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“I convinced Beckman to make a large sale of weaponry to
a consortium in Argentina. He signed all the documents. What he doesn’t know is that the weapons are being purchased for Communists in Indochina. This puts him in violation of the Sedition Act. If he doesn’t go to prison, he will spend years in court. In the meantime, most of his assets will be seized or frozen, including his warehouses.”
Ruby felt sick. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“What do you think I’m doing now?”
“What’s that in your hands?”
Beatrice DeMolay set the package on the writing table and tore off the butcher paper. Encased in domed glass was a painting of a pinkish-orange sunrise, with cherubs sitting on each of the sun’s rays. “This is how the House of the Rising Sun in New Orleans came by its name. I thought Mr. Holland might like it.”
“Why would he want something from a bordello?”
“I had it with me in Mexico when he and I first met. I treated him shabbily. I had no idea what a brave and kind man he was. I also learned that he suffered gravely because of his accidental shooting of innocent people in a boxcar.”
Ruby could hear the rain ticking on the balcony, the latched French doors straining against the wind. “Do you have a motorcar?”
THE ROAD WAS washed out in two places, the countryside shrouded in mist. Darl cut the headlights on the car a hundred yards before they reached the poplar trees lining the road in front of Beckman’s building, which was dark. They could see the Spanish ruins down by the river, the crumbling walls and bell tower flickering when the remnants of the storm flared overhead. Darl parked on the road, in the shadow of the trees, but didn’t turn off the engine.
“Where exactly did you see the green clay?” Hackberry said to Andre.
“Behind the mission, where a coulee runs down to the river.”
“Why would they be in the mission?” Hackberry said.
“I only know that this is cursed ground.”
“The mission grounds are cursed?”
“No, the ground we stand on is,” Andre replied. “It was a barracoon.”
“What’s a barracoon?” Darl said.
“A holding place used by slavers,” Andre said.
“I never heard of a barracoon here’bouts,” Hackberry said.
“Maybe because you did not want to hear about it,” Andre said.
“You ever read Cotton Mather, Andre? You should. If ever a colored man inherited Mather’s great talents, it’s you.”
“What do you want to do, Mr. Holland?” Darl asked, twisting around in the seat.
“Turn on to the property and cut the engine.”
“They’ll see us.”
“Never tether your horse where you cain’t get to it.”
“Here we go,” Darl said. He angled the car up the driveway and stopped. There was no movement or show of light inside the house. Darl turned off the engine. “What about the cup?” he said.
“It stays in the car,” Hackberry said.
“This don’t feel right.”
“What doesn’t?” Hackberry said.
“Everything. What if we don’t make it out of here and these guys get the cup? What do you aim to do with that bowie knife?”
