Where Southern Cross the Dog (32 page)

“Hurry up.” Thompson clapped his hands together. “We're wasting time.”

Collins disappeared into the courthouse and emerged a few minutes later. The three men spoke by the vehicles until Tackett arrived with Montgomery right behind him.

Collins, Tackett, Montgomery, and two deputies loaded themselves into two different vehicles.

Mulevsky rolled his eyes and nudged Thompson.

“It's only one guy,” Thompson called out from his window.

“We want to be careful,” Tackett said, smiling.

“You know where you're going?” Thompson asked the sheriff.

Collins shot him a stare. He led the caravan of three law enforcement vehicles—the FBI agents' car sandwiched in the middle—through downtown and toward Higson's house.

Thompson looked ahead and saw a thin black plume of smoke rise above the shimmering horizon, which was already glowing with the risen sun. “Somebody's burning something over there.” He stepped on the gas and passed Collins.

“What're you doing, Bob?” Mulevsky said.

“I hope that's not what I think it is.” Thompson accelerated steadily.

Thompson turned sharply right, onto the road that led to the house. The glowing embers and wisps of smoke came clearly into view. Speeding down the drive, Thompson skidded a few yards from what remained of the front door.

He stepped out of the car, but climbed right back in, his arm raised to shield his face from the heat of the smoldering ashes. He backed the car up another twenty yards and got out a second time.

Without saying a word, he shook his head, laughed to himself, and leaned against the hood of his car. He lit a cigarette, offered one to Mulevsky, and watched while the charred remnants continued to be transformed into ash.

Mulevsky took the cue and climbed up on the hood. “What do you think happened?”

“I don't know. We could've gotten this guy weeks ago. And now we got nothing. Washington was dragging their feet and now they only have half of what they need.”

“Think he was inside?”

Just then, Collins pulled up and parked behind Thompson. The other Clarksdale police vehicle was parked at the entrance to the road leading to Higson's house to stop any curiosity seekers who were bound to come along as day broke.

“I thought you'd been keeping an eye on things,” Thompson said in a challenging tone when Collins and Tackett walked up.

Montgomery wandered past the two agents and closer to the ruined house.

“We were,” Collins said. “Now, maybe if you had called us a little sooner, we might've had him in custody.”

“Where do you think he went?” Montgomery asked.

“If anywhere,” Thompson said. “The S.O.B. might still be in there, because I'll bet that's his car.” Thompson flicked an ash in its direction.

Collins walked over and looked inside the car.

“We'll wait till this burns out,” added Thompson, “and then we'll see what's left. Right now, I'm going back to your office to call my boss. He's not gonna be happy. And neither will Washington.”

Collins had a pained look on his face.

Thompson threw his cigarette down and ground it into the dirt. “We'll see you guys back at the office.” He climbed into his car and slammed the door. Mulevsky followed.

“We'll be back shortly, Bob,” Collins said into the dust swirling around Thompson's open window as he drove away.

“Hey, Frank,” Montgomery called out.

Collins and the others turned.

“We got a body.”

The lowdown dirty deacon.

—Luke Jordan

CONRAD HIGSON SPENT THE NIGHT RESTING FITFULLY as he hid in a ditch. Soon after daybreak, he started his walk toward Helena, turning to thumb down a ride. But he had a single stop to make before going to the dock.

“Yeah, I can drop you near there,” the driver said in answer to Higson's stated destination.

Perched in the cab of the truck, the professor stared out the window thinking that this would be one of the last times he would have to look at a cotton field. He was sure he would miss them at some point in the future, but not right now.

An hour after they started, which included one twenty-minute stop to unload some flour at a country store, the driver let Higson out. There had been no roadblocks. No trouble.

“Thank you,” said the passenger. “Your kindness is appreciated.” He handed the driver some change for the ride, then grabbed his bags from the truck's bed.

“Much appreciated,” the man said.

