by Jon Coon
Paul, who had been counting the seams in the old oak floor, looked up and tried to smile. “This is so hard for me. I know you didn’t want to hurt anyone. But it hurts. It really hurts. So it’s going to take me a while to work through this. What I want now is for us to find out what really happened. Then I want paybacks. Hard, bloody paybacks.”
Mickey came to Paul and opened her arms to give him a hug. It was awkward, but he let it happen. She held him and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Paul. We both are.” Zack smiled sadly and nodded.
Gabe broke up the pity party. “First thing is to get everyone safe. Let’s hit the road. It’s four hundred miles home.”
They were just south of Macon, a little after five, when Gabe’s phone rang. He and Paul were in the F-150, and Zack and Mickey followed close behind. The Bluetooth connection showed the number on his monitor.
“Gabe, someone broke into our house,” Carol began.
“Are you and Emily all right?”
“We’d gone on a girl’s day out. We’re okay, but the house is trashed. They took the files, and by the looks of things they were after something more.”
The notebook.
“Go to a movie or at least somewhere public,” Gabe said. “Don’t go home until I call you. We’re four hours out. Just stay away from the house. Go now. Keep your phone close.”
The phone disconnected, and Gabe turned to Paul.
“Does your mom still have your dad’s guns?”
“Yeah,”
“Can she hit anything?”
“Oh yeah. She’s good.”
“Good.”
CHAPTER 11
2200
The River Camp
Clear night sky
Gabe loved the river camp. It was a spacious, single floor, post-Civil War Cracker house, a common style of early Florida-Georgia houses. With its five bedrooms, a loft, and one bath, it was much larger and a few decades newer than Alethea’s slave shack. But to call it a home would have been an exaggeration. To call it a cabin or a fishing camp was closer, but still a stretch.
Archaeologists might have referred to it as a “primary cultural deposit,” and building inspectors would have condemned it. But to Gabe, while it was isolated, dilapidated, and in need of more work than he had time for, it was a sanctuary, a place where he and the dogs had room and privacy.
Showing its age, it had a rusted tin roof and badly weathered cypress siding. Sections of the pine porch floor were patched with sheets of plywood. Half of the original wooden porch columns had been replaced with rough-cut cedar tree trunks, and the sagging porch steps were propped up on cement blocks. It did have, however, two matching folding rocking chairs, which lent a homey ambiance. Still, it was a safe bet the once-comfortable river camp was never going to be featured in Southern Living Magazine.
Gabe, by nature a neat and private person, used it as a weekend retreat. A neighbor looked in on it during the week and took care of the dogs, as Gabe never intended to live there full time, much less share it. The unfolding drama was about to change that. This, whatever you wanted to call it, was off the grid. One winding dirt road through a half mile of southern pine and cypress led to twenty-five acres on the river with a dock and jon boat for exceptional bass fishing. There were two outbuildings: a sagging carriage house and an original, early American outhouse, now used for storage and to maintain the rural aesthetics.
Two large, brown, mostly Labrador retriever, pound rescue dogs, Smith and Wesson, stood at attention as the truck came down the sand and shell drive. Gabe parked, and Zack’s truck and Carol’s Mustang pulled in beside him on the remnants of a lawn in front of the sagging front porch. Gabe led Paul, Mickey, and Zack to the steps, then stopped, feeling he needed to offer some explanation for his choice of refuge.
“It’s better inside. Best thing is it’s safe. I can protect us here. There are plenty of beds and couches. Figure it out, and I’ll find us something to eat.” The dogs were still waiting patiently for an introduction.
“Oh, the dogs aren’t used to company. Give them a little time—” but Smith and Wesson forgot their manners and bounded from the porch, greeting Emily and Mickey as though reunited with long lost friends.
Tea, coffee, and chili. Grilled cheese sandwiches cooked in a cast iron skillet. Alpo for the dogs, and the generator on for light and the water pump. A modest fire in the oversized river stone fireplace. They gathered for a serious conversation in the large room that served as kitchen, dining, living, fireplace, library, and gun-safe room. The dogs dropped, heads on paws, listening intently.
