Read Online Edge of Eternity by Ken Follett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ken Follett
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bulging blue eyes.’
‘If he’s with the mob, that would mean that all this time he’s been pretending to support civil rights . . . while spying on us. He can’t be a snitch.’
‘Can’t he?’
George looked behind again.
The police escort turned back at the city line, but the other vehicles did not.
The men in the cars were shrieking so loud they could be heard over the sound of all the engines.
Beyond the suburbs, on a long lonely stretch of Highway 202, two cars overtook the bus then slowed down, forcing the driver to brake. He tried to pass, but they swerved from side to side, blocking his way.
Cora Jones was white-faced and shaking, and she clutched her plastic handbag like a lifebelt. George said: ‘I’m sorry we got you into this, Mrs Jones.’
‘So am I,’ she replied.
The cars ahead pulled aside at last and the bus passed them. But the ordeal was not ended: the convoy was still behind. Then George heard a familiar popping sound. When the bus began to weave all over the road he realized it was a burst tyre. The driver slowed to a halt near a roadside grocery store. George read the name: Forsyth & Son.
The driver jumped out. George heard him say: ‘ Two flats?’ Then he went into the store, presumably to phone for help.
George was as tense as a bowstring. One flat tyre was just a puncture; two made an ambush.
Sure enough, the cars in the convoy were stopping and a dozen white men in their Sunday suits were piling out, yelling curses and waving their weapons, savages on the warpath. George’s stomach cramped again as he saw them running towards the bus, ugly faces twisted with hatred, and he knew why his mother’s eyes had filled with tears when she talked about Southern whites.
At the head of the pack was an adolescent boy who raised a crowbar and gleefully smashed a window.
The next man tried to enter the bus. One of the two burly white passengers stood at the top of the steps and drew a revolver, confirming Maria’s theory that they were state troopers in plain clothes. The intruder backed off and the trooper locked the door.
George feared that might be a mistake. What if the Riders needed to get out in a hurry?
The men outside began to rock the bus, as if trying to turn it over, all the while yelling: ‘Kill the niggers! Kill the niggers!’ Women passengers were screaming. Maria clung to George in a way that might have pleased him if he had not been in fear of his life.
Outside, he saw two uniformed patrolmen arrive, and his hopes lifted; but, to his fury, they did nothing to restrain the mob. He looked at the two plain-clothes men on the bus: they looked foolish and scared. Obviously the uniformed men did not know about their undercover colleagues. The Alabama Highway Patrol was evidently disorganized as well as racist.
George cast around desperately for something he could do to protect Maria and himself. Get out of the bus and run? Lie down on the floor? Grab a gun from a state trooper and shoot some white men? Every possibility seemed even worse than doing nothing.
He stared in fury at the two highway patrolmen outside, watching as if nothing wrong was happening. They were cops, for Christ’s sake! What did they think they were doing? If they would not enforce the law, what right did they have to wear that uniform?
Then he saw Joseph Hugo. There was no possibility of mistake: George knew those bulging blue eyes well. Hugo approached a patrolman and spoke to him, then the two of them laughed.
He was a snitch.
If I get out of here alive, George thought, that creep is going to be sorry.
The men outside shouted at the Riders to get off. George heard: ‘Come out here and get what’s coming to you, nigger lovers!’ That made him think he was safer on the bus.
But not for long.
One of the mob had returned to his car and opened the trunk, and now the man came running towards the bus with something burning in his hands. He hurled a blazing bundle through a smashed window.
‘If he’s with the mob, that would mean that all this time he’s been pretending to support civil rights . . . while spying on us. He can’t be a snitch.’
‘Can’t he?’
George looked behind again.
The police escort turned back at the city line, but the other vehicles did not.
The men in the cars were shrieking so loud they could be heard over the sound of all the engines.
Beyond the suburbs, on a long lonely stretch of Highway 202, two cars overtook the bus then slowed down, forcing the driver to brake. He tried to pass, but they swerved from side to side, blocking his way.
Cora Jones was white-faced and shaking, and she clutched her plastic handbag like a lifebelt. George said: ‘I’m sorry we got you into this, Mrs Jones.’
‘So am I,’ she replied.
The cars ahead pulled aside at last and the bus passed them. But the ordeal was not ended: the convoy was still behind. Then George heard a familiar popping sound. When the bus began to weave all over the road he realized it was a burst tyre. The driver slowed to a halt near a roadside grocery store. George read the name: Forsyth & Son.
The driver jumped out. George heard him say: ‘ Two flats?’ Then he went into the store, presumably to phone for help.
George was as tense as a bowstring. One flat tyre was just a puncture; two made an ambush.
Sure enough, the cars in the convoy were stopping and a dozen white men in their Sunday suits were piling out, yelling curses and waving their weapons, savages on the warpath. George’s stomach cramped again as he saw them running towards the bus, ugly faces twisted with hatred, and he knew why his mother’s eyes had filled with tears when she talked about Southern whites.
At the head of the pack was an adolescent boy who raised a crowbar and gleefully smashed a window.
The next man tried to enter the bus. One of the two burly white passengers stood at the top of the steps and drew a revolver, confirming Maria’s theory that they were state troopers in plain clothes. The intruder backed off and the trooper locked the door.
George feared that might be a mistake. What if the Riders needed to get out in a hurry?
The men outside began to rock the bus, as if trying to turn it over, all the while yelling: ‘Kill the niggers! Kill the niggers!’ Women passengers were screaming. Maria clung to George in a way that might have pleased him if he had not been in fear of his life.
Outside, he saw two uniformed patrolmen arrive, and his hopes lifted; but, to his fury, they did nothing to restrain the mob. He looked at the two plain-clothes men on the bus: they looked foolish and scared. Obviously the uniformed men did not know about their undercover colleagues. The Alabama Highway Patrol was evidently disorganized as well as racist.
George cast around desperately for something he could do to protect Maria and himself. Get out of the bus and run? Lie down on the floor? Grab a gun from a state trooper and shoot some white men? Every possibility seemed even worse than doing nothing.
He stared in fury at the two highway patrolmen outside, watching as if nothing wrong was happening. They were cops, for Christ’s sake! What did they think they were doing? If they would not enforce the law, what right did they have to wear that uniform?
Then he saw Joseph Hugo. There was no possibility of mistake: George knew those bulging blue eyes well. Hugo approached a patrolman and spoke to him, then the two of them laughed.
He was a snitch.
If I get out of here alive, George thought, that creep is going to be sorry.
The men outside shouted at the Riders to get off. George heard: ‘Come out here and get what’s coming to you, nigger lovers!’ That made him think he was safer on the bus.
But not for long.
One of the mob had returned to his car and opened the trunk, and now the man came running towards the bus with something burning in his hands. He hurled a blazing bundle through a smashed window.
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