Where Southern Cross the Dog (25 page)

“Yes, your honor.” Charlie glanced at the jury and smiled. A snippet of doubt.

Bob tugged on Dan's shirt. “We've got a long drive.”

“I guess we know who Higson is now,” Dan said as the two agents hurried down the stairs and out the side door they had entered earlier. “Should we call Russ?”

“I don't know,” Bob said. “He thinks I'm hunting and you're sick. What would we tell him? Higson testified in a murder trial. No law against that. And what good would come of it? We can't do anything with what we saw today. Just by coming to the trial we've taken a risk that we'd spook the guy. We're not telling Russ. Not now. He can find out that Higson testified by talking to Collins or Tackett.”

By now they were in the car. Dan started the engine.

“We'll just keep it to ourselves, then,” Dan agreed. “Maybe it'll come in handy some time.”

Ned rolled a penny back and forth between the fingers of his right hand, looking up every once in a while over the steering wheel at the courthouse door. Bo sat beside him in the passenger's seat, similarly dressed in dirty overalls, staring into the distance.

“What do you think Luke run for?” Bo said, shifting his stare to Ned's penny.

“I don't know,” Ned said. “Maybe he got scared, missed his family. Could have been anything. But I know he still needs our help. He just hadn't figured that out yet.”

“I bet you're right.”

Shortly after noon, the courthouse doors opened and people spilled onto the steps.

“Are we getting out?” Bo asked.

“No,” Ned said. “Stay put.” Ned spied a boy of about nine crossing directly in front of the car. The adults he had emerged from the courthouse with remained near the door talking, ignoring him. “Hey, boy,” Ned called out his window, his sneer and rough manner unchecked.

The boy looked suspiciously at Ned.

“You might think about running, but I wouldn't. 'Cause I'll catch you, then I'll whoop you.”

The boy didn't move.

Ned slowly lowered his left hand out of the car. “Come here. I got something for you.”

The boy craned his neck slightly to get a glimpse of what Ned was holding in his palm.

“Come on, boy. You're wasting my time.”

The boy took one step, then another, till he stood next to the driver's side window.

“That wasn't hard, was it?” Ned said.

The boy shook his head.

“You in the trial this mornin'?”

“Yessuh,” the boy said. He couldn't take his eye off the shiny nickel nestled in Ned's palm.

“You listen real close today?”

“Yessuh.”

Ned's stare bored into him but the boy's gaze never wavered from the nickel.

“Who testified today?”

“Some doctor. He's a real smart man.”

“What was his name?”

The boy beamed. “Higson. Doctor Higson.”

Ned glanced over at Bo briefly. “What'd he say? You remember what he talked about?”

The boy narrowed his eyes, straining to recollect the testimony. “I don't remember everything.”

“Well, you better try, or you ain't gonna get this nickel.”

The boy was silent for a minute or so then he beamed again more radiantly than before. “He said he saw a man kill another man.”

“Yeah, who done the killin'?”

“He said the man settin' down front killed a man.”

“Down front in the courtroom? You mean Luke Williams?”

“Yessuh, that's his name. Mr. Williams done the killin'.”

Bo slammed his fist against the dashboard. “That S.O.B.—.”

The boy took a step back.

“You sure that's what the doctor said?” Ned asked.

“Yessuh. Positive.”

“Don't be afraid, boy. You done good. Here, I'm gonna give you something.”

Slowly, the boy extended his hand, and Ned dropped a coin into it. Then he started the car and pulled away. In his rearview mirror, he watched the boy look into his open palm then scowl at the car as he lifted but a penny from it.

A few miles later, Bo spoke up. “That was the wrong thing for Higson to say, wasn't it?”

“Yeah, he's not as smart as I thought he was.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“Only thing we can do.”

Bo beamed. Just like the little boy had done when he first spied the shiny nickel.

I laid my cards on the table.

