“My goodness,” said Solomon, imagining the pain of this place from just one century previous. “What a find,” he said. Then he remembered how they found it. “What does it mean?”

Blackwood examined the earth. “The graves are undisturbed.”

“Of course they—what?” Solomon closed the gap between them. “Why would they be disturbed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me about the markings in the trees.”

“They are called sigils. Occult markings.”

“What do you mean, ‘occult’?” Solomon was getting spooked, standing in a forgotten graveyard in the middle of the woods, talking about black magic.

“I don’t know the translation,” said Blackwood. “But it is notable enough that they exist here.”

“Sure is,” said Solomon, having had enough of this. “Let’s get back.”

They retraced their steps to the hanging tree. Solomon was still trying to make sense of it all. “Are you thinking the hanging has something to do with the…the…”

“Sigils,” said Blackwood.

“Sigils,” said Solomon. “Or is it the graveyard? Or—the boy?”

“Yes, all three,” said Blackwood, playing the flashlight beam around the hanging site.

Solomon stepped in and relieved him of the flashlight. He didn’t want him to find anything else here.

Solomon said, “Since you’re not being very forthcoming, let me tell you a little bit about myself. I don’t like the world occult, for one…and I don’t really like spending time in graveyards after dark. I don’t believe in any of it, but I don’t believe it’s something to fun around with, either. I need to know what this is, and I need to know who you are.”

“Yes,” said Blackwood, looking into the woods past Solomon. “But first, we should ascertain who this is coming our way.”

Solomon turned fast. He saw flames in the trees, torchlights. Half a dozen of them—more—coming through the woods.

Solomon felt for his gun through his jacket flap, his Colt Detective Special reassuringly holstered on his hip. “And this is just what we needed here tonight.”

The torches slowed, voices talking back and forth. They had seen the flashlight beam.

“How good are you in a fight?” asked Solomon.

Blackwood said, “A fight?”

“A fistfight. You any good?”

Blackwood said, “I’ve never participated in a fistfight.”

“Perfect,” said Solomon. The only thing to do was get ahead of this. He aimed the flashlight at the oncoming torches, switching it on and off as a signal. “This is the FBI!” he called out. “You are entering a crime scene area!” When the flashlight was off, the woods were as black as sleep.

The torchbearers stepped through the last layer of tree trunks, revealing themselves. White pointed hooded masks, wrinkled white robes, blood-drop cross insignia on their breasts. Ten Klansmen. Ten hillbilly white nationalist terrorists arriving at the scene of a white man’s hanging to find a black man and a very, very white man.