Solomon looked at Sheriff Ingalls, trying to gauge whether he was accusing him of something or just fishing. “I don’t know what the complaint is. Their torches went out and they panicked in the darkness.”

One of the white Klansmen said, “Hey, where you from, boy?”

“Where you boys from?” said Solomon. He turned to the sheriff. “You make a practice of allowing outside agitators to dictate what goes on in your town?”

The sheriff scowled. “These are concerned citizens. They have every right.”

Solomon nodded. “Indeed, that’s the letter of the law. So if a group of black folk show up, as concerned citizens, you’ll show them the same courtesy and consideration, I’m sure.”

Sheriff Ingalls was no longer smiling. He said, “You here, ain’t you?”

SAIC Macklin stepped gently between Solomon and the sheriff before things escalated.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re all on the same side.”

“No, we ain’t,” said Sheriff Ingalls. He pointed past Solomon. “And who’s that you got with you now?”

Solomon turned. The sheriff was referring to Hugo Blackwood—who was walking down the other side of the street, toward the black church.

“A concerned citizen,” said Solomon, stepping off, going after Blackwood.

Solomon knelt in the last high-backed, hand-milled oak pew in the rear of the church. Pastor Theodore Eppert preached with tears rolling down his face, the collar of his violet vestment soaked deep purple. Mourners sobbed. The Jamus family, now only eighteen children, filled the first three rows.

Solomon hung his head. He was fighting his memories of the demon child who attacked him the night before. Blackwood stood behind and to the left of Solomon like a dark specter. Solomon didn’t know how he was able to be here at all. His rage at the killer standing behind him burned anew.

Solomon had been raised Christian, but he hadn’t prayed to God in quite some time. Now he asked God for forgiveness. He asked Him for guidance. He asked for assistance.

Pastor Eppert said, “Vernon was the best of us,” and the congregation answered, “Praise the Lord.” Pastor Eppert said, “Vernon was the most innocent of us,” and the congregation answered, “Praise the Lord.” Pastor Eppert said, “Vernon will be waiting for all of us in the Better Place,” and the congregation answered, “Praise the Lord.”

“Praise the Lord,” said Solomon, a few beats too late.

After the special service, Pastor Eppert came down off the altar and had family and friends gather around him. The grief was oppressive, draining. Solomon felt like his own soul had shriveled to nothing inside him. He felt empty, worthless.