Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [44]
Shel hurried after him, grabbed hold of his arm, tried to talk sense to him. But Dave shook him off.
Several marchers looked in their direction.
“I can’t walk away from this.”
In the line, two elderly women watched them approach. “Dave, don’t be a nitwit. You can’t change anything.”
“Maybe that’s the point.” He crossed the last few feet and got in behind the two women.
Shel backed off and watched him go. Somewhere, a voice said, “You don’t need no baggage; you just get on board.”
Dave was one of the tallest people in the crowd. He’d make an easy target.
At Broad Street, they turned left onto US 80 and started toward the Edmund Pettis Bridge.
SHEL pushed ahead, trying to angle himself so he could keep an eye on Dave. But it was hard to get through the crowd lining the street. Then he became aware of movement behind him. Two men were following him. One was the guy who’d been pretending to pick off people with his rifle. The weapon now was nowhere to be seen. But the other wore a large floppy hat and carried a shotgun.
When their eyes met, the one with the shotgun grinned. “You left your momma back there, didn’t you?”
Shel kept walking.
“Hey,” said his partner, “we asked you a question.”
Shel fingered the converter.
“You did ask him a question, didn’t you, Alvin?”
“I don’t think the son of a bitch is friendly, Will.”
“Why don’t we ask him?”
It was enough for Shel. He disconnected the converter from his belt. Hoped they wouldn’t think he was pulling a gun. Set it for the same location, ten minutes earlier.
“You know, you son of a bitch, you come here and make trouble for—”
Shel pressed the button.
WITH the extra ten minutes in hand, he had no trouble beating the marchers onto US 80. He was watching when they came out of Alabama Street in a long file and turned toward the bridge. The crowd waved the Stars and Bars and screamed, but the police kept them at a distance.
Dave was about a third of the way back. He kept his eyes straight forward. They all did.
It was a beautiful day, maybe a bit chilly. The sky was clear, and the Alabama River sparkled in the sunlight.
When you walked onto the Pettis Bridge, from either end, you went uphill until you hit the center. So the marchers couldn’t see what lay at the far end of the bridge until they topped the rise in the middle.
Shel told himself Dave was in no real danger. All he had to do was use the converter when things got rough. He could get out of there anytime he wanted. Just as Shel had.
Lewis was still in the lead. And Hosea Williams.
He watched them move onto the bridge. It was a long line of maybe five hundred people in all. They moved in absolute silence, two or three abreast.
Shel tried to follow them, but police stopped him.
The bridge carried four lanes of vehicular traffic and a pair of walkways. Lewis and his people stayed on the north side, on the walkway. Shel knew, though he could not see them, that police cars and state troopers and a mob of deputized citizens were gathered, along with a host of TV cameras, at the eastern end of the bridge. He watched the marchers walking steadily up the incline. Eventually, the head of the line reached the top, where they could see what awaited them. But they never paused.
The line continued forward. Shel focused on Dave and the two women, as they climbed the slope, reached the top, and started down. After a minute or two, they were out of sight.
CHAPTER 12
I know no method to secure the repeal of bad or obnoxious laws so effective as their stringent execution.
—U. S. GRANT
DAVE had never thought of himself as particularly courageous. He didn’t much like heights, always played it safe, and avoided confrontations whenever possible. Now he was walking with the heroes of Bloody Sunday.
A kid, about eighteen, bounced along beside him. Probably false bravado, but he seemed unfazed by the threats and guns. “Don’t worry about it, man,” he said. “They’ll just throw us in jail for a day or so. It’s what they always do.”
“What’s your name, son?