Higson watched the truck drive away and then walked down a dirt road leading to a small cabin with a new set of porch steps tucked away behind a clump of trees. Coming to a stop, he watched while several children played in a large oak a couple of hundred yards away. He tried to recall his own last days of innocence. He could not.

A car was parked next to the house. Higson wondered if Elma had borrowed it from a neighbor.

He walked up the steps onto the porch and set his suitcase down near the front door. He kept a tight hold on his doctor's bag. Just as he was about to knock on the door, he heard Elma's voice coming from inside the house. She was pleading, crying.

Higson opened the door and looked into the kitchen. No one was there, but the voices were clearer. They were coming from the bedroom.

“Please, Reverend,” he heard. “Just go.”

Higson heard a slap, and a woman's voice cried out in pain followed by muffled sobs.

“I'll go when I'm good and ready,” a man's voice said. “Now take off that dress, or I'll take it off for you. We don't have much time.”

The professor stepped into the bedroom to see Reverend Coulter—stripped down to his undershirt, his pants unbuttoned—standing over the bed where Elma lay. There were drops of blood on the sheets and on one of Elma's hands, which she held over her face.

Reverend Coulter turned in surprise. “Who are you, and how dare you come into my house uninvited? You need to get the hell out.”

“What's going on, Elma?” asked the visitor, ignoring the pastor.

“I'm having a discussion with my wife.” His voice was louder now. “I told you to get outta my house. This is none of your business.”

“This isn't
your
house, and I think this
is
my business.” Higson observed a welt rising under one of Elma's eyes.

Coulter followed Higson's glance toward Elma, and then he looked back at the professor. “Mister, are you calling me a liar? If so, I suggest we have this conversation outside.”

Higson set his bag down in the doorway, and Coulter took a step toward him.

Coulter was thin and had to look up at the intruder. This didn't even seem fair.

“You'd better pick up that bag,” Coulter said. He took two more steps and was reaching for the bag when he rose up and swung a fist at Higson's head. The professor feinted to his left, then recovered and grabbed Coulter by the throat. His meaty hands gripped Coulter's neck tightly, and Higson spun him around and slammed the man's head against the wall.

“Did you enjoy what you were doing just now?”

Coulter couldn't speak.

“Who is this, Elma?”

“Our reverend.”

Higson sneered. “Look at her.” Coulter didn't respond. “Look at her, I said.” Coulter's eyes darted in her direction. “Are you proud of yourself,
Reverend
? I wonder where her husband is?”

Coulter gurgled.

“Do you know where Luke is, Elma?”

She shook her head.

“You know, my father beat my mother like that a few times. He was always drunk. You haven't been drinking, have you,
Reverend
?”

He sniffed Coulter's breath.

“You don't even have that excuse. Of course, my father would also beat us. Do you like to beat children? Look at this scar over my left eye.” Higson brushed his finger over it.

Coulter stared straight ahead.

Higson lifted Coulter's head, tilted it forward, and slammed it into the wall again to make sure he could see it.

“Do you see it?”

Coulter looked right at it.

“My father, he took his belt buckle, placed it in the palm of his hand, like so.” Higson pushed his palm under Coulter's nose. “And then he hit me three, four, five times. It's not so bad now. And I'm not sure how it healed so well. But even that really didn't hurt as much as the beatings he gave to my mother. He would lock me and my brothers and sisters in the closet, and we would sit in the dark, all together, holding each other, sometimes covering our ears so we couldn't hear. And then we would wait and listen to the yelling and the screaming, which eventually turned to shoving and punching. He would throw her around our small house, much like a doll, until she was either unconscious, or he passed out from his incessant drinking.”

Her rescuer turned and looked at Elma. She lay on her side, not moving. He relaxed his grip on Coulter throat. Coulter brought his own hands to his neck, gasping and choking. He tried to breathe deeply. Staggering, he took a step forward.

“Where are you going?” Higson snapped, bringing a knee into Coulter's stomach. Coulter went down to his knees, gripping his abdomen. “Reverend, you can't leave just yet. You haven't been punished for your sins. Are sinners not meant to suffer? To be punished?”

