Blood, Ash, and Bone

CHAPTER Thirty-four

We got to the Expo thirty minutes before the doors opened. The parking lot was even worse than before—picketers, news crews, a seething crowd massed at the entrance. I threaded my way inside, Trey at my heels.

“I guess they got the permit,” I said.

“Who?”

“The Klan.”

Inside the cavernous pristine space of the conference center, the rows of tables displayed more artifacts for sale than I would have guessed existed. Revolvers, carbines, bullets, caps, belt buckles, canteens, photographs, newspapers, jewelry, toys. If Walmart had existed in 1865, it would have looked like the Expo.

The Klan had a display too. The same man from the first day sat behind a table, the prim woman beside him, both of them wearing blinding white camp shirts with the triple tau on the front pockets. Booklets and pamphlets covered the table, bumper stickers too.

I looked back at Trey. “So what now?”

He did a quick check of the security cameras, scanned for hidden spaces, located the exits. “Now I find a vantage point where I can see the entire floor. What do you do now?”

“Now I find Dee Lynn—who is waving at me from the table, I see—and I try my hardest to sell some underwear and t-shirts.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He squared his shoulders and wove his way through the crowd, headed for a corner to put his back against. I pushed my sleeves up and headed for the table. Dee Lynn waved when she saw me coming, practically frothing at the mouth.

“It was a sniper, wasn’t it?” she said.

I put down my coffee. “Jeez. Let me sit already.”

She leaned closer. “The cops aren’t saying so, but I heard people talking.”

“Dee Lynn—”

“They say the shot came from across the river.”

“Dee—”

“They say it was a gang hit.”

“It wasn’t. And I’m done talking about it. I’m here to sell stuff, not gossip.”

I sat down behind my table. Trey was already on the job. I’d watched him enough to recognize the process—first, he’d pace off the building’s perimeter. Then he’d double-check the fire alarms. Soon he’d take up position in a corner, his back to the wall, his eyes sweeping the room.

I scanned the crowd. “I’m still getting suspicious looks.”

“Blame the sniper you refuse to talk about.”

“I’m serious. You know as well as I do that reputation makes or breaks you in this game. And if I—”

“Uh oh, darlin’. Speaking of your reputation.”

She pointed. I saw him across the room standing at his mother’s table—Rock the grieving biker. He was more mountain than rock this morning, a six-four craggy blockage flanked by dozens of sympathetic fellow retailers and his motorcycle crew. Except for Earl the homicidal sneak thief, of course. Mrs. Simmons was nowhere to be seen, but Rock had spotted me. Suddenly the crowd parted, and the mountain was coming my way.

My stomach sank. “Aw shit.”

“You wanna make a run for it?”

“No. I braved a damn sniper to come to this thing, I can brave a mad-ass biker.”

I lifted my chin and met his eyes. Up close, his grief showed in stark relief, his eyes red-rimmed, his mouth straight.

He put his hands on my table. “I came to apologize.”

I almost dropped my coffee. “What?”

“To say I’m sorry. We’re sorry. I talked Mama into dropping that restraining order. Weren’t no call for that, especially not after Earl confessed.” His expression hardened. “You won’t have any more trouble from me and mine. I wanted to tell you that face to face.”

I smiled, a little dumbfounded. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you. I know you were doing it to clear your name. But I also know you’ve been right respectful, even when Mama pulled a Dirty Harry on you.”

“Grief is hard. We all deserve a little slack then.”

He held out his hand. I took it. We shook solemnly, me and the mountain. And then he went back to his table. When he did, dozens of eyes swiveled in my direction. Curious and sharp, but not as suspicious anymore.

I sat behind the table, straightened my stack of long johns. Across the room, I saw Trey. He’d found a spot in the corner near the snack counter with an unobstructed view of my table and was making a quick notation in his leather notebook, eyes locked on me.

I shot him a thumbs up. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, tucked the notebook into his jacket. The doors at the front swung open.

Dee Lynn grinned. “And they’re off!”

