MacRae sat back in his chair. “Just between you and me and the chandelier,” he said confidentially, as the waiter poured their coffee, “the fuse has already been lit on this firecracker.” He slurped his coffee. “Man, I love coffee on a hot day. Makes a man sweat out his poisons.”

Chapter Four

I take pleasure in writing to you to let you know that you are the sorriest scoundrel in North Carolina. The article that you had in your paper was a shame to the Old North State…. And if I lived in Wilmington I would give you 24 hours to leave or I would blow your brains out.

C H A P T E R   F O U R

Saturday, August 20

IN THE RIVER MIST of 3 A.M., the high side rails of Smith’s Creek Bridge loomed gray and ghostly. The road was deserted—just as well. Instinctively, Frank Manly stopped the open carriage at the foot of the bridge, listening for riders. The only sound was the splash of fast, shallow water on rocks, rushing toward the Cape Fear. The lone jet mare stood riveted in place, head up, sniffing the damp air of the bottom.

Around them was thick swamp, impassable even in daylight. Some night-hunting animal shrieked, and Frank shivered in the heat. He didn’t believe in spirits, but this was different. This was live things that could hurt you, chew you right up. Fangs, claws, stingers, and poison. Quicksand and gator wallows. Wouldn’t be caught dead out there, he thought.

On the seat next to him sat his younger brother, thirty-two-year-old Alexander Lightfoot Manly, deep in thought. He’d been up for thirty hours, traveling. After the telegram, he’d taken the train south, getting off at Castle Hayne, twenty miles out. No use risking a lynch party at the Atlantic Coastline Station. But in the diffuse moonlight, he looked none the worse for all his hard travel. As usual, he wore a gray tailored suit and a high celluloid collar and cravat, along with a brushed gray derby over his wavy black hair. Though it was hot and muggy even at this hour, he wore kid gloves—a habit he’d picked up from his friend Dr. Wright, the mayor, who never appeared in public without white gloves. A black Prince Albert lay carefully folded behind the seat.

Satisfied there were no riders waiting on the road ahead, Frank urged the mare forward. She stepped delicately across the uneven planking of the bridge, the boards creaking quietly under the wheels.

“You stirred them up this time, brother, sure enough.” Frank was the general manager of the paper. He had nothing to do with the editorial side, and had been in Greenville the day the editorial was published.