Ghost River

by Jon Coon

  The next morning as Gabe made his way back to the dive locker, Alethea called. “I found a contractor who builds cracker houses,” she began. “He says they can finish in just a few weeks. I want to keep it simple, as rustic as possible, so that shouldn’t be hard.”

  “Sounds great. How big?”

  “About twenty by forty: eight hundred square feet plus front and back porches. Bigger than the original, but the same basic design, except that it has to be up on pilings or I won’t have insurance. So there will have to be a lift. My knees aren’t the best. I’ll need a new generator too.”

  “Sounds good. When do you want me to come and get you?”

  “Cas wants to bring me. But, Gabrielle, you be careful with her. She is not over you. She’s been talking about you all week.”

  “Oh.”

  “How are Carol and the kids?”

  “Paul moved out, took some cash and his dad’s truck. Carol’s pretty upset, but looking down the road it may be for the best. The kid’s eighteen next month. He can make it. There was a lot of drama between them. Hopefully they’ll both be happier with some breathing room.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m okay. Do you want to stay with us? There’s plenty of room.”

  “No, I don’t think Carol would agree. I need to find Souriciere, and I know how Carol feels about snakes. There’s one other thing: I’m sorry to have to tell you this now, you’ve got more than enough to worry about without it.”

  “What?”

  “I heard from my friend on the parole board. Your father has another hearing coming up.”

  “Oh.”

  “Gabriel, you have to know they can’t keep him locked up forever. Someday he’s going to come knocking on your door. How many times has he called and written? You don’t take his calls or even read his letters. When he’s released, he’s going to want to see you.”

  “That’s a mistake he’ll only make once.”

  Her silence made him wonder if the call had been dropped. When he heard her voice again, she sounded tired and in pain. “Gabriel, what he did was terrible enough without you letting it destroy your soul as well. Aren’t you ready to let him go?”

  “Alethea, please don’t bring this up again. I don’t care what happens to him, and I never want to see him again. Let’s just let it rest. I’m going to Mexico for a few days on this case. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “I’ll be praying for you. Please be careful, Gabriel.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The River Camp

  The first thing Gabe noticed back at the river camp was that a third of the forty-foot porch deck was missing. There were new steel jacks, which had leveled the sag, and a large stack of treated deck boards waiting along with a trash pile of the original decking in a trash pod. The dogs came eagerly off what was left of the deck to meet him, as did the girls when he opened the door. As he went up the steps, the smell of fresh cornbread and pot roast reminded him he’d not eaten since breakfast before daylight. Carol’s greeting was a bit sadder, and Emily hugged him a bit longer, but life was moving on, and it was good.

  Gabe looked at Zack as he settled into a chair. “Zack, have you got a passport?”

  “Yes, I went on a youth mission trip to Puerto Rico last year.”

  “How would you like to go visit your grandfather? I wonder if now that he’s a dying man, he’d be willing to make peace with his only grandson.”

  “It’s doubtful, but I think we should check it out, don’t you?”

  “If we can get answers, it will be worth the trip. How about it, you in?”

  “Yes, sir, let’s do it.”

  “Done. We’re going. First available flights. Get packed.”

  Carol came out of the kitchen with two glasses of iced tea and pointed to the porch. He opened the door for her, and they sat on the steps in front of the missing deck.

  “Mexico?” she asked.

  “I didn’t think you’d really do this,” he said pointing to the deck.

  “I needed something to do, or I would have spent the whole day worried about Paul, and that won’t accomplish anything. Tell me about Mexico.”

  “Peterson’s there. Rogers is with him. It could be our last chance to get answers.”

  “You don’t have jurisdiction, and you can’t force him to talk.”

  “I don’t need it to wring his neck. If he thinks he can go down there and die and get away with what they’ve done . . . it’s not going to happen.” He put down the glass, stood, and walked to the edge of the deck, looking out into the woods for the dogs. He called, and they came running.

  “I’m going with you,” she said and stood with him.

  “Now wait . . .” He turned, making trooper-stare eye contact.