***

The next hours galloped by in a headlong rush. I smiled. I shook hands. People showed me old photographs of Dexter. I helped Dee Lynn protect her shark tooth fossils from a handsy toddler, then identified a LeFaucheux pinfire revolver and pronounced its value with only a tiny hint from Dee Lynn. I took a request from a woman seeking a cavalry saber like her great-great-grandfather wore at the Battle of Bull Run, then discussed the intricacies of rolling your own black powder charges.

And I sold hell out of that underwear, the handmade socks and t-shirts too. By the time lunch was over, I had twenty new orders. My cousin in Alabama would be very busy for the next few weeks.

The hours passed quickly, and I fell into the rhythm. When four-thirty came around, I did a quick tally of my receipt book. Lo and behold, it looked pretty full. I closed the book with a satisfied snap as my next customer stepped to the table.

I smiled and looked up. “How can I help you?”

But this was no customer—it was Jasper. He held himself aloof from the rest of the milling crowd, a thick menacing presence in camo and heavy boots. Built strong and solid like his older brother, but edgier, less stable. From the way his jacket bunched, I guessed he was in violation of the “no loaded firearms” rule.

He fingered my samples. “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Not here.” He pointed toward the vendor’s private area. “Over there looks good.”

“Sorry. I’ve got customers.”

Jasper leaned forward. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a message.”

“Then deliver it.” I leaned forward too. “But you’d best drop the threatening mannerisms or my boyfriend will have you up against that wall in three seconds.”

Jasper looked Trey’s way, and Trey looked back. Hard. Jasper did a quick calculation, then cut his eyes back at me. They were Boone’s eyes, but callous and humorless.

His mouth twisted. “How fast you think he can get over here?”

“Lay a hand on me and you’ll find out.”

He laughed. “You always let your man fight your battles?”

“He fights everybody’s battles. It’s who he is. Now say what you came to say. I’ve got work to do.”

Jasper put his hands on his hips. He stood with his feet spread wide, taking up room. Alpha male posturing. And though it was stunt behavior, Jasper was capable of delivering. I crossed my fingers and prayed he wouldn’t.

“You made a mistake yesterday,” he said. “You thought you saw Winston meeting Gerard Dupre, but you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. I told the cops all about it.”

“I know. They’ve been in contact with Mr. Dupre, who explained that he was sitting at his own table at that café, with his own associates. He was not meeting Winston Cargill there because he had no business with that individual, and he has no idea who shot him. So the next time you make an official statement, that’s what you need to say.”

Jasper’s words had all the precise delivery of a memorized speech. I was trying hard to keep my emotions in check. Anger warred with caution, disgust and curiosity mingled like oil and water.

“I told them what I saw,” I replied. “That’s what I’ll tell them again. Take that to your associates. Tell them burning crosses and grown men playing dress-up don’t scare me.”

I kept my voice steady. Across the room, Trey stood at attention, shoulders dropped, hands loose. Not turning a blind eye, but not barging over and slamming Jasper into the suspect prone position either. Occupying the middle ground.

Jasper was also calm. “I’ll tell them you said exactly that. But you’d best reconsider. Lots of things burn besides crosses.”

He gave me a twisted smile and headed for the exit. Trey watched him leave, then raised one eyebrow at me. I shook my head, my brain buzzing. So the KKK had something to hide too—they didn’t want it known that their Grand Wizard was meeting Winston, and they especially didn’t want that briefcase being associated with them.

I reached for my Coke, and noticed for the first time that my hands were shaking violently, and not from fear. From anger. I wanted nothing more than to march over to the KKK’s table and wipe it clean with a swipe of my arm. I imagined I wasn’t alone in that. But I also knew the Klan wasn’t alone either. They had their numbers in any crowd—cops and lawyers, teachers and politicians, CEOs and ministers. They were invisible but ever-present, like hatred itself.

So I stayed at my table until closing time. I filled my last thirty minutes debating the morals of battlefield excavations with one of Dee Lynn’s customers. I sold the last pair of my underwear and took the contact information of a man who claimed he had a real pair to sell. Through it all, I smiled, and smiled some more.

I did not look at the KKK table. I did not move from my seat. And I did not investigate. Not one bit.