He undid the buttons of his fly, then tugged down his trousers. The scars continued down his buttocks, thighs, and calves. Only his face and hands were unscathed. Naked, he was revolting to look at, worse to touch. Grotesque. Yet her fingers wanted to feel the rough flesh.

“Don’t touch me,” he said quietly. “That’s not why you came here. Sit. Talk to me. Tell me what’s in your heart.”

“Who are you?”

He laughed without enthusiasm. “I am the devil on your shoulder. I am whatever you make me.”

All morning long, activity was frantic at the Messenger. The newswire telegraphed nonstop, copyboys came and went, and Clawson stormed around importantly—dictating assignments, yanking copy out of typewriter platens, yelling at reporters, pausing only to shout into the telephone.

J. Allan Taylor was in half a dozen times. Clawson’s office was crowded with rough men Sam had never seen before. They came in long enough to pick up a rifle or shotgun, stuff their pockets with ammunition, then shuffle out in twos and threes, hats pulled down hard over their eyes in the manner of country men.

Sam sat at his desk working on a piece about the election. Police Chief Melton was so rattled with premonitions of violence that he’d asked the Board of Audit and Finance to authorize the hiring of two hundred special officers to guard the polls. The board had hemmed and hawed and refused to spend the money. Meanwhile, armed Red Shirts and Rough Riders patrolled the streets in squadrons. The coppers avoided them.

The Board of Aldermen had met in emergency session and declared it illegal to sell alcoholic beverages within a mile of the city limits—but everywhere saloons were doing a brisk business and men were drinking openly on street corners. From what Sam could tell, every white man in the city had bought a gun.

The local Democratic party had assigned twenty-five men to each of the precinct polling places tomorrow.

The Wilmington Light Infantry and the Naval Reserves were on alert.

Schools were closed. Vigilantes acting for the Businessmen’s Committee rode the streetcars.

Housewives were buying canned goods and kerosene for lamps.

Many domestic servants had not reported for work this morning.

The town was full of strangers.

Where was Harry Calabash? Sam could guess: sprawled on his bed, obliviously drunk. He could use Harry today. He’d already lost track of half the names that mattered, and more were coming up all the time. There were so many factions, so many different parties, so many levels of the same parties.

The Fusionists had broken with the Populists, and both had disowned the Republicans, who, they declared, had shown no backbone against the white supremacy campaign.

The state Democratic party was feuding with the New Hanover County Democratic party over George Rountree’s place on the ticket. “Go to hell,” Rountree had reportedly told Furnifold Simmons, the state chairman and himself a candidate for the United States Senate. “We’re going to run our campaign to suit ourselves.” Wilmington was the real capital. The party was here. The will.