“What was happening in the cellar?” Evie said to herself.
Jericho stuck his head through the library’s doors. He was breathless. “Evie, some help here? We’ve got a crowd.”
“Coming,” she said and put the diary aside.
PRELUDE
Memphis stepped out into a morning that had come up in a bad mood, gray and cold and wet. The night’s rain had sent a shower of autumn leaves onto the walk, where they made a matted golden carpet. Octavia had asked Memphis to sweep them up before they left for church, and he did so, brushing them into a dustpan and dumping them into the garbage bin. A police sedan wailed up Broadway, followed by a second and a third. Memphis leaned over the gate, trying to see what was happening. He stopped a neighbor who was rushing past.
“What’s going on?”
“Heard they found a body in Trinity Cemetery,” the man said.
“There’s lots of bodies in Trinity Cemetery. It’s a graveyard,” Memphis said dryly.
“They think it’s the Pentacle Killer,” the man said and hurried down the street to join the others. Memphis abandoned his broom and followed.
Outside the tall wrought-iron gates of Trinity Cemetery, a crowd had gathered, some folks still in robes, slippers, and head scarves. Mothers shooed their children back to the sidewalks and told them to stay there unless they wanted a good swat on the bottom. The police swarmed the gentle hills of the old cemetery, which had been the site of a great battle during the Revolutionary War and still sported a marker commemorating that fact. Memphis backed up and climbed a lamppost, trying to see better.
On the street, a cry went up. It was followed by gasps and more cries as word was passed from lips to ears, rippling over the people like a drowning wave. Memphis spied Floyd the barber and hopped down and ran to him.
“What is it, Floyd? What’s going on?”
Floyd looked at him with doleful eyes and shook his head. “It’s not good, Memphis.”
Memphis felt as if he’d swallowed a piece of ice that was melting slowly through him. “Who is it?” he asked, but already his blood pounded in his ears, a prelude.
“It’s Gabriel Johnson. They say the killer took his mouth and strung him up like a crucified angel.”
DEATH NO LONGER HAS DOMINION
Memphis sat in a crowded pew of the Mother AME Zion Church between Aunt Octavia and Isaiah. Up front, Gabe’s coffin gleamed under a blanket of lilies, donated by Mamie Smith herself. Every seat was filled, and a crowd of men stood three deep along the back wall. It was close in the room, and women kept themselves cool with wooden fans provided by the funeral home.
Pastor Brown took the pulpit and hung his head sorrowfully. “A young man, struck down in the prime of his life by an unspeakable violence. It’s almost too much to bear….”
People cried and sniffled as Pastor Brown spoke about Memphis’s dead friend, about his promising life ended too soon. Memphis swallowed hard thinking about how they’d fought the night he was killed. He wished he could go back, talk it over. He wished he could stop Gabe from leaving the party alone. If they’d left together, would he still be alive? He took out Gabe’s lucky rabbit’s foot. Mrs. Johnson had given it to him earlier, saying, “He’d want you to have it. You were like a brother to him.” Memphis squeezed it tightly in his hand.
“Death no longer has dominion over Brother Johnson,” Pastor Brown thundered.
“Amen,” a woman called.
“For the Bible assures us, ‘as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life. For if we have been planted together in the likeness of his death, certainly we shall be also in the likeness of his resurrection.’ Thus sayeth the Lord.”
“Hallelujah,” several people shouted. And then, “The word of the Lord.”
“Pray now for our brother, Gabriel Rolly Johnson, that he may be sheltered in the bosom of Jesus Christ and find everlasting peace. Amen.”
“Amen,” the congregants answered. The choir began to sing. “Wade in the water, wade in the water, wade in the water, the Lord’s gonna trouble the water….”
The sorrowful notes of the familiar spiritual washed over Memphis, dragging him down into terrible depths like stones in his pockets. Aunt Octavia cried into a handkerchief, softly praying “Lord, Lord” under her tears. Every now and then she’d reach a gloved hand over and squeeze Memphis’s hand to comfort him, but Memphis remained dry-eyed and numb. He looked down at Isaiah, who hadn’t stopped staring at his shoes. He thought about what Isaiah had said to Gabe down at Mr. Reggie’s: You’ll die. Had Isaiah really seen something happening to Gabe? What if somebody had overheard them talking? What if somebody said something to the police? He had to protect Isaiah, no matter what.
