Lightning Men

by Thomas Mullen

  He pulled himself to his knees, trying to make the dizziness subside. He needed to tackle the big fellow with the shotgun, who was a step in front of him now, but his legs had gone leaden. The other one held a pistol, both of them aiming at the surreal scene: Dale standing topless beside a Klansman and in front of a car filled with three other Klansmen, more white laundry than on a Monday-morning clothesline.

  One of the other Klansmen emerged from the far side of the backseat, pointing a pistol at Rake and the Irons brothers, using the car as a shield.

  “Lower your weapons!” the Klansman yelled in a deep, officious voice Rake recognized somehow. “We’re the police!”

  “The hell you are!” one of the brothers replied as a second Klansman brandished a pistol, the standoff growing more volatile by the second.

  “I am a police officer!” the Klansman insisted.

  The other brother called out, “Maybe you’re Sheriff Marone, right? You sonsabitches drove our brother to his grave and now you’re covering it up!”

  “I am an Atlanta police officer and I’m ordering you to lower your weapons, now!”

  Rake began lifting himself up, one palm pressed to the earth, knees unbending, just as he realized this was the worst possible moment to be anything but flat on the ground.

  One of the brothers started to holler something but it was obliterated by the concussive sound of a shotgun.

  Gunfire, everywhere. And screaming. Many people screaming. One of them, from behind walls, his sister.

  Splinters from the house ricocheted into the air and hit his shoulder. Or at least he hoped that’s all it was. One of the giants in front of him fell, silently. Rake pulled a revolver from his ankle holster and staggered to his left, toward some hedges. He saw the other brother drop his shotgun, having fired it twice already, and pull a pistol from his pocket. Rake fired at him but the man’s giant frame managed to escape behind an oak tree.

  More gunshots, coming from the Hudson or thereabouts. Meaning toward the house, with his sister and nephews. Irons fired back. Rake looked out at the road, where a halo of lamplight around the Hudson was filled with exploded glass, shreds of upholstery, blood. The car lurched forward, only a bit, like a body in spasm. The open rear door was half dislodged from the car itself. Inside the Hudson nothing but white clothing and blood.

  Rake lay flat beneath azaleas, gun forward, a position he hadn’t employed since the war.

  “Police!” he screamed, not realizing until later how ridiculous it sounded to be issuing the same command as one of the shooters on the other side. “Drop your weapons!”

  The Hudson drifted forward again, like it was in drive but no one was alive to press the brake. The driver’s-side door was pockmarked from buckshot and a body was slumped so far to the left that the pointy top of its Klan hood pointed directly at Rake. Then it fell off, the dead man’s sweaty blond hair visible.

  More gunfire, from Rake’s right, and perhaps on the other side of the street. One of the Klansmen, maybe, having escaped from the Hudson. Then two more shots, from the brother hiding behind the oak.

  “Reece! You killed Reece, you bastards!”

  Rake heard footsteps, quick and frantic, but fading. One of the Kluxers running away.

  Two more shots and glass broke behind him. He heard his nephews screaming, his sister. Jesus Christ. Whatever the hell this was, he needed to stop it.

  Another shot, from this side of the street again, as he saw the flash from the muzzle. He crept, keeping as low as he could, hoping he wouldn’t step on a branch or fallen leaves, hoping the shooter across the street wouldn’t fire again, since Rake was exposed. Finally the near figure took shape in the darkness, and then it twitched and that was all the confirmation Rake needed. He fired twice, chest high.

  He heard a grunt. Heard wood splinter. He stepped closer now and saw the big man slip away from his hiding place behind the oak and fall, landing on his back. He held a pistol in his right hand. Rake ran, and the man’s arm was moving, though not quickly, the gun raised now, and Rake kicked it away before it got high enough to aim. Rake pointed his gun down at the man’s face.

  “Roll over on your stomach, now!”

