So Cold the River

by Michael Koryta

  Eric walked on for the gulf.

  61

  ERIC WENT LEFT INSTEAD of right at the first fork in the trail, ignoring the path that would have taken him down to Kellen and walking instead along the top of the ridge. Soon he left the trail entirely and climbed down into the trees, went out right to the precipice and looked down.

  The gulf still swirled. It was higher now than it had been, still climbing those cliff walls. He could hear a churning sound and saw that on the low end it had crested the hill and begun to pour into the dry channel. He could not see Kellen, but that was a good thing. He’d probably climbed farther away, into a safe place.

  The truly dark clouds had moved away, passing to the northeast, and the sky now was a winter gray with a light rain falling from it. Eric worked along the rock rim, using trees to keep his balance as he moved toward the far end of the gulf, where the cliff walls were highest.

  He circled around to the back, and now he could see Kellen. He wasn’t far from where Eric had left him, maybe five feet back. The water wasn’t near him yet, though. He was on his back with his hands pressed over his eyes, and he didn’t see Eric.

  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.

  Safest place to be was in the basement, of course, but suddenly that didn’t seem to matter. She wanted to see this storm. She’d been waiting so long to see one, and it was fitting that on a day like today, when she’d finally been able to play the role she always knew was hers, she would have the opportunity. It felt like a gift, almost, like this one was intended just for her.

  She took the steps slowly at first, hand on the railing, but halfway up she realized how firm and strong her stride was. Her legs hadn’t felt this way in years. She dropped her hand from the railing.

  Up in the living room she turned and looked out the wide picture window. The cloud was closer now, and she could see its movement clearly, the fascinating swirling layers. Everything in the lower portion was pure white, the kind of white that hurt the eyes, like sun on a snow-covered field.

  She had a notion that it would be easier to see it from outside. There was an odd sense of celebration to the storm’s arrival, and she wanted a toast. Her memory must be slipping; though she didn’t remember having had booze in the house in years, there was a bottle of gin on the counter. Tanqueray, her favorite. A glass with ice beside it, with a sliced lime already positioned on its rim.

  She poured the gin and tonic into the glass, sure somehow that there was no rush, that the storm would wait for her. She squeezed the lime into the drink and lifted it to her lips, took a few swallows.

  Delicious. You could never get too old for a taste like that.

  She set the glass down, licked her lips, and walked to the front door. There was not so much as a twinge in her knees or hips, and her back felt strong and supple, ready for heavy lifting. In fact, her walk felt supple, felt like the old head-turning walk of her youth. She hadn’t forgotten how to move.

  She’d left a pair of heels beside the door, beautiful black heels that she hadn’t seen in years. What they were doing down here, she didn’t know, but given how steady her legs were this afternoon, she’d rather have them on than those silly white tennis shoes.

  Off with the tennis shoes and on with the heels, then out the door and onto the porch. Down the steps and into the yard, and then she turned to the left and walked past the house and toward the empty field beyond. All around her the clouds were dark but the funnel remained white. Odd, because it should have been picking up debris by now, lots of it, absorbing the dirt to change into that fierce gray you always saw in the photographs.

  It roared just as she’d known it would—the sound of a train. It wasn’t a frightening sound, though. Familiar, really. Took her mind back to other places. Why, it sounded just like the old Monon, the train of her youth.

  She walked to the edge of the yard and waited for it, and she couldn’t keep the smile off her face now or the tears off her cheeks. Silly, to stand here and cry as she faced it, but the cloud was just so beautiful. There was magic here, and she’d been allowed to see it.

  What more could you ask?

  62

  CAMPBELL STOOD WITH A lantern in his hand and Shadrach Hunter at his side as the rain poured down around them. The boy worked in a shallow ditch below them, pulling aside broken slabs of limestone.

  “See there!” Campbell shouted. “There it is, Shadrach. The spring, just as I promised.”

  The lantern light cast a white glow on the shallow, softly bubbling pool that was exposed as the boy removed the rocks. When Campbell held the lantern directly over the top of it, the pool seemed to absorb the light and hide it.

  “Boy, get him a bottle of it.”

  The boy took a green glass bottle from his coat pocket. He removed the stopper and held it upside down so Shadrach could see that it was empty, and then he knelt and dipped the bottle into the pool. When it was full, he straightened and handed it to Shadrach, who took a drink.

  “You tell me,” Campbell said.

  “Tastes like honey,” Shadrach Hunter said. His deep voice sounded uneasy. “Like liquid sugar.”

