So Cold the River (2010) (26 page)

The idea of trying to tip the van into the ditch and create an accident scene ran through his mind but he discarded it. There
wasn’t enough time, and it probably wouldn’t work anyhow. He wrapped his hand in one of the torn pieces of shirt he still
had and then opened the driver’s door and climbed inside. There was a leather case on the passenger seat, and all the way
in the back he found a digital camera. He took them both—after all this risk, might as well get something out of it, and maybe
it would help if the scene had the look of a robbery. Then he went down into the ditch and patted through the dead man’s pockets
and found a wallet and took that, too, dropped it into the leather case
as the gasoline ran through the gravel and dripped into the ditch behind him.

He tucked the camera into the case, set it aside, and pulled the two remaining strips of shirt from his pocket and held them
in the pool of gasoline forming by the car. When they were damp, he got the lighter out and lit them, one at a time. The first
flared too hot and burned his hand, the hand that was already bleeding, and then he tossed the strip down onto the dead man’s
body. For a moment it looked like the flame would go out, so he held the other strip of cloth over it and squeezed and the
drops of gasoline got the blaze going again, and this time it caught the dead man’s shirt and then he was burning.

Josiah lit the final strip of cloth and tossed it back up on the gravel, into the pool of gasoline, which went up like a bastard,
three feet tall and brilliantly light before he’d even had a chance to move. He got to running then, grabbed the leather case
in his bleeding hand and ran for his house as the fire spread behind him. He was no more than a hundred feet away when the
gas tank blew, and he felt the shock of it in the ground, and the whole night was filled with orange light then and he knew
his time was slim, indeed.

He hit the front yard at a dead run, dropped the case in the grass, got his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door,
ran inside in the dark, and went to his bedroom. Pulled a fresh shirt on, then opened the closet. There was a twelve-gauge
pump shotgun inside, and he took that and a box of shells and ran into the yard. Tossed the shotgun and the shells into the
bed of the truck and pulled a plastic tarp over them, then grabbed the leather case and threw it onto the passenger seat.
His front yard was lit by the fire, but already the blaze was going down. He thought he could hear voices up at the Amish
farm, but maybe that was his imagination.

He got into the truck and started it, thought about leaving the headlights off but then realized that would be begging for
trouble and turned them on, pulled out of his driveway and sped down the gravel road, came out to the county road, and turned
west. Sirens were audible by the time he reached the first stop sign. He drove on into the night.

Eric didn’t expect to sleep again, but he did. Long after the vision had passed he was still on the balcony, waiting, willing
it to return.

It did not.

Eventually, he rose and carried the chair back into the room and looked at the clock and saw it was four in the morning. Claire
was in the central time zone, an hour behind, and it was too early to call. Kellen would be asleep. All sane people would
be asleep.

He lay on the bed and stared at the bottles on the desk as the sounds of early-morning preparations carried on around him
in the old hotel.

Campbell,
the old man had called the one in the bowler hat. Campbell.

It was what Eric already knew, had known since he looked into Josiah Bradford’s eyes and saw the similarity. The man in the
bowler hat was Campbell Bradford, and he’d arrived in town yesterday on an all-black train. The boy, then? The boy who played
the violin with his eyes squeezed shut to block his terrible stage fright?

He was Alyssa Bradford’s father-in-law. Eric was sure of that in the way he’d been sure of Eve Harrelson’s affair in the red
cottage and of the Nez Perce camp in that valley in the Bear Paws. But the boy’s name was Lucas, and he had not been a relative
of Campbell’s. So why had he claimed the man’s name? Had he been adopted, removed from the care of his uncle and placed into
Campbell’s? Why take the name, though?

Amidst all the questions were two other confirmations: Anne McKinney’s water both alleviated his withdrawal pains and brought
back the visions. Only this time, the vision had been more like watching a movie. He had distance. Previously, Campbell had
looked right at him, spoken to him. He’d been a participant, not a bystander. With Anne’s water, what he’d experienced felt
truly like a vision of the past, a glimpse into something that had happened long ago and could not affect anything in this
world. What he’d seen from the Bradford bottle was hardly so tranquil. In those moments, Campbell had been
with
him.

