There was a silence. The sidewalks were now filled with bystanders. Everyone waited to see what would happen next. The tension was palpable.
“We have a permit to march today,” Dunagan said finally. “Do you?”
“How like you,” Pham replied, “to hide behind laws. And lawyers.”
Ben noticed numerous heads on both sides of the street turning to look at him. In most of their minds, Ben realized, he might as well have been standing with the rest of ASP in a green uniform. Only he knew about their falling-out the day before.
“Our permit allows us to march down Main, then turn east on Maple and march to the city limits. So get out of our way.
“I care nothing for your permit!” Pham shouted back.
At that moment a tremendous boom sent tremors through the crowd. Ben wasn’t sure where it came from. But he was certain of the result.
The ASP gallows was ablaze.
“Fire!” Dunagan shouted. His men rushed back toward the wooden gallows. One of his men, who was standing too close when the fire erupted, hit the pavement, trying to extinguish the flames that had caught on his shirt.
Another firebomb, Ben thought. Like the one that hit the ASP munitions building a few days before.
Since there was nothing they could do to quell the fire, the ASP men turned their attention to the other end of the street. They surged toward the ranks of the Vietnamese. The Vietnamese stood ready, wielding sticks and knives and anything else that was available.
“Someone stop them!” Ben shouted, but no one heard. The deathly stillness of a few moments before was now replaced by chaos. Screams. Running. Clenched fists. Terror. What they had all dreaded was actually happening. The race war was upon them.
The front lines of ASP met Pham’s group and fists began to fly. Ben saw two Vietnamese collapse; he also saw Pham duck under someone’s swing and rush at Dunagan.
Main Street became a combat zone. Smoke from the fire filled the air, obscuring vision, making the scene even more confused. Ben heard shouts of fear and howls of pain splitting the thick sooty smoke. Sticks and rocks flew through the air. A billy club rose above the billowing black cloud, then descended with a sickening thud.
Bodies crumbled to the pavement. Through the haze, Ben saw a two-by-four smash into the base of a Vietnamese skull. A few locals ran in from the street to try to break it up, only to be rewarded by a punch in the gut or a club to the head. Ben recognized Dr. Patterson trying to tend to some of the fallen. The impact of a brick to the back of the doctor’s head brought a premature end to his relief efforts. He fell on top of the man he was tending. Two ASP men ran over him, trampling his body underfoot. A group of six or seven young men on the other side of the street charged into the fray. Ben recognized Garth Amick and some of his chums. Apparently they weren’t going to let this riot pass without busting some heads themselves.
Several more Vietnamese men were knocked to the pavement. A young man Ben remembered from the bucket-brigade line ran out from under the tank float. He was carrying a baseball bat. He ran up behind a green-fatigued figure and swung the bat across his back. Ben could hear the man’s piercing cry as clearly as if he were standing right beside him.
Ben was watching the riot so intently he didn’t see the man who tackled him. All he knew was his feet were not beneath him anymore. He fell butt-first onto the pavement.
“Son of a bitch. I got a bone to pick with you.”
It was Garth, of course. Ben tried to be sympathetic; after all, under different circumstances it might’ve been him trying to defend his friends in this misguided manner. On the other hand, he wasn’t going to just sit there while Garth took potshots at his face.
Garth’s fist came torpedoing toward Ben. Ben grabbed it in midswing. He held Garth’s fist with both hands, pushing back as hard as he could. Garth pushed, too. And Garth had leverage on his side.
In a few seconds Ben was flat on the sidewalk and Garth was hovering over him. Bystanders were all around, but no one came to Ben’s aid. He continued to grapple with Garth’s left hand, and as a result, he didn’t see Garth’s right coming.
Garth’s right fist, the one encased in brass knuckles, smashed into Ben’s chin. Ben felt as if his jaw had been separated from his skull. The back of his head thudded against the concrete, leaving him dazed and disoriented. He was just able to perceive Garth swooping around for another blow.
And then, as if by magic, Garth rose off the ground. His fists swung at empty air.
Ben pushed himself up. What on earth …?
It was Loving. He had hoisted Garth up by his belt and flopped him onto the sidewalk. Garth squirmed, arms and legs flailing, but Loving pinned him down like a bug.
“Want me to put ’im outta commission, Skipper?” Loving growled.
“No.” Ben rubbed his jaw. It was probably still connected, but it hurt like hell to talk. Precisely what he needed on the first day of a big trial. “Just tie him up or dump him in a trash can.
“Got it.” Loving hauled Garth back into the air and started down the sidewalk.
By the time he was back on his feet, Ben was relieved to see that Sheriff Collier and four of his deputies had arrived. Collier fired his revolver several times into the air. Many combatants from both camps scattered. A few isolated fistfights remained, but the peace officers were gradually breaking them up. The man who had wielded the baseball bat was cuffed to a street lamp. The crowd was dispersing.
There were over a dozen figures lying motionless in the street, two in green, ten from Pham’s group. A few bystanders. They lay in twisted, unnatural positions. Many of them were bleeding profusely. Ben hoped to God everyone was still breathing. But it was hard to tell.
The fire on the ASP gallows had burned itself out. There was nothing left but a charred post and a platform bearing the stuffed remains of the figures in effigy. John and Frank. Belinda. Several Vietnamese. And—what?
Ben advanced slowly toward the platform. There was another figure there, one that had been blocked from his view before by the others.
It wasn’t of Madame Tussaud’s quality, but it was good enough. Medium height, brown hair, on the slender side. Like looking in the mirror.
Ben brushed away the soot on the singed sign below the figure.
DEMON KINCAID.
42.
WHEN BEN REACHED THE courtroom, it was a madhouse. The gallery was filled to twice its capacity; people were standing in the back and sitting in the aisle. At first, he thought some people must have taken refuge from the parade and the resultant brawl, but there was no sign that anyone was leaving. They were here for the show.
Ben struggled past the squatters and tried not to be concerned. Silver Springs hadn’t had a murder in—what did Judge Tyler say?—twelve years. It was only natural that this trial would be a major event.
Just as Ben reached the front of the courtroom, a flashbulb exploded in his face. Ben covered his eyes. Was that a reporter from The Silver Springs Herald? Because if it was …
The face behind the camera belonged to a small boy aged, perhaps, ten. “A souvenir for your scrapbook?” Ben asked.
The boy blanched, then turned and skittered away.
Great, Ben thought. Now I’ve acquired the ability to strike terror in the hearts of ten-year-olds. He wondered if that was the result of what The Herald was saying about him, or what the boy’s parents were saying about him. Or both. What a wonderful vacation this had turned out to be. He hadn’t caught any fish, but he had managed to become the Silver Springs bogeyman.
Swain came in the back door and made his way to the prosecution table. He was wearing a sport coat and slacks, suspenders, and a bolo tie. A sharp contrast to Ben’s three-piece suit (flown in courtesy of Jones). Which was probably exactly what Swain wanted. I’m one of you, Swain was subliminally telling the jury; Kincaid isn’t.