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“Let’s get out of here, hon. There’s a Chevron near my apartment.”
    The black man said, “It’ll be OK.”
    He couldn’t have been more wrong.
     
    Collier allowed the couple to pay for their gas and exit the station. He followed them to the woman’s apartment. It was in a nice part of town. That made him wonder why the two had shown up at The Rebel in the first place. He was glad they had, though.
    He killed the black man first. He smashed the man’s head with a seven iron he had removed from the white woman’s golf bag. “Is your nigger’s dick as long as this golf club?” he asked the woman while he drove the club into her boyfriend’s skull. “Fore!”
    The white woman simply sat and cried. She was too frightened to move or scream.
    Collier stuffed the black man’s body into a laundry bag he found under the sink. He turned and faced the white woman. “It’s your turn, bitch. But first I’ll show you what a real man is like. Niggers ain’t nuthin’ but animals with big dicks.”
    Collier ripped open the woman’s blouse. He removed her skirt. She was still too frightened to scream. “Don’t you know it’s against God’s will to fuck a nigger?”
    Collier proceeded to rape the woman for forty-five minutes. When he was done, he smashed her skull with the same golf club he had used on the black man. “I see why golf is such a popular sport,” he said to the now empty room.
    He felt good. He always felt good after a kill. He couldn’t wait to tell Earl Smith all about it.

CHAPTER 12
     
     
    Earl Smith watched out of the corner of his eye while the young woman dressed. He was lying on the bed of a twenty-dollar-a-night motel room on the south side of Charleston draining a bottle of warm beer.
    The young woman was in the bathroom struggling to pull on a pair of nylons in a space only a bit larger than a broom closet. Her raven hair and chocolate skin reflected off the mirror like freshly polished coins tossed into a fountain.
    “Hurry up,” Smith said to her. “I’ve gotta get going.” There was a surprising amount of tenderness in his voice.
    The young woman picked up on Smith’s welcoming tone. This wasn’t the first time they had slept together—not by a long shot. She said, “You gonna come by and see me later?” She smiled and reached for her bra. “I’ll treat you to a piece of strawberry pie.”
    “You know I can’t do that.” Smith flipped on the Weather Channel to see what the temperature was in D.C. He would be heading there soon.
    The young woman knew why they couldn’t be seen in public together: she was black. She liked to tease Smith about it, though. It was a running joke between them. “Don’t your Cat do it like you like? Don’t I always?”
    Smith lifted the beer bottle in the young woman’s direction and smiled.
    Cat Wilson waited tables at the Waffle House off of exit 39. She had worked there for about two years. It wasn’t a good job, but she needed something to support herself and her infant daughter. High school dropouts weren’t in much demand in the information age. Hard luck stories weren’t, either. She was lucky she was pretty. At least she got good tips.
    Smith had met Cat—short for Catherine—late one night after the graveyard shift at the tire plant had gotten out. He had stopped in for a plate of eggs but ended up leaving with a lot more than that.
    At first, Smith had approached his relationship with the young waitress as a rite of passage. Every klansman believed that blacks were animals, and every klansman was permitted one opportunity to experience for himself what sex with an animal was like. But for Smith, one opportunity had turned into two, and two had quickly become a weekly rendezvous at the Interstate 26 Motor Inn.
    Smith had tried to rationalize his relationship with Cat as nothing more than a red-blooded male’s weakness for good sex—and Cat certainly was good in the sack—but he knew it was more than that. He actually