So Cold the River

by Michael Koryta

  The phone was silent then, as was the house around it, just the hissing of the gas flame on the stove and the dripping of water down the gutters and off the porch roof to keep her company. She was glad the phone call hadn’t been Eric Shaw, having another spell, but she also would have been interested to know what was happening with him. If he were to be believed, things would remain normal for a few hours, at least. Then the pain would come back, and then he’d need some more of her water, and then he’d take to seeing things… seeing the past.

  That’s what he’d said this afternoon, at least. What were you seeing? she had asked, and he’d said, The past. Moments from the valley’s history. And people from it. He’d seen the hotel in its glory, and then some old whiskey still up in the hills, seen it just as vividly as if it were real, seen the people as if they were in the room with him.

  She thought on that while she ate her dinner and cleaned up, and when she was done, she went to the stairs again, sighed, and took the railing and started up.

  When she got up to the empty bedroom, she unwrapped another bottle—her supply was dwindling fast this weekend—and held it in her hand. She hadn’t tasted the stuff in years. Decades. Surely nothing would happen, though. Whatever Eric Shaw was experiencing had to be unique, or unrelated to the water at all.

  But she’d seen him react to it. She’d sat there in the living room and watched his eyes leave this world and find another, and in that world was this town in a way she ached to see it, with people she missed, people she loved.

  He’d told her it appeared to be sometime in the twenties in the visions. Her mother and father would have been young people then. Her grandmother would have been alive. Now, that would be something to see again.

  There was no telling the water would land her in the same place as him, either. It could take her fifty years back instead, to a time of Harold and her children…

  “Why not, Annie,” she said. No one had referred to her by that name since she was a child, but sometimes she said it aloud to herself. Now she unfastened the wires and lifted the stopper from the bottle, smelling the sulfur immediately. What she’d told Eric Shaw on his first visit was true enough—this water was probably dangerous. But then, he didn’t seem to drink much of it. Just a taste. And that taste took him back.

  She tried a nip. Horrible stuff, made her head pound and her stomach churn, but she got it down. One thing she’d never lacked was willpower. She took a minute to settle herself and then tried another swallow, smaller this time, and then she replaced the stopper and wrapped the bottle again and put it away.

  Now she would wait. Wait and, hopefully, see.

  41

  TIME SLID AWAY FROM Josiah while he was out in the wet woods. He’d walked all the way to the far end of the ridge and then down the slope, moving aimlessly but enjoying the feel of the water running over his skin and saturating his clothes, savoring the way he sometimes had to blink it out of his eyes just to see. The lightning stopped and the thunder softened and then faded away, and it surprised him when he realized that the western sky was no longer dark from storm clouds but from sunset.

  He started back up the ridge then, mud and wet leaves stuck to his boots, everything smelling of damp wood. He caught himself spitting often, which was odd as it wasn’t a habit he’d practiced before. Stranger still was the mild taste of chewing tobacco in his mouth.

  The long stretch of summer twilight that should have guided him back wasn’t present beneath tonight’s overcast sky. He came back to the timber camp in almost total darkness and didn’t make out the shape of the car until he was almost upon it. He gave a start at first and shrank back into the woods but then recognized it as Danny’s Oldsmobile. When he came up behind it, the driver’s door swung open and Danny stepped out with a face twisted with consternation.

  “Where in the hell you been? I swear, Josiah, I was ten minutes from leaving.”

  “My truck was in the barn.”

  “I seen it, else I would’ve been gone an hour ago.” He frowned. “You been walking around in the rain?”

  “I have.” Josiah leaned past him, looked into the car. “That a pizza?”

  “Figured you’d need some grub. Cold by now, of course.”

  “Hell if I care.”

  They pushed the barn door open a few feet and sat just inside while Josiah ate some pizza and drank a bottle of water. It took the edge off the powerful thirst that had built in him, but neither food nor water removed that faint taste of tobacco.

  While he ate, Danny gave him the update from town. Talk of the murder was common, but credible theories were not.

  “You find out if the one who called himself Shaw is still in town?” Josiah said.

  “He is. I had a hell of a time finding him, but then I got lucky.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I called both hotels and asked for him. French Lick said he wasn’t registered, but West Baden put me through to a room. I hung up soon as it rang.”

  “That’s a hell of a hard time?”

  “No. But just because he had a room doesn’t mean he was still in it, and besides, you told me to follow him. But I don’t know what kind of car he has. Car they were in yesterday was the black guy’s.”

  “Right.” Josiah caught Danny frowning at him. “What are you staring at?”

  “Why do you keep spitting?” Danny said. Josiah was surprised; he hadn’t even realized he was doing it again.

  “No reason,” he said. “Get back to the story.”

  “Well, I went through the parking lot, looking for Illinois plates, but there was quite a few of them, so I didn’t know what to wait on. It started to rain then and I decided I’d drive back up here and ask what you thought. I was halfway through town when I seen him walking down the sidewalk.”

  “You did.”

  “Uh-huh. Wouldn’t have even noticed him but he was all bent over like he was about to be sick. He walked all the way back up to the hotel, stumbling like a drunk. Wasn’t but five minutes later he came out and got in a car. Acura SUV. Then he drove to Anne McKinney’s house.”

