8:45 am, October 29, 1953
East Coast Gas Station
Factory District, Detroit, Michigan
Not much changed after all the excitement. The Line's police force barely lifted a finger in their investigation of the factory fire, and all blame concerning Kylie's kidnapping and her mother's murder fell squarely on Karup's shoulders. Had he been alive, even the racist southern judicial system would have found him guilty of egregious violations of human rights, despite the universal attitude that all minority races—especially blacks—were second-rate next to the whites.
The main article in a local newspaper printed the next day expressed a sympathetic attitude toward Arctic Nation, even though they were known to be kidnappers and extortionists, claiming that the matter had been dealt with justly. They weren't about to get the blacks' side of the story, not when they knew deep down that the group they supported was anything but Christian in both belief and behavior. But I wasn't about to let the fox off that easily.
But via means which escaped me, Karup had exacted his revenge from beyond the grave in his favorite manner: An eye for an eye.
—
Blacksad drove down the street, turning at a corner that was occupied by a gas station. The place was fairly typical, painted red and white with a sign on top of the pump roof that proclaimed the company this particular station was owned by: East Coast Gasoline. Three red gas pumps, each with two hoses, stood in a line on a low concrete rise between two service lanes and were separated by two white columns, the peaks and bases of which had been painted red to mesh with the overall color scheme of the station. A blue air pump stood alone on another concrete rise that was farthest from the station.
Several signs posted at other spots on the side of the station that faced the street advertised the other services offered there and operation hazard warnings. One told patrons that the area immediately around the pumps was a no-smoking zone, as the vapors could be ignited by a smoldering cigarette, and to stop their motors while the gas was being pumped. Two others beside the service bay door advertised engine tune-ups, tire rotations, oil changes and every other automobile service short of a complete engine replacement.
The largest sign, beneath one that advertised one-dollar car washes, proudly proclaimed in big letters that this establishment only served whites. This type of sign wasn't uncommon in the south, but one proclaiming with such pride that any and all services were refused to non-whites reeked of the deliberate and blatant violation of the First Amendment of the Constitution, and could be the work of only one person in this area of the city.
On his way to the garage, he hefted the whites-only sign and smashed it against the middle pump, snapping the board in half and shattering the running light on top of the pump. Then he walked into the service bay. "Correct me if I'm wrong," he said to the figure half-hidden beneath the blue car, "but I don't believe that 'thou shalt take upon thee the wife of thine friend' is in the Book of the Lord." He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. "In any case, my compliments to Mademoiselle Karup. She certainly concocted an admirable strategy to remove you from the poor household."
He waited for almost ten seconds, but what should have provoked an immediate response wasn't budging the self-righteous fox. Blacksad took four steps forward and crouched. "Cat got your tongue?" he asked, gripping the left leg of Huk's bib overalls. Still no response, not even a shake of the fox's leg in protest of the treatment and to dislodge his grip. That was more than abnormal; either Huk had taken an overnight course in learning to control his temper, or something was very wrong. And nothing could have been more wrong than when the fox's head came out of hiding and revealed a screwdriver buried almost to the handle in his right eye.
Blacksad's jaw dropped in shock and the cigarette fell from his mouth. It was one of the most gruesome ways to go, having one's eye pierced by something that tears couldn't clear. Huk's face was frozen in a mask of the shock and pain associated with that kind of death. The screwdriver was buried so deep in his socket that it had almost certainly been driven into his brain; even if Huk had survived the attack, his right eye was beyond saving and he would have had to endure the humiliation of having a false eye implanted in that socket. Blacksad had seen several in his time, and knew that the lid over a false eye never blinked.
Though Huk was scraped from the scummy surface of the pond of society, Blacksad wouldn't have wished this on anyone. Not even on the one who was so low as to kidnap a little girl from her home and murder her mother.
—
9:00 am, November 2, 1953
John Blacksad's temporary residence
Residential District, Detroit, Michigan
Southern trees bear strange fruit
Blood at the leaves, blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
The scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather, the wind to suck
For the sun to rot, for the tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop
The next day, Blacksad stood in the tiny bathroom of his apartment dressing himself for the cemetery service for Hans Willem Karup, beloved community leader and a shining example of Christian living. Or so the local newspaper declared. It was all a bunch of hooey, though, as any blacks would know. Over the past one hundred seventy-five years, the blacks of the south had been made to endure every kind of social hard-ship imaginable, from name-calling and unprovoked beatings to wrongful imprisonment and unjust execution by lynching. Children had been orphaned, spouses widowed and whole families burned alive in their homes.
