Alex Cross's Trial

directly under the branch. Three ropes were carefully knotted and hanging from the branch, three loops waiting for heads to be slipped in, waiting for someone to hang.

    “Good God!” I said as I realized what I was seeing.

    “For the audience,” Abraham said as he gestured around at the benches. “They come to watch the lynching. And they need a place to sit. Nothing worse than having to stand while you waiting to watch ’em hang a nigger.”

    That was the first time I’d heard Abraham use that word, and his eyes burned fiercely.

    I almost couldn’t believe it. Across that fence was the Mc-Kennas’ impeccable lawn, acres and acres of flawless mown grass. I could see beds of bright orange daylilies sculpted into the landscape from here to the big house.

    To one side of the stage, I noticed a low table with a small bench behind it. Maybe that was for shotguns and rifles, to keep them out of the dirt.

    “What’s that table for, Abraham?”

    He answered with a weak smile. “That’s where they sell refreshments.”

    Chapter 50

    IF I THOUGHT that obscene place was the worst abomination I was going to see—a serene amphitheater constructed for the pleasure of human beings torturing other human beings—I was wrong.

    Our journey was just beginning.

    We turned south, along back roads, until we were riding beside the fields of the Sauville plantation. I asked if they too had a theater for lynching.

    “I don’t believe so,” said Abraham. “Why bother building your own when there’s such a nice one already established in your neighborhood?”

    We rode past the showy Greek Revival pile of the Sauville home, past miles of fields with colored folks in them, picking cotton.

    After riding for most of an hour, we came to a long, low cotton barn with a tall silo for storing grain at one end. The place was neatly kept and obviously much in use; the doors at one end stood open, revealing deep rectangular bays stuffed to the ceiling with the first bales of the new crop.

    The most successful farmers used barns like this for storing their cotton from year to year, selling only as they needed cash or the price reached a profitable level.

    “You telling me they’ve lynched somebody here?”

    “I’m afraid so. This was where Hiram Frazier got hanged. And a couple more since.”

    “How on earth could you hang somebody in a barn this low? Looks like his feet would drag on the ground.”

    He pointed to the end of the barn by the silo. “The folks watch from in here. But they hang ’em inside the silo. Don’t even need a tree.”

    I shook my head. I thought of Jacob Gill and the pint he kept in his leather toolbox. I wished for a taste of that whiskey right now.

    Abraham led the mules to a slow, muddy stream, where they drank. The old man knelt down, cupped some water in his hand, and drank too.

    “It don’t look like much, but it taste all right,” he said.

    I was thirsty but decided I could wait.

    We climbed up on the mules. Abraham’s animal groaned as he brought his full weight down on its back.

    “I declare, I don’t know who’s in worse shape,” Abraham said, “this poor old mule or me.”

    I smiled at him.

    “There’s one more place I need to show you, Ben,” he said. “Then I reckon we’ll be ready to write an official report for Mr. President.”

    As his mule started off, I saw Abraham wince in pain and try to hide it. He saw that I had noticed and forced a smile.

    “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Corbett,” he said. “I’m old, but I ain’t even close to dyin’ yet.”

    But as he turned away and the smile dropped from his face like a mask, I realized that Abraham was a very old man, and probably a sick man as well. His face had the hidden desperation of someone hanging on for dear life.

    Or maybe just to make this report to the president.

    Chapter 51

    I SUPPOSE ABRAHAM WAS WISE to save the worst for last. We rode the mules through a peach orchard south of the Chip-ley plantation, making a roundabout circle in the general direction of town. The air was heavy with the smell of rotting fruit. For some reason no one was picking these peaches.

    At the end of the orchard we emerged into a peaceful wooded glen. At the far side stood two huge old trees. From the fruit dotting the floor of the glen, I made out that these were black cherry trees; we had a nice specimen growing in back of the house the whole time I was growing up.

    From the tree on the right hung a black man. At least, I think it was a man. It was mostly