He hoisted Coulter onto the bed and positioned him facing Elma. He kneeled against the pastor's back to keep him in place. Then he removed his belt and wrapped it around Coulter's neck. “Is there anything you would like to say to Mrs. Williams? Anything about your sins?”

Coulter swallowed hard. His voice was hoarse and tears spilled from both eyes. “I've got the Devil in me, Elma,” he gasped. “I—”

“You don't sound very convincing, reverend. Besides, I'm in bit of a hurry and must be on my way.”

With a single, violent twist, Higson tightened the belt around the preacher's neck. Seconds ticked by while Coulter coughed and sputtered, trying to inhale, trying to swallow. His arms flailed, and the attacker readjusted his grip, cinching the belt tighter.

Higson watched Coulter's face turn from white to dark red. Coulter tried frantically to slip his fingers in between the belt and his throat. When he couldn't, he reached madly for Elma, but she sat frozen, just beyond his fingertips, staring at him through her swollen, discolored eyes. Slowly, Coulter's limbs stopped jerking and his body went limp, silent and still.

The professor held onto the belt and dragged the body to the front door. He dug into Coulter's pants pocket and found the keys to his car. He opened the front door and looked for the children. They must still be in the trees, or playing in the fields somewhere. He dragged the body down the steps and across the yard. He opened the car's trunk, loaded the body in, and slammed the lid shut.

Higson returned to the bedroom, picked up the bag he had brought, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Elma.”

She said nothing. She hadn't moved since he first began to tighten the belt around Coulter's neck.

“Can I get you a doctor?”

She mouthed no. She had no voice.

“He won't be bothering you anymore.” Higson looked at his watch. “But I cannot stay. I'll be taking the preacher's car, with him in it, of course. I hope that's okay.”

Her eyes looked into his. “Who are you?” Her voice was raspy and tired.

“An acquaintance of Luke's.”

“Luke never said—”

“This is for you.” He patted the side of the bag. “Open it when I'm gone.”

She looked at the bag. “Why?”

“For you and the children.”

“Why?” She couldn't say anything else.

Higson hesitated. “It's not important. I've got to go now. The reverend is waiting.” He smiled and gently moved strands of hair from her bloodied face. “Don't ever mention that he came here. They'll eventually find his body, but you never saw him. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

He placed a hand on her cheek. “Good-bye, Elma. Watch out for your children. They need their mother most of all.” Higson stood and walked to the bedroom door.

“Thank you,” Elma said.

He smiled at her and walked out.

Half an hour ticked by before Elma unbuckled the bag and pulled it toward her. It toppled over, and several neatly wrapped stacks of twenty-dollar bills tumbled onto the bed.

I got to ride this new highway.

—Sonny Boy Williamson

TRAVIS WAS READING AFTER HAVING EATEN LUNCH when the phone rang. His mother answered.

“Hello, Anita,” Margaret said. “No, I haven't heard of any fire. Whose house was it? Higson? The one from the trial?” Margaret laughed. “Slow down, Anita, you're speaking too fast.” She listened intently for a moment, her smile fading into a worried look. “I'll talk to Bill this afternoon. He'll know all about this. Yes, of course, I'll call you when I know.”

“What was that all about?” Travis asked.

Margaret hung up the phone. “Anita Thornton was rambling on about the FBI. Have you heard anything like that?”

“No. Did she say they were looking for Higson?”

“I don't think so.” She returned to dusting the dining room table. “She was difficult to understand.”

Travis got up from the table, put his lunch plate in the sink, and was tucking his shirt in at the front door when his mother walked into the foyer.

“Where are you headed?”

“I've got to run by the courthouse. I'll be back later.”

“Don't be late for dinner,” came her customary admonition.

“Yes, ma'am.” He opened the door and hurried out.

Thompson and Mulevsky were standing by their car in front of the courthouse when Travis walked up. He recognized Thompson from both the trial and the hallway outside the Records room in Jackson. Travis waited while Thompson finished his conversation on the two-way radio.