Michael Koryta - So Cold the River

Shit, what a mess. You killed someone, better have both good cause for it and a good plan for dealing with it, and Josiah had neither. Didn’t even know who the son of a bitch was, just that he’d been watching the house. Why had he been watching the house?

He reached over to the passenger seat and got the case he’d stolen, a big leather bag with a shoulder strap, and felt around for the wallet. When he got his fingers around it, he flicked on the interior lights and opened it up. First thing he saw was a photo ID. Licensed Private Investigator.

A detective. That didn’t make a bit of sense, and the name-Gavin Murray-didn’t mean a thing to Josiah either. He studied the picture, confirmed that this man was a stranger. The address given on both the investigator’s license and his driver’s license, which was tucked in the same compartment, was Chicago.

Same city as the man who’d gone to see Edgar, pretending to be making a movie. Two of them in French Lick on the same day, one asking questions about Campbell, the other watching Josiah’s house with a camera. What could these bastards be after? Hell, Josiah didn’t have anything to take.

He removed the cash from the wallet and put it in his pocket, then felt around in the case and came across a fancy leather folder, took that out and opened it, and found himself studying a sheet of paper with his own name, date of birth, and Social Security number. Plus a list of addresses going back the better part of fifteen years, places he’d almost forgotten about. He thumbed past this sheet and saw that the next one detailed his arrest history, complete with case numbers and dates of arrest and charges. He flipped through a few more papers, then found one that said Client Contact. There were two phone numbers and a fax number and e-mail address, but Josiah was far more interested in the name itself:

Lucas G. Bradford.

This morning the humidity had arrived even ahead of the heat. It was a liquid breeze that came in through the screen as dawn rose, and Anne, expecting to see heavy clouds when she got out of bed and looked out the window, was surprised to find sun.

She showered, a process that now took too much time and too much energy, holding on to the metal railings with one hand at all times, and then dressed in slacks and a light cotton blouse and the sturdy white tennis shoes she wore every day. Had to wear them; balance was all that kept her from a hospital or a nursing home. She loathed those shoes, though. Hated them with a depth of passion that she’d rarely felt for anything. When she was young, she’d been a shoe fan. All right, that was an understatement and a half-she’d been crazy about shoes. And the shoes she loved had heels. They were tall and elegant and you had to know how to walk in them, you couldn’t just clomp around, you had to walk like a lady. Anne McKinney had always known how to walk. Had earned her share of stares over the years because of that walk, had watched men’s eyes drop to her hips all the time, long after she became a mother, even.

She took short, steady steps now in her flat, sturdy shoes. Hated the walk, hated the shoes. The past taunted with every step.

Once she was dressed, she went out onto the porch to take the day’s first readings. The barometer was down to 29.80. Quite a drop overnight. The sun was out, but the lawn didn’t sparkle under it, no heavy dew built up overnight the way there had been recently. She leaned out from under the porch roof and looked up and saw a cluster of swollen clouds in the west, pale on top but gray beneath. Cumulonimbus. Storm clouds.

All signs, from the clouds to the dry grass to the pressure drop, indicated a storm. It was confirmation of what she’d suspected yesterday, but she felt a vague sense of disappointment as she studied the clouds. They were storm makers, sure, but somehow she’d expected more. Still, it was early. Spring supercells developed quickly and often unpredictably, and it was tough to say what might find its way here by day’s end.

She recorded all of the measurements in her notebook. It was a ritual that usually gave her pleasure but today, for some reason, did not. She felt out of sorts, grumpy. It happened when something of note occurred, like Eric Shaw’s visit, and she had nobody to share it with. It was then that she felt the weight of the loneliness, then that the mocking of the empty house and the silent phone rose in pitch. She’d kept her mind all these years, her memory and logic, was proud of it. Mornings like this, though, she wondered if that was best. Maybe it was easier to be the doddering sort of old, maybe that dulled the sharp edges of the empty rooms that surrounded you.

“Oh, stop it, Annabelle,” she said aloud. “Just stop it.”

She would not sit around here feeling sorry for herself. You had to be grateful for every day, grateful for each moment the good Lord allowed you to have on this weird, wild earth. She knew that. She believed it.

Sometimes, though, believing it was easier than at other times.

She went back inside and fixed toast for breakfast and sat in her chair in the living room and tried to read the paper. It was tough to concentrate. Memories were leaping out at her this morning, nipping the heels of her mind. She wanted someone to talk to. The phone had been quiet all week but that was partially her own fault-she’d worked so hard to convince those at church and in town of her strong independence that they didn’t worry about her much. And that was good, of course, she didn’t want to give anyone cause to worry, but… but it wouldn’t hurt if someone checked in now and again. Just to say hello. Just to make a little conversation.

Heavens, but Harold had loved to talk. There had been plenty of times when she’d said, Harold, go outside and give my ears a break, just because she couldn’t take the unrelenting chatter. And the children… oh, but those were his children, sure as anything, because both of them caught the gift of gab like it was a fever. This house had been filled with talk from sunrise to sundown.

She set the paper down, stood up, and went to the phone, ignoring, as she usually did, the cordless unit that sat beside her, because it was good to move around, good to stay active. She called the hotel and asked to be put through to Eric Shaw. It had occurred to her last night that she’d never asked what family he was researching. Maybe she could help. Maybe if he told her the family name, she’d remember some things about them, maybe she could tell him some stories.

It went to voice mail, though, and so she left a message. Anne McKinney calling, nothing urgent. Just wanted to check in.

ERIC WENT INTO THE dining room and ordered breakfast, realizing with relief that he was truly hungry again, sipping his coffee with a touch of impatience, eager to see the food brought out. That had to be a good sign.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the effects of Anne’s water. It had eased his physical suffering just as the Bradford bottle had, but the vision it brought on was so different, so much gentler. Like watching a film, really. He’d had distance, separation of space and time. If what he’d seen were real…

The possibilities there tempted him in a strange way. Maybe it was a hallucination the same as those experienced by drug users every day. If it wasn’t, though, if he was really seeing the past, then the water provided him something far different from pain. Provided him with power, really. A gift.

“French toast with bacon,” a female voice behind him said, and then the waitress set a plate before him that intensified his hunger. “And you need more coffee. Hang on and I’ll get a refill. Sorry about that. I stopped to watch the TV people for a few minutes.”