Where Southern Cross the Dog (38 page)

“I shot him,” Hannah said.

Travis looked up at her. “I could have told him I did it.”

“It's a little late now.”

The crewman turned and ran. “Wait here,” he called back over his shoulder.

“We're in a mess now,” Travis said.

“And we weren't a little while ago?”

Travis and Hannah watched the paddle wheeler's wake for just a minute before a swarm of people arrived and surrounded them and Higson's body.

Travis was escorted to the cabin of the ship's doctor, who examined the young man's neck and knee. Travis's neck was severely bruised, the marks where Higson's fingers had been wrapped around it an angry bluish red. Travis's knee was sore and swollen; it would need to be more thoroughly examined once the
River Belle
docked. Travis was released with some aspirin and told to rest.

Meanwhile, Higson's body was taken to the ship's morgue, where it was prepared for off-loading in Greenville, the next stop.

The ship's captain questioned Hannah and Travis for an hour. Calls were made from the bridge, and the captain confirmed Higson's identity and his “wanted” status. Travis also told the captain of Luke's fate.

“We're going to keep this quiet until we get to Greenville,” the captain said. “If we don't, you'll never get any rest, and neither will we.”

“Sounds good to us, Captain,” said Travis.

“And we notified the sheriff's office in Clarksdale, and the FBI in Jackson. They'll be waiting in Greenville.”

Finally, Travis and Hannah were taken to a pair of small rooms—not the crew's quarters. Hannah observed dryly that they weren't the luxury staterooms either. They said their good nights, although it was almost morning, and each slept for several hours.

When they awoke, the captain arranged for Travis to be given a shirt with a high collar, which he buttoned completely to hide his bruises. A suitable dress was found for Hannah to wear so she no longer had to masquerade as one of the ship's employees.

Rumors of the night's events spread quickly among the riverboat's passengers, who talked incessantly about the shooting and the victim—who he was and what he had done. But only a few people knew the details, and those crew members remained silent.

The captain had been discreet: no one knew that Travis or Hannah had been involved. Not able to spend time together in public places, they ate breakfast and lunch in the back of the kitchen, played a few card games in a room adjacent to the captain's, and debated what would happen when they docked.

It was early afternoon, about twelve hours since Higson's demise, when the announcement came: the
River Belle
would be landing in Greenville within two hours. At 3:45 p.m., the big ship's engines slowed, and the captain steered her toward the dock in Greenville. Fifteen minutes later the riverboat was tied up and her passengers were disembarking.

Travis and Hannah watched from inside, near the bow, and saw the large collection of police and FBI vehicles waiting for them and the “special cargo” in storage. They could see Sheriff Collins, the FBI agents, Travis's father, mother, and sister, and Hannah's parents.

“That's quite a welcoming party,” Travis said.

“Maybe we could just keep going all the way to New Orleans.”

“Not today, I don't think.”

They watched while Higson's body was carried on a stretcher down the gangplank and then placed in a waiting ambulance. One of the agents got into the truck and briefly inspected the body. He got out, apparently satisfied, closed the door, and signaled for Higson to be whisked away to Clarksdale's morgue.

Travis turned to Hannah when the last passenger had walked down the gangplank. “Are you ready?”

“Let's get it over with.”

Travis took her hand, and they walked down from the upper deck and started their descent. When they approached the dock, the crowd began to converge at the end of the ramp. Travis saw Lewis Murphree and a couple of other men, notepads and pencils in hand. They must also be reporters was Travis's first thought. I'll give Lewis a story later he'll never forget. Murphree and the other reporters were pushed back from the gangplank by one of the deputies.

At the end of the ramp stood Sheriff Collins. Even though he was outside his jurisdiction, the sheriff's icy glare, intimidating posture, and hands stuck firmly in his belt all testified that he was in charge.

Travis's hand went to his neck; he unbuttoned his collar, wanting everyone to see exactly what had happened to him. By now, his neck had deepened into a continuous purple bruise that could have come from only one thing.

