Sinner (17 page)

Another reason he wished he could have dark skin was because being white as a bowl of flour lumped him in with a group of people who were known to be more devious. He would be less likely to draw suspicion if he were black.

At one point in history, some had erroneously associated dark skin with certain negative, even criminal tendencies. The trend was now precisely the opposite. Being white was a distinct disadvantage. His timing was off by fifty years.

Hitler, now there was one fine white fellow who'd attempted to show the world the truth about whites. And despite being dead wrong in the end, he'd effectively demonstrated how to sweep away the sentiments of a whole country.

Marsuvees had no issue with skin color. Christianity, on the other hand, was a different matter altogether. He spat to one side. But the fact that these particular Christians were also colored was of the utmost importance. It was a two-for-one sale, and he intended on selling the whole lot to the world.

Satisfied that the quiet night was ready to accept him, Marsuvees Black stepped across the street.

Practice makes perfect, it was said. It was time to practice.

He stepped up to the entrance, cracked his neck, put his hand on the door, and entered the Holy Baptist Church of the Resurrection.

The crowd inside did not stop humming and swaying as a bass player and an organist filled the small, dimly lit, barturned-church with a disturbing tune he'd heard a time or two in his life. None of the faithful turned to stare at the white guy who'd just entered. Indeed, no one seemed to have even noticed that Marsuvees Black was among them.

He suppressed a tinge of irritation—the briefest temptation to do some immediate and exquisitely painful damage to the lot of them. Although it was true that he found most colored folk more intelligent than pasty whites, his general hatred of all people by far superseded any respect he had for the people in the Holy Baptist Church of the Resurrection. And the fact that they had as of yet returned none of his respect only reinforced that hatred. He'd undoubtedly selected the right church for his deed.

One rather thin man with graying hair who might be considered an usher was smiling at Black from behind the bank of chairs set up on the right.

Black strode up to the man, black alligator-skin boots clunking upon the wood floor with each step. He stopped, keeping his eyes on the platform. “Christians,” he said.

“Yes, that's right,” the man returned.

Black again restrained himself, mission clearly in mind. He strode up the aisle, keeping his gaze on the bass player.

He spoke plainly but just loudly enough for those on either side to hear as he passed.“Shut up, shut up, you pathetic black bloodsuckers. Shut your black holes, every one of you stinking hatemongers. Die in hell, you filthy black bloody suckers.”

The reaction was what he'd expected, stares and angry glares. They were obviously stunned by his choice of words, thinking perhaps that a lunatic had escaped from an institution and found himself in the wrong building. In this age of tolerance, walking around uttering such language was unthinkable to all but complete fools. He particularly liked the word
bloodsucker
, a useful slur popularized as of late that called into question the absurd habit Christians had of taking communion, of drinking Christ's blood to celebrate Christ's death.

Black held his tongue, having sown just enough bitterness to suit him, and stepped up on the stage. Four brothers were playing a bass, an electric guitar, a piano, and a set of drums. He mounted the stage and strode up to a microphone not in use.

The music went on as if he hardly mattered. But that would change.

He'd selected the church because it was located only blocks from Union Cemetery and was frequented by blacks, many of whom represented the city's key circles of influence. Judging by their dress, the place looked to be full of professionals tonight, though in a church it was always hard to tell.

He leaned into the mike, tapped it, and was rewarded with a loud
thunk
. The organ and bass were still in full swing, but he spoke over them.

“Thank you, Bill. Fantastic, fantastic. Let's give our well-groomed players a hand, shall we?” He applauded loudly and smiled at the organist, a proud-looking woman with high cheekbones whose fingers now stalled on the keys.

A smattering of applause spread among those who didn't yet realize that they were about to get more than they bargained for.

“Thank you. Not often do you get such superb playing from monkeys. Bravo!”

The place fell quiet. Nice. Issue any similar statement directed to whites in a gathering of rednecks, and they would be hollering threats of retaliation. Here, Black would have to dig deeper.

