Davis moved into the light, the knife low, but pointing upward in his fist. Henson rushed him, and their blades hacked at the other as if they were using broadswords. The shipping magnate twisted in such a way that Henson next jab at him went past and Davis sliced at his shoulder, drawing blood again. The other man moved away instinctively, keeping his hunting knife poised to prevent Davis from charging him. He, too, collided with cargo, and dove away as Davis lunged. The end of his blade sunk into one of the crates. As he pulled it free, Henson pressed his brief opening and nicked Davis’ side. Davis made a defensive slash and Henson had to sidestep out of range.
Both men were breathing through their mouths as they circled one another in the center of the hold. They leaned in, jabbing and slashing, neither gaining an advantage over the other. Each was bleeding, and both knew they couldn’t let their guard down. Davis lunged and Henson defended. But rather than backpedal or duck aside, he came at the thrust, his forearm in swift motion under the knife hand, knocking it aside with his forearm. In a blink, Davis’ midsection was exposed, and with a grunt, Henson, seeing the other movements slow down as if viewed through thick amber, his own mind empty of anything but being, drove his knife underhanded into the area just below the curve of Davis’ rib cage.
Davis’ eyes saucered and he staggered. This time, when he collided with an assortment of crates, he remained still. He looked down at his fatal wound and then at Henson. The explorer’s mouth was set in a line, the bloody knife in his hand.
“Davis…I,” he began.
“Seems you have the better of me, Mr. Henson.” Red spittle foamed on his lips.
Henson wasn’t sure what he felt.
Davis, hand to his wound, walked a few steps toward his vanquisher. Blood was slick on the skin of his hand and soaked the front of his shirt. He put a hand to his throat and plucked loose a thin chain around it. “This is yours, now.”
Henson frowned at the oblong medallion on the end of the chain.
“It’s Diana, goddess of the hunt,” he said, holding the keepsake before him, then it dropped from his slick hand. “As it should be,” Davis muttered, weaving on his feet. He did a half-turn and began walking as if to leave the hold. But he only got a few feet then wilted to the floor, his ankle tucked behind the other like an exhausted dancer who’d come to the end of his strenuous workout. He lay on his back, his vacant eyes looking up out of the hold into the cold night air.
Henson wiped his fingerprints off every surface he could think of in the hold including the rungs. He finished. He’d just killed one of the wealthiest white men in the world and the police would be all over this ship looking for clues. He didn’t think Davis though, who had no immediate family, could come after him from the grave. But there were the others who sat with him on that Medusa Council Tesla had called it, as well as Davis’ relationships with various shareholders in various enterprises. Some of them, if they figured it out who had killed him, may not see this as the fair fight it had been.
Well, fuck ‘em, Henson concluded, as he picked up the medallion. If this was the deed that the white world would recognize him for, having mostly ignored his accomplishments as an explorer and later as a kind of daredevil for hire, well then, so be it. He would hold his head up high as they marched him to the gallows. He was his own man and damned if he had to exist in anyone’s shadow.
Back up top, he looked about the hulk of the darkened freighter, its crane masts in blacker relief against the dark. Not too far away there was light and activity on another cargo ship, but it didn’t seem there was any attention being paid to him. Nonetheless, he stayed in the shadows as much as he could as he left the ship and walked among the warehouses. His shirt was bloody, and while he was bold about his larger act, he knew only too well his current appearance was more than enough motive for a couple of white cops to stop him and maybe he might not make it back to the precinct this time.. Common sense tempering his arrogance, he stole a shirt left out on a clothesline with other items behind a tenement. He felt bad about this, these were working folks who could ill afford the loss. He left three dollars secured by the clothespin and continued on.
When he finally made it back home and into his bed, after attending to his wounds, he lay there signing in his throat, katajjait it was called by the Inuit. Though mostly performed by women, he’d been taught these guttural rhythmic sounds by Akatingwah, his son’s mother, and he’d sung them to the child when the boy was an infant to entertain him or calm him to sleep. Henson imagined he was near a dying campfire in the Arctic never dark. When he awoke at daylight, he didn’t know how long he’d sung, but his throat was sore as was his body.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Nikola Tesla swung the Electro-Pulsar about and unleashed a coherent bolt of energy that bored a hole through a five-inch steel plate mounted upright on a table several yards away. Several electrical oscillators were connected by cable to the machine. The beam was modulated so that it didn’t continue through the metal, though it could have easily if
