So Cold the River (2010) (32 page)

“Maybe I’ll sneak some gallon jugs in there, fill them up, and go the hell home. Pardon my language.”

“Son,” she said, “I was having your sort of week, I’d be saying a lot worse.”

“You saved me today,” he said.

“Held it off. You ain’t saved yet.”

That was true enough. He thanked her again and went to the car, felt the water soak instantly into his jeans when he sat.
The seat and dashboard were drenched, but his cell phone, dropped onto the passenger seat and forgotten, was dry. He picked
it up and saw nine missed calls, ignored them all, and called Alyssa Bradford. Got no answer. Hung up and dialed again, and
then a third time, and this time she picked up on the first ring.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was hushed, and he was so surprised that she’d actually answered that for a moment he said
nothing.

“Sorry,” he got out at last. “You’re sorry. Do you understand that I’ve spent my day with police because a man is
dead?
”

“I don’t know anything about that,” she said, and now it was clear that she was whispering intentionally. Someone was probably
in the room with her or nearby, and she didn’t want this conversation to be overheard. “Listen, I can’t talk to you. But I’m
sorry, and I don’t know what to say except that you should leave that place—”

“Why did you hire me?”

“What?”

“You didn’t send me down here to make a happy little memory film, damn it. The bottle was part of it, but I want to know what
you really were hoping to find out.”

“I was tired of the secrets.” She hissed it.

“What does that mean? What secrets?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. Not to you. Just—”

“Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter to me! I’m the one down here dealing with murders, not to mention the effects of that fucking
water! Someone from your family knows the truth, and you need to find it out. I don’t care if you have to go into that hospital
and electroshock your father-in-law back into coherence, I want to know—”

“My father-in-law is dead.”

He stopped. Said, “What?”

“This morning, Eric. About four hours ago. He’s dead, and I need to be with my family. I don’t know what else to tell you.
I’m sorry about everything, but let it go. Leave that place and get rid of that bottle and good luck.”

She disconnected, and he was sitting with a dead phone at his ear and Anne McKinney watching him from the door. He lowered
the phone and started the car and gave her a wave, tried to put some cheer into it.

The old man was dead. Not that it mattered—he’d been as good as dead anyhow, but, still…

He thought of Anne’s words about the supernatural being just like the weather, ebbing and flowing, fronts colliding, one side
winning at least a temporary victory. When that old man in the hospital died, the one who’d been keeper of the bizarre damn
bottle for so many years, what did it mean? Would it have any significance? Did it matter?

Stop thinking like that,
Eric thought.
Stop buying into the idea that whatever is happening down here is real. You’re seeing visions, but the people in them can’t
affect this world. They just can’t do it.

“They can’t.” He said it aloud this time, hoping the sound of his voice would add strength of conviction in his mind. It did
not.

T
HE MAN IN THE
bowler hat disappeared in a blink. Just that fast. He was in the passenger seat at Josiah’s side, real as the truck beneath
him, and then he was a memory. A memory that had every muscle in Josiah’s back tight as winch cables.

He actually put his hand out and waved it around the cab. Caught nothing but air. Then he puffed out a deep breath and waited
to see if it would fog again. It did not.

The man in the hat, that’s how Josiah still thought of him. But this time he’d identified himself. Had called himself Campbell,
had told Josiah that he was all that remained of the family blood.

Didn’t have to be you that I selected…. Nothing requires it…. All you got to do is listen, Josiah. All you got to do is listen
to me.

It had been another dream, that was all. Just yesterday Josiah had wondered if the man in the dream could be Campbell, and
his heat-addled brain had grabbed on to that and worked it into
this latest dream. Odd thing was that all his life Josiah had been a man of deep, dreamless sleep. What had changed?