Gabe started. “Zack, your mom was the only person who knew I had those files. What’s your best guess?”
“She called my grandfather.” Gabe was pacing, Zack and the other kids seated. Carol was still in the kitchen.
“Any idea who he would have called?”
“No, but I’m sure he has friends.”
“Okay, do the names Rogers or Stewart connect?”
“Rogers’s name is on the inspection reports from several of the bridges,” Paul answered.
“Right, he was the head of the inspection team,” Gabe said, recalling his meeting with Zack’s dad. “Wilson Corbitt is another name to watch for. He was involved, but so far he’s a spook. We can’t find him.”
“How can we find out what’s wrong with that bridge?” Paul asked.
“We know about the scouring, but that wouldn’t have been what Zack’s dad was looking for. To know if the bridge was built to spec, the actual dimensions would have to be compared to the plans, and that might not even be enough. My guess is it wasn’t. To prove it we need plans and a really good engineering inspection.
“I think Captain Brady got us those plans, and I think that’s what got him killed.” Gabe walked back to the kitchen, and Carol refilled his mug. He stood, leaning against the counter, focused on the depths of his cup with clenched teeth, remembering the dead German shepherd and the shootout in Captain Brady’s home office. Gabe loved animals. He wasn’t sure if he didn’t actually prefer them to many of the humans he knew.
“There’s a good chance my grandfather has the plans or at least copies,” Zack said.
Gabe looked up and refocused. “Right, and I don’t believe he’s in a sharing mood at the moment. There has to be another way. Maybe tomorrow.”
They sat watching the fire, now mostly embers. Smith had stealthily encroached her way onto the couch beside Mickey and was encouraging her new friend to continue scratching behind her ears. Emily was beside her mother looking very sleepy. Wesson was contentedly curled at Gabe’s feet.
Paul was on his feet. “I could use a shower.”
“Hot water tank isn’t big enough for all of us, so make it a short one, okay? Best do it in shifts, some tonight, some in the morning,” Gabe said.
“I know how we could save a lot of water,” Zack offered.
“Forget it. Not a chance bozo.” Mickey retorted and popped him in the ribs with her elbow. It was the first laughter in what had been a tense evening.
Zack and Paul took the twin beds. Emily and Mickey shared a double bed, which left the master bedroom and a sagging couch by the fireplace. The fire was almost gone as Gabe tossed a sleeping bag on the sofa and folded an extra blanket for a pillow.
When the living room was empty, Carol came from her shower wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt with a University of Texas logo, which Gabe remembered her wearing in high school. It fit just right. She sat in an old recliner by the couch and noticed a short-barreled Remington 12 gauge on the floor under it.
“Do you think . . . ?” She said, pointing to the gun.
“Not really. The dogs are light sleepers. Deer and coons wake them. Had a bear once. They went nuts.”
“Did they chase it?”
“No, they just wanted to play. But the bear wasn’t having it. Didn’t come back.”
“Is there a gun in the bedroom?”
“I hung my Colt Cobra with Black Talon hollow points for you on th
e bed frame. Paul said you know how to use it. He’s proud his mom is a shooter.”
“Cobra? Nice. I’ve seen them but never fired one. I’ll look forward to that.”
“It’s a collectible now. But in the day they were the gun to carry,” Gabe said. “Do you shoot often?”
“Of course. Like most women, I have great hand-eye coordination. Charlie used to take me to the range. I enjoy punching paper.”
“How about if you had to punch flesh and blood?”
“To protect my kids? You kidding?”
“Mama bear.”
“You bet.”
“There are two more boxes of shells in the nightstand. Top drawer.”
“Gabe, I . . .” She looked tired and worried.
“Carol, I’m sorry I brought those boxes to your house. I had no intention of involving you in this mess. But we’re going to be okay. I promise.”
“Well if it helps us catch Charlie’s killers, I guess it’s okay. Good night then.”
