Between Black and White Read Online Free PDF

hosing it down. Tell the other men to hold steady until you’ve taken the pictures. I’ve got to make some calls.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    As Brad began barking instructions to the other men, Woody took out his cell phone and dialed the home number of Sheriff Ennis Petrie.
    On the fifth ring Ennis’s groggy voice answered. “Hello.”
    “Ennis, we got a situation out here at Walton Farm.”
    “What is it?” the sheriff asked, his voice more alert.
    Woody started to talk, and then another bloodcurdling scream came from below him, followed by a low, almost-guttural moan. “Ms. Maggie,” Woody whispered, squatting and patting her back. Maggie Walton gazed with dead eyes toward the fire.
    “What in the hell was that?” Ennis asked, now hyper.
    “That was Maggie Walton, Sheriff. She’s . . . very upset.” He paused, turning away from the woman so she wouldn’t hear what he was about to say. Glancing back at the fire, he spoke into the phone, forcing the tremor out of his voice. “Sheriff, Andy Walton’s body is hanging from a tree on the northeast corner of his farm with a noose tied around his neck and one half of his face shot off. He’s . . .” Woody Monroe paused, closing his eyes, this time unable to keep the whine from his voice as Maggie Walton continued to moan in agony behind him. “He’s on fire, Ennis. He’s been shot and hanged . . . and his body is on fire.”

6
    Bocephus Haynes opened his eyes when he heard the sirens.
    He was still half-asleep, the dream lingering as it always did. Seeing his father’s stretched neck. Flailing at his father’s legs as they dangled below the branch of the tree. Hearing the laughter of the white-robed men mixed with his own screams . . .
    He gazed upward at the ceiling fan as the sounds from the dream gradually subsided, replaced by the sirens. Getting closer?
    Bo rolled out of bed, forcing himself to sit up straight, and the sudden movement made him dizzy. His throat felt like sandpaper, and when he tried to swallow he nearly gagged on the half-chewed cigar that still hung out of the corner of his mouth. He spat the remainder of the stogie on the floor and rose to his feet.
    The nausea hit him like a freight train.
    He stumbled through the law office to the back door, fumbling in the dark for the knob. He took hold and twisted, then stepped outside and vomited over the railing. Blinking his eyes and clutching the railing tightly, he vomited again. And again. Finally, after a last dry heave, he relaxed his frame and sat on the top step, placing his elbows on his knees and taking several deep breaths.
    The sirens were now even louder, and the sound of them pounded in Bo’s head as he began to look himself over. He was still wearing his clothes from the day before—khaki slacks, oxford button-down, and brown Allen Edmonds loafers. Since he’d moved out of the house and into the office, it wasn’t unusual for him to have slept in his clothes, or, for that matter, his shoes. What caught his eye was the dried, caked mud covering the heels and soles of both loafers.
    Bo blinked, his mind starting to work despite the horrific hangover. What happened last night?
    Everything after he left Kathy’s Tavern was a blur . . .
    He slipped off his shoes and set them on the top step. Then he shuffled on socked feet back into the office. When he turned on the light in the hallway, he noticed that he had tracked mud the entire length of the hall. Looking through the open door of the library, he saw that the tracks ended at the pullout sofa he now called a bed. An empty pint of Jim Beam lay on its side, top off, on the hardwood floor below the sofa. He must have dropped it there before he crashed. Again, he asked himself, What happened last night?
    A collage of images began to play in his mind, and he felt a cold chill on the back of his neck.
    “No,” he whispered.
    The sirens were now deafening, and through the cracked blinds at the end of the hall, Bo saw three