“It ain’t polite not to answer a civil question,” Carey said. “The reverend here wants to know who paid you to betray your people.”

Tom tried to speak, but could not.

“Go on, teach him a lesson!” someone cried.

He dragged air into his lungs, straightened, leaned against the fender. Perspiration gathered on his forehead. He fought the dizziness and the awful nausea. “Why don’t you get another fifteen or twenty people, Carey?” he said, in a choked voice. “Then you’d really be safe.”

“Shut your mouth, nigger-lover.”

“Oh, you’re tough!” Tom said. “With a mob to back you up, you’re tough as nails!”

“I told you, shut your mouth!”

“Teach him, Bart!”

Tom stepped up to the big man. His blood was hot now, and the ache in his stomach had eased some. “You’re so full of questions,” he said, “let’s see how you are on answers. Where were you when that preacher was killed, Carey?”

“You keep quiet,” a voice said, “or you’ll get the same thing!”

“Where were you?”

Bart Carey made a sound in his throat; then he lunged forward. Tom’s fist lashed out and caught the big man in the face. There was a tinkling sound as Carey’s glasses dropped to the pavement and shattered.

“Get the nigger-lover!”

Tom tried to open the door but he was not quick enough. Carey had grabbed his legs and was trying to throw him off balance. He attempted to pull free and so did not notice the man who had walked over.

Phil Dongen’s knee came up. It crashed into Tom’s testicles and Tom screamed; but before he could fall, he felt another searing pain, in his jaw, and heard the dull interior crunch.

Then he fell and lay there retching, and was only vaguely aware that Lorenzo Niesen had begun methodically to kick his head, his ribs, his stomach.

Just before he fainted, he heard the people screaming—“Kill the nigger-lover! Kill him!”—and caught a glimpse of their excited faces.

Then something sharp went into his right eye and Tom McDaniel twitched and lay still in the cold brightness of his blood.

24

24

In his dream, the girl’s flesh had just begun to fall when the knocking suddenly woke him. It was not Mrs. Lambert. He could tell that. Her knock would be short and solicitous. This sound was full of urgency.

“Yes?”

“Adam?”

His head ached dully; as always, his throat was dry and he was not sure that he was not still asleep and dreaming.

“Adam, let me in.”

He got up and put on his trousers, then looked at the clock. It read: 9:16.

“Just a minute.”

He went to the sink and splashed cold water onto his face and drank some of the water also. He took a glass from the cabinet, poured a white cascade of Bromo-Seltzer into it, put it under the faucet.

“Adam.”