  She held her ground, “You’re going under the radar. You’ll need a nurse to keep him alive while you interrogate him or if we bring him back. Besides, I want to meet the men who killed my husband.”

  “No Old Testament, Carol. We’ve got them. There’s no need.”

  “Okay, we bring him back and go to court. The first thing he says is, ‘Your honor, they kidnapped me.’ And you say?”

  “Good point,” he softened. She was right.

  “Maybe we should be thinking what happens in Mexico stays in Mexico.”

  “We need statements that will hold up in court,” he said. “I suppose we could get a court reporter down there. I’ll check it with Bob.”

  Gabe’s phone chimed. Bob explained getting extradition papers could take weeks or months. What’s plan B?

  Gabe put down his phone and turned to Carol, “I think you’re right about Mexico. Get packed.”

  1830

  Cancun, Mexico

  Warm sun, warm sand, hot blood

  On the plane, Carol skimmed the in-flight magazine. A destination article began, “Cozumel Island is thirty miles long, ten miles wide, and welcomes tourists year-round.” After the flight landed, clearing customs was easy. The trip to the Peterson villa, including a stop for tacos, took less than an hour in the rented SUV.

  Surrounded by a crumbling stucco courtyard wall and rusty iron gate, the grounds were overgrown, and the two-story main house was in serious disrepair. Ceramic roof tiles had fallen and shattered. Jungle vines climbed iron balconies and choked second-floor windows. Stucco was rotting from the house walls. Two midsize vans were parked on the brick drive, and dim lights were on in the house.

  Zack jumped out of the rental and swung open the creaking gate. Gabe drove in and parked. The three of them went to the door and knocked. After a few moments Zack’s mother opened the door, then blocked their entrance. Shocked and angry, she looked withered. “You don’t have jurisdiction here,” she snapped at Gabe.

  “Someone told me that,” Gabe said and smiled at Carol.

  “Hi, Mom,” Zack said. “How are you?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to see my grandfather before he dies. I’ve got questions about what happened to my dad, and at this point, it’s going to be harder for him to avoid or ignore me. Let us in.” Zack pushed forward. Surprised, his mother stepped back, and Zack entered the tile-floored foyer. Gabe and Carol followed him in.

  “Wait, you can’t just—”

  “It’s all right, Mom. They’re with me,” Zack said. “Where is he?”

  Helen pointed toward a hall door and stepped out of the way. Inside Peterson was in a new hospital bed with monitors and IV stands. The monitors blinked, and one beeped a steady rhythm. Wes Rogers stood by the head of the bed, a Glock 9 mm visible in his belt.

  “Hello, Grandpa. My name is Zack. You and your friend there,” he motioned toward Rogers, “killed my dad and nearly killed me. I want to know why.”

  Rogers stepped forward, but the old man motioned him back.

  Peterson glared at Zack. “Who do you think you are to talk to me like that? You’re just as arrogant as your father.”

  Before Zack could answer, Gabe s
tepped in. “It’s over, Peterson. We know about the bidding fraud. We know how you did it and who you killed because of it. We know about the bridge span you and Rogers dropped on Wilson Corbitt. It’s over.”

  “So what? You’re too late. I’m not going anywhere,” Peterson said, then coughed violently, spitting up blood and wiping it on his sleeve.

  “Is that the legacy you want to leave for this boy?” Gabe asked. “That he’s the grandson of a brilliant engineer who sold his soul and built killer bridges?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my bridges,” Peterson barked before having another coughing spasm.

  “That’s not the way it looks to us. Your bridge in Jacksonville collapsed three years ago. The Escambia Bay Bridge in the hurricane in eighty-eight, and now the Chattahoochee Bridge. It killed at least one McFarland man, not including the ones who died getting it built. And let’s not forget the ones you two killed covering up your scam. Good bridges don’t fall in because of a little rain.”

  Peterson glared, his face transfigured with pain and hate.

  Gabe shifted his focus. “Good to see you, Rogers. Richard Greenly, Wilson Corbitt, Charlie Evans, and Captain Brady send their regards. And you owe me a truck. You better plan to stay in Mexico, because if you ever set foot in the States again, you’ll be all mine.”