Hadn’t been a thing strange going on until the men from Chicago had shown up in town. The first of the strange moments had
been the dream he’d had yesterday morning after the fight the night before…

No, it hadn’t been then. The
first
strange thing had been what happened when he went to wash Eric Shaw’s blood off his hand. The way the water had gone from
hot to ice cold when it touched the blood. He’d never felt anything like that before. The house was still on a well, had an
electric pump bringing in water from the same ground that produced the springs and the Lost River and the Wesley Chapel Gulf,
and Josiah had always liked it that way. Didn’t need any treated city water.

But, still… that had been strange. Then the dreams began, culminating in this last experience which should have been a dream
but absolutely was
not
. It was like the man in the bowler hat snuck up on him only when Josiah let his conscious mind down a bit, when he was asleep
or close to it. And strange as it was, the man felt familiar. Felt connected, the way old friends did. The way family did.

He popped the door handle and crawled down, his legs numb from the long stretch of sitting, looked all around the dark barn
and saw nothing but shadows. Even the streaks of sun were gone, and that realization unnerved him, sent him toward the doors.
When he slid them back, he saw the sky had gone the color of coal and rain was beginning to fall. There was even thunder,
and how in the hell he’d missed that, he couldn’t guess. Maybe this was proof that he had fallen asleep, that it had been
another dream.

As he stood in the open barn door and let the rain strike his face, though, he knew that wasn’t it. He’d had dreams with the
man before, and this had not been one of them. This time, the man had been here. He’d been real.

He stepped out into the rain, heedless of the storm, and walked toward the trees. He felt strange, off-kilter. As if some
worries had been lifted, not from his memory but from his ability to care. The rain and the thrashing trees and the lightning
didn’t bother him, for example. Neither did the murder warrant they were probably filing for him right now. That was strange.
He should have been concerned as hell about that.

But he wasn’t.

The rain soaked his clothes and made a flat wet sheet out of his hair, but he figured, what the hell, he’d needed a shower
anyhow. He walked on into the woods, moving along the top of the ridge, the saturated ground sucking at his boots. He was
out of sight of the timber camp and Danny was due back at any time, but the hell with Danny. He could wait for Josiah.

He came out to the edge of the ridge and stood in the open, looking out over the wooded hills that stretched away from it,
a few cleared fields in the distance, the towns of French Lick and West Baden somewhere beyond. There was a sturdy sapling
near the steep side, and he wrapped his hand around it and then leaned out over the drop.

“My valley,” he said. His voice sounded strange.

His priority, just hours ago, had been escape. He’d need some money to do it, but if he could pull that off, he was going
to get the hell out of Dodge. Now, hanging here above the stormy landscape, he didn’t much want to leave. This was home. This
was his.

But that didn’t mean he intended to let go of the money. Lucas G. Bradford’s money, a man who bore Josiah’s name and had some
tie to old Campbell himself. Could be Campbell had left this valley and made himself a dollar or two, then left it to Lucas
G.; could be Lucas G. had made it for himself. Josiah figured it was the former. He was feeling a strange sense of loyalty
to Campbell, the great-grandfather he’d never seen. Poor old bastard had become a figure of infamy in this valley over the
years, but time was when he ran it, too. He’d been a big man here once, and people liked to forget that. Would be nice to
offer a reminder.

The rain was gusting into his face, no trees shielding him from the west wind now, but he was enjoying the water. Felt good
to be in it. Funny, because most times he hated to get caught out in the rain.

No, he wasn’t feeling like himself at all.

There were five messages on Eric’s phone. One from Detective Roger Brewer, who said he was wondering when they might be able
to finish their talk. The edge in his voice wasn’t anything as casual as his words. Three from Claire, each with a sense of
growing urgency. One from Kellen. “Heard from the police,” he said. “This is no good, is it? I’d like to hear what you think.”

Was there suspicion in his voice? Couldn’t fault him if there was. Eric called Claire first, and the relief-fueled anger he
heard in her voice when she answered warmed him in an odd way.

“Where are you? I’ve called that hotel fifteen times. They’re probably going to throw you out of there if I call again.”