He fell asleep sometime around six and woke to the phone ringing at nine-thirty. He fumbled for it with his eyes still closed,
knocked the thing off the base, and then got it in his hand and gurgled out a sound that didn’t even come close to
hello
.

Kellen said, “You made it through.”

“Yeah.” He sat up, rubbed at his eyes.

“No problems?”

“Wouldn’t say that.”

“Uh-oh.”

Eric told him about it all, disclosing the depth of physical agony and the drinking of the water and the vision that had followed.
It was odd he’d be willing to tell this stranger so much, but he was grateful that Kellen was willing to listen to it. He
wasn’t running yet, dismissing Eric as crazy. That meant something.

“This changes things,” Kellen said. “It’s not the specific bottle of water that hits you, it’s Pluto Water in general.”

“I don’t think we can go quite that far. I’m getting visions from them both, yes, but there’s still something different about
that first bottle, the one that started it. Last night, after trying
Anne’s water, it was like I was watching something out of the past. When I’ve had the Bradford water, everything I see is
right here with me.”

“So you still want to run the test.”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I’ll come by and get the bottles then, take them up to Bloomington.”

Eric opened his mouth to say that was great, then stopped, realizing what it meant. If Kellen took both bottles to Bloomington,
Eric would have nothing in his arsenal. It was a thought that chilled him.

“Do you know how fast they can test it?” he said.

“No idea. But it’s Sunday, you know, so probably not today.”

“If there’s any way they could test it today… or at least tomorrow… I’m just thinking, the faster, the better. I’ll pay whatever
it takes.”

“Well, you’re talking to the wrong person, my man. I got no idea what the process entails. But I’ll see what I can do once
I’m up there.”

Kellen said he’d come by the hotel in a few minutes and they hung up. Eric studied the bottles for a few seconds longer and
then, hating himself for it, went into the bathroom and found one of the plastic cups and emptied a few ounces of Anne Mc-Kinney’s
bottle into the cup. He took a small taste. Just as bad as it had been hours earlier, no trace of sweetness or honey. Good.
This one didn’t change.

He took the plastic cup and carried it over to the bedside table and set it down. There if he needed it. He would try not
to need it, but at least it would be there.

The Bradford bottle he left untouched.

He got in the shower, was hardly out when Kellen called from
the lobby. He threw on clothes and grabbed the bottles, then almost dropped the Bradford bottle.

Cold was no longer an accurate assessment. The thing was
freezing,
gave his hand the sort of cold burn you could get from touching a metal railing on a Chicago winter night. The frost was
dry now; he had to use a fingernail to scrape any off.

“I’m going to find out what’s in you,” he said. He carried the bottles down in the elevator and out into the lobby, shifting
them from one hand to the other because the Bradford bottle was too cold to keep in one for a prolonged time. Kellen was waiting
near the front doors. He looked at Eric with a critical eye as he approached.

“Looks like you
did
have a rough night.” Kellen lifted a finger and indicated his own eye. “You ruptured some blood vessels, man. Across the
bridge of your nose, too.”

Eric had already seen that in the mirror.

“Like I said, it wasn’t a whole lot of fun.”

“Doesn’t look like it, no.” Kellen reached out and took the bottles from him, said,
“Damn!”
when he touched the Bradford bottle.

“Getting colder,” Eric said.

“You ain’t kidding. That’s a big difference from yesterday.”

Eric watched Kellen study the bottle, saw the awe in his eyes, and thought,
This is why he believes me
. The bottle was so insane it made Eric’s story acceptable.

“I called Danielle,” Kellen said.

“Danielle?”

“That’s my girl, yeah. Told her we needed to get somebody to look at this thing fast, and she said she’d call around and see
what she could do. No promises, though.”

“I appreciate it. Tell her I’ll pay—”

“Nobody’s worried about that.” Kellen was juggling the bottles from hand to hand now just as Eric had been. “She knows somebody
to do it, that’s all.”

“You said she’s going to med school?”

“Yeah.”