  Rogers pulled the Glock and drew down on Gabe. Before Gabe could move, Carol, who was standing behind Gabe and Helen, shoved Gabe hard. As Gabe staggered to the side, Helen fell forward and took the two rounds Rogers intended for Gabe. She gasped and collapsed, face down.

  Gabe recovered his balance and shoved a respiratory monitor into Rogers who fell back. Gabe kept coming and hit Rogers like a wrecking ball. The gun went flying, and Gabe hammered Rogers into the floor with a forearm across his throat. Carol grabbed the gun and pitched it to Gabe, who caught it one-handed and shoved the barrel under Rogers’s chin.

  While Gabe held Rogers at gunpoint, Carol knelt beside Helen, and blood spurted from the two wounds in her chest. Zack dropped to his knees by his mother in disbelief, while Carol put her fingers in the bullet holes to stem the bleeding, getting soaked in the process. Zack stepped up, grabbed a towel and handed it to Carol who put it in place. The flow stopped, but Helen quit breathing. Carol spotted a resuscitator bag and shouted to Zack to bring it. She fitted it to Helen’s mouth and began to pump the bag. Nothing. She tried CPR.

  “Zack, is there an AED? Look for a red case with a heart on it.”

  Zack was back on his knees by his mother. He looked up, confused and in shock.

  “Zack, move!” Gabe shouted. “Help her.”

  Gabe was still holding Rogers, but he spotted the case Carol described in a glass front cabinet by the bed. “There,” he said, and pointed with his free hand.

  Zack staggered to his knees and crawled to the cabinet, grabbed the case and handed it to Carol. She opened it, pulled open Helen’s blouse, and put on the adhesive patches. She hit the charge button and shouted, “Clear.” The first charge jarred Helen without result. She hit the charge button, waited and tried again. Still nothing. Carol went back to doing CPR. Moments passed. She checked for a carotid pulse and shook her head sadly.

  Covered in Helen’s blood, with tears running down her face, she turned to Zack and said softly, “I’m sorry. She’s gone.”

  Zack knelt beside his mother and sobbed. He looked up and pointed a finger at Gabe. “This is your fault. She didn’t deserve this.”

  Gabe still had Rogers pinned and the Glock against his forehead. “No, she didn’t,” he answered. “I’m sorry.”

  As Carol stood, Peterson coughed up more blood then choked. An alarm on his monitor went off and then flat lined. Carol jumped to the bed. “Oh no, you monster, my husband died because of you. You don’t quit breathing until I say so.”

  She yelled at the old man and slammed him in the chest with both fists. She checked the monitors. Nothing. She gave two breaths and tried more compressions. When that didn’t work, she jumped on the bed, straddled Peterson, and used all of her strength to drive her compressions.

  “Live, damn you!” She yelled. When there was no response, she left the bed just long enough to grab the AED from the floor beside Helen.

  She wiped the blood-soaked pads on the bed sheets, slapped them on Peterson, and hit the charge button. “Come on,” she said as she waited for the unit to charge. When the green light came on, she called clear and hit him with the first shock.

  No response. The cardiac monitor was still flatlined. She hit the charge button again, but this time nothing happened. The battery was dead. She climbed on the bed, straddled Peterson, and resumed chest compressions until she heard ribs crack.

  Gabe cuffed Rogers to a supply cabinet and moved beside Carol with the resuscitation bag. He squeezed twice and asked, “More?”

  “Yes, keep going.”

  He continued to pump the bag, watching Peterson’s chest rise and fall with each cycle.

  In desperation, she shouted, “Zack, look for vials of adrenaline or epinephrine and a syringe.” She continued chest compressions, feeling the strain in her shoulders and neck. Still no response.

  Zack pulled open cabinet drawers, scattering its contents. “I found the adrenaline. How much do you want?”

  “All of it,” she said. “He’s dead. We can’t make him worse.”