  “Anne McKinney?” Josiah said, incredulous.

  “You know who she is, right?”

  “Got that house with all the windmills and shit. Comes to the hotel every day.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What would he be doing up there?”

  “I’m not sure,” Danny said, “but he looked awful strange going inside. Left the door open and the engine running. She had to come out and turn it off.”

  “She did? Well, how long did he stay?”

  “A long time. Then he went back to the hotel. Didn’t see him come out again, so I left to come up here. Something else—what he told Grandpa is that some woman from Chicago hired him.”

  “A woman?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Bullshit. He’s working for Lucas.”

  “I got to say I don’t know what we’re doing, following this guy around,” Danny said. “You’re in a shit-ton of trouble. You ask me—”

  “I didn’t ask you.”

  Danny shut his mouth and stared at Josiah, then spoke again, his voice lower.

  “Maybe not. But if you did ask, I’d say you only got two options. First is to turn yourself in. I know you don’t want to do that, but I think it’s smartest. That guy pulled a gun on you, right? You did what you had to.”

  “Not going to happen,” Josiah said. “I got no interest in trusting the local law.”

  “Fine,” Danny said. “Then you best get out of town. You said you need money to do it, but I don’t know how you’re getting any from these people from Chicago. I’ll give you what I got left from the casino, be enough to get you out of here, at least.”

  Josiah shook his head. “Again, not an option that I favor. I’m disinclined to leave a place I’ve known for so long as home. It’s more mine than theirs, Danny, more mine than theirs.”

  Danny tilted his head and squinted at him. “Why you talk
ing like that?”

  “Way I always talk.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Josiah shrugged. “Well, you never know how a man might progress, Danny, in conversation and conduct.”

  “I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Here’s all you need to know—they aren’t going to take me from this valley again, aren’t going to take me from my home.”

  “Again?”

  “My blood kin, Danny. Campbell.”

  “Campbell? What the hell? The man’s been dead for eighty years! You’d never have so much as known his name if it weren’t for Grandpa.”

  “And there’s the dilemma, Danny, my boy. Isn’t hardly anybody remembers his name anymore, and those that do, well, they got no word but a harsh word. In his time, Campbell did plenty for these people. Why’s the man faulted just for having some ambition? Can you answer that?”

  “He ran out on his family. What are you talking about, ambition?”

  “That’s the thing—weren’t his choice to leave. He never had a mind to go.”

  Danny stared at him. Out beyond the barn, the dark trees were starting to weave again in a mild breeze.

  “Why you using that voice?”

  “Only one I got.”

  “Don’t sound normal. Don’t sound anything like you.”

  “Boy, you are one critical son of a bitch today, aren’t you? Pardon my voice, Danny, pardon my manner of speaking, and pardon my occasional desire to spit. Sorry such qualities don’t find your favor this evening.”

  “Whatever, man.”

  “You had enough of helping me? Going to leave me to handle this on my own?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just don’t understand what I’m supposed to do that can help.”

  “Good thing I do, then. I got a real clear sense of your role, Danny, and it won’t be a difficult task. All I’ll require now is that you go on down to the gas station and buy two of those prepaid cell phones. I have some cash for you to use. Bring them back up here. I’ll wait before I make my call. Seems like the sort of call you make in the middle of the night.”

  The pain held off until evening. Eric lingered with Kellen at the bar, drank a few more beers and even ate a meal and felt fine through all of it, actually had himself thinking maybe it was done.

  It wasn’t.

  The first headache came about an hour after he’d eaten. The nausea settled in soon after the headache, and when he looked up at the bartender and saw the vertical hold go again, that rapid shuddering of the scene in front of him, Eric knew it was time to go.

  “Feeling bad again?” Kellen said when Eric got to his feet.

  “Not great. Probably just need to lie down.”

  He wasn’t sure why he said that; they both knew it was bullshit.

  “You want me to hang around or…”

  Eric shook his head. “No, no. You don’t need to worry about it, man. If it gets bad, I’ll do what I’ve got to do.”

  “And see what you have to see,” Kellen said, face grave, studying him. He put out his hand. “All right, my man. Good luck to you. And I’ll be in town tonight. So anything gets away from you…”

  “I’ll be fine. Guarantee it. By the time we talk tomorrow, you’ll see.”

  There was an odd ghosting to the door as he walked out of the bar, a hint of double vision returning, and the lights in the hallway burned in his skull, but somehow neither occurrence struck quite the same the chord of fear that it had before. Bad things were coming for him, yes, but he could hold them at bay now. He knew that.

  He’d just take some more of the water, that was all. Every day. Have some bad moments, sure, maybe deal with some effects that weren’t ideal, but it would keep the real demons away, too. Even though it had given birth to them, it could now keep them away. Wasn’t that a hell of a thing? So he’d stay on the cycle, that was all, protect himself with the same thing that threatened him.

  Up to the fourth floor, hand on the elevator wall for balance, then out into the hall, smiling and nodding past a middle-aged couple who went by without a second look. He was getting the hang of this now, learning how to hide the symptoms, knowing that he no longer had to cope with them—the water would do that for him.

