Where Southern Cross the Dog (9 page)

“Do you know who killed these men?” Collins said.

Luke let the cigarette hang from his lips while he ran his hands across the table.

“Let's everyone take a break,” Collins said. “Why don't you think about things, and we'll come back in ten minutes or so. Then we can talk some more.”

Collins and Montgomery stepped out, followed by everyone except the deputy, who stood behind Luke's right shoulder about four feet away from him.

Luke hummed an old gospel tune that had popped into his head and puffed on his cigarette without removing it from his mouth. He drew figure eights on the table oblivious to his surroundings until he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel behind his ear.

“Now, peckerwood, you listen up,” the deputy said quietly into Luke's ear. “You're wasting everybody's damn time, and I'm getting a little tired of it. I've been waiting thirty minutes for you to confess, and all we got is a bunch of stories. You better tell the sheriff what he wants to hear, or I'm gonna do a little killing myself.” The deputy pressed the barrel harder against Luke's head. “I'm just going to ask you this one time before they get back. And then you're going to repeat it for them.”

“What do you want to know?” Luke said out of the corner of his mouth.

The deputy stepped forward to Luke's right side so he could look him in the eyes. “Did you kill all those people or not?” he said.

“Weren't you listening?”

The deputy pulled the hammer back and the click reverberated off the walls in the empty room.

“You sure you want to do this?” Luke said.

At that instant, the door started to open, signaling the others' return. The deputy glanced up, inattentive for just a moment, and with a single move, Luke swept the revolver to the ground. The gun discharged and everyone turned away at the sound, not knowing where the bullet would lodge.

Then Luke grabbed the handcuffs and kicked over the table, putting it between him and the door. He was not a big man, but he had lean strength from years of fighting mules in cotton fields. As the deputy drew back a punch, Luke drove the handcuff's sharp edge into the deputy's head near his eye. Blood instantly gushed from the jagged gouge, and the deputy shouted in pain. He fell to his knees.

Luke grabbed the deputy's baton and reared back, but before he could strike the downed man again, Thompson tackled him and both men tumbled to the floor. Luke was quickly on his feet, standing back over the deputy raining one— two— three blows on him.

Another gunshot and the baton flew from Luke's hand, bouncing several times before coming to rest on the concrete floor. He grimaced but never cried out. The shooter, Dan Mulevsky, stared down the barrel at Luke. Peace quickly settled over the room as the smell of gunpowder filled the empty space.

Luke held his arm and watched the rivulets of blood start to trickle down his forearm. Thompson pushed him to one knee and kept his hand on his shoulder.

Collins helped the deputy to his feet and immediately applied a handkerchief to his reddened eye.

Montgomery checked the deputy's wound. “You'll be okay,” Montgomery said. “Let the hospital know we're coming,” he yelled toward the hallway, where a crowd was already gathering. Montgomery stepped over to Luke and inspected his arm. “Let's get something on it and head to the hospital.”

Thompson relayed a roll of gauze from someone in the hallway to Montgomery, who wrapped Luke's wound several times and tied it off. Once Luke was bandaged, Collins placed handcuffs on him.

“You going for number five?” Collins asked as he locked the cuffs around Luke's wrist.

“Another minute, and he'd been dead,” Luke said. “That's all I needed. Couple more good blows to the head.”

“Should we throw in an attempted murder charge?”

“Do what you want,” Luke said.

Collins held Luke's arm and started toward the door. Passing the deputy who had put the gun to his head, Luke spat at his feet. “Yeah, I killed 'em. But I wish it was you.”

“Killed who?” Collins asked.

“While you were out of the room, I asked him if he really killed all those people,” the deputy said.

“Looks like we got a confession,” Collins said.

Across the street by a large oak, two men watched Luke being led from the jail to an awaiting car.

“What do you think, Ned?” the taller one said, a matchstick between his lips.

“I don't know,” Ned said, “but what I do know is Luke's no criminal.”

“Not at all,” came the reply.

“And if the law can't figure that out, then maybe they're going to need a little help.”

Ned's partner looked over at him satisfied. “I been waiting for something like this. It's about time we took back this town. When do you think?”

“Soon,” Ned said. “Soon.” Ned started to walk away, but stopped and turned. “Come on, Bo, let's head out.”

Bo watched as the car Luke was in neared. Just as it passed he made eye contact with Luke and winked. “Don't worry. It won't be long.”

By the morning of the next day, Tackett was amused at the stories sweeping the town. A number of people had heard on good authority that he and the deputy had been killed, even though he wasn't there. That explained the strange looks he got on the way to work. What wasn't gossip or exaggeration was that Luke Williams, sharecropper and killer, was Coahoma County's most infamous resident. It was Tackett's job to ensure that justice prevailed—even if that meant jailing a white man for something that wasn't often considered a crime in Mississippi.

Tackett removed two books from the case behind his desk. He skimmed the pages looking through old cases and murder convictions. With a confession, all that remained was to figure out a possible sentence that he could recommend to the judge. Then he could put all this behind him.

Elma Williams placed a dirty pan in the sink and then went to answer the door for the fourth time this morning.

“Hello, Elma, how are you today?” a faintly familiar voice asked.

“Anita?” Elma said. “Anita Thornton?” Although the woman attended the same church that Luke and Elma did, she lived several miles away. Elma had met her only once.

“That's right,” the woman said brightly. “And I know we haven't spoken much lately, but I heard about your predicament, and I wanted to bring you a few things. Is that all right?”

“Of course, that would certainly be appreciated.”

Anita turned back to the truck parked in front of the house. “Boys, bring in those boxes,” she called.

Two thin, tousled-haired boys emerged from the truck, unloaded one box each, and carried them onto Elma's porch. Then they went back and got two more. All four were filled with food and clothing.