“You are safe here. Sleep well.” As he watched her walk to the bedroom, he couldn’t help thinking, I never realized how much I like that shirt on her. Then he felt guilty.
Gabe woke in the winter, pre-dawn darkness to the chill in the house, the smell of eggs and venison sausage, and soft light in the kitchen. Carol was at the stove, comfortable in the same UT sweats from last night, which made Gabe smile. Emily was making coffee. The dogs were underfoot looking for handouts. Gabe moved slowly on the couch, savoring not only the aroma of breakfast but also the unique sound of women’s voices and a warmth alien to his bachelor life. After a quick visit to the bathroom, he rekindled the fire. When it was burning nicely, he went to the kitchen.
“Coffee’s ready, and the dogs have been out. Do you want toast?” Carol asked.
Not yet fully awake, the most he could respond with was a nod. She understood and dropped bread in the toaster.
Back at the table, coffee mug in hand, breakfast on the plate, his first word was, “Nice.”
“Thanks. Emily and I were starving. Did you shoot the deer?”
“And the hog.”
“Wild hog?”
“Lowlands are overrun. Meat’s tough, but okay ground and blended.”
“How do you keep the meat without running the generator all the time?”
“Propane freezer in the shed. The stove, fridge, and hot water heater are all propane. Solar charges the twelve-volt system for lights. Doesn’t work well, too much shade, so the generator kicks in when the battery voltage drops, but the batteries are enough for a few lights for three or four hours.”
“Like a big RV?”
“Same.”
“We had one, my dad I mean. We used to camp a lot. I loved it.”
“You and Charlie went often, didn’t you?” Gabe recalled.
“For a city boy, Charlie could handle himself. The Marine Corps taught him that. You know he loved to fish and hunt, especially with you, but he was not a rancher.”
“You?”
“Summers on my grandfather’s ranch, even during nursing school. I loved horses, and I worked my tail off,” she laughed.
“I went last summer,” Emily said. “Grandpa said I was a natural. Best hand ever.”
“My dad has the place now, and he loves it. He’s officially retired, but the Rangers keep calling him back on special assignments. I’m not sure what he really does, but I know he’s always busy. So as much as he loves the ranch, as long as the Rangers keep calling, full time ranching will have to wait. He and Charlie were great pals. Dad’s really going to miss him.”
“We all will,” Gabe said. Emily was teary. Carol had a sad smile.
Paul came through the door just in time to change the mood. “Smells wonderful. Who cooked?”
“Me and Mom. You’ve got clean up.”
“Feed me first, then maybe,” Paul said.
“I’ll help,” Mickey said from the doorway. She had on a clean T-shirt and shorts and was still towel drying her hair. “That fire smells wonderful.” She sat on the hearth drying her hair until Carol said, “Go wake Zack, and we can sit together.” Mickey wrapped her head in the towel and went to wake Zack.
“Okay, Mr. Confirmed Bachelor, how does it feel to suddenly have a family of five?” Carol asked with a bit of tease.
Well for all of one night, better than I would have guessed. “Okay,” he answered.
With breakfast finished and the dishes done, Gabe called everyone back to the table. “My suggestion is we stay here, at least until we find out who broke into the house and what they were after. What will we need to make that work?”
Carol began, “Extra clothes would be good. I’ll talk to Emily’s and Paul’s teachers. We can go back to homeschooling for a while.”
“Great.”
“Mickey, how about you? Do you want to stay or go back home?”
“We have our clothes and stuff, so I’m good for now. If you think we’re safer here, we should probably stay.”
“Okay, Zack, how about you?”
“I’m with Mickey—whatever she wants. I reread Dad’s notebook last night. He mentions Wilson Corbitt several times. Looks like they were friends.”
“Good. Perhaps if we can find Corbitt he can help us. Thanks for telling me.”
“No problem,” Zack replied.
