So Cold the River (2010) (29 page)

“You said you’re making a movie,” Brewer said. “A documentary.”

“Yes.”

“Fascinating. So you tape interviews, things like that.”

“Yes.”

“Great. If we could have a look at the film you have from yesterday…”

“I don’t have any. Well, I’ve got audio. I can give you audio.”

But the audiotapes were going to introduce a new element to all this. Eric didn’t like the idea of Brewer and a roomful of
additional cops sitting around listening to him tell Anne McKinney about his visions. No, that didn’t seem like a good choice
at all.

“You don’t use a camera? Seems tough to make a movie without a camera.”

“I use them.”

“So you have one with you?”

“No. I mean, I brought one down, yeah. But it… it broke.”

Shit, that couldn’t sound more like a lie. Maybe he could find some wreckage from the camera to back him up, but that would
require an accompanying explanation of how he’d come to beat an expensive camera into pieces on the hotel desk. Not the sort
of story you wanted to tell a cop who was investigating a rage homicide.

“It broke,” Brewer said in a bland voice. “I see. Now, could you describe what your night looked like after your talk with
Gavin Murray?”

“What it looked like?” Eric echoed, trying to focus. His head was pounding steadily now, and his stomach clenched and unclenched.
He tried to will it all away, or at least down. Now was not the time for another collapse.

“Yes, what you did, who saw you, things of that nature.”

He should tell the truth, of course. But telling the truth would take them to Anne McKinney, and that would take them to his
talk of visions and headaches. Of course, he’d already given them Kellen, who would have to say the same thing…

“Mr. Shaw?” Brewer prompted, and Eric lifted his head and
looked at him and then the vertical hold went out in his eyes. It was like watching old reel-to-reel tape that had been damaged;
the scene in front of him began to shake up and down, as if Brewer were sitting on a pogo stick instead of a chair. He had
to reach out and grip the underside of his chair to steady himself.

Oh, shit,
he thought,
it’s coming back. It’s coming back already, I didn’t even get a day out of it this time.

The shaking stopped then, but double vision came in its place, two of Brewer across the table from him now, two sets of skeptical
eyes regarding him, and there was a buzzing in his ears.

“I think,” Eric said, “I’m going to need to take a break.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not feeling well. It’s got to be nerves. I’m worried about my wife.”

“Mr. Shaw, I assure you there’s no reason to think your wife is in any danger. Unless
you
have a reason beyond what you’ve said…”

“I just need a break,” Eric said.

Yes, a break. That’s what he needed. A long-enough break to let him get back to his hotel room, let him get back to that plastic
cup he’d filled with water from Anne McKinney’s bottle. It was the only thing that could save him now.

“I can get you some water,” Brewer said, and that produced an almost hysterical urge to laugh.
Yes, water, that’s
exactly
what I need!

“I’d actually… I need to step out for a while,” Eric said, and the suspicion was building in Brewer’s face like a flush.

“Well, go on outside,” Brewer said. “But we do need to finish this talk.”

“No, I’m going to need to go. I can come back later. I need to lie down, though.”

“Excuse me?”

“Unless you’re arresting me, I’m going to need to lie down. Just for a while.”

He’d expected resistance, but instead Brewer gave him a very cool, skeptical nod and said, “Well, you do what you have to
do, Mr. Shaw. But we’re going to need to talk again.”

“Of course.” Eric lurched to his feet as the buzzing intensified. He felt as if he were moving through water as he went to
the door. “I’m sorry, I really am, but all of a sudden I’m feeling very bad.”

Brewer stood, and the sound of his chair sliding back on the floor went off in Eric’s brain like a power grinder applied to
the edge of a blade, sparks coming off in showers.

“I’ll drive you back to the hotel,” the detective said, moving around the table, and Eric raised a hand and waved him off.

“No, no. I’ve got it. Could use the exercise. Thanks.”

“You really don’t look so good, Mr. Shaw. Maybe you should let me drive you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I hope you are,” Brewer said. “And I hope the recovery is quick. Because we’re not done talking.”

