Alex Cross's Trial

and sisters. That is what the Lord tells us, in the book of Matthew: ‘Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.’”

    “How long, Brother Clifford?” came a voice from the back. “How long we ’posed to wait? Till the end of all time? How long?”

    “We wait until the Lord makes his will clear,” the preacher said calmly. “We wait like the children of Isr’al waited, forty years out in that desert.”

    The insistent voice spoke again:

    “But how long? How long do we go on forgiving? How many of us got to die before it’s time?”

    And that is when I saw one shining tear roll down Moody’s face.

    We shuffled along, following behind Hiram in his pine box, out the narrow front door. The choir took up an old hymn.

    I sing because I’m happy.

    I sing because I’m free.

    For His eye is on the sparrow

    And I know He watches me.

    And I know He watches me.

    Chapter 64

    A BLINDING LIGHT CAME. Then another bright flash.

    We were leaving the church, just making our way down the rickety steps.

    Another stunning flash of light came.

    At first I thought it was lightning, then I realized lightning doesn’t come from a clear blue sky. I blinked, trying to regain my power of sight, and then saw what was causing it: Scooter Willems and his camera, with its flash-powder apparatus.

    Beside him were three large men I did not recognize, white men with twisted smiles on their faces, guns at their sides.

    Moody left the line of mourners and marched straight over to Willems, right up to him.

    “Show some respect,” she said to him. “This is my brother’s funeral.”

    “Sorry, Moody,” Scooter said, almost pleasantly. “I thought you might want a photograph for your memory book.”

    “I don’t need no photograph to remember this,” she said. “I’ll remember it fine.”

    The pallbearers were sturdy young men about the same age as Hiram. They slid Hiram’s coffin onto the back of a buck-board. I made my way over to where Moody was glaring at Scooter and his bodyguards.

    Scooter turned to me. “Moody’s all het up because I wanted to take a memorial photograph of the funeral.”

    “Too bad you didn’t take a memorial photograph of the lynching,” Moody said. She turned on her heel and fell in step with the other mourners behind the wagon.

    “Leave her alone, Scooter,” I said.

    Scooter frowned. “Like I said, I just wanted to commemorate the event.”

    I turned to leave, but Scooter wasn’t quite finished talking.

    “Hey, Ben, how’s about I take one of you against this ocean of colored folks.”

    I spun around at him. “Put your damn camera away. Go back to Eudora, where you belong. Leave these folks alone.”

    I noticed two little black boys listening to our conversation. As I turned to leave, Scooter spoke to them.

    “Hey, little boys, I’ll give you each a nickel to let me take your picture.” He held out his hand with two nickels in it.

    I pulled nickels out of my own pocket and handed one each to the boys. “Y’all run on,” I said.

    They did.

    And I went to join Hiram’s funeral procession.

    Chapter 65

    ABRAHAM HANDED ME a huge slice of chess pie. It was a southern funeral favorite because it could be made quickly, using ingredients most people kept on hand—milk, eggs, sugar, butter.

    Abraham’s house was overflowing with dishes and platters and baskets of food, and mourners eating as much as they could.

    A question swam into my mind. How did Scooter Willems know Moody? I distinctly recalled him calling her by name, as if they were old friends. Were they? And how could that be?

    I excused myself and threaded my way through the crowded little parlor, through the overpopulated kitchen, out the back door. I saw Moody sitting in the yard on an old tree stump, glaring at the ground.

    “Moody,” I said.

    She did not acknowledge me.

    I reached out to touch her shoulder. “Moody.”

    She pushed my hand away. “Don’t put your white hand on my black shoulder,” she said.

    I drew back and put my hands in my pockets.

    “Do you know Scooter Willems?” I asked.

    She lifted her head and looked at me. “Who?”

    “’Scooter Willems. That photographer from outside the church.”

    “I never seen that man in my life. He ain’t nothin’ but a buzzard, pickin’ the meat off of dead people’s bones.”

    “If you’ve never seen him, how did he know your name?”

    “I don’t know.”

    Moody looked into my eyes. For the first time since we’d met, she didn’t look