“I’m going to check in at my office. You guys are going to hit the web and research everything you can find about Florida bridges. We need a list of builders and accidents. If you can find it, we want to know about repair contracts and anything that stands out as unusual. Then we want to know how the bidding worked. If you could find a copy of the bid package that would be great. Then look at the bidders, the contractors, the inspectors, where the plans might be, anything you can think of. Later Carol and I will go back to the house and pack what you’ll need,” he said looking at Paul and Emily. “You might help her and make lists. Then we’ll stock up on groceries. What else?”
“Security here?” Zack asked.
“You’re going to like this,” Gabe said. He walked over to an old walnut roll-top desk, opened it, and turned on a ten-year-old computer. “The folks who let me use this place had good reason to be concerned about security.”
“Do you mean . . . ?” Carol asked.
“Let’s just say it’s mine for another fifteen to twenty years depending on someone’s good behavior. Anyway, check this out.”
The computer monitor came online with views from four security cameras: Two on the dirt driveway, one showing the front of the house, the last showing the back. “The alarm sounds like a phone. It will ring twice, stop, and then repeat. You enter the code here to shut it off.” He pointed to a box at the bottom of the screen. “Here’s the code.” He wrote six digits on a pad beside the computer.
“What then?” Zack asked.
“First you call me. Tell me exactly what’s happening. And if it’s a car or truck, get the tag number. Camera number two is set up to do that. Also, I’ve turned on the recorder, so you can back up the tape if you need to and look again.
“There’s no need to stand and fight. Can you guys run an outboard?” Nods from Zack and Paul. “Okay, come on. I’ll show you the boat. If you see someone coming up the drive you don’t know, get to the boat. Go down river about a mile. Dr. Alethea Guidry’s cabin is on the right bank. Stay there until I come for you.”
“Dr. Guidry?” Carol asked.
“Seventy-year-old Creole with two PhDs, a gumbo pot, and a 12 gauge. Great groceries if you don’t mind a little buckshot. You might remember her. She came to the funeral.”
“Really? Why did she come?” Carol asked.
“She was my mother’s cousin. We reconnected when I volunteered in New Orleans after Katrina. I hadn’t seen her since I was four or five. She was doing crisis counseling for the police and fire teams. She was my counselor and let me stay with her while I was there. We became good friends.”
“Why did you need treatment, and w
hat’s she doing here?
“She’s working on a new book. She wanted someplace quiet to study and write.”
“And?”
“There were some things—they said it was PTSD. I had a rough time for a while. She was a big help.” Rough time? That’s an understatement. I was a certified basket case.
“I remember when you came home. You were awfully quiet.”
“Being back with you and Charlie helped me a lot.”
“But you never told us.”
“Like I said, it was a rough time. Look, I’ll leave the Remington and the Colt. If you feel threatened, run if you can. If you can’t, well, aim low and be sure you want to take them down before you fire.”
“What about the dogs?” Mickey this time. Wesson was begging for her attention. Smith was asleep by the front door.
“The dogs will take care of themselves. They’re not at all aggressive, but if they thought someone was trying to hurt you, I’m pretty sure those big, hungry teeth would make an impression.” I need to ask Bob if we’ve found our dog-bitten shooter . . .
1100
The Family Diner
Colder, still no rain
“Morning, Detective. Morning, Gabe,” the hostess said as they entered.
“Morning, Sally,” they said as she led them to a booth. More coffee came without asking, followed by a cheeseburger for Gabe and chicken salad for Bob.
“What have you got on Stewart and Wesley Rogers?” Gabe asked.
“Adam Stewart is dead. Too many donuts, and a heart attack got him three years ago. He was on the bridge team over thirty years overseeing construction and maintenance inspections. He was one of the first hired to create the team after a big bridge accident in ’87.”
“Here?”
“Nope, Fort Hunter, New York. Ten killed. The river scoured the footings, and the whole bridge collapsed. Inspections might have caught it in time, so a lot of states had to get serious with inspection dive teams.”
“Where did you get that?” Gabe had his pocket pad out and was making notes.
“Google, my man. The detective’s best friend.”
“Okay, so Stewart is dead. What about Rogers?”
