Ghost River

by Jon Coon

  “Correct,” Gabe answered.

  “It’s a constant problem in Florida. We have contractors out there now surveying for the repairs. We’ve had regular inspections, but I was surprised at the amount of scouring described in the report our crew did after your dives. However last fall’s storms dumped an inordinate amount of rain. Surely enough to account for the washout. I assure you. There was nothing wrong with that bridge. Now, what else?”

  “The inspection reports we saw, well, they made me wonder if they were real. They were more like photocopies with sequential dates. And they are all signed by the same guy: Sergeant Wesley Rogers from Dade. That raises more questions. Like where are the rest of the reports, and what’s a guy from Dade doing in the panhandle?”

  Overstreet looked up abruptly, “The reports you saw? Those aren’t for public access.”

  “We’re not exactly the general public,” Bob corrected. “Tell us about Rogers.”

  “Rogers knows that bridge and the dangers with what’s left of the old steel lift span bridge beside it. It was too dangerous to send new men. The loss of your diver proved that.”

  “What about the old bridge?” Gabe continued. “We recovered a large number of explosives; we found trip wires and detonators. It was booby trapped. And my partner died by setting off one of those detonators.”

  Overstreet shook his head and held up his hands as though preparing to defend himself. “Now, wait. Explosives, yes. We knew it was possible there were unexploded shaped charges on the spans when the bridge collapsed. Our experts said it was impossible to detonate them without electrical current. As far as I know, there aren’t any outlets or generators running on the bottom of the river. So we decided it was safer to leave them than to get someone hurt removing them. Booby traps? I’m sorry about your partner, but someone has an overactive imagination. Down too long perhaps? Now if that’s all, I have a meeting.”

  “I want all those reports,” Bob said. “And I’ve been trying to get a set of plans for the bridge for some time now. We have good reason to believe there were problems with the construction. If necessary, I’ll come back with a warrant,”

  Overstreet looked stunned, then stammered, “Warrant? There . . . there was a fire last year. I’m afraid most of our records going that far back were destroyed. But I assure you, there’s nothing wrong with the way that bridge was built.”

  Bob pushed harder. “So now you’re saying the evidence we need no longer exists because of your convenient fire and that my dead diver couldn’t possibly have been killed by booby traps, even though our EOD team found battery-powered detonators and trip wires. There’s nothing worth hiding in the history of the new bridge, so there’s no reason for at least two deaths? And we’re supposed to trust you? I’ll be back with more than a warrant.” Bob made serious eye contact. “Don’t have any more fires.”

  Overstreet bolted for the door. “I don’t know about any of that. You’ll have to excuse me.” The room was cold, but he was noticeably sweating.

  “Two more questions,” Gabe asked and stepped in to block Overstreet’s exit.

  “What?” The portly manager’s intent was now nothing less than full retreat.

  “Who is the contractor doing the repairs?”

  “The builder, McFarland Construction. Who better? What else?”

  “How many bridges have they built in Florida?”

  “Several, I suppose. There are a lot of builders. I don’t keep those kinds of records. Why?”

  “We’re going to need a list of all the builders and all the contracts let in the past thirty years,” Gabe said. “That includes all the repair contracts.”

  “I told you there was a fire.”

  “Then find me the ashes. My partner died on your bridge, and we’re going to find out why.”

  “You can’t come in here giving orders. Who do you think you are?” Overstreet was flushed, flustered, and frightened. He moved again for the door. And again, Gabe blocked him.

  “One more thing. Who is Wilson Corbitt, and how do we find him?

  “I have no idea,” Overstreet answered too quickly. “Let me out of here, and if you come back bring a warrant.” Gabe glanced at Bob who nodded. Gabe stepped aside, allowing Overstreet to pass.

  The dark clouds moving up from the Gulf as they drove back to the office reflected Gabe’s mood perfectly. “I’d say you turned that guy into a friend for life,” Bob laughed. “I expect we’ll be invited back for all the office parties from here on out.” Bob checked the weather app on his phone. “Looks like the forecast was right. We’re going to get hammered.”

