Retribution Road

by Jon Coon

  Iron Herring

  An imprint of Iron Stream Media

  100 Missionary Ridge

  Birmingham, AL 35242

  NewHopePublishers.com

  IronStreamMedia.com

  © 2021 by the Estate of Jon Coon

  All rights reserved. First printing 2021.

  Printed in the United States of America

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Iron Stream Media serves its authors as they express their views, which may not express the views of the publisher.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021933145

  Photo Credit: tora_Brian Silcox

  CAF Wings over Dallas

  ISBN-13: 978-1-56309-431-6

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-56309-439-2

  1 2 3 4 5—24 23 22 21 20

  A Diver’s Prayer

  Eternal Father, strong to save,

  Have mercy on me,

  A wretched sinner.

  In the name of your Son,

  Who bound the wave and calmed the sea,

  Please don’t add my name

  To the list of those many brave men who lie asleep

  In the deep.

  At least not today.

  Amen

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 1

  “I DON’T THINK THEY’RE COMING,” Carol Evans said. “He promised he was going to bring her, and he blew us off again.”

  “Her” referred to the girlfriend Paul had not yet introduced to the family. Carol glared at the grandfather clock in the dining room of her new log-and-stone home. She ran her fingers through dark-red hair that came down to her mid-back, and gave Gabe Jones, the police diver and former partner of her dead husband, Charlie, a frustrated frown. Gabe, who sat at the head of the heavy walnut slab table, nodded back to her, acknowledging her frustration. He was godfather to both the kids and cared deeply about them and their mother.

  The river-stone fireplace across the white pine, open main room floor had a small fire. Just enough to keep off the Florida evening chill. Emily, Carol’s twelve-year-old daughter, a summer blonde in tee shirt and jeans, sat mid-table with thumbs flying on her phone. “He’s not answering my texts. What a jerk.”

  “When was the last time you talked with him?” Gabe asked.

  “On Monday, and he promised he was going to bring her. He sounded good. Happy even,” Carol answered. “He was here for Sunday dinner. That went well and I thought we were making progress.” She shook her head, pushed her chair away from the table, and stood, as if there were somewhere better to go.

  Gabe took his phone from his shirt pocket and placed a call to the state police dive locker where he worked. “Marty, this is Gabe Jones. Did Paul Evans show up for his shift on Saturday?” Gabe looked up. “He’s checking the log.” After a short pause, Marty returned. “Roger that. Thanks.” Gabe put his phone down and shook his head at Carol. “AWOL. Nothing. Have you got a number for that house?”

  Emily put down her phone and looked worried.

  “Won’t he get in trouble with the court for not showing up?”

  Gabe nodded. “Probably.”

  Carol glared at her phone, waiting for an answer at the house where Paul rented a room. “No answer. You’d think one of those kids would pick it up. Well, that’s it. We’re not going to wait any longer. Emily, give me a hand, and we’ll bring in the food. We’ll eat without them.”

  Gabe’s phone rang. He answered, then listened before responding. “Right. Call Jim and tell him to load our gear. I’m on the way.”

  “Again?” Carol paused on her way to the kitchen. “They sure know how to mess with a good dinner. Do you at least have time for a sandwich? It’s a really good roast.”

  “Sport divers found a truck in the quarry. There’s a body. But it’s not a rescue, and that body’s not going anywhere without me. I’ll go load my stuff and then let’s sit down for a minute. At least we can say grace and do a little damage to your roast. I’m starved too.”

  Jim Phillips, Gabe’s dive tender/surface support technician, waited at the water’s edge. He had the compressor set up and had unloaded the four 2,000-pound lift bags they would use to lift the truck. A wrecker had been called and the sport divers were drinking hot coffee while they waited to be interviewed. Dusk was intruding.

  “It’s kind of wedged in the rocks at fifty feet. You’re going to have to lift it before the wrecker can pull it out. We can help if you want?” Eddie Baker was mid-twenties and stout. Gabe noticed the PADI instructor slates hanging from his harness.

  “Thanks, but our liability insurance won’t let that happen. You said there’s a body?”

  “Yeah, a girl on the passenger side. Couldn’t really see much. Too bad.”

  “Thanks for your help, Eddie. Always. If you would leave your contact info with the officer in the black and white, and then you can go. I really appreciate your calling this in.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure, shoot.”

  “Do you like your job? I mean, isn’t it a really cool job for a diver?”

  Gabe smiled. “Sometimes. Not so much tonight.”

  “Yeah, guess not. Well, stay safe.”

  “You too. Thanks again.”

  “We’re ready for you,” Jim called. The compressor was running, the old wooden bench he would sit on to dress and the dive radio/com unit set up. Gabe went to the bench wondering how