  The last Irons brother gritted his teeth, grunting in pain, and as he rolled over Rake saw that his huge shoulder was soaked red. Rake remembered he had no handcuffs with him, yet having Irons on his chest with his hands laced behind his head made Rake feel a bit safer. Then there were two more gunshots.

  Rake leaned against the same tree Irons had been using for cover. One of the Klansmen across the street was firing as he fled. Rake hid for another moment and thought he heard footsteps, but his ears were ringing and that might have been the blood echoing in his ears. He aimed around the tree and glanced down the block, seeing two parked cars that the shooter had used for shelter, one of them with windows shot out, but no shooter. He waited, then he dared to emerge from behind the tree and step out into the street and the haze of gun smoke, eerie memories of Europe flooding him, but he was home now, this was his neighborhood, two irreconcilable worlds imposed on each other, making him even dizzier.

  He heard sirens. Shrill dogs, deeply alarmed. Nothing else but the ringing in his ears.

  He was about to call out to Sue Ellen, tell her to get the boys into the dining room, at the rear of the house, when the world spun on him. The previous blow to the back of his head was reminding him it was still there, a badly timed attack of vertigo dropping him to one knee again. No no no. He had to stand back up but his body was taking the moment off, uninterested in heeding his brain’s commands.

  Woozy, he fell on the ground, lying on his back. He heard footsteps.

  Irons, the one he’d shot in the shoulder. He’d found his pistol and was standing over Rake. Why? Rake tried to ask, but all he could do was breathe.

  “Killed Reece, you son of a bitch. I’m the last one.”

  He was huge, a damned monster, his pomaded hair askew, strange unnatural shapes almost like he was horned, and BOOM the loudest sound Rake had ever heard.

  Too loud for a pistol.

  Rake opened his eyes and the monster before him looked more terrifying than before, shiny and newly colored. Then it fell beside him.

  Slowly across the street moved a new shooter, and from Rake’s vantage he could only see her upper half, no legs or feet, like some ghost hovering above ground. Her hair was shorn very short and unevenly, like she’d done it herself blindfolded. She wore a fierce expression and held the smoking rifle before her as if in search of her next target.

  Her predator’s eyes considered Rake, judged him unworthy, and she eased her grip on the rifle, its muzzle now pointed at the heavens.

  This time his voice worked: “Who are you?”

  “Hortense Bleedhorn. Those sonsabitches nearly killed my cook. Who are you?”

  “Officer Denny Rakestraw, Atlanta Police Department.”

  “That’d sound more impressive if you weren’t laying on the ground there.”

  “I’m going to get up now.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  He rose to his feet, slowly, and stared at his odd savior. “Thank you.”

  “They had it coming. I been looking for them for days.” She spat on the nearest corpse. “Finally figured out where they were staying and followed ’em here. I saw ’em get the drop on you and was about to do something about it when that clown car pulled up and all hell broke loose.”

  Hell may have stopped breaking loose, but it had left its mark everywhere. Pistol still in hand, Rake scanned the street for a sign of the other shooters. The Hudson, lights aglow and engine purring, had rolled into the back of a parked car and sat there, waiting for someone to put it out of its misery.

  “I need you to hand me that gun, ma’am.”

  She gave him a cold look. “You got a badge on you?”

  “Not on me, ma’am, no.” He repeated his name and rank and advised her that in less than a minute quite a few uniformed officers
would be here, itching to fire at anyone holding a weapon. She gave him the rifle.

  He walked toward the Hudson, its windows reduced to jagged shards covered in blood. He could see the dead, robed driver but wasn’t sure if there was another body inside. Halfway there he stopped and looked at two more bodies. The Klan robes on one were so covered in blood it almost looked like he’d dyed the whole getup crimson, promoted himself to some Klan officer position. Rake removed the hood and found himself staring at Barnwell, Helton’s young partner.

  Dale lay a few feet closer to the house, as if he’d been seeking refuge where he had so many times, believing it would protect him as he had tried so hard to protect it. He wore no shirt, only some gray pants that Rake recalled Cassie giving him for Christmas last year. The shotgun had opened his chest, spreading blood as high as his chin. He lay on his side and appeared to have fresh welts on his bare back.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  He couldn’t hear his sister screaming anymore, couldn’t hear the boys. Had they been hit?

