Scooter stuck his head under the black cloak attached to the camera and then pushed back out. “I can’t see nothing. It’s too dark. Bring your light in close to his face,” he said.

The two men with torches moved closer, illuminating the shining black skin of George Pearson’s face. Scooter put his head back under the cloth.

With that, Leon pulled hard on the rope. George Pearson stood straight up and then he flew off the ground three or four feet. His eyes opened wide, bulging as if they might explode. His whole face seemed to swell. His body began trembling and jerking.

The horror of what I was seeing froze me in place. I felt something warm dripping down my leg and realized I had peed my pants.

No one was looking at me now or bothering to hold me. Slowly, slowly, I began to back away.

“Hope you got a good likeness, Scooter,” said J.T. “We’ll all be wanting a copy. Something to remember ol’ George by.”

Everybody hooted and laughed at that one. I turned and ran for my life.

Chapter 18

I SUPPOSE THERE might have been one good thing about the punishing southern-style heat wave that had settled over Washington: that night Meg had gone to bed wearing her lightest nightgown. As I opened the door to our room Meg was resting on our bed, pretending to read her leatherbound copy of the book of Psalms.

“Are you speaking to me?” I asked her.

“You weren’t here to speak to until now,” she answered without looking up.

I leaned down and kissed her and was relieved that she didn’t turn away.

Meg was so lovely just then, and I wanted nothing more than to lie down beside her. But it wouldn’t be fair, not with the knowledge running around in my head.

“Meg,” I said softly, “I have something to tell you. I’m not sure how you’re going to take it.”

Her eyes hardened.

“I went to the White House tonight,” I said.