Chapter One

Spring 1999

Sour sweat rolled down Preacher Edward Clower’s sides as he stood in front of two caskets. The air hung hot and heavy with the fragrance of carnations, aftershave, and perfume in the late morning hours. The modest church sat on the edge of Charles Medders’s back pasture by the winding asphalt road just three miles outside of Center Ridge, Georgia.

Edward took inventory of the dark strangers, who hissed in whispers behind their hands, waiting for the show to start. This was the first time a black face had ever come through the threshold of his sacred church. He watched some of them write on tablets and cradle cameras, giddy from the opportunity to spy on his precious church. This mass of savages circled the bodies of a dead man and his oldest boy, and they would spread lies that this beacon of godliness, his dear friend Justin, had killed his own son.

The minimal sanctuary overflowed with followers of this church, reporters and curiosity seekers, standing two deep against the walls. He mopped his forehead, and his hair rang with sweat and Brylcreem. Edward, attempting to achieve a Cary Grant shine and distinguished authority on such an important day, wore his only black suit. For two days, the preacher had practiced holding in his mammoth jelly-like rolls under the suit to delineate the best angle for television cameras. The red tie he purchased at Goodwill that morning was wound tighter than a tick, but wearing it also heightened his confidence. Edward felt pleased with himself for preparing in this way. He wished his mama could see him at the podium now.

Edward sought comfort in the familiar faces of his congregation. Tonight, the Brotherhood would talk to Justin’s other son and inform him of the mission to avenge their deaths. Indeed, the men would look after the eleven-year-old James until his hands and heart were mature enough to kill Clair Weinstein with the same convictions that his daddy had tried to in earnest. In time, James Campbell would bring honor back to his family and to the Brotherhood.

In the fifth row of pews, a pair of chocolate brown eyes watched the sloppy, white man clutch a Bible. Dr. Royce Johnson, the Henderson County coroner, smiled because he finally had this vermin in his sights. The star on this day—the dead white racist, who had accidentally hanged himself, equally made Royce smile.

For three years, Royce had diligently sought these men. For three years, he had bled inside for the loss of his only son, Ryan. Now he would kill Edward Clower, then he would wait with calculated pauses and finish off the remaining six. Satisfaction settled in him as he entertained thoughts of sweet revenge for the brutal torture and death of his son.

A tall, slender, black man with a chiseled, masculine face and a commanding presence, Royce asserted leader-like qualities while speaking very few words. He had been engaged to Lena, a silky and curvy, bronze-colored law student for a year. When she could no longer deal with his long bouts of depression, she packed her belongings on a scorching summer night and walked out of his life to marry a career in law. As she left, Royce watched her close the door and felt unexpected relief. He would miss the sex, but now he would no longer have to lie or cover up his preoccupation with finding and killing Ryan’s murderers.

Under the bright sun, satellite-decorated trucks surrounded the clapboard church, and uniformed officers directed the pushing crowds. The rural countryside was alive with angry protesters, chanting and waving signs of hate. Wild eyes danced in anticipation to see the widow, Linda Campbell, and her eleven-year-old son, James, arrive. The Atlanta papers had picked up the supposed white supremacy-fueled hate crime of a rape and murder. Who were the players involved? Would arrests be made at the church? Might lunch be served? Could Nancy Grace herself be reporting from one of those spaceship-like vans? Residents clamored to know, and they wasted no time in hauling their entire families to the scene.