The Rock and the River by Kekla Magoon Page A

hand.
    â€œNot so fast, buster. What are you running from?”
    â€œNothing. I’m going to work.” Bucky smiled.
    â€œPut your teeth back in your head, boy, ’fore I knock ’em out,” the stockier cop said. His stomach jiggled over his gun belt as he and his partner laughed.
    Bucky swallowed hard. “I’m on my way back to my job.” Again he tried to move away from them. This time, the taller cop drew his nightstick and laid it across Bucky’s chest.
    â€œHold on just a minute, pal. We’ll see about that. Where do you work?”
    â€œWhat do you want to know that for? I didn’t do nothing.”
    The tall cop looked Bucky over. “Do nothing sounds about right. Now, you want to tell us about this job of yours?”
    Bucky balled his hands into fists, but nodded politely. “I fix cars.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    Bucky stood without speaking. My heart pounded. He couldn’t tell them his name. The stocky cop drew his nightstick and jammed the tip into Bucky’s stomach. “I’m not going to ask again.”
    Bucky straightened up and shook his head slightly. The officer slammed the baton into Bucky’s stomach again. Bucky doubled over from the force of the blow, pressing his arms against his stomach. The hit echoed in my gut—along with the horrible knowledge that everything was about to get worse.
    The second cop’s baton caught Bucky on the chin andjerked him back up. Everyone on the street turned to look. The cops took turns striking Bucky with their nightsticks, fists, and feet. The radio in the background seemed to sing louder, the cheerful pop tune warring with the sick thwack of baton blows against skin.
    The tall cop bent close to Bucky, his square nose practically touching Bucky’s cheek, and said something. Bucky reacted sharply, jerking backward, his fists stretched out in front of him. The cop laughed and hammered Bucky’s arms with his baton.
    The music cut suddenly and the silence suffocated the street. The air grew thick, hard to breathe without choking. Only the hum of cars on nearby streets disturbed the still air. The stocky cop lifted the radio from his belt and spoke into it.
    Maxie moved closer to me. This couldn’t be happening right in front of us, especially not to Bucky. It went on forever. Finally the tall cop brought his nightstick down hard against Bucky’s temple. The blow connected, making a loud crack . Maxie turned her face into my shoulder. I slid my arm over Maxie’s back, hugging her closer.
    Bucky fell to the ground. His face pointed toward us, bruised cheeks and split lip. The side of his head was bleeding. His eyes were open, searching. His gaze landed on me, pleading for it to stop. I longed for Stick or evenFather. They could do something, anything, to make it stop. Stick might run over, lending his fists to Bucky’s defense. Father would know the right words, what to say that would help.
    But not me.
    I met Bucky’s gaze and he knew. He saw me standing there, saw that I wasn’t coming to his rescue, that he had been betrayed. I held his gaze, which was all I could manage to do. I read each moment, each thought that passed through him—when his mind was clouded with pain, when he found the strength to emit a silent plea for mercy. I knew the moment he gave up hoping. He could have looked away, could have shown anger at me for doing nothing. He didn’t. He just looked at me and, God bless Bucky, he smiled.
    Seeing that gentle smile, beneath all the blood and the sound of the beating, hit me hardest. Bucky closed his eyes. He didn’t move at all, but they poked him with their nightsticks and kicked him a few more times.
    Sirens wailed in the background, closing in with every whistle. Two squad cars fishtailed around the corner. The red lights flashed against the storefront windows.
    The cops finally stopped kicking Bucky, cuffed him, and hauled