Men and women hurried in and out. The great engines sat hidden inside the building but their exhalations rose in white clouds from high vents into the fine morning air. The man Remus did not remember pulled his Packard up to the arched doors. At the station. The depot. The Dixie Terminal.
Remus began to laugh. The man looked at him.
"I'm sorry," Remus said. "I'm sorry. I meant -- no, no. This is fine. I thank you so very much."
"Sure thing, Mr. Remus. Anything for you, sir."
When the man pulled away, Remus waved at a cab. As he did, he put his other hand into his jacket pocket and felt the hammer, the mother-of-pearl handle, the now-cool barrel. Without looking, he removed it. It fit almost entirely within his hand. He dropped it into the trash receptacle on the curb.
"This is the wrong station, you see," Remus began, when he got in the new machine. "The authorities -- "
The driver glanced back at him.
"The police station," said Remus. "Take me there."
Copyright © 2002 by Craig Holden
Blood at the Root
"A gripping, timely, and important examination of American racism."
- PW Starred Review
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