Michael Koryta - So Cold the River

From where Eric stood right now, at the top of the cliff edge above the gulf, there was nothing but trees and farmland to his back and nothing ahead but open air and a damn long drop. He hung on to the trunk of a thin tree that had somehow survived the ravaging that had claimed so many of its bigger, stronger peers, and stared down into the swirling water. Such a bizarre shade… that water belonged somewhere deep in South America, not rising out of an Indiana sinkhole.

You’ve given up, Campbell said. You aren’t strong enough to go on. Not strong enough to face me, even. I can give you strength. I can purge everything you lost and replace it with the strength you don’t have. All you have to do is listen.

Someone was calling his name, the sound barely audible over Campbell’s whispered promises. Eric heard that and realized that Kellen must have seen him, and that was no good because he didn’t want to be delayed or distracted. Did not want, certainly, to be stopped. He didn’t allow himself to look for Kellen; he focused instead on that whirlpool of blue-green water and the ghostly white limbs that protruded from it at all angles.

Last words. That was what the moment called for, and they should matter-it was the end of the final act, and the last words counted then. It was all you left the audience with. He had none.

I can turn your pain into strength, your loss into power. Don’t you want that? All that’s required of you is an ability to take instruction.

He heard his name again, louder this time, and he stepped forward so he could see over the edge and down to the rock wall below. When he moved, a loose stone pushed over the edge and fell. It swung back in against the cliff, hit the rock wall, and broke into two pieces and then tumbled into the water. Better remember that, make sure he got a strong enough push to carry him clear.

Last words. Give ’em something, buddy.

“I’m sorry,” he said, in a voice so soft no one else could have possibly heard it, and then he stepped to the edge and spread his arms wide, bent once at the knees and closed his eyes and pushed. Pushed hard, a good, powerful jump that sent him into the air and over the cliff and then he was falling toward the water below. He twisted as he fell and the world spun around him and he could see Campbell Bradford standing atop the cliff. Beneath the bowler hat, his face looked almost sad.

He heard his name called once more as he fell, and this time, tumbling through the air, he was almost certain it was Claire’s voice. How beautiful, he thought, that he could hear her voice one last time. She was waiting for him.

The last thing he felt was the shock of cold.

Anne was close to tears after the dispatcher cut her off from Roger Brewer of the Indiana State Police.

A body in the road. He’d dumped a body in the road.

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. Anne had been trying to help, trying so hard to play out this role that she had always believed she would have. And they’d been close. They’d been so close…

It was a full five minutes before the dispatcher made contact again to tell Anne that Brewer had recovered the hostage, who was alive but injured, appearing to have suffered a broken arm or collarbone or something. Anne could hardly follow those words. The woman was alive. She was out of that truck, and she was alive. How terrible things might have turned if she were dead. It could have become an absolutely tragic day.

“It seems someone else was killed, though,” the dispatcher said. “There’s a lot of confusion out there. We’re sending more officers to the scene. You did well, Mrs. McKinney. Thank you.”

“What about Josiah?”

“Detective Brewer had to stop pursuit when he saw the woman in the road, but there are reports that his truck was destroyed by a tornado just to the north of that spot. That appears to be accurate. Now, Mrs. McKinney, I’ve got to deal with my officers. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Anne said. And it was. She was desperate for updates, but the dispatcher was overwhelmed and she knew she had to be silent for a while. Silent and patient. They’d give her the news eventually, and they’d remember to send someone down here to get her out of the basement. There was no rush on such things. She’d done what she could.

She looked at the old ham radio and felt tears crest in her eyes. How she wished Harold could have known the role it had played today. The role she had played today.

Her only regret was that she hadn’t seen the storms. So long she had waited to see a tornado. She was afraid of tornadoes, yes, but always in awe. Captivated by what they were and what they could do. She’d read so much about them, studied them so carefully, and still she’d never seen one. Now four had blown through the valley in under an hour and all she’d gotten to see of them was that first trailing wall cloud.

That was all right, though. People had been saved today. Josiah Bradford was apparently dead, and that was tragic in its own way because she knew that something had been in the boy’s head today that wasn’t right. But he’d died alone, without taking any innocents with him, without striking at her beloved hotel as he’d threatened. That hotel was beauty that had outlasted darkness and sorrow, and she’d been determined to do whatever she could to protect it.

A storm spotter, that’s what she was. Ever vigilant, determined to spot the warning signs and relay them in enough time to help the people in this valley. Well, she’d certainly done that today. It wasn’t the sort of storm she’d envisioned, but she’d gotten the chance to help that she always knew she would. For so many years she’d watched the skies and waited with quiet assurance that she would be needed.

Today she had been.

It felt good.

Around the area, storm reports were still coming in, but it looked as if the tornado that had struck just west of Wesley Chapel would be the last of the cluster outbreak. That put it at four total, not a staggering number for such a storm, but not insignificant either. They’d be clearing up damage for a long time to come. She hadn’t heard of any deaths yet besides Josiah’s, and that was good. You could put buildings back up. Couldn’t restore a life.

She might have dozed a little at the desk. Must have slipped off for just a minute. The sound was what woke her-a hum that seemed to be growing louder, getting closer.

She turned in her chair and looked up at the little windows mounted at the top of the western wall and was shocked to realize that she could see through them. Always before they’d been useless to her except to filter in a tiny bit of sunlight; they were no more than ten inches tall, placed right at ground level, and made of thick block glass. Somehow, from this angle, they offered a perfect look toward the west. She could see the fields rolling away downhill, and at the horizon a band of dark clouds.

The humming increased to a roar, and something white descended from the dark clouds, and Anne realized with utter astonishment that she was facing a tornado.

First things first-the radio. Do your job, Annabelle. Do your job.

She made a dispatch, curt and to the point-gave her coordinates and said a funnel cloud was on the ground, moving north-northeast. Several of the spotters fired off responses, asking if she was safe, urging her to get as far from the exterior walls as possible. She said thank you and then turned the radio off and rose from her chair.

The cloud seemed to have held almost stationary while she completed the dispatch. Now that she turned back, it was moving again, as if it had been waiting for her.

She got to her feet, thinking that she wanted to walk over to the windows and see if she could get a closer look. The walls of the house were trembling now, and when she walked past the base of the steps, she saw a shaft of light fall across her feet and looked up to see that the door was open. The shaking of the house had evidently knocked away whatever Josiah Bradford had placed as an obstacle up there.