  The sirens were almost there and he staggered to the house, but the door was locked. She’d locked it, as if that would help. Every light was out. Two windows were shattered, including one in the boys’ bedrooms.

  He knocked, called out her name. Told her it was over, it was safe, he needed to see her.

  Squad cars pulled up, their lights dancing on the front of the house. Cops would yell at him to put his hands up in a moment. She opened the door, eyes wide, the skin pulled so taut over her skull it was like he could see through to the bones.

  “Are the boys okay?” he asked her.

  She nodded, quickly, like she wanted to hurry up so she could run back and hide.

  “Sue Ellen, Dale’s . . .” Three times already his job had compelled him to inform stunned relatives that a loved one was dead. He could intimately describe all of them, had memorized their names, those people he’d never seen before in his life until that one, raw moment. And this was his sister, his longtime babysitter, his former source for all female-related advice, his fraught ally when they needed to gang up on their elder brother, God rest his soul.

  “Dale.” He held her shoulders but his own voice shook. “Dale’s been shot.”

  “. . . What?”

  “I’m so sorry. He was shot. He’s . . . He’s dead.”

  She stared, a certain veil closing her eyes off to the rest of the world forever. Then she tried to look over his shoulders, walk past him.

  “No, you need to stay here.” He couldn’t let her see. “You need to go back inside.”

  “Let me by!” She tried to knock him away but he held firm. She took a step and slid into him, his hands moving from her shoulders to her back, embracing her, and she screamed into his chest and he held her there, feeling her whole body heave.

  Confused cops were yelling at them to put their hands up and turn around. But if he obeyed, she would be free of his grasp and would slide past him, run toward Dale, inspire their terrified fingers to twitch. He held her as they yelled, and he called out his name to them, hoping they could hear him over the sirens, over his sister’s screams, because no matter what they said he would not raise his hands and release her.

  51

  JULIE WAS DREAMING she could fly again, an old schoolgirl fantasy she still had now and again, floating through the skies and looking down at the maplike world passing below, when the cannons started firing. Loud bangs, and she turned to see where they were coming from, tried to dodge them, who would be shooting at her? And then she thrashed so hard that she woke up, and that’s when she realized it wasn’t a cannon but knuckles rapping on her window.

  She rose from bed, the autumn floor cold beneath her feet, and pulled at the thin curtain. Just enough light outside for her to see Lucius’s face. He motioned to the door.

  She checked to make sure Sage was still asleep in the bed next to hers, but the child could sleep through the most intense of thunderstorms and was undisturbed. He lay nearly sideways in his bed, so she adjusted him, then made her way toward the door. She lit a small lamp and glanced at the clock, saw that it was past three in the morning.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Lucius when she opened the door.

  He nodded. He looked shocked, but maybe it was her. She felt jittery, her body off, this hour so very unnatural.

  “I’m sorry, I . . . had to talk to you. It couldn’t wait.”

  She told him to come in. They would have to whisper, as the apartment was so small. They could hear her father snoring from here, so at least her parents hadn’t woken. Lucius stepped inside and kissed her on the lips. They hadn’t kissed in so long—she hadn’t even seen him in days. But his face looked ashen. If this had been at a normal hour she would have feared he was here to break off the engagement officially. He sank onto the sofa and she sat beside him.

  “Tonight, we busted some moonshine and marijuana smugglers. It got rough and . . . some folks were killed.” He had been staring ahead of him as he said this, but now he faced her. “One of the men was Jeremiah. I’m . . . I’m sorry. He didn’t make it.”

  She looked at her hands, folded together in her lap. She tried to understand this, Jeremiah being dead. Was this another dream? Where were the cannons that would wake her this time?

  “I didn’t want for this to happen,” Lucius said.