“Right,” Eric said, but he had his back to Brewer now. His double vision had persisted upon rising, and there were two doors
floating in front of him, with two door handles.
Better grab the right one
. He reached out and fumbled, his hand sliding across the door, and then he had the handle and twisted it down and stepped
out into the hallway, crossed through the front of the station and made it through the next set of doors, and then he was
outside.

The fresh air was bracing and comforting, but it was accompanied by glaring sunlight that almost brought him to his knees.
He staggered like a drunk and lifted a hand to shield his eyes and kept on going, plowing ahead the way he had in the dining
room the night before, hoping this trip would have a better ending.

He got to the sidewalk and turned toward the hotel. There were white squares at the edges of his vision now, and he was certain
he couldn’t continue, but then the sun fell behind a bank of clouds. They came in quickly, pushed by a strong, warm wind,
and the white squares went gray and then faded and the headache seemed to lose steam.

On he walked, sucking in the deep, grateful breaths of a man just saved from drowning. When he crossed the street he looked
back at the police station, saw Brewer standing in front of the building with his hands in his pockets, watching.

This could not have been timed worse. The last place he needed to have a breakdown was inside a police station while answering
questions about his whereabouts during a murder. He probably couldn’t have looked guiltier if he’d been setting off three
lie detectors at once. What could be done, though? It was remarkable he’d made it out as calmly as he had. The only choice
was to go back to the hotel and drink what was left of the water and then call Brewer and apologize, tell him he was feeling
better and ready to finish the interview. Maybe he’d even try to explain the whole crazy story. All that could be sorted out
in time—right now, he needed the Pluto Water.

When he was halfway back to the hotel, the clouds lifted from the sun and the harsh white light was back, bouncing off the
pavement and into his eyes, a searing, penetrating brightness that lifted the headache to a gleeful roar. He held his hands
cupped over his eyes and stumbled along, walking quickly but unevenly, aware of the occasional slowing of cars beside him
as passersby stared.

He’d forgotten to go through the casino parking lot and take the back way to the West Baden hotel and had walked instead
all the way through town. For a long time he concentrated on his breathing, trying to keep a steady rhythm, but then his stomach
got into the act, that swirling nausea, and he couldn’t keep count anymore. He was soaked with sweat, but it sat cold on the
surface of his skin. At one point he felt his knees wobble and he almost went down, had to pull up short and bend over and
brace his hands on his thighs. A white Oldsmobile pulled up slowly when he did that, and he was afraid the driver was going
to offer help, but then the car pulled away again. Nobody wanted to get out for a stranger who was bent over on the sidewalk
like some sort of derelict.

The sun disappeared while he was standing there, and a minute later his legs steadied and he straightened and began to walk
again. About twenty steps after that, the wind picked up swiftly and then a few drops of rain began to fall.

The rain saved him. As it opened up and began to fall harder, the wind whistling in behind him, his head cleared and the nausea
subsided. Not much, just the slightest change, but it was enough to keep him upright, keep him going. As the clouds went from
pale gray to a dark, deep mass that covered the street in shadows, he lifted his head and let the rain fall on his face, water
running into his eyes and his mouth.

It’ll keep raining, and you’ll keep walking
.
You’ll keep walking, and you’ll get there and get the water. It’s not that far
.

It was raining hard by the time he reached the hotel, and there were short, soft rolls of thunder. The brick drive seemed
impossibly long, miles upon miles, but he kept his head down and his stride as long as he could manage and he made it to the
end.

Made it. I actually made it.

It was too early for a victory celebration, though—as soon as he stepped inside and the cooling rain vanished, hotel lights
in its place, the sickness came galloping back out of the gates, digging
the spurs in. He stumbled on his way to the elevator, turning heads and bringing silence to a group of women talking in the
hall. Once he was in the elevator, the damn thing wouldn’t go up, and it took him a minute before he finally remembered it
required a keycard. The rapid motion when it rose was enough to make him lean over and clutch the wall, but then the doors
were open again and he was out in the hallway, just paces from the room, from salvation.

