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.”

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 540