“I was talking to the police,” he said. “And then I, uh, I had a rough spell.”

Her voice dropped, softened. “Rough spell?”

“Yeah.” He gave her the update.

“You left the police station? Walked out in the middle of an interview?”

“Wasn’t much else I could do, Claire. You don’t have any idea what these spells are like. I barely made it to the door.”

“You could have tried to explain—”

“That I’m having drug reactions to
mineral water?
That I’m seeing
dead men?
I should explain these things to a cop who’s questioning me about a murder?”

It was a terrible moment of déjà vu, a return to so many instances over the past few years, him shouting at her for her inability
to understand, for just not
getting it,
and her responding with silence.

A few seconds passed, and when she spoke again, it was with the careful, measured tone that he’d always found infuriating
because it made him feel so small. Damn her composure, her constant control.

“I understand that might be a little difficult,” she said. “But I’m worried that if you didn’t offer
some
explanation, you’re going to create problems for yourself.”

“I’m not short on problems, Claire. Let’s add more to the pile, what the hell.”

“All right,” she said. “That’s one approach.”

He rubbed his temples again, but this time there was no headache. Why was he snapping at her? Why did he always resort to
this, no matter the situation?

“Where are you?” he said.

“With my parents.”

Oh, how he wished she’d said a hotel. Now Paulie could step in and protect her, clean up yet another of Eric’s messes. He
was probably enjoying the hell out of it.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good place. If anybody’s looking for you, that will be near the top of the list.”

“They have good security here.”

Indeed they did. They were twenty-six floors up in a restricted-access, luxury condo building overlooking Lake Michigan. Was
going to take a damn long grappling hook to get up there.

“Dad’s been making calls,” she said.

“What? Why in the hell is
he
making calls?”

“To find out about the man who was murdered. Gavin Murray.”

“Damn it, Claire, the last thing I need is your father stirring up more trouble.”

“Really? Because it seems to me what you need is some
help,
Eric. It seems to me you need some answers. Who hired this guy, and why?”

Grudging silence. She was certainly right on the need for answers, and Paul was well connected in the Chicago legal community.
He just might be able to get some.

“Tell him to start with the Bradford family,” he said finally. “Start with Alyssa, and then see who surrounds her. She shut
me down today, and it wasn’t her decision. She was following instructions. Her only advice for me was to leave. Real insight,
huh? Oh, and she said the old man is dead. Campbell. Or some version or impersonation of Campbell. Whatever the hell he was,
he’s dead.”

“What? How?”

“Died today in the hospital, I think. She hung up without offering details.”

“Wonderful. One more person who can’t verify what you’ve told the police.”

“He couldn’t talk anyhow,” Eric said, thinking,
except to me. He could talk to me, no problem at all. But let’s not share
that
with the police just yet.

“Have you heard back on the water test?” she said.

“Not yet. I need to call Kellen back. Then the police.”

“I don’t think you should do that. My father said you shouldn’t.”

“I can’t just blow them off, Claire, you just said that yourself.”

“I didn’t say blow them off. But Dad said that under the circumstances you absolutely should not talk to them again without
a lawyer in the room.”

“But I’m just a witness.”

“You’ve told them what you know, right?”

“But he said he had more questions and I—”

“Here are some of his questions, Eric—he wants to know if you have a history of drug or alcohol abuse or violent episodes.”

“What?”

“Those were high on the list of questions when he called me, which was what I was going to explain before, but you cut me
off. He seemed disappointed when I told him we were still on good terms. In other words, never say I can’t lie for you.”

Nice shot.

“I can’t believe he called you,” Eric said.

“Well, he did. And when I told my dad what was said, his response was that you need to get a lawyer. Your background isn’t
relevant unless they consider you a suspect.”

“He doesn’t think I should talk to them at all?” Eric said, hating to give any credence to Paul Porter’s advice, but recognizing
that the man had been a criminal attorney for many years.