“There were these boys,” Mrs. Jamus told Solomon as he sat on the edge of a brittle sofa cushion across the room, “white boys, no older than Coleman here”—Coleman remained standing in the doorway, protectively—“come to the door talking about voter-registration this and signing-this-petition that.” She mopped her brow and the scoop of her neck where it became her chest. “Said they was going around to everyone in the Delta, writing names in a book. In a book.” She looked to the pastor, who with a nod confirmed her worst fear. “Not three, four days later Vernon starts showing his first symptoms. Not three, four days later.”

“Symptoms such as…?”

“Barkin’,” she said. “Back talk. Vernon was the star of Sunday school, he weren’t no back-talker. Not to me. And talkin’ to hisself, and walking around the house in circles. Around and around, mutterin’. All on account of them white boys.” She gripped the pastor’s hand over the wet white handkerchief. “The devil’s come to the Delta, I tell you. I am all prayed out.”

She started to cry again, and Solomon stood and begged her pardon. He had gotten about all he was going to get out of her. Pastor Eppert whispered some calming words to her, then eased his hand out of her grip and rose to follow Solomon out past Coleman.

“I have sat with that boy,” said the pastor. “I have tried to see inside his heart. There’s an evil here. The Lord says, When the devil comes, he comes to the best of us. Vernon, bless him, he was the best of us.”

Solomon said, “And the doctors haven’t been able to do anything for him…?”

“She had Doc Jeffries over early on. Got kicked and barked at—curses too—until he left, said there weren’t nothing he could do for him save give the directions to the nearest sanatorium.”

Solomon nodded. He was thinking about the small footprint under the lynching branch. “Do you know how long he’s been chained up?”

Pastor Eppert asked Coleman. “Day or two or three.” Then, in a whisper, “They were worried what he might do to the others in their sleep.”

Solomon returned the whisper. “Why do you think some of your parishioners think Vernon’s illness is related to the lynching?”

The pastor shook his head. Up close, the silver blaze in his hair was bright, the follicles thicker and coarser than the rest. “I would say they see the devil’s hand in this. Have you accepted the Lord as your savior, son?”

“I have,” answered Solomon, and left it at that. He shook the pastor’s hand and took two steps toward the door before turning back.

“Do you know, or have you ever heard of, a man named Hugo Blackwood?”

Pastor Eppert looked to the ceiling for the answer. “Can’t say I rightly do,” he said. “Why do you ask?”