In the eyes of the northerners, the southern states were all but in open rebellion against the United States Constitution and the Bill of Rights, which clearly stated that no man of any race may be denied the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, that all men were created equal, and color of skin was no means by which to judge a person's character or intelligence. Many white southerners held a simmering grudge because history had recorded extraordinary feats accomplished by those they deemed racially and intellectually inferior.
Blacks such as John Henry in 1856, who legend claimed had defeated a steam drill in a tunneling competition. James Perry in 1902, who accompanied explorer Silas Henson on his historic excursion and became the first black man to reach the North Pole and return. Betty Baker in the 1920s, the first pilot in United States history who was both black and female. Jesse Owens, the first black competitor to win the gold in the quarter-mile sprint at the 1936 Olympics in Germany. The Tuskegee Airmen, an all-black fighter group whose efforts during World War II had won them the respect and admiration of white bomber crews.
The gentle song wafting from the radio's speaker, Southern Trees, was a perfect reflection of the hardships that blacks had endured and the feats they'd achieved. Southern social policy still listed blacks as second-class citizens, forcing them to accept less pay for equal work and acquiesce to white authority, but things were changing. Word had begun to spread of two men who were on the fast track to radically alter the quality of life for southern blacks.
The first was Martin Luther King, Jr, a Baptist preacher from South Carolina who modeled himself after Mahatma Ghandi in India and endorsed the path of nonviolent protest, asserting that kind words and loving actions were far more effective at provoking positive changes than violence. It was a difficult concept for many blacks to understand, but his ideals of kindness and compassion convinced many. "Meeting violence with violence begets violence," he said, "and evil feeds on itself until only chaos and ruin remain."
The other was Malcolm X—last name unknown—a young man from Alabama who'd been in and out of prison for petty crimes and endured every humiliation the whites could dream up. He was King's opposite, angrily screaming that violence was the only treatment whites understood and should therefore be responded to in kind. Specifically, public beatings and spur-of-the-moment lynch mobs. "It's time we paid them their due!" he shouted. "Anyone will give up after a taste of their own medicine!"
Though Blacksad had also endured the same hardships as King and Malcolm and had no love for the social system imposed by the whites, he'd seen far too much of humanity's worst abroad and at home to wish it on them. But he couldn't deny that the notion was appealing on some level; seeing white bodies hanging from black maples in retribution for everything heaped upon the blacks would drive home the very real threat of vengeance and bring a sense of justice and satisfaction that their tormentors were finally reaping what they'd sown.
Blacksad had just finished knotting his tie and folding his shirt collar down over it when Weekly poked his head in. "Don't tell me you've already found a lady friend in the Line!" he exclaimed with a broad grin as he stepped inside. "And where are you off to, dressed like that?"
"A burial," the detective said simply.
"You don't say," Weekly continued. "Fortunately, I have some positive vibrations." He pulled a manila envelope out of his briefcase, hopped onto Blacksad's bed, opened the container and produced at least a dozen ten-by-eight photographs. "I've finally developed the photos. These are absolute works of art!" He picked one out of the bunch and held it out to his comrade. "Wanna see the 'merry widow' in action?"
Blacksad took the picture. "I'm afraid these wouldn't shock me in the—" He cut himself off as he saw something in the picture that he recognized. "Weekly," he said urgently, "contact all your newspaper friends and get me all the information you can on Karup's first wife!"
9:45 am, November 2, 1953
Michigan State Memorial Cemetery
Factory District, Detroit, Michigan
Jezebel Karup stood before the headstone of her husband's grave, looking sad and somber. True to funerary code, she and those around her were dressed completely in black, a veil of transparent black silk hanging from her wide-brim hat. An immaculate scruff of white lace adorned the base of the hat's bowl, as much a decoration as it was a sign of the remaining spouse's devotion to her love. The procession wasn't large, only about half a dozen—Karup's closest friends—but the fact they were all high-ranking city officials clearly stated that Karup had been a very well-connected fellow.
On the freshly-filled grave was a wreath of red and pink roses topped with Karup's police badge and officer's cap, eternal reminders of a man whose conviction and dedication to bringing safety and security to a part of Atlanta that had been driven into economic depression by the end of wartime demands and social unrest by so-called "Christian" white supremacists. While he'd certainly labored to make the entirety of the Line safe, his secret involvement with Arctic Nation would be made public in the years after the Civil Rights Movement and his spotless reputation forever sullied.