“Thank you all for coming out tonight. In addition to the freak show on my left we have a very special treat for you tonight. Me. Here to set the record straight for all of you brothers and, uh . . . sisters.”

A large, well-muscled man who might well be the preacher was approaching the stage. “Please, this isn't the place.”

Black could have toyed with him, but he chose not to. He drew an old Smith & Wesson six-shooter he favored and shot into the air.

Boom!

“Actually, I do mind. Just hold your horses there, you fat pig,” he drawled.

The man pulled up sharply. Somewhere a Bible or a hymnal thumped softly closed.

“Now, I realize that my words aren't the kind our society takes in stride, but you know as well as I do that plenty of people out there are thinking what I'm just saying. Not even ordinary types of people, but politicians and lawmen. Am I not right? The whole world hates you Christians.”

Anther man, whom Black now guessed was the pastor, stepped out, both hands stretched high in a plea for caution. “Sir, put the gun—”

“Shut up, gimpy. I'm here to help you, not hurt you. And don't bother calling the police. I'm leaving soon enough.”

Now he had their fullest attention. The door banged as several scurried out the back. He let them go.

“Now, I'm not one of those who would put you back on the ship and send you back to Africa were it in my power to do so. I'm a man who realizes that blacks should probably run this country. All things being equal, they're smarter, they have more patience, they aren't as lazy, they are better lovers, they know how to entertain on the field, on the stage, you name it. Blacks rule, baby. But this Christianity bit . . . It's a bit much, don't you think?”

“Sir, I'm—”

“Please, sir, don't be so white. I'm trying to make a point. The time has come to deal with the race and religion issue once and for all. You've all heard about the lyncher.”

Unless they were living under a mattress, they had, all of them.As had Black, who was, in fact, the very lyncher who had been making national headlines.

Marsuvees grinned. “You think this is the work of some lone psychopath? Not a chance. It's a calculated effort to enrage the black community, if not the community of believers. And if it doesn't work, you're not as intelligent as all the latest studies say you are. The first shots of a new cultural war have been fired. Pony up. Fire back. Or at the very least have your less restrained brothers fire back. For heaven's sake, don't be such wimps. The time has come for a cultural revolution. Black power!”

Black shoved his gun back into the holster under his arm.

“If my words haven't successfully enraged you, then I hope the lynchings will. They won't stop, not until riots turn the streets red.”

He let them chew on that for several seconds.

“I have it on good authority that not one but two people in this room at this very moment will find themselves hung from a tree in Union Cemetery by morning.”

He tipped his hat. “Thank you kindly for your attention.”

Marsuvees Black stepped off the stage, exited through the side fire door, and receded into the dark. It was going to be a busy, busy night.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Day Three

DARCY WOKE to the annoying ring of the telephone. It was 7:00 a.m. by the clock on her wall. She assumed Billy had picked up from his suite after three rings, and rolled over for more sleep. They'd agreed on a nine o'clock pickup.

She was just beginning to slip away again when a rap on the door jerked her from sleep. “What is it?”

Billy poked his head in, eyes covered by dark glasses. “Kinnard's on his way.”

He looked sophisticated in his white bathrobe. “What happened to nine?”

“Change of schedule. Lawhead has a plane fueled and waiting to take us to Kansas City. Kinnard wouldn't say, but something went down last night. He'll be here in half an hour.”

“Nice of them to let us out of our cage early,” she said bitterly.

He frowned, pulled his head out, and closed the door.

She rolled from the bed and dragged herself into the bathroom—an expansive living space with double doors, a large round Jacuzzi dead center, sinks on either side, a five-foot shower encased in clear glass, and a separate room, which housed the bidet. Fluffy white towels, slippers, bathrobe, all the bubble bath and body soaps she could possibly use.

The maid would clean the entire apartment once every day.

Billy's room had identical accommodations. This was how royalty lived, Darcy thought, the kind of lifestyle she'd railed against on more than one occasion. But standing in the middle of the bathroom this morning, she wasn't sure she entirely disapproved.

