Michael Koryta - So Cold the River

Kellen was oblivious, chattering away while he set to work with a knife and fork, and Eric couldn’t even speak, knowing only that he needed to get out of the room fast.

He lurched to his feet and bumped into his own chair but shoved past it, eyes on the exit and the hallway beyond, which seemed to be undulating, all the harsh white light in the room slipping into motion now as the hum in his ears turned to a roar. A warming sensation enveloped him and spread through his limbs and tingled along his skin as he passed the cashier’s stand and kept moving toward the hallway, thinking, I’m going to make it, just before the warmth exploded into a scorching heat and the dancing lights went gray and then black and he fell to his knees and the room vanished around him.

A soft, sweet strings melody lifted him and guided him through the tunnel that led to consciousness. It was a beautiful sound, so soothing, and when it began to fade, he was racked with sorrow, hated to let it go.

He opened his eyes and stared directly into a glittering light fixture. Then a face floated down and blocked it, Kellen Cage’s face, eyes grave. He was saying Eric’s name, and Eric knew that he should answer but didn’t want to yet, didn’t want anyone to speak, because maybe if it was completely silent, he’d be able to hear that violin again.

The first coherent thought he had was of the cold. Where before the blackout his flesh had tingled with warmth there was now a deep cold, but it felt good. The warmth had been ominous, a harbinger of physical disaster, and the cold seemed to be his body’s reassurance that it could handle the ailment on its own-Don’t worry, buddy, we got those boilers turned down for you.

“Eric,” Kellen said again.

“Yeah.” Eric licked his lips and said it again. “Yeah.”

“We got an ambulance on the way.”

There were other faces over Kellen’s shoulder, a security guard talking into a radio and then a cluster of curious onlookers. Eric closed his eyes, feeling the embarrassment of this now, realizing that he’d just fainted.

“No ambulance,” he said with his eyes closed, and took a deep breath.

“You need to go to the hospital,” said someone with a deep and unfamiliar voice.

“No.” Eric opened his eyes again, then rose slowly, until he was sitting upright with his arms hooked around his knees for balance. “I just need some sugar, that’s all. Hypoglycemic.”

The security guard nodded, but Kellen’s face said bullshit. A woman nearby murmured that her sister was hypoglycemic and then left to get him a cookie.

He was on his feet by the time she got back, and though the idea of food was sickening, he had to stick to the lie now, so he took the cookie and a glass of orange juice and got both of them down.

“You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” the security guard said.

“I’m sure.”

They called off the ambulance then, and Eric thanked the woman and the guard and made some lame joke to the rest of the onlookers about being happy to provide dinner theater. Then he told Kellen he wanted to head back to the hotel.

They went out and walked down the sidewalk in silence and crossed to the parking lot. When they were halfway out to the Porsche, Kellen said, “Hypoglycemic?”

“Sure. Didn’t I mention that?”

“Um, no. Left that out.”

They walked to the car and Eric stood with his hand on the passenger door handle for a few seconds before Kellen finally unlocked the doors. Once they were inside, Kellen turned to him.

“You really should be going to a hospital right now.”

“I just need some rest.”

“Just need some rest? Man, you don’t even know what went on in there. One minute you were sitting at the table, next you were passed out in the hallway. Something like that happens, you don’t rest, you talk to a doctor.”

“Maybe I’ll call somebody in the morning. Right now, I just want to lie down.”

“So you can swallow your tongue or some shit in the middle of the night, die up in that room?”

“That’s unlikely.”

“Look, I’m just saying-”

“I get it,” Eric said, and the force of his words brought Kellen up short. He studied Eric for a few seconds, then gave him a shrug and turned away.

“I appreciate the concern,” Eric said, softer. “I really do. But I don’t want to go to a hospital and tell them I’m having blackouts from Pluto Water, okay?”

“You think that was from the water?”

Eric nodded. “The headache came back and was getting worse. By the time we left Anne’s, I was feeling bad. Thought maybe it would help if I just got some food.”

“Didn’t help.”

“No. Sorry about your dinner, by the way. You were starving.”

Kellen laughed. “Not a big deal, man. I can always eat. What you got going on, though… that’s something needs to be figured out.”

“Withdrawal symptoms,” Eric said.

“You think?”

“Yeah. Definitely. The physical problems go away when I have more of the water and get worse the longer I go without it. Anne McKinney’s right-I’ve got to figure out what’s in that bottle.”

“And until then?”

Eric was quiet.

“This is why I suggested a hospital,” Kellen said. “I believe you-it’s probably withdrawal from whatever is in that water. But if it’s getting worse, you could be in real trouble. That act you pulled back there was scary, man.”

“I could just take more of the water, if that’ll relax you.” It was supposed to be a joke, but Kellen tilted his head sideways, thoughtful.

“Wow, you’d be good in AA,” Eric said. “That’s not one of the ideas you’re supposed to support.”

“No, I was just thinking, what if you tried different water?”

“I drank about ten glasses of water today, trying to flush this out. Hasn’t helped.”

“Not regular water. Regular Pluto water.” Kellen nodded at the bottle Anne McKinney had given him. “It’s a thought, at least. Things get worse tonight, try her bottle before you go back to yours.”

Kellen dropped Eric off at his hotel, and the look he had when Eric got out of the car was that of a parent watching a child wander toward traffic.

Eric’s headache was whispering to him again by the time he got off the elevator, and the sense of defeat he had at that realization was heavy. He’d hoped that the episode during dinner had been punishment enough, that he’d earned a few hours of reprieve. Evidently not.

The message light on the room phone was dark and his cell showed no missed calls. He felt a vague sense of apprehension over that, having expected Gavin Murray to try and make contact again, to put some other offer-or threat-on the table. He called Alyssa Bradford again and got voice mail. Annoyed, he waited ten minutes and called back, still with no success. This time he left a message. Call immediately, he said. There is a serious problem to discuss.

Serious problem seemed almost too light a phrase. Where was Gavin Murray now? The blue minivan hadn’t been in sight when Kellen brought him back, but it seemed unlikely that Murray was driving back to Chicago already. Eric got his laptop out and logged onto the Internet, ran some searches under both Murray’s name and the name of his company, Corporate Crisis Solutions. Didn’t find much on Murray-his name on some roll of military personnel attending a reunion at Fort Bragg was the most noteworthy result. Bragg was home to the Special Ops boys.

Corporate Crisis Solutions didn’t have much of a Web profile either. There was a company site, but it seemed intentionally vague. A few pages for private investigators offered links with CCS contact information. Hell, he should call Paul Porter, ask him what he knew. Paul had done twenty years as a criminal defense attorney before selling his first book and giving up the practice to write a series of best-selling novels about an intrepid crime-solving lawyer, no doubt some sort of pathetic wish fulfillment. Still, he was connected to the Chicago police and legal worlds both through his writing and his background, and he’d probably heard of the firm, and maybe even Gavin Murray.