"My dear husband, few among us had the chance to truly know you. Today, we mourn your death, but we will neither forget what happened to you nor forgive those who did it. And we remember that revenge is a dish best served cold." That was her whole eulogy—short and sweet. She'd never been one for eloquent words or lush narratives that detailed the life of the deceased, believing such knowledge was private even beyond death. But her sadness over Hans' death was a front, a false expression of love toward a man she had every reason to hate. The preacher shook her hand and offered his condolences as the others slowly filed away, and she stayed by Karup's grave for several minutes after he left to maintain the image of a grieving widow before dropping a final rose and walking over to another headstone and placing a second rose at the base of it.
Blacksad stood observing all this from a respectful distance. He'd heard the entire service—pitifully small for one so respected, he thought—and it surprised him that more people hadn't attended or more words hadn't been spoken. But he also suspected that those who'd come knew somewhere deep down that Karup wasn't as righteous a man as they'd been led to believe. It surprised him even more when, after all the others had gone, Jezebel dropped a rose at Karup's grave and then abandoned it for another. He followed her some distance behind, holding his silence as he observed her expression of genuine sadness for the death of this grave's occupant.
He watched as she reverently placed a second rose at the base of the headstone—bearing Danah's name and the year of her birth and death—then leaned against the marker and heaved silent sobs. It was then he decided to make his presence known. "Truly an edifying speech, Madam Karup," he said. "Would it kill you to show a little respect for the pain of others?"
Jezebel slowly pushed herself upright, sniffled once and whirled around to face him with a look of angry indignation. But before she could utter a word in her own defense, she gasped in shock as Blacksad grabbed hold of her heavy fur coat and pulled it open to reveal a black mark identical in shape to the one he'd seen on Danah's chest.
He let go with a look that told her he wasn't about to let her leave without an explanation. Her face relaxed, indicating she'd accepted his terms, and she fell to her knees. "Tell me about your father," he said evenly.
After a few shaky breaths to steady herself, Jezebel replied, "Mother loved Karup very much, which makes it that much more painful. By her words, he was the most desirable man she'd ever known. Funny, smart, kind, charming, witty. That was before all this white supremacy garbage warped his mind. Like many other young couples at the time, they came to the Line in search of prosperity, and Karup started to work with the district's 'peacekeepers' hoping to instigate a socioeconomic rise."
She choked on her next words as she continued. "Bit by bit, the love slowly turned to disdain, then contempt, then outright hatred. He started yelling at her, calling her names and beating her, just because she was black. This went on for almost a year, the abuse gradually morphing from racial slurs and demeaning phrases to angry insults and physical blows. By the time she became pregnant the idea of having a black child was inconceivable to anyone who was or wanted to be anyone in the district. She was seven months pregnant when he roused her from bed, drove out into the woods and left her for dead in a blizzard. No one asked questions; his new friends were proud of him and kept their peace."
"But she didn't die," Blacksad interjected, sensing the obvious.
Jezebel shook her head. "No. After overcoming her shock and devastation, she managed to stumble her way out of the woods and into a tiny shack where another black family took care of her. She lived just long enough to bring us into the world, Danah and me. It was never the same after that."
"So, you two became obsessed with eliminating your mother's killer, your own father."
"Exactly. Thanks to my looks, it wasn't hard to pass for a sophisticated southern belle. I infiltrated the white elite of the Line with the intention of being noticed, and succeeded in capturing Karup's attention."
"And it was that same madness that made you marry him."
"Yes. While seducing him, I was able to learn what his vulnerabilities were and had the pleasure of seeing him suffer from not being able to touch me. Afterwards, I made arrangements for Danah to be hired as a maid. Our plan was starting to take shape. It was then that Huk entered the scene. I came to him playing the distraught white woman whose husband preferred the black slave to her. It turned out that Huk had a grudge against Karup and it wasn't hard to manipulate him. Using the rumors that were beginning to circulate, we created him a scandalous history. It was the fox who thought it up."
"And Danah?" Blacksad asked. "Was it necessary for her to die?"
Jezebel released a burst of sobs. "Poor Danah!" she wept. "In the end, it was left to me to be strong for both of us. She was terrified that she'd be killed to keep her quiet. It wouldn't have served if it came out that she was my sister. Danah didn't deserve the end she was given; she deserved to see her baby grow up and get married and give her grandchildren and achieve great things. As for the fox, I ended our relationship myself. And now it's all over. My mother and sister can finally rest in peace."
"And little Kylie?" Blacksad asked. "Did she deserve all that?"
Jezebel suddenly went still as his words registered, and Blacksad could see the turmoil in her expression. Her hatred of her father for killing her mother and very nearly killing herself and Danah was tangible, and had so consumed her that all her efforts had been focused on Karup's elimination. "I'm cold," was all she said.
