“Yeah.” Luke looked down.
“That was part of our deal. I’ve kept my word.”
“What do you mean, Luke?” Travis asked, eager to intervene.
“I mean, I’m no killer.”
“Then who is?”
Higson laughed, and stepped back against the railing. “This is all becoming so complicated.”
“You?” Travis asked, incredulously. “But why?”
“I’ve told you. I wanted to go home. In addition to passing the research and military documents that were needed, I wanted to give them real proof of my commitment to the Party. Do you know what happened after the Negro Americans came to Berlin a couple of years ago for the Olympics and won all those medals?”
Higson waited, looking at Travis and Luke. “The führer was enraged with these Americans. And what better way to show my loyalty than to sacrifice a few of America’s equivalent to the Jews—the mongrel, the Negro. When my superiors found out what I had done, they were very pleased. The führer himself was said to have smiled. Of course, I sent the newspaper articles back as proof.”
“And Luke?” Travis asked.
“A desperate man, willing to risk his life for a better one for his family. The world is full of people who barter their lives, just in different ways. I met Luke in town one day, and I offered him a ride home. He told me so much about himself, and I knew his plight was not unlike that of a hundred others I have known. I understood his limitations, but also his vast hopelessness and what he would give up to create a better life for those closest to him. And I needed someone to accept responsibility for the murders, so the police would discontinue any investigation.” Higson shifted uncomfortably. “Elma, who never knew anything about our deal, would read him the accounts of the murders from the paper. That’s all he needed to know. And we decided that I would be an eyewitness to the final murder, to place him at the scene, so there would be no question as to who committed the crimes. For his cooperation, I promised to replace the chains of a plow for a prisoner’s chains, but freedom for his family. His life for the life of his wife and children. It was an easy decision for him given the alternative of sharecropping, which is really just another form of slavery for you Americans. You see, Travis, we are all chained in some way, all living in a state of incarceration.”
“Why were the victims killed in different ways?” Travis asked.
“Enough questions,” replied Higson abruptly. He rubbed his jaw with his free hand as he turned to face Luke. “And now here you are, Luke. Why?”
“People still think I killed all those men, even though they let me go. I can’t go back there. Folks will always look at Elma funny if I’m there, especially in church. She’s better off without me. Maybe I can go with you.”
“My dear man, after all this, the money just wasn’t enough. You want something else. Something I cannot give you. Why are you Americans so greedy?” Higson quickly slipped the revolver into his belt, and pulled out something shiny in its place. He tossed his cigarette into the water.
“Please,” Luke said stepping forward.
Higson’s motion was fluid, effortless. Travis didn’t even flinch as the assailant’s arm slashed twice at Luke’s throat. The large blade in Higson’s hand glinted in the moonlight, and Travis watched as Luke clutched his throat, blood seeping between his fingers. Luke’s unintelligible dying words gurgled out in gasps of escaping air. Luke tried to lean against Higson, but he stepped aside, and Luke fell over the railing into the water below. The splash was quiet, and Higson looked back as the body floated in the riverboat’s wake. He tossed the bloody knife into the water, then removed the revolver from his belt.
“For some people, nothing is ever enough.”
Travis shifted slowly in his chair so as not to startle Higson. “Does that not bother you?”
“What? Killing? Maybe a little. But it’s so simple. Some lives are worth less than others, Mr. Montgomery. Isn’t that the way things are in Mississippi? And if some lives of lesser value must be sacrificed for one of greater value, then logic dictates the course of action. Are you a man of science? I assume you are not. Maybe it is your immaturity. If you haven’t learned it already, some day this reasoning will become apparent to you. For now, though, we must decide what to do with you. It’ll be light in a few hours. Why don’t we take a walk to the rear of the ship?”
Travis didn’t move. Higson stepped into the half-light; Travis could see the revolver pointed at him.
Higson motioned with the weapon. “Get up.”
Travis noticed that the man’s voice had lost any hint of casual conversation. It was harsh now, angry and desperate.
Travis slowly rose from the chair and began to walk toward River Belle’s stern. Hannah’s suggestion had been the best one after all. The captain could have taken care of Higson already, and Travis and Hannah would be enjoying a free trip to Greenville. Instead, Travis was shuffling toward an uncertain future.
They approached the stern, and the roar of the engines grew. Now Travis knew why they were heading this way: the engine noise would conceal the gunshot and throwing his body overboard would be easier. He could imagine only three choices. He could jump the railing into the river, hope that Higson’s shot would miss, then swim to shore and alert the police. But that would leave Hannah on board, and Higson would look for her. Or he could stall and hope that someone would happen upon them, forcing Higson to either hide the gun or kill two people, which he would probably do. Or he could try to wrestle the gun away from Higson, and likely get shot in the process.