—Washboard Sam

JUST OUTSIDE THE COURTROOM, TRAVIS AND HIS DAD stopped and leaned against the wall.

“I'm gonna take the car,” Travis said, “and get some lunch. Maybe stop by the house. Anything you want me to pick up?”

“No. Just have the car back by two.”

Travis knew he had to hurry. Once he got into the car, he pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket to check the address. He headed southeast, and a few miles later he drove past an isolated strip of dirt road that led to the house he was looking for. He drove by slowly, glancing to his right at the house and looking for any movement or signs of habitation. But the house was set so far back from the road that he could barely see anything. One thing he did notice—no vehicle.

He turned the car around, and headed down the long, narrow driveway that led to the house. He bounced along the fractured dirt road strewn with sizable stones and drove behind the house so his car wasn't visible from the main road.

The house was one story, set up unusually high, and it was adorned with white shutters. There was a small porch that stretched across the front of the house. The front yard was vacant, and the door and windows were shut. There wasn't a trace of any living thing except for a droopy philodendron in the window to the left of the door. All was still, quiet. Travis got out and stood looking around at the property. He scanned the fields that butted up against the backyard. In the distance, the cotton stalks were bare, but the fields nearest the house were fallow. He could tell someone was living there, but they obviously weren't farmers. Not enough equipment, and the fields were barren. He walked to the backdoor, peered inside, and tried the knob. Locked.

A faint sound distracted him. As he held his breath to listen more closely, it grew into something he had hoped he wouldn't hear: the rumble of an engine and the crunch of tires turning onto a gravel road. He scurried over to the side of the house and peeked around the corner. A car filled the narrow lane, a fat tail of dust billowing behind it.

Before he could even think of what to do, Travis heard the engine shut off and a car door slam, followed by the sound of a rickety screen door closing. He stood, frozen, suddenly drenched in sweat. Seconds turned to what seemed minutes. He thought about jumping into his car and driving off, but the owner would either catch him or call the police. Finally, Travis dared to move, and he walked deliberately to his car. Before opening the door, he looked up at a window above his head. He saw a shadow of quick movement, and then the curtains parted.

Slowly a face came into view, blurry at first. It emerged from the dark backdrop in the house, and then, clearer, its features—its skin
even—tight with a fury. Travis looked directly into the occupant's eyes.

Travis recognized him immediately as Conrad Higson. The professor disappeared, and then the back door opened abruptly and he reappeared. He walked toward Travis, who stepped away from his car and turned to face the older man.

“May I assist you, young man?” Higson said, extending his hand. “You do know you're on private property?” He wasn't as agitated as Travis expected him to be.

“Yes, sir, I'm aware of that,” Travis said, shaking Higson's hand. “My name is Travis Montgomery, and I'm with the county.”

Higson offered no name. “With the county? Oh, well, what are you doing on my property?”

“We're getting ready to start reevaluating the property lines, plots, and acreages in the area, and I'm helping with the initial assessment. Getting addresses, verifying whether folks are the owners or tenants, and letting them know we'll be out again so they're not alarmed when they see us next time.”

“Do you usually do that without taking any notes?” Higson looked at him curiously.

Travis, without a pencil or notebook, tried to appear unfazed. “It's just preliminary today. I'll come out again in a few weeks, take some measurements, and record my findings.”

Higson didn't look convinced.

“And what do you do, Mister—?” Travis asked, trying to sound inconsequential.

“You should know that already. Weren't you at the trial today?”

Travis fumbled for an answer when he realized Higson had recognized him. Fortunately, the professor didn't wait for one.

“I'm Dr. Conrad Higson, and I conduct farm research for the government. Every once in a while, I'll do some work for the state.”

“Well, sir, that's something we definitely need. It must keep you very busy.”

“Yes, you're right, it does. But shouldn't you have been working today instead of spending your time at the trial?”

“Probably. But everyone is following the trial closely, and I thought I'd stop by and see if anything interesting was going on.”