Eric nodded, feeling a pang of guilt. Claire had been in law school when they’d met. Had dropped out when they got married
to follow him to L.A. She had a good job now, working for the mayor’s office, but it wasn’t the career she’d had in mind for
herself. She’d given that up for him.

“Well, you might ask her to have them run a specific test,” he said. “If it’s even possible. I’ve got an idea of what might
be in it. We know Campbell was involved with bootlegging and moonshine, and in my vision last night I saw that whiskey still…”

“Old moonshine,” Kellen said and gave a nod. “That would make some sense. Who knows what the hell they put in it or how potent
it was back then, let alone now. It could be giving you fits, no question. I still think it might be worth talking to a doctor.”

“I will if I need to,” Eric said. “But I’m feeling all right now.”

“Okay. I’ll come back down this afternoon, catch up with you then.”

Eric followed Kellen out the doors and onto the veranda overlooking the grounds. Out in front, at the end of the brick drive,
a TV news van was parked.

“Something going on today?” Eric said.

“I don’t know. Saw another one on my way here, somebody interviewing a cop on the sidewalk. Could be something happened last
night.”

“Casino robbery.
Ocean’s Eleven
shit.”

“There you go.” Kellen laughed, then lifted the bottle and
held it up to the sun. The frost glittered. “All right, I’m off to Bloomington.”

“Hey, thanks for helping with the water. I appreciate it, more than you know.”

Kellen looked at him, serious, and said, “You take care today, all right?”

“Sure.”

He left and then it was just Eric on the veranda, facing into a warm morning wind that was tinged with moisture. It was humid
already, and though the sky was blue, it had a hazy quality. Maybe Anne McKinney had been right. Could be a storm brewing.

T
IRED OF THIS TOWN
as he was, Josiah still found himself grateful for familiarity in this situation. Figured he had to get himself hidden quick,
because there wasn’t going to be a whole lot of time passing before the police were looking for his truck. Hell, they’d do
that on principle, something like that happening so near his home. He wasn’t real eager to talk the matter over with them
either.

Time to get off the roads and out of sight, then, and while the idea of flight was appealing, gassing up the truck and heading
for the Ohio River line and points beyond, he wasn’t foolish enough to do that. He had a grand total of twenty-four dollars
in his wallet and maybe four hundred in the bank, and that wasn’t going to get him far.

He drove about three miles west of his house, into the woods that climbed the hills between Martin and Orange counties, and
turned into a gravel drive marked with a half dozen
no trespassing signs. Had been a timbering camp at one time, years ago, and now all that remained was a weathered barn and
decrepit equipment shed. The place was isolated, though. Josiah had found the spot deer hunting one year—the property wasn’t
open to hunting, but hell if he cared—and filed it away in the back of his mind, knowing that such a location could prove
useful to any of the handful of illegal ventures he experimented with from time to time. This wasn’t the sort of use he’d
hoped to require it for, but right now he was glad that he’d stumbled across the spot.

He stopped and then dug his toolbox out of the truck and found a stout pair of bolt cutters. Should’ve thought to grab a hacksaw,
but he hadn’t been exactly flush on time when he’d left the house. He left the lights on in the truck, used them to illuminate
the sagging doors on the barn. Just as he’d recollected, there was a rusted chain with a padlock holding them closed, and
the chain wasn’t thick. It took him a few minutes of grunting and swearing—his burned and bleeding hand hurt like hell each
time he squeezed the bolt cutters—but eventually he broke through half a link and then he slipped the chain apart and dropped
the lock at his feet.

The doors swung open with a crack and groan, but they slid apart all right, and inside there was plenty of room for the truck.
He pulled it inside, hearing a harsh scrape as he dragged past the door, then turned the engine off, and sat there in the
dark.

What in the hell had he done? What in the
hell
had he just done?

The last fifteen minutes had been too full of action for much thought, but now, up here in the dark barn, hiding his truck
from the police who’d soon be looking for it, he was forced to consider what had just occurred. That man was dead, and Josiah
had killed him. Killed him, then lit his ass on fire. That wasn’t
just murder, that had to be some aggravated version of it. Sort that got you on death row.