Billy sat at the breakfast bar scanning a Net feed on the wall monitor when she came out twenty minutes later. A silver tray rested on the table, neatly arranged with raspberry and vanilla Danishes, sliced apples, oranges, and a pot of something hot.

“That was quick. Coffee?”

She shook her messy mane. “Do I strike you as the kind who needs an hour to curl my locks? Coffee would be nice, thank you.”

She watched him pour the steaming liquid from the white pot into a black porcelain mug.He gestured to the wall. “Another lynching in Kansas City last night. Front page.”

She glanced at a headline: TWO DEAD FROM KANSAS CITY CHURCH
.

“Someone's trying to make a point.” She took a sip of coffee. “Pretty sick.”

Billy stood, picked a black blazer off the back of the bar stool, and laid it on the sofa. Dressed in a pressed white shirt tucked smartly into black slacks, he undid his tie, pulled it free, and faced her. Her Billy, all grown up and dressed for success. She thought he looked handsome.

“You think I'm underdressed?” she asked. She'd chosen a stylish throw-back to gothic dresses. Her standard fare. Charcoal.

“You're you. I think it may take them a day or two to get used to the idea, but anything different would be a mistake.”

“Was that a yes or a no?”

“A no. Not at all. Not for my tastes anyway.”

THEY FLEW to Kansas City in a government-leased supersonic Citation 25, one of the newer models that covered the thousand-mile flight in less than one hour.

Darcy sat next to Billy, arms and legs crossed, listening as he engaged Lawhead and Kinnard on all the pertinent facts regarding the Kansas City lyncher, as if this sort of thing came as naturally to him as tying his shoes.

How race could still be an issue with some people was beyond Darcy. There were some areas in which society had actually made progress over the years. Race was one. Surely those who thought race had any more to do with their value than the color of their underwear deserved to be locked up in a loony bin.

“. . . which, as bad as it may seem, isn't our primary concern,” Lawhead was saying.

“No?” Billy asked. “Then what is?”

“The potential spillover.”

“Others jumping on the bandwagon,”Billy said. “Copycat crimes, vigilante justice, revenge.”

“Correct.”

“Over race?” Darcy asked. “Last time I checked, we do live in the twenty-first century,
please
. I would think the religious tension would be greater than any racial divide.”

Lawhead's brow arched. “Maybe. Hard to separate them at times. But race has
always
played a major role in any nation's evolution, including our own. Rwanda, Somalia, Sudan, Indonesia,Uganda,Croatia, Palestine, Germany—if history teaches anything about race it's that humans are hardwired to feel superior to their fellow men and women, and nowhere is that sentiment as easily expressed as in matters of race. It only takes a spark to provoke the minds of one race against another.”

She'd never thought of it in those terms.

“We've had four sparks in the space of eight days,” Lawhead continued. “The drums are beating already. Every Net feed in the country is featuring the story, top of the hour.”

“Surely people have the sense to realize someone is purposefully stir-ring this up.”

“That's not the point. A thousand editorials on the Net are ranting about the injustice—”

“As they should be,” she said.

“As they should be. But the editorials take the rhetoric further, railing against any white supremacist who would dare stoop to this. In an issue as deep-rooted and tragic as race in America, passions are easily inflamed. More people have lost their lives over the race issue than any other issue in human history. Just counting our own Civil War and Hitler's extermi-nation of Jews . . . well, I'm sure you get the point.”

“I do. And religion?”

“Clearly someone hates Christians. But Christians aren't striking back, so the situation is stable. If there is any retaliation, however . . .”

“Then Christians will be as culpable as any race,” she said. “Even if they aren't to blame, you'll have a true mess on your hands.”

“God forbid,” Lawhead said. “No pun intended.”

“So, what exactly is the point of this?” she asked in a moment of silence.“Me and Billy, I mean.What exactly do you expect your two little lab rats to do? You really think we can solve this case for you?”