  “I’d love to play poker with him,” Gabe said. “He was lying through his teeth about the inspections and Wilson Corbitt. I’ll bet breakfast Rogers never made the first inspection dive. And I’ll bet lunch Overstreet knew it.

  “He flinched when I mentioned Corbitt’s name. He knows. Now all we have to do is prove it.” Gabe turned to the window and watched the sky turning black. “If we hadn’t lost Charlie we could have had a disaster worse than the one you read about in New York. We’re going to need inspections on every bridge McFarland touched. And I pray to God none of them are in as bad shape as ours.”

  Dinner that night was burgers, a venison blend, which Carol failed to mention in the hope of avoiding the conversation with Emily and Mickey about eating Bambi. The men cooked, Zack taking charge of an old Weber grill and Paul and Gabe fixing fried potatoes, onions, and peppers in a large electric skillet. The wind continued to build. Paper towels had to be chased across the yard. They ate inside with root beer floats for dessert. During dinner Gabe gave the daily update. It was discouraging at best, disheartening at worst.

  Once the girls cleared and washed the dishes, out came iPads and laptops. “Okay,” Gabe asked, “what do we know about McFarland Construction?”

  Mickey began, “Two enterprising brothers founded the company, oddly enough named McFarland. Riding the tide of a surging post-war economy, the company flourished until the early nineties when both brothers, then in their late seventies, were killed when their private plane crashed on a Canadian fishing trip. Ownership passed to one of the brothers’ widows, Mary McFarland, who later married Mitchell Conners.”

  “Wait, wait,” Zack said. “Read that again.”

  “Ownership passed to . . . uh . . . Mary and Mitchell Conners,” Mickey read.

  “I have a great aunt named Mary Conners. My granddad’s sister.”

  “How convenient,” Gabe noted. “Would they, by any chance, be related to Congressman Conners?”

  “Yes, they are. He’s my great uncle. But they don’t talk to my side of the family. Not since my dad died.”

  “Still, you have an impressive family tree, Zack,” Gabe said. “Having a congressman run interference could make stealing the government’s cookies a whole lot easier. And it explains why your mom didn’t want your dad making trouble for McFarland or your granddad. Now how can we use any of this to solve our murders? McFarland builds crappy bridges, crappy bridges collapse. What have you got on the accidents?”

  “Five accidents in the last ten years. Jacksonville, Escambia Bay, and Georgia. Georgia was six months ago. I’m still looking for details of the one in West Virginia.” Mickey said.

  “Fatalities?” Gabe asked.

  “Escambia Bay, an eighteen-wheeler lost when a span collapsed during a hurricane. Let’s see, Jacksonville, yes. A truck and two cars lost when two spans collapsed. Again during a big storm.”

  As though to add to the drama their silence was broken by a resounding thunderclap and a nearby flash of lightning. Rain began hammering the tin roof like kettledrums. The dogs added to the racket, crying at the back door to be let in. Gabe nodded to Emily, who grabbed a towel and went to their rescue.

  Gabe checked the weather app on his phone. Radar showed the front moving in quickly. The temperature dropped. Rain found its way through untended holes in the roof. Pots were deployed, a fire built, and the dogs, out of t
he doghouse and with a nearly natural scent, were toweled dry.

  “Will you have to go?” Carol asked. She put the wet towels in a trash bag to contain the lingering odor of skunk.

  “Most likely,” he answered.

  “I remember how excited Charlie was about being able to help with disaster relief. He loved the paramedic training and swift-water recovery work you all did. But it terrified me every time he was called out. Are we safe here?” she asked.

  “The floor is twelve feet above river level. It’s not going to get this high.”

  “You sure?” She looked anxiously over the top of her coffee mug.