Travis glanced back at his captor. He was walking only a step and a half behind him, looking over Travis’s shoulder toward the stern. When Travis took a half step, Higson took a whole one. That put the revolver almost in Travis’s back. Travis turned quickly and with a sweeping motion knocked the revolver from Higson’s hand. It slid thirty feet across the deck and bounced against the base of the ship’s guardrail. Almost simultaneously, Travis swung wildly at Higson, but he was off-balance and missed. He figured he’d get another chance because the German was at least twice his age.
Before Travis could regain his balance, Higson opened his hand and clamped it around Travis’s throat. It was nothing like Travis had ever felt before.
“Yes, I am strong, Mr. Montgomery. I worked for several years in a coal mine. I used to win strength contests back in Germany. But I did not win because of my physical strength. No, it is anger and rage that win a fight.”
Travis reached up and with both hands tried to pry Higson’s grip loose. But he was not only overpowered; he was fearful of the inhuman strength in the man’s hands.
All at once, Higson let go of Travis’s neck and roughly threw him to the ground. Travis struggled in the direction of the revolver, but Higson stomped down on the outside of his knee. The knee bent unnaturally, and a pain shot up Travis’s leg. But he knew he must get to his feet if he wanted to live.
He hobbled up before his attacker could strike again, and this time Travis’s fist found its target: the bridge of Higson’s nose. The German staggered back a step, and blood streamed from both nostrils and cascaded down his lips, into his mouth, onto his teeth. Travis stood panting and watching while Higson wiped the blood with the back of his hand and studied it. A calmness appeared over him as he looked up at Travis.
“That’s the first time I have tasted my own blood since I was eleven or twelve years old. It brings back bad memories.”
Travis lunged for the gun, but his knee would not carry him fast enough. Higson was on him again. He grabbed Travis’s injured leg and dragged him back to the rearmost guardrail. Travis cried out, but it was useless. The engines were so loud they muffled all other noises near the stern. As Travis tried to get up, the man grabbed his throat again and lifted him, this time bending Travis back over the stern’s guardrail, Higson’s fingers digging into his neck. Travis felt the desperate man squeezing the life out of him.
He was transfixed by the soulless look
in Higson’s eyes. They were vacant. Unrepentant. Guiltless. His head became light; he was dizzy. Blood dripped onto Travis’s shirt, neck, and face as Higson leaned over him.
“After you are gone,” Higson said, “I will find your friend and kill her, too. It must be that way. You never should have followed me.”
Travis wasn’t concerned with his own death, but he was with Hannah’s. He knew he was responsible. Now, it was too late. Travis had no more air. He felt he was losing consciousness, but he also felt at peace. He knew that at some point you must resign yourself to die; this he had done in these last few minutes. But Hannah had not resigned herself. He prayed, and his last thoughts were of her. Involuntarily, his eyes closed.
Travis vaguely heard a series of shots. At first he wondered if he was dead. Then he realized he had just been unconscious.
Travis fell onto the ship’s deck. He rolled over and crouched on all fours, coughing and gasping for air. He knew a gun had been fired; the smell of burned gunpowder hung in the air. Travis looked to his left and saw Higson lying sprawled on his back, his legs and arms spread wide. Then, like he was moving in slow motion, Travis turned his head to the right. He squinted to make out a lone figure in the darkness. It was approaching him. Then it kneeled down next to him.
“Travis, are you all right?”
Travis couldn’t answer. He just nodded his head, and lay down.
Hannah sat down, crossed her legs, and gently pulled Travis’s head into her lap.
Travis reached up and felt for her hand. What he found was the warm barrel of his revolver. She had not let it go. He pried it from her hand and put it next to him. “I’m sorry, Hannah,” he said. His voice was raspy, his throat in pain.
“Sorry for what?” Her voice was calm and steady.
“Sorry that you had to do that.”
“Somebody had to. It just happened to be me.”
They said nothing for a few moments. Travis gradually caught his breath and spoke when he could. “What made you come outside?”
“I was sleeping where you left me when the legitimate occupants eventually returned. They weren’t happy to see me in their bed or their clothes. I left as quickly as I could. Instead of finding another room, I decided to get some fresh air up on deck, especially since it had stopped raining.”
“Good thing,” Travis said. “Good thing.”
Their state of suspended animation snapped when a crewman rounded the corner, whistling while he made his nightly rounds. He stopped and gasped loudly when he saw Hannah, Travis, and Higson.
“What’s going on?” he said.
Without moving, Travis answered. “That man lying there is Dr. Conrad Higson. He’s wanted by the FBI; they’re probably looking for him all over Mississippi.”
“Is he dead?”
“I believe so.”
“How did he die?”
“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.
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