They hadn't reached the bottom of the ramp when Margaret Montgomery pushed past Sheriff Collins and threw her arms around both Travis and Hannah. She squeezed them tightly and kissed Travis on the cheek. Then she turned to Hannah, kissed her cheek, and whispered in her ear, “Thank you, dear.”

Now Travis knew their story was out, that Hannah had saved his life. The tale would be told again and again for years to come, because things like this just didn't happen in the Delta.

Mr. and Mrs. Morgan rushed forward as well and hugged Hannah, pulling her away from the crowd and toward their car, albeit one borrowed from a neighbor since theirs was still at the cabin. Her father looked relieved, but not very happy. Travis made a mental note to retrieve Mr. Morgan's car the next day.

Travis watched as Sheriff Collins approached Mr. Morgan and said something while motioning toward Hannah. Then he watched Hannah wave to someone else in the crowd. He spied his sister waving mightily in Hannah's direction. They would talk later.

Mr. Morgan opened the car doors for his brood, and then they were gone.

Meanwhile, Bill Montgomery put his hand on Travis's shoulder. “I'm not even sure what to ask first, son.”

Travis shrugged his shoulders.

His father gave him a look that said the price they had almost paid was too high. Then he stepped forward and hugged his son. “I'm glad you're all right, but stealing Hannah's father's car? Along with Hannah? He was very upset. Took your mother to calm him down.”

“Borrowed, Dad.”

Rachel reached up and gave him a hug. “I guess I'm glad, too.”

Murphree and several other reporters from other towns were shouting out questions above all the commotion, but Collins hushed them and said they weren't getting any information until he had time to speak with both Travis and Hannah.

“Travis,” Collins said, “I want you down at my office at nine tomorrow morning. I want to hear your story along with Hannah's.”

Travis acknowledged him with a simple, “Yes, sir.”

Sam Tackett came over to shake Travis's hand and inspect his bruises. He suggested to Bill and Margaret that Travis get checked by a doctor on the way home. They couldn't have agreed more.

“We'll see you tomorrow morning, Travis,” the district attorney said. “Try to get some rest.”

The crowd started to break up when everyone realized they weren't going to hear any more about the wild tale that day. Travis was glad; for once, he couldn't wait to get home. He recognized Bob Thompson speaking to Collins about the next morning's meeting. He was close enough to eavesdrop.

“We'll be by about eight-thirty,” Thompson said. “Russ will drive up with us and fill you in on what happened in Washington. We have a few questions ourselves. They could have some details that are important to the investigation. As far as Higson is concerned, not much left to talk about. We still have people in custody in Washington, and I'm sure the German embassy will be getting a visit from our folks up there.”

Thompson and Collins parted ways. Travis was vindicated. He had done the right thing. But he also knew there was still a price to be paid—for borrowing Mr. Morgan's car without permission, for turning Hannah's uncle's boat into a pile of floating wood and putting the motor at the bottom of the Mississippi, and for almost getting himself and Hannah killed. A price to be paid.

On the way to their car, Travis's mother suggested a special meal to celebrate his safe return.

“Can we start with a julep?” Travis said.

“Oh, I suppose.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. Still Mama's favorite—a Southern son. He'd never relinquish that title. Nor could he.

Going to leave this southern town.

—Charley Jackson

CAPTAIN JOHANN KESSLER AND HIS FIRST MATE, Neumann, were ashore in Vicksburg doing what they always did when they arrived in a new city: they found the most interesting bar close to the dock and went in. First, they would order what the bartender recommended, and then they would choose for themselves. The only problem was that Mississippi was still under Prohibition. They'd have to find someplace that had relaxed its interpretation of the law. That was usually pretty easy.

The sign hanging above the door of the third establishment they came to read, “Dockside Dave's.” Kessler and Neumann figured that was interesting enough. They walked inside and took two seats at the bar.

“What'll you have?” asked the bartender, looking at Kessler. A well-groomed, slender man with dark black hair, the bartender could easily have worked in a bank.