Elma stared down at the boxes. “Anita, this is just so much,” she said, shaking her head. “I can't take all this from you. What'll you have left for yourself and your kids?”

“Don't you worry about that. I've still got a man at home. He'll provide for us. Has anyone else been by?”

“Oh gosh, yes. More than I can count.”

“Well, people know how it is when something happens to your husband. Either he gets killed or runs off. Or runs off and then gets killed.” She laughed and touched Elma's arm. “And while Luke isn't dead or gone very far, you're still without a husband. What about the preacher?”

“Yes, he's come by a coupla times.”

“I know he keeps part of the collection every week for times like these, so don't feel bad about accepting what he offers you.”

“And he said a prayer with the family.”

“Prayers are what you and Luke need right now. The reverend's right: if you say your prayers, everything will work out just fine.”

“I'm sure you're right.”

“Well, I better be going,” Anita said as she patted Elma's shoulder. “Hank'll be coming in from the fields soon, and he'll wonder where I am.”

“Anita,” Elma said, dazed, “thank you again for being so generous. I don't know how I'll repay you.”

“Don't have to.” Anita smiled. “That's what neighbors are for.”

As Elma watched Anita drive off, her children started rummaging through the boxes, which contained an assortment of canned food, clothes, and some candy.

This generosity, along with help around the farm, even a little spending money—it was all so much. She had never seen such
abundance. She loved her husband, still did, and she didn't want to feel better without him. But she couldn't help it.

A few days later, one of the guards stopped by Luke's cell.

“Hey, Luke,” he said.

“What is it now?”

“Your preacher came by. Told me to give you a message.”

“You mean my wife's preacher.”

“I guess.”

“What'd he say?”

“He said you shouldn't worry about Mrs. Williams. The neighbors were helping her quite a bit with food and clothes and all.”

“What about my crops?”

“Your neighbors got that taken care of, too. Shoot, they're not even going to miss you.” The guard walked away grinning.

Luke lay back on his bed. He felt better about what he had done. Everything would be okay.

Down in the levee.

—Lucille Bogan

TRAVIS WOKE UP EARLY ON SATURDAY AND BUSIED himself around the house for most of the morning. He helped his dad in the yard and pulled weeds from his mother's vegetable garden.

By five o'clock, though, Travis was antsy. He wanted to get going, but he didn't want to arrive at Hannah's picnic too early and appear overly eager—especially since he wasn't sure who would be attending the event. Just her friends, or Hannah's parents too? What he did know was that he couldn't wait to see her again.

Travis dressed nicely, though not in a suit, and combed his hair neatly. His father had agreed two days earlier to let Travis borrow the family car. At exactly 5:50, Travis announced that he would be leaving for the evening.

Opening the screen door, Rachel called with elaborate indifference, “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Travis said.

“Who are you going with?”

“Maybe Petey and Max,” he said, mentioning two of his friends whom Rachel knew but not well enough to contact.

“And when are you coming home?”

“Good-bye, Mama,” Travis called out, past his sister, as he was closing the door.

Travis took the long way out to the old Stuart plantation. Most of its acreage had long since been broken into smaller plots of land and sold off to whomever could afford them. Now, the old Stuart house was surrounded by only about a hundred acres, and shabby homes dotted the surrounding landscape. Bad management and greedy family members had reduced a sizable fortune and business to a run-down house with a scrawny patch of cotton in its formerly lush front yard.

Travis drove around the plantation for awhile searching for the gathering. Eventually, he stopped to ask for directions.

“Excuse me,” he said to a man tending a garden in front of a little house.

The man turned and looked at Travis.

“I'm looking for the Morgan family gathering,” Travis said.

“Oh, that's probably at the old Stuart church,” the man said.

“Where is that?”

“You're almost there. Just keep going that way until you get to a crossing. Turn left and go about half a mile. There will be a little dirt road on your right. You can barely see it, just two ruts for your tires on a little path. Go down that path ‘til you see the levee.”

“The levee?”

“Don't worry, it's the old one. Hasn't been used for twenty years. The church is right next to it.”

Travis thanked the man and followed his directions. Before long, he pulled up to the front of the church, where two other cars, a truck, and several buggies were parked in the sparse shade. The horses had been unhitched and were tied to posts at the side of the church.

Travis stepped out of the car and looked uncertainly toward the group gathered under a cluster of trees about fifty yards from the church. Nobody had seen him pull in, but when he emerged from his car several people turned and stared. His first fear was that Hannah had neglected to ask her father if it was all right for him to attend; his second was that she hadn't arrived yet. Both of these fears tempted him to get back in the car.

Of the thirty or forty people at the gathering, half of them were under the age of ten. He heard one of the adults shout out, “Do that over there, not around the tables,” as a group of squealing, laughing children chased each other.

Just as he stepped away from his car toward the picnic he saw Hannah wave and motion him forward. Travis breathed a sigh of relief. He picked up his pace, and she met him halfway.

“Hi, Travis, I'm glad you could make it,” she said, lightly touching his arm, the sweetness of her voice and the softness of her smile immediately putting Travis at ease.

“You forgot to tell me about the church,” he said, his tone somewhere between teasing and accusing. “Was that intentional?”

“Did I? Oh, well, I knew you'd find it all right.”

They walked toward the crowd. “Does your family know I was invited to the picnic?” Travis asked.

“Of course. My father hesitated at first, but then he remembered you from Mr. Hollingsworth's. You remember my father, don't you?”

“Yes, but it was a very short visit.”

“He remembered you.”

Travis wasn't sure what that meant.

“And there wasn't a problem with—”

“You being white? No. Remember, we lived in Philadelphia for a while. Some things are different north of the Mason-Dixon.”

“I still feel a little out of place.”

“Feeling black, are you?”

Travis had to laugh.