What happened next unfolded with the unreality of dreams. Anna Mae screamed when she opened the door for the ambulance crew. The two attendants shook their heads and said Knox should have been taken to the hospital. Anybody could see the man was mortally wounded. Sonny Thornfield stood in the door and cursed the forklift operator who’d spilled the load of batteries, then himself for not taking Knox to the hospital, and finally the ambulance men for not getting to the clinic sooner. Glenn Morehouse cried like a little boy who’d lost his father until Thornfield cursed him for being a baby and dragged him out of the clinic to take the news back to the boys at the plant.

Eventually—after Dr. Ross had put in his two cents and all the office girls had glommed all the details they could spread later as gossip—Tom was left in his private office with Viola, who sat on the couch like the rape victims he’d treated during his internship at Charity Hospital at New Orleans. It was as though whatever the Klansmen had done to her had happened only an hour ago, not two days earlier.

“Tell me,” he pleaded.

“What’s the use?” Viola asked.

“Why didn’t you call the police after it happened?”

She closed her eyes, and by this simple gesture communicated that Tom might be the stupidest man on the planet. At length she said, “You can’t rape a black woman in this state. Not if you’re white. Ain’t no such thing. Don’t you even know that, Tom Cage?”

The coldness in her voice startled him. “I guess I thought—”

“Thought? You didn’t think. You’re walking around with blinders on! That’s what you’re doing.”

“But—”

“No, Tom.” The face that had always seemed so serene was now distorted by pain and grief. “You’ve got to face how things are. They came at me to get to Jimmy. They couldn’t find him, so they hurt the only thing they knew would matter to him. And if Jimmy finds out what they done to me, he’s as good as dead. Pacifist or not, he’ll do just what they want—go after them—and they’ll kill him. I’m worried he may already have heard.” Viola’s eyes blazed suddenly, and she leaned forward, stabbing the air with her forefinger. “So you can’t ever tell him! Swear it.”

“Viola—”

“Swear it, before God!”

“I swear, Viola. I’ll never tell Jimmy.”

“Or Luther!”

“Luther, either. I swear.”

She collapsed against the sofa back.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Physically, I mean?”

Viola turned her head and wiped tears on her sleeve. “I don’t really know. They beat me. Everywhere but where it would show. I had to come up here and steal some antibiotics. You reckon Dr. Lucas will fire me for that?”

“Viola, please don’t—”