I knew that voice. Uncle Byron? I couldn’t swear to it, and I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly, my brain swirling with fear and fury, but that voice was familiar. Another robed figure appeared below and the two of them grunted as they tried to help the man I’d pushed get to his feet. I watched just long enough to see them stumble away, dragging the man through the leaves and pine needles, then I crawled back to the deck. I could see Win, lying still, a couple of Klan members still kicking him. Please don’t let him be dead, I prayed. I wanted everyone to clear out so I could go down and help him.
One of the Klan was kneeling near the back of the truck and it wasn’t until he stood up that I could make out a rope tied around Win’s ankles at one end, and the truck’s bumper at the other.
“No!” I screamed. “Stop!” They were going to kill him. These Round Hill men I probably passed on the street every day. These murderers.
Someone’s light passed over the rear of the truck and I saw the big white letters on the blue tailgate—FORD. Mildred.
Oh my God. Reed? It couldn’t be! But in the glare of the flashlight, I saw the dented bumper and knew the truth. “Reed!” I shouted. “Stop! Please!”
That was it. It was too much. The fury inside me carried me through the tree house. I had the wherewithal to drop the bracelet in the space between the floorboards and wall of the house before clambering down the steps, leaping over the last few to the ground. I ran into the clearing just as the maggots were climbing back into the bed of the truck. Reed’s truck.
“Reed!” I screamed running toward the truck. “Stop! Don’t do this!”
Someone grabbed me from behind, arms pressed around me so tightly they pushed the air from my lungs. I kicked and screamed, lashing out with my elbows, reaching behind my head to try to pull the hood off the coward hanging on to me, but his arms were a steel trap. I could barely make out Win’s still body on the ground behind the truck. Then the red taillights lit up and I watched helplessly as the truck took off, slowly at first, crunching along the narrow path to Hockley Street, dragging Win behind it.
“No!” I pleaded, though I knew no one was listening to me. No one cared. “No! Please!” I lost sight of him and the truck in the dark woods, but I heard it speed up when it reached the dirt road. Hockley Street. I screamed and screamed, fighting to get free from my silent captor to run after the truck of maggots and the man I loved. I screamed until I couldn’t hear the sound of the truck any longer, and the man holding me threw me hard to the ground and took off into the woods with the other Klansmen who’d been left behind.
Chapter 45
I was sobbing as I struggled to get to my feet, my ankle twisted beneath me. The pain was excruciating, but I knew it was nothing compared to what Win was enduring. I wanted to run after the truck, but couldn’t put any weight on my foot at all. I felt around in the woods for a stick to use as a cane. I had no idea where my flashlight had landed. I threw up in the weeds, thinking of Win being dragged along the road that way. Thinking of what it would do to his body.
It took me forever to hobble through the woods and up Hockley Street to my house, and I was hysterical by the time I got there. Buddy’d just come in from seeing the girl he was dating, and he was making himself a sandwich in the kitchen. It must have been ten thirty by then. Maybe later. He knew the second I walked in that something was horribly wrong.
“Where’s the car?” I shouted.
“Sh,” he said. “You’ll wake Mama. Daddy’s got the car. He’s at a poker game. What’s wrong?”
“I need to use your truck!” I reached for his keys where they hung from the rack next to the back door, but he grabbed my arm.
“Whoa.” He frowned. “What d’you need the truck for? What’s going on?”
“I don’t have time to explain everything!” But then I broke down, flopping into one of the chairs, my ankle unable to hold me up any longer. “The Klan’s got Win, Buddy!” I said. “They beat him up—Uncle Byron was there—and now Reed’s dragging him behind his truck.” I leaned forward, pleading. “I need your truck, Buddy! I have to find Win.”
“Reed?” Buddy said, as though that was the only word he’d heard out of all I said. “You know Reed better than that, honey. And Uncle Byron’s playin’ poker with Daddy, so he wasn’t—”
“Who knew Win and I met at the tree house?” I asked.