He opened the door and stepped in, awash with bone-deep relief, made it halfway to the table before his brain finally caught
up to what his eyes were showing him.

The room had been cleaned—carefully and completely. And there beside the freshly made bed was an empty table, the half-filled
water glass discarded.

T
HIS WAS TERROR
, as true and as deep as he’d ever felt it.

He dropped to his knees, driven not by physical pain but by anguish.

“You bitches,” he said, speaking to the long-departed cleaning team that had removed the water. “Do you know what you did?
Do you know?”

He
knew. The withdrawal was going to return now in full glory, and this time there was nothing he could do to stop it, nothing
he could take.

Call Kellen. Make him bring it back
.

Yes, Kellen. That was the best chance he had. He got the phone out of his pocket, still on the floor, and dialed the number,
held his breath while it rang.

And rang. And rang.

Then voice mail, and for several seconds he couldn’t even think of words to say, too awash in the sick sense of defeat. Eventually
he mumbled out his name and asked for a call back. He had no way of knowing where Kellen was, though, or if he even still
had the bottle. He could have passed it off to someone by now.

All he needed was a sip, damn it. Just a few swallows, enough to hold the monster at bay, but there was nowhere to find even
that much because he’d given up both the Bradford bottle and Anne McKinney’s…

Anne McKinney. She was right up the road, with bottles and bottles of the water—old, unopened bottles.

All he had to do was make it there.

He stood again, shaky, dropping a palm to the bed to hold himself upright. He got in a few breaths, squinting against the
pain and the nausea, and then went to the door and opened it and went out into the hall. He was alone in the elevator again,
and that was good, because this time, holding the wall wasn’t enough—he had to kneel, one knee on the floor of the elevator,
his shoulder and the side of his head leaned against the wall. It was a glass elevator, open on the back, looking down at
the hotel atrium below, and he saw a young girl with braids spot him and tug her father’s sleeve and point. Then he was on
the ground floor and the doors were open. He shoved upward, got out, and turned the corner and broke into a wavering jog.
Speed was going to be key now. He could feel that.

He’d parked the Acura in the lower lot, closest to the hotel, and he ran for it now through the rain, which was coming down
in gusting torrents, no trace of the sun remaining in the sky. Behind the hotel the trees shook and trembled.

He had his keys out by the time he got to the car, opened the door, and fell into the seat. The warmth inside the car made
the nausea worse, so he put down the windows and let the rain pour in and soak the leather upholstery. He drove in a fog of
pain, didn’t even realize the windshield wipers were off until he was
out of the parking lot. He flicked them on then, but the slapping motion made him dizzy and clouded his vision even worse
than the rain itself, so he turned them back off and drove with his right hand only, leaning out the window and squinting
into the rain.

As he looped through the casino lots and into French Lick, each passing car seemed to have three windshields and six headlights.
At some point he must have edged across the center line, because he heard a horn and jerked the wheel to the right and hit
the curb, felt the front right tire pop up onto it and then drop back to the road with a jarring bang. The thunder was on
top of the town now, harsh crackles of it, and occasionally lightning flashed in front of him, leaving behind a fleeting white
film over his eyes.

The tires spun as he turned onto the uphill road that led to Anne McKinney’s house, but then the car corrected and he was
almost there. A moment later he could see lights on in the windows, and out in the yard the windmills spun in silver flashes.

He missed the drive when he pulled in, felt the tires churn through wet soil instead, slammed on the brakes and brought the
car to a stop and then threw it into park and popped the door open with the engine still running. He ran through the rain
to the front door, and when he got to the steps, his shoe caught and he tripped and fell to his hands and knees on the porch.
Then the door opened and Anne McKinney looked out at him, her face knit with fear, and said, “What’s wrong?”

“I need some water,” he said. “I need some of your water, fast.”