouted at the open door of the newsroom.

“The Natchez district attorney!” Lou Ann Whittington shouted back.

Henry frowned and laid his hand on the phone but did not pick it up. In two hours, he was scheduled to do the most important interview of his life. He didn’t want to risk anyone sidetracking him, particularly Shadrach Johnson, who never called unless he wanted something—usually publicity.

“Have you got it?” Lou Ann called.

Henry cursed and picked up the phone. “Henry Sexton.”

Without preamble, Shad Johnson said, “Mr. Sexton, it’s come to my attention that you recently interviewed a woman named Viola Turner. Is that correct?”

Henry blinked in surprise, then looked over at the sports editor, who was making a face at him. “That’s right. I spoke to her twice.”

“Could you tell me the nature of your questions?”

“I was questioning her in conjunction with a story I’m working on.”

“What’s that story about?”

Henry felt blood rising into his cheeks. “Without knowing more, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you there, Mr. Johnson.”

“You need to come to my office. Consider that a formal request.”

Henry’s chest tightened. “I’m a Louisiana resident, Mr. Johnson. You’re a Mississippi DA. Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

“Viola Turner is dead. She was killed early this morning.”

“Killed?”
Henry felt the dizzying disorientation that had grown more familiar as he aged; it came with hearing that someone you’d spoken to only a day or two earlier had died. “Are you sure? She was terminally ill.”

“I take the coroner’s word for that kind of thing, Mr. Sexton. She’s on her way to Jackson right now, for the autopsy. This isn’t for publication, but it looks like murder.”

A bone-deep chill made Henry shudder.

“I’d like you to be here in forty-five minutes, Mr. Sexton. I’ll be with the sheriff until then. But I must speak to you. Good-bye.”