  “I know it. This is what the boy’s uncle put into that liquor, and there ain’t never been any other liquor like it. You know that, Shadrach. You know that.”

  “Yes,” Shadrach said and returned the bottle to the boy.

  Campbell grinned, then shoved the boy with his free hand and said, “Cover it.”

  The boy went back down into the ditch and replaced the stones. When he was done, the water could no longer be seen, and scarcely heard.

  “Well, there you go,” Campbell said, switching the lantern from one hand to the other. It hissed when rain hit the glass. “You said you wouldn’t give me a dime unless you saw the spot, knew that it was real. You seen it now, haven’t you? It’s real enough.”

  “It is, yes.”

  Campbell tilted his head back, his face lost to the shadows. “Well, then. My part of the bargain is complete. Yours is not.”

  Shadrach shifted, brought a hand out of his coat pocket and wiped it across his face, clearing some of the moisture away.

  “Let’s bargain while we walk,” he said. “I want to get out of this rain.”

  He started away from the spring without giving Campbell a chance to argue. There was a hill leading away from the spring, and as he walked up it, Campbell and the boy fell in behind him. They walked into the woods.

  “What’s your plan?” Shadrach said.

  “My plan? You know what it is! There’s a fortune sitting here, a fortune pooling out of the rocks. That old man never made more than a dozen jugs of whiskey at a time. He was a fool. Lacked the ambition to see what could be gained from this, the fortune that was waiting. Well, the boy knows how to make the liquor, too.”

  “So you intend to… expand.” Shadrach had his face turned away from Campbell, walking through the woods with a brisk stride.

  “Expand?” Campbell stared at Shadrach as if he’d spoken in Greek. “Hell, that’s too soft a word. I’m going to make more money than anybody in this valley ever dreamed of. I’ve got contacts in Chicago—Capone and all the rest of them. The network is there. All we need to do is handle the supply.”

  “And you want me as an investor.”

  “That’s all you need to be. You’ll get your share returned tenfold by the end of the year. Believe that.”

  “Why me?” They’d crested the hill now and were walking along the spine of a wooded ridge. Campbell was on the left, closest to the brink.

  “Hell, boy, everybody else is busted! You ain’t figured that out yet? You’re the last man left in the valley with dollars to his name.”

  Shadrach Hunter smiled. “You want to see my dollars?”

  “I’d like to utilize them, yes.”

  Hunter stopped walking. He reached in his jacket and removed a silver money clip. Peeled the bills off and counted them. Fourteen bills—all ones.

  “There you go,” he said, replacing the money in the clip and offering it to Campbell. “That’s my stockpile, Bradford.”

  Campbell looked at him in disbelief. “What in the hell is the matter with you? I always heard you was cagey smart for a colored. Ruthless. You think I’m making a joke here? There’s a fortune to be mad
e!”

  “I believe you,” Shadrach Hunter said. “But I don’t have any money. That’s what I got—fourteen dollars.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Hunter shrugged and put the money clip back into his pocket. “Ain’t no shit but true shit, Bradford.”

  “Everyone knows you been skimming for years. Just sticking it away somewhere. A damned miser, that’s what you are.”

  “No, that’s what the gossiping old fools in this valley say I am. Truth is different.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t have to, but refusing to believe ain’t going to line your pockets with dollars that I simply do not have.”

  It was silent for a while. Then Campbell said, “You could have told me that days ago, you son of a bitch.”

  “Wasn’t going to see the spring if I did that, was I? I wanted to know if there was anything to your talk. Now, look here, we can work on this. Find a way to raise a stake. I’ve tasted that liquor, and I believe what you say—there’s gold to be made from it. I just don’t have the cash you need. But I’ll work with you to see if—”

  “Now you know where it is,” Campbell said. His voice had dropped in volume and darkened in tone. He’d turned to face Hunter, and his back was to the drop-off of the ridge now, no more than a few steps away. “You played me for a fool, got me to show you where it is.”

  “Yes, and now that I know it’s real, we can try and figure out a way to raise—”

  Campbell had to move the lantern again to go for his gun. He’d been holding the lantern in his right hand and he clearly didn’t like to shoot with his left, because he switched the lantern before he drew the weapon. That gave Shadrach Hunter enough time to see what was coming, and he actually fired first.

  He shot through his coat pocket, and the gun was caught pointing down. The first bullet drilled Campbell square in the knee and dropped him, and the second went through his left side. Campbell finally cleared his gun then and returned fire from the ground, one shot that caught Shadrach Hunter in the forehead.