pace and
shout, but I couldn’t hear her over the music and the crowd, who seemed to be chanting, “Manna,” over and over.
I didn’t hear the shot.
But BB did. In one motion he pulled me to the ground, stuffing my head under the seat of the folding chair in front of me.
I could hear a roar from the crowd as I hit my head on the chair seat trying to get up.
“BB, dammit!” I yelled. “We’re
supposed
to see what’s going on here. Let me go!”
“Roxie fry my oysters in hot lard, I let her lady get hurt at some honky revival,” he noted. “Look like somebody shoot the
preacher.”
“Oh, God, it’s Sword. And BB, nobody’s said ‘honky’ in at least fifteen years.”
“Jus’ stayin’ in character,” he said as he scouted the scene. “Look like they got the dude already.”
Waving my press pass with its police franking on it above my head, I made my way to the stage apron. Ruby Emerald was lying
on the boards at the edge of the portable stage, surrounded by people. To the left, one of the women cops was snapping handcuffs
on a man in a tight black suit. J. R. Jones, I remembered. The emotional emcee. He’d introduced Ruby Emerald through a flood
of tears. Beside him one of the male cops was holding a small-caliber handgun wrapped in his shirt-tail as he dropped it into
a plastic evidence bag. The smell of cordite hung in a cloud over the scene.
There was already a doctor tending Ruby Emerald, or somebody with medical training anyway, because I could see him directing
members of the choir to apply pressure to the side of Emerald’s neck as he clasped her wrist and nodded.
“Good, good,” he said in a husky voice. “Paramedics should be here any minute. There’s a hospital five minutes away. I don’t
think this is fatal if we keep the pressure on that artery.”
His crouched stance and calm attitude seemed military. But with his free hand he smoothed the hair from Emerald’s face and
tucked it in back of her ear. The gesture was loving, maternal. And revealing.
Behind Ruby Emerald’s ear and running along the base of her hairline was a fading reddish purple scar. I could see stitch
marks where the long incision had been sutured. At the ear the scar literally ran inside, vanishing into folds of cartilage.
The medical person supervising Emerald’s emergency care seemed to notice as well and ran a finger along the healing wound.
“BB, somebody’s tried to kill this woman before,” I said. “Tried to cut her head off or something. Did you see that scar?”
“Blue, you dumber than soap. Ain’t nobody try to kill you by cuttin’ the
back
of your neck. Knife just run into bone. Take a meat cleaver and a mighty strong man, get the job done. That scar ain’t from
nobody tryin’ to hurt her, no way. Too straight and clean.”
Sirens, close by. Abruptly the person supervising Emerald’s care stood and walked away, vanishing into the crowd. I hadn’t
paid much attention to him except to note that he seemed short for a man. I remembered dark glasses and a baseball cap. It
seemed strange that he’d walk off just before the paramedics arrived.
One of the female cops planted her serviceable shoes directly in my line of view and barked, ”Who are you?”
“Dr. McCarron,” I barked back, using an academic title rarely useful for more than getting a decent table in restaurants.
“The psychologist working with Wes Rathbone on the Sword of Heaven business.”
Few people understand the difference between psychology and social psychology and I didn’t see any point in confusing her.
“This is Bernard Berryman, who’s working with me,” I went on. “What happened?”
“What Sword of Heaven business, and why is Berryman in cheerleader drag?” she asked as BB shook his dreadlocks and scowled
at her.
“My associate, Dr. Bouchie, a forensic psychiatrist, and I are on your payroll as consultants,” I explained. “Somebody is
sending threats that
shout, but I couldn’t hear her over the music and the crowd, who seemed to be chanting, “Manna,” over and over.
I didn’t hear the shot.
But BB did. In one motion he pulled me to the ground, stuffing my head under the seat of the folding chair in front of me.
I could hear a roar from the crowd as I hit my head on the chair seat trying to get up.
“BB, dammit!” I yelled. “We’re
supposed
to see what’s going on here. Let me go!”
“Roxie fry my oysters in hot lard, I let her lady get hurt at some honky revival,” he noted. “Look like somebody shoot the
preacher.”
“Oh, God, it’s Sword. And BB, nobody’s said ‘honky’ in at least fifteen years.”
“Jus’ stayin’ in character,” he said as he scouted the scene. “Look like they got the dude already.”
Waving my press pass with its police franking on it above my head, I made my way to the stage apron. Ruby Emerald was lying
on the boards at the edge of the portable stage, surrounded by people. To the left, one of the women cops was snapping handcuffs
on a man in a tight black suit. J. R. Jones, I remembered. The emotional emcee. He’d introduced Ruby Emerald through a flood
of tears. Beside him one of the male cops was holding a small-caliber handgun wrapped in his shirt-tail as he dropped it into
a plastic evidence bag. The smell of cordite hung in a cloud over the scene.
There was already a doctor tending Ruby Emerald, or somebody with medical training anyway, because I could see him directing
members of the choir to apply pressure to the side of Emerald’s neck as he clasped her wrist and nodded.
“Good, good,” he said in a husky voice. “Paramedics should be here any minute. There’s a hospital five minutes away. I don’t
think this is fatal if we keep the pressure on that artery.”
His crouched stance and calm attitude seemed military. But with his free hand he smoothed the hair from Emerald’s face and
tucked it in back of her ear. The gesture was loving, maternal. And revealing.
Behind Ruby Emerald’s ear and running along the base of her hairline was a fading reddish purple scar. I could see stitch
marks where the long incision had been sutured. At the ear the scar literally ran inside, vanishing into folds of cartilage.
The medical person supervising Emerald’s emergency care seemed to notice as well and ran a finger along the healing wound.
“BB, somebody’s tried to kill this woman before,” I said. “Tried to cut her head off or something. Did you see that scar?”
“Blue, you dumber than soap. Ain’t nobody try to kill you by cuttin’ the
back
of your neck. Knife just run into bone. Take a meat cleaver and a mighty strong man, get the job done. That scar ain’t from
nobody tryin’ to hurt her, no way. Too straight and clean.”
Sirens, close by. Abruptly the person supervising Emerald’s care stood and walked away, vanishing into the crowd. I hadn’t
paid much attention to him except to note that he seemed short for a man. I remembered dark glasses and a baseball cap. It
seemed strange that he’d walk off just before the paramedics arrived.
One of the female cops planted her serviceable shoes directly in my line of view and barked, ”Who are you?”
“Dr. McCarron,” I barked back, using an academic title rarely useful for more than getting a decent table in restaurants.
“The psychologist working with Wes Rathbone on the Sword of Heaven business.”
Few people understand the difference between psychology and social psychology and I didn’t see any point in confusing her.
“This is Bernard Berryman, who’s working with me,” I went on. “What happened?”
“What Sword of Heaven business, and why is Berryman in cheerleader drag?” she asked as BB shook his dreadlocks and scowled
at her.
“My associate, Dr. Bouchie, a forensic psychiatrist, and I are on your payroll as consultants,” I explained. “Somebody is
sending threats that
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