Mankillers

“You’re all right now, Emma. You’re safe.”

“It’s all gone, Mr. Buck. Everything’s gone. My home. The house. My family. All gone. And now the boy—” She moaned and buried her face in her withered hands. “Ain’t nothin’ left no more. Ain’t nothin’. It’s all over.”

“Now don’t you talk like that, Emma,” Miriam reprimanded her, but there was gentleness in her words and compassion in her eyes. “We’re go

“I ain’t hungry, Miz. Grayson,” Emma protested.

“Never you mind. You’ve had a long day and a hard journey. You need to eat. Then I want you to get plenty of rest. Janey here’ll see to anything else you need.”

“Yessum,” the old woman mumbled. “Ah ’preciates it, Miz. Grayson.”

“Come along, Miriam,” Gus said to his wife. “You need to eat too. Buck?”

“In a minute. I’ll be with you directly.”

As his hosts entered the foyer of the large house, Buck knelt at the feet of the old black woman. “Emma, you’re going to be all right. You having any pain? I can give you something for it if you do.”

“The pain’s in my heart, Mr. Buck. Ain’t no medicine for that.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Emma?”

“Yessir, Mr. Buck. Promise me when I’m gone you’ll take me back to Jasmine and bury me under that old chinaberry tree.”

“Emma, I hope that won’t be for a very long time.”

“Yessir, but promise me.”

“Yes, Emma. I promise.” He stroked her arms. “I’ll take you home.”

#

Gus was waiting for him inside the front door. Beside him stood the bodyguard who came forward and offered his hand.

“Dr. Thomson, I am Pierre Bouchard. My friends call me Tracker.”

“I’m happy to meet you, Tracker. Please call me Buck and allow me to thank you for protecting Emma. She’s very special to me. I realize that may seem strange, my affection for an old black woman, but she’s been a very stable and positive influence in my life, and I love her for it.”

The words, spoken impulsively and emotionally, surprised even Buck by their intensity and honesty. Until he’d said them he would hardly have admitted to loving anyone. Honor, respect, admire. But not love.

A small smile came to the other man’s lips, not one of mockery or disbelief, but of sympathy.

“I share your affection for old black women,” Tracker said quietly. “Mine arises from heritage. Yours is voluntary and therefore purer. You have my deepest respect, doctor.” He made a small but distinctive bow, which Buck could hardly have anticipated but which moved him.

Gus, who’d witnessed this exchange and perhaps recognized the potential for mutual discomfort at so instant and spontaneous an exchange of personal views, extended his arm toward the double doors to his right. “Gentlemen.”

The three of them stepped into the front parlor. Gus closed the pocket doors behind them.

“Thank you for your information on Rufus Snead,” Buck said to Tracker. “It’s been most helpful.”

“You and I have a good deal to talk about, but not now. Not here. We can meet later. Privately.”

“Surely you’re staying for supper,” Gus interjected.

“Please thank your wife for the kind invitation. Perhaps another time, but I have some other matters I must attend to.” He addressed Buck. “Would it be convenient for me to come to your hotel room later this evening, say around ten o’clock.”

Buck was disappointed. He was eager to get into the serious discussions Tracker had alluded to, but he also realized the di

“Ten o’clock will be fine,” he told him. “I’m staying at the Isaac Hayne, room—”

“The John C. Calhoun suite.” Tracker smiled more broadly this time. “Yes, I know.”

Buck might have been offended to realize this stranger had been spying on him, but he found himself returning the smile instead. “Ten o’clock then.”

Tracker shook his host’s hand and left the room.

“An interesting fellow,” Buck commented after he heard the front door close behind him.

“The two of you seem to have hit it off. I’m glad. He’s a good man. You can have complete confidence in his total commitment and integrity.”

They stepped into the hall and down to the dining room opposite the sweeping staircase. A minute later they were seated at the long table with the lace cloth, bone china and silver candelabra. The last wasn’t in use this evening, however. A single candle in a glass base was the sole source of light. Even the well-off had to conserve on consumables.

“Will Emma be all right?” Gus asked. He was sitting at the head of the table, Miriam on his right, Buck on his left.

“She’s plumb worn out,” Miriam opined, scooping up a serving of collards onto her plate. “She’s been taking care of that child all by herself for almost two years. I declare she’s lost fifty pounds since the last time I laid eyes on her. Hardly recognized her. I reckon she gave him most of the food she managed to get hold of, but she’ll be eating regular now.”

“I sure hope she likes kosher cooking,” Gus commented with a grin. “She’s going to miss the fatback in her greens.”

Miriam screwed her mouth and arched her brows disdainfully. “I don’t imagine she’s had much of it lately.” She gri

Gus snickered and passed the dish to Buck.

“Aren’t Sarah and her mother joining us?” Buck asked.

“While they’re sitting Shiva—that’s deep mourning for the loss of Mr. Greenwald,” Miriam explained, “they’re taking their meals privately in their rooms.”

The cook brought in a platter of meatloaf and set it in front of Mr. Grayson.

“Alice,” Miriam remarked, “be sure Quintus takes Emma’s carpetbag to her.” She turned to Buck and Gus. “There’s not much in it, but it’s all she and the boy have for now. Tomorrow I’ll see what I can find for her and the child.”

“There goes the budget,” Gus grumbled good-naturedly and served Buck a double portion of vegetable kugel.

#

The side room of Lexington County’s notorious groggery was long and narrow. The ripe odor of unwashed bodies and equally rank clothing mingled with the cloying stench of stale beer, cheap cigar and pipe smoke. The racket sent up by raucous, cursing voices and the clank of glasses and pewter mugs reverberated off the wooden walls and tin ceiling.

Rufus was standing at the plank bar, sucking on his second tankard of sour suds. Definitely not one of Shifty’s better batches of beer, not that anyone seemed to notice or care.

“We heared you was a sharpshooter in the war,” a voice said behind him.

Rufus turned. Tall and bony, Zeke had been one of his brother’s gang members.

“Hank says you want our help getting the critter what killed your brother and Fat Man. Floyd always looked out for us, and Fat Man was a real good cook. Tell us what you want us to do.”

Rufus had always worked alone. He didn’t need help, and he sure didn’t like anybody muscling in, questioning, arguing. He’d do it all himself, except . . . The war was over. You couldn’t shoot someone now without someone else asking questions. In war, you were expected to kill. In this so-called peace if you planted a bullet in a body, they accused you of murder and gave you a trial before stringing you up.