PRELUDE

Memphis stepped out into a morning that had come up in a bad mood, gray and cold and wet. The night’s rain had sent a shower of autumn leaves onto the walk, where they made a matted golden carpet. Octavia had asked Memphis to sweep them up before they left for church, and he did so, brushing them into a dustpan and dumping them into the garbage bin. A police sedan wailed up Broadway, followed by a second and a third. Memphis leaned over the gate, trying to see what was happening. He stopped a neighbor who was rushing past.

“What’s going on? ”

“Heard they found a body in Trinity Cemetery, ” the man said.

“There’s lots of bodies in Trinity Cemetery. It’s a graveyard, ” Memphis said dryly.

“They think it’s the Pentacle Killer, ” the man said and hurried down the street to join the others. Memphis abandoned his broom and followed.

Outside the tall wrought-iron gates of Trinity Cemetery, a crowd had gathered, some folks still in robes, slippers, and head scarves. Mothers shooed their children back to the sidewalks and told them to stay there unless they wanted a good swat on the bottom. The police swarmed the gentle hills of the old cemetery, which had been the site of a great battle during the Revolutionary War and still sported a marker commemorating that fact. Memphis backed up and climbed a lamppost, trying to see better.

On the street, a cry went up. It was followed by gasps and more cries as word was passed from lips to ears, rippling over the people like a drowning wave. Memphis spied Floyd the barber and hopped down and ran to him.

“What is it, Floyd? What’s going on? ”

Floyd looked at him with doleful eyes and shook his head. “It’s not good, Memphis. ”

Memphis felt as if he’d swallowed a piece of ice that was melting slowly through him. “Who is it? ” he asked, but already his blood pounded in his ears, a prelude.

“It’s Gabriel Johnson. They say the killer took his mouth and strung him up like a crucified angel. ”