  There was a rapid tremor working deep within him and his vision was blurred and unsteady, but he found himself laughing at it as he took the keycard from his pocket, whistling as he opened the door, cheerful as hell. Can’t touch me, can’t touch me, can’t touch me. Not anymore, it couldn’t. He had the cure, and who gave a shit if it was also the cause? Important part was that it worked. Control was his again.

  He’d left the bottle in the room, but this time he’d taken a precaution. The room had one of those traveler’s safes in the closet, the sort people used for jewelry or wallets. He’d put a bottle of water in his. Now he punched in the code—the number of Claire’s old apartment in Evanston—popped the door open, and found the bottle.

  Cool but not cold to the touch, completely normal in fact, and he found himself almost missing the Bradford bottle as he opened this one and drank. The taste of Anne’s water was so unpleasant, fetid and harsh, with none of that honey flavor that had developed over time in the Bradford bottle. It would do the job, though, and that was enough.

  Only this time it didn’t do the job. Not as quickly, at least. Five minutes later, his nausea was worse and the headache still present. Odd. He gave it another five and then drank again. Full swallows this time, steeling himself against the sulfuric taste.

  Finally, success. A few minutes after this second dose, the throbbing in his temples diminished and his stomach settled and his vision steadied. His old friend was coming through again. He’d just needed a touch more this time, that was all.

  He was still in the chair when the violin called to him. Whisper-soft at first, but he raised his head like a dog hearing a whistle. Man, it was beautiful. An elegy, the boy had called it. A song for the dead. The more Eric heard of it, the more he liked it.

  He got to his feet and went to the balcony, where the music seemed to be originating. He opened the doors softly and stepped out and the rotunda below was gone, vacant gray space stretching on beneath the balcony instead, falling away like an endless canyon. Even the smells of the hotel were missing, replaced by dead leaves and wood smoke. Two points of light showed somewhere down in the gray canyon, and he turned to watch them. As they approached, the hotel and his memory of it faded away.

  He was with the lights now and saw that they were the cold white eyes of Campbell’s roadster, which had pulled to a stop outside a long wooden building with a wide front porch. Rain was pouring down, finding holes in the porch roof here and there. A few black men sat on the porch in the dry areas, smoking and talking in voices that went soft when the car door opened and Campbell stepped out into the puddles beside the car. A moment later the passenger door opened and there was Lucas, with the violin case in hand. It seemed always to be in hand.

  “Gentlemen,” Campbell said. “Enjoying the porch on a rainy evening, I see.”

  None of the black men responded.

  “Shadrach’s indoors?” Campbell said, unbothered.

  “Downstairs,” one said after a long pause, and Campbell tipped his hat and went to the door, opened it, and held it for the boy to step through. Now they were in a dark room with round tables and a long wooden bar with a brass rail. The bar and all of the tables were empty. Stacks of cards and chips stood on one of the tables. Everything was covered with a fine layer of dust.

  The two of them walked through the empty room to a dark staircase in the back, went down the steep, shadowed steps. At the base of the stairs was a closed door, and Campbell opened it without knocking and stepped inside.

  “Easy there,” he said. A short but muscular black man was standing just inside the door and had lifted a gun when Campbell intruded. There was another man, much larger, probably close to three hundred pounds, hulking on a stool on the other side of the door, an
d a third, rail-thin and very dark-skinned, seated behind a wooden desk. He leaned back in the chair with his feet propped on the desk, enormous feet, a pair of equally large hands folded over his stomach. He didn’t speak or move when Campbell and the boy entered, just flicked his eyes over and studied them without a change in expression. The man with the gun lowered it slowly and moved a step back from Campbell.

  “Shadrach,” Campbell said.

  “Mr. Hunter is what I’m called by those who aren’t friends,” the man behind the desk said.

  “Shadrach,” Campbell said again, no change of tone at all.

  Shadrach Hunter gave that a wry curling of the lip that seemed to pass for amusement, and then he looked past Campbell to Lucas.

  “This is Thomas Granger’s boy?”

  “His nephew.”

  “What in hell’s he carrying the fiddle for?”

  “He likes to have it with him,” Campbell said. “You’ve heard him play.”

  “I have.” Shadrach Hunter was regarding Lucas with a distrustful squint. “Plays like no boy should.”

  It sounded like a reprimand. Lucas had kept his eyes on the floor since entering the room, and they stayed there now.

  “I’ve got the car out front,” Campbell said, “and it’s raining mighty strong. Best be stepping to it.”

  “Might not be the best night for a long drive, then.”

  “It ain’t far. Just out beyond the gulf. You’ve been out there, and don’t tell me otherwise, you lying son of a bitch. You’ve been looking for it on your own. I’m here to tell you that as of now, that spring is mine. You want a piece, you’re going through me to get it.”

  Shadrach gave him a dour stare. “I still don’t know why you think I’d be fool enough to partner with you, Bradford.”

  “Sure, you do. There’s money to be made. You’re a man, like myself, who appreciates his money.”