“Anything local?”

“Nothing that I can sell legally.”

“You decide.”

The bartender eyed them suspiciously, but Kessler's accent told him they weren't agents looking to enforce the law. “And you?” the bartender said to Neumann.

“The same.”

“Thanks,” Kessler said, after the bartender placed the drinks in front of them.

“My name's Rick when you're ready for another.”

The interior of Dockside Dave's looked like a hundred other bars he and Neumann had frequented during their travels around the world. Peeling paint on the walls, tables scarred from cigarettes left unattended, faded watercolors of seafaring men and ships hanging crooked on the walls, and the ever-present haze generated by chain-smoking patrons. They felt right at home.

“Do you think he made the boat?” Neumann said.

“I don't know. We'll see soon enough.”

“And if he's not on it?”

“Then let's hope he can make it to New Orleans. But we won't wait long.”

“What about those men we talked to? Do you think they'll keep an eye out for him?”

“Maybe. They know there's a reward for the first person who leads us to him. Or him to us. It's to our advantage that Vicksburg is a small town with a small wharf. He will be easy to find.”

In the corner behind the bar, a radio with the volume turned low played popular tunes that some customers tapped their feet to and others appeared not to hear at all. Twice an hour, the music stopped for five minutes and the national and local news was read.

Kessler and Neumann savored their beer, talking idly about what they would do when they arrived home. Neumann planned to visit Munich, where his sister was getting married, and Kessler had promised his wife a short trip to Switzerland.

When the news had been read the first time they missed it, not because of their conversation, but because the bartender had turned the volume down before it started. He was in the back taking a delivery when the news was broadcast a second time.

Kessler's ears perked up. He thought he recognized a name. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Neumann said, straining to listen.

Kessler rose from his chair and walked around behind the bar. He turned up the volume.

“Hey, turn it down!” someone said from the back of the bar. “We don't want to hear any of that.” The man was slurring his words.

“One moment, please,” Kessler said.

“I said turn it down,” the voice said.

“Wait a minute!”

The edge and sound of his voice startled Neumann. No one else said a word. Only the radio could be heard.

“I repeat, Conrad Higson, a noted agricultural scientist in Mississippi, has been found dead aboard the
River Belle
, a passenger ship based out of Helena, Arkansas. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had been conducting a massive manhunt up and down the Delta for the suspected spy. We will bring you more information as it becomes available.”

Kessler turned the radio down and returned to his seat. He finished his drink and put some money on the bar. “If we don't get out of here, they'll be looking for us. Let's go.”

Neumann took his last swallow of American beer then followed Kessler out the door.

My baby's gone.

—Tampa Red

AFTER A FEW DAYS, THE DOCK ATTENDANT IN HELENA called the local police about a vehicle in the parking lot that had an odd odor coming from it. A heavy-set police officer pried open the trunk, then covered his face as Reverend Coulter's rotting corpse was exposed to the daylight. He sent the body to Clarksdale for identification and burial.

An editorial in the paper by Emmett Wilson pondered Coulter's tragic meeting with Conrad Higson on that fateful fall day. A moment in time that might have been avoided had the reverend needed to perform a baptism, wedding, or have an extended conversation with a grieving mother. “But the Lord has a plan,” Wilson wrote.

Coulter's wife, children, and many of his parishioners attended the three-hour funeral. Long sermons extolled his wisdom, his compassion
for the downtrodden, and his tenacious faith in the Lord, his Savior. Rivers of tears flowed that day, but none came from Elma Williams. On the other side of town, she was shedding hers for Luke.

After his body had washed up on shore and had been recovered, the church immediately offered to place Luke right next to Reverend Coulter.

“Oh, no thank you,” Elma said. “Luke didn't go to church that much. We'd just as soon have him in the backyard as in the cemetery.” Even if Luke was buried next to the reverend, she knew they wouldn't be seeing much of each other in the afterlife. They had different makers.