“And was there?”

Travis didn't hesitate. “Yes, sir.”

Higson offered to show him around the property so Travis could complete his preliminary evaluation. When they returned to Travis's car, the professor politely asked, “Did you get everything you needed?”

“Yes, sir, I did for now. There are no additional structures on the property, and the property lines look very similar to the ones on the map in my office. I'll come back next week and finish up. And I'll bring my notepad and the maps.” Travis knew he didn't sound convincing. “Well, sir, I've got to finish my visits.”

Higson grinned. “Maybe you can park in front next time,” he said, extending his hand. They shook briefly, the older man squeezing a little too tight. “And don't forget to tell your father ‘Hello' for me.”

“Yes, sir.” He drove back down the narrow lane, glancing often into his rearview mirror. Higson stood immobile in the yard.

Shortly before nine o'clock that night, the phone rang.

“I'll get it,” Travis said, rushing to pick it up before anyone else in the house did. “Hello.”

“Travis, it's Hannah.”

“It's getting a little late for a call.”

“I know, but I tried looking for you today and calling you down at the courthouse.”

“Why? Is something the matter?”

“Well, I received some interesting news today. You were in court this morning, weren't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you listen to the testimony?”

“Sure. I was there the whole time.”

“I think I solved one of your little mysteries.”

“Oh, really?” He shifted the phone to his other ear and grabbed a pencil. “What's that?”

“I was talking to someone today who had been at the trial, and I asked what happened and how it went. And you know what they said?”

Travis was silent.

“They said, ‘The tinker testified.'”

“And I said, ‘The tinker?'”

“‘Yeah, the tinker, the guy that's building the machine. The fiddler.'”

“Did he say anything about the testimony?”

“Don't you understand?” Hannah asked. “Higson is known as the fiddler because he tinkers with all those machines. He fiddles, the fiddler. What you heard at the church was somebody mispronouncing it. Fiddler, Fid'la. Get it?”

“Yeah,” Travis said. “F, not V. Yeah, I get it.”

“Isn't this good news?”

Travis was silent again.

“What's wrong?”

“I went out to that house today. The address we found in the file.”

“Oh, what happened?”

“Higson caught me snooping around.”

“Higson lives there? What'd you do?”

“Tried to lie my way out of it.”

“Do you think he suspects anything?”

“I don't know. I told him I'd be back next week to finish the work. But I was nervous, and he could tell.”

“I'm sure it's okay. Anyway, that's my news.”

“I'm glad you called, thanks.” Travis hung up before she could say anything else.

He stood with his hand on the phone, his mind zeroing in on the evening at the church and the whispers of a man he never saw. “People say he ain't doin' right” rang again and again in Travis's head.

Lord, grief will kill you.

—Charlie Doyle

BY THE TIME TRAVIS HEARD THE PHONE, IT HAD already rung three times. He sat up in bed, turned on a light, and squinted at his watch. It was well past midnight.

He heard his dad walk downstairs to answer the phone. Travis could hear his muffled voice. Then it stopped, and he walked back upstairs. He stopped at Travis's door and knocked.

“Phone's for you, son.”

“Who is it?” Travis asked, now wide-awake.

“Hannah Morgan,” his dad said gravely.

Travis leaped out of bed and hurried downstairs.

“Hannah?”

He listened but no one spoke. “Hannah? Hannah?”

Finally, she spoke. “Travis it's me.” Her voice sounded strained and unsteady, as if she'd been crying.

“I know,” he said in a soothing voice. “What's going on?”

“Travis, I'm sorry to call this late, but I need your help.”

“Sure, sure. Anything.”

“It's Gami. She's been feeling ill all day, and now she's in bed but can't sleep. We've been with her the entire time. We're not sure what to do for her.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“She needs a doctor. But she won't see ours, the one we go to. She wants one of yours.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes, she's never liked our doctor. She might be sick, but she's still stubborn.”