  He filled a syringe and handed it to her. She pushed the air out and then slammed the long needle into the old man’s heart.

  It worked. The cardiac monitor showed Peterson’s rhythm return. Within seconds his color began to change from ashen gray to pale pink.

  Zack dropped back to his knees beside his mother and held her hand, choking back sobs. Carol remained by the bed monitoring Peterson while Gabe called an ambulance and the police.

  Peterson slept most of the night in the ICU. By morning, wearing an oxygen cannula and telemetry, he was able to talk. Gabe turned on the recorder on his phone.

  “Last chance,” Gabe began. “Talk now, or you take it all with you. Can’t imagine that’s going to play well on the other side.”

  “Other side of what?” the old man snorted. His chest was bandaged, and talking was painful.

  “Oh, you don’t have a soul? And there’s no final judgment to worry about? Good luck with that.” Gabe stood by the bed, watching both Peterson and his monitors.

  “You’re a believer?” the old man snickered.

  “Yeah, I am. I’ve seen some things. Remember that old line about no atheists in foxholes? That’s me and most of the guys I work with. We live in that foxhole, and it makes believing easy,” Gabe answered with a hard smile.

  “How did you know about the deal with McFarland?”

  “You mean how do I know about the scoured out piers, the two sets of construction plans you used to make sure McFarland got the best contracts, and the fact you dropped that bridge span on Wilson Corbitt? How do I know all those things?”

  Peterson shifted uncomfortably in the bed. “You can’t prove—”

  “Doesn’t matter, like you said, you’re dead either way.”

  “How did you find out?” he gasped for breath and lay back against the pillows.

  “I had a talk with an old friend of yours, Clayton Mayweather.”

  “Mayweather’s dead.”

  “Right, but sometimes the dead still get the last word. He told me everything, just before the hellhounds got him.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Then how do I know all your dirty little secrets?”

  Peterson tilted his head and studied Gabe. “Hellhounds?”

  “Only the beginning. There’s not much left when they get done with you.”

  “And you’ve seen them? You’re crazy.”

  “I get to feed them from time to time. Probably again quite soon.” He smiled again.

  “You’ve lost your mind!” Still, there was a flicker of uncertainty in the old man’s eyes.

  “Maybe. Are you’re willing to
bet your soul on that? If this is the legacy you want, fine.” Gabe stood as though to leave.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Clean it up. How many more bridges are at risk? How many more contractors have you helped cut corners and create disasters? Last chance to save some lives. Last chance to go out with at least a shred of honor.”

  Peterson hesitated, looking around the room sadly. Then as if he’d just had a final meeting with reality, he asked, “How does it work?” He was struggling to get his breath. Nothing like dying to bring one closer to the truth.

  “We bring in a court reporter. You make a statement. I record it. That’s it.”

  The color left Peterson’s face, “Don’t you dare die on me yet,” Gabe growled.

  “Bring in your reporter. I don’t believe a word you’ve just said, but . . .” Peterson rasped.

  “But what have you got to lose? Is that what you were going to say? Okay, I’ll call her.”

  It took a grueling, coughing, hacking two hours for Peterson to make his statement to Gabe and the Mexican police stenographer. When he was done, Gabe had it all, and Peterson was finished. He’d given up names, dates, and shoe sizes. He implicated Wesley Rogers, McFarland Construction, Steve Overstreet, and a team of construction inspectors. At the top of the food chain was Congressman Justin Conners.

  He listed the other bridges, which would eventually have the same issues. Then explained how by using false inspection reports, both during construction and in follow up and by awarding McFarland the repair contracts, they’d been running the scam for years.

  Peterson also dictated a will, leaving anything left following the court decisions to his only grandchild Zack Greenly. Drained and exhausted, he fell back against his pillow and asked, “That stuff you told me about those hellhounds, it was just to scare me, right?”

  “Oh, I think you’re going to find out very shortly, everything I told you was God’s honest truth,” Gabe answered. “Sorry, pal, but you’re not getting anything you don’t deserve.” Is there anything left to prove what you’ve told me is true, or did Rogers burn it all?