  The jitteriness faded and she felt a deep calm, like something had placed its hands on her, pinning her there. She realized her silence was worrying him but she wasn’t sure what to say.

  Jeremiah is dead. She tried to understand.

  “I hadn’t even realized he was involved with the group we were after,” he said.

  “It’s not your fault. He . . . shouldn’t have been mixed up in that. Like he shouldn’t have been the last time.”

  He was dead to me before, she thought. And now he’s actually dead. She knew her heart was only beginning to grasp how profound was the difference.

  Her father stopped snoring in the other room, and they heard weight shift, then snoring again. The parlor clock seemed to tick more slowly than usual, exhausted.

  “There’s something else,” he said. He reached out to take her hand. Their earlier kiss had been so quick, this touch felt significant, the warmth of his hand, his stillness.

  “I spoke to him earlier,” Lucius said. “And he told me the truth. About what happened to Isaiah.”

  She realized she wasn’t breathing. And she couldn’t withstand the way he was looking at her. She tried to move away, but he put another hand on hers, holding her down.

  “I wanted you to know that I know,” he said, and she felt pressure at her temples, like something was trying to shrink her, compress her, and she would need to start breathing soon. “Julie. I love you. But . . .”

  That word should never follow those other three, and his silence hung there so long she thought she’d burst.

  “. . . But I need to hear it from you. I need to know for sure.”

  The hands holding hers were sweaty and large, his fingers so much thicker than one would guess given his delicate features. She saw redness at the edges of his eyes, eyes that were wide and staring into hers, like he so desperately needed to hear what she was about to say, needed to commit it all to memory.

  Did he want details? Did he want it wrapped up in a tidy story? Did he simply want her to confirm or deny? Did he want it under oath, as a plea deal? Did he want her to start crying? Because already her eyes were burning, her throat knotted.

  “What do you want me to say?” So difficult for her to speak, trying to keep herself from breaking apart. “Do you have . . . any idea . . . what that was like?”

  “No. I don’t. But you need to trust me.”

  She shook her head, the tears falling now. “His brother . . . was a son of a bitch. And after what he did . . . to me . . .” She finally tore her hand away from his, and she wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly very cold, shivering, gooseflesh everywhere even though it wasn�
�t that cold, just the memory of it sending chills down her neck. She shook her head and the tears were everywhere and she knew that she must have looked a fright, but she said, “I do not regret what I did. I regret that it happened, but after what he did . . . I do not regret that at all.”

  Some mercy finally took hold of him, and he reached for her, wrapping her in his arms, and finally she could let it all go. He told her he was sorry three or four times, or however many it took, however long they sat there, him rocking her slightly.

  “It’s all right. It’s over now. It’s gone.”

  She nodded, her head on his chest.

  “Does anyone else know? Anyone else at all?”

  “No.”

  “Not even your parents, or his? Anyone in the world?”

  “No one. He helped me . . . get rid of the gun. And he moved Isaiah’s body to some car they used. But we knew not to say a thing, ever, to anyone.”

  Jeremiah had helped her, and had kept her secret for so long, and for that she would forever be in his debt. Despite this, gratefulness had not been the emotion that flooded her when she saw him freed from prison a few days ago. Even she had been amazed at the anger that had swelled, and the fear. As the months and years had passed, she realized how much she blamed Jeremiah for what his brother had done to her. If only Jeremiah had resisted getting involved with Isaiah’s schemes from the beginning, if only he had followed her advice and walked a different path than the one Isaiah had chosen, things might have turned out differently. She would not have been attacked, and Jeremiah would not have been jailed, and Sage would have had a father from the start. She didn’t know any of that for sure. All she knew was that, when Jeremiah tried to return to her these many years later, the pain she’d finally dammed up had overwhelmed her. She wanted a new life now—she had a new life now, and she would not give it up. She would not be reduced to Jeremiah’s past mistakes, even if he must be.

  Lucius told her, “No one else ever will know.”

  She looked up. “Thank you.”

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “Missed you, too.”