  “Yeah, best option is to sit tight. This place has been here a hundred years. There’s room in the loft and a roof hatch.” He nodded toward the drop-down stair in the hall.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I’m going to call and check in.” Gabe pulled the phone from his pocket and moved to the couch.

  “Right. Don’t worry about us,” she called after him. “Go play with your nice little boat. We’ll be fine. I hope.”

  Gabe took note and returned to the table with a reassuring hug. “One other thing. I’m worried about Alethea. All right with you if I bring her here?”

  “Alethea?”

  “Dr. Guidry.”

  “Of course. I’ve been hoping to meet her.”

  “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  Gabe put on his rain gear and headed to the cruiser, wishing he had his truck. The wind and rain were picking up, and it was hard to follow the dark roads along the river. When he got to Alethea’s, he was glad to see the oil lamp glowing through the window. He parked and ran up to the porch. Cher greeted him at the door, and Alethea welcomed him in.

  “I came to check on the roof.”

  “I was about to call my attorney,” she laughed. “That roof contractor needs to lose his license.” She hugged him and kissed his neck. Water was pouring in over her bed into buckets already overflowing.

  “This is going to be a bad one,” he said. “I’d feel better if you were with Carol and the kids at the camp. If nothing else, you’ll have a dry place to sleep.”

  “I’m ready, thank you.”

  “What about Cher and Souriciere?” Gabe asked while she handed him her bags.

  “Cher is so old I’d be afraid to leave her. Souriciere has seen a hundred storms. She’s a good climber and is probably twenty feet high already. Besides, she doesn’t do well with strangers.

  “If you say so.”

  “Oh, she doesn’t mind them, it’s the other way around. People are so intimidated by big snakes. You know she’d never hurt anyone.”

  “What about your books?”

  “I packed them in trash bags. They should be all right.” She pointed to several large bags stuffed in the rafters.

  “You were expecting me.”

  “A couple of hours ago, but that’s okay. You’re here now.”

  They heard a loud screech as a tin roof panel tore away and rain poured in. Gabe closed his raincoat and pulled down the heavy book bags wondering how she had ever lifted them. In three trips they were in the cruiser, and she was in the front seat. Cher eagerly jumped into the back and shook rain and mud generously over the interior.

  “Looks like I’m finally going to get a new roof,” she laughed and mopped the water from her face and neck. “It’s a shame I don’t know any reliable contractors.”

  “Me either,” Gabe said,

  “What’s on your mind?” she asked realizing her joke had been ignored.

  “I’m worried about the bridge. Without those piers supporting it, a storm like this could be all it takes.”

  “What then?” she asked.

  “Trouble. Big trouble.”

  Gabe’s cell chimed as they pulled back into the river camp. The rescue team was officially on alert, which meant report to the locker. He helped Alethea into the house, introduced her as Dr. Guidry, and headed back out into the rain.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” Alethea said as she shook out of her rain gear. “I’m afraid my place is going downriver.”

  “Come in and get dry and warm,” Carol said after a warm hug. Carol offered a beach towel and a cup of hot chocolate. “Sit, and I’ll find you dry clothes. You can change in my bedroom.”

  Alethea took the cup and sat at the large, hand-hewn cypress table. Carol returned with dry sweats. In a short time Alethea returned to the table, comfortable and smiling.

  “Gabe said you teach at Tulane.”

  “I’m mostly writing now,” Alethea answered, “My classroom days are over.”

  “What did you teach?” Emily asked.

  “Anthropology and psychology. I combined the two so instead of just asking what cultures do, I could explore the whys. And I wanted to do some counseling.”

  “That’s interesting.” Then Carol asked, “What are you writing about?”

  “There are questions in history that have always fascinated me.” Alethea held the warm cup in both hands and took a sip. “Here’s a good example,” she began. “There are many references in the Bible to animal and human sacrifice. We know many early cultures practiced it. We all know the stories of Aztec priests offering the hearts of virgins to please the ancient gods. My questions are why? When did it start, and who benefited?

  “Another example comes from my heritage. Voodoo or hoodoo was a black religion from Africa before slavery began. We know a lot about what it was and very little about why.

  “Nearly every culture has recognized the existence of a creator,” she continued. “Native Americans called him the great mystery, a creator, and supreme being. And nearly every culture has need for priests or shaman to help deal with what is impossible to explain.

  “So now, in what’s described as our highly enlightened, ‘late-modern’ age, why are so many fascinated with what was a very primitive African religion? Recently voodoo has since seen a real resurgence in my own New Orleans.”

  “But haven’t we outgrown those superstitious religious ideas?” Paul asked as he joined them at the table.

  “Great question,” she said and smiled at him. “The answer has two parts, two approaches. From the anthropological, historical perspective we know of at least three countries that did outgrow those religious ideas. In World War II Hitler killed more than 50 million. In China Chairman Mao’s Great Leap Forward killed 45 million of his own people in four years. During the great purge in Russia 20 to 50 million deaths were attributed to Stalin.

  “So the question is, how could anyone who believed in a supreme being or that they were going to face a final judgment, have perpetrated such horrors? Giving up our belief in the supernatural, in a final accountability for our actions here on earth, opens the door for horrible moral atrocities.”

  “What’s the second part?” Paul asked.

  “From the psychological perspective atheism is often a defense mechanism: denial. We fear God’s wrath and judgment, so we deny and reject His reality. If I don’t believe it, it can’t hurt me. It’s a powerful lie. Very seductive. Very dangerous. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and repeating, ‘Gravity isn’t real, gravity isn’t real,’ then jumping.”

  Paul shifted uncomfortably on his chair. She smiled at him, and he nodded. But he was all out of questions.

  CHAPTER 15

  2100

  The storm before the storm

  Gabe brought in firewood from the front porch. The wind was howling, rain hammering, and temperature dropping. The kids were gathered with the dogs on chairs and couches by the fire, iPads and computers had them entertained. Carol found hot chocolate mix and was making a pot when his cell chimed. An all-hands alert had been issued. There was flooding with calls coming in from the lower lying section of the county. Water was already a foot deep over some roads. He knew what was going to happen on the river.

  He explained to the kids why he was leaving, assured them they would be okay. He rubbed the dog’s heads and instr
ucted them to take care of the kids, picked up his thermos of hot chocolate from Carol, and headed toward the door. Carol stopped him with a hug. “I know you’ll be careful, that you know what you’re doing. Please just come back in one piece. I’ll be praying for you.”

  “Mama bear, you have nothing to worry about. Get a good book and enjoy a rainy night by the fire. I’ll see you when the sun comes up.” He held her close, kissed her hair, then pulled open the door and stepped out. As he crossed the porch, he thought, That’s different. I’ve never had someone worry about me. It’s always the other way around. Nice.

  The rain was blowing sideways across the yard as he ran to the shed. Trees along the drive were doing deep knee bends, and their Spanish moss beards were flying like flags in a gale. Even in rain gear, he was soaked by the time he got to shed. He pulled his dry suit out of his dive bag and put on the underwear. Then he pulled on the suit and stored the dive bag in the trunk of the cruiser.

  What was usually a thirty-minute drive took an hour. Streets had water above the curbs. In low spots, water was above the bottom of the cruiser’s doors and running fast. If the rain continued, those roads would soon be unusable. Gabe made mental notes of flooded streets and kept going, trusting the car to survive the deluge.

  When Gabe finally arrived, Jim had the boat hooked up to a state truck and was also in his dry suit, but with hood and goggles. Gabe parked, checked the gear in the boat and truck, then went into the locker.

  Three other teams were drinking coffee and monitoring radios. A TV with weather was on mute, while some of the team watched the computer print a weather map.

  “What’s the latest?” Gabe asked.

  “Forty-mile-an-hour winds, gusts higher. Choppers grounded. It’s just us. Came up so fast not many got out. Looks like a busy night,” one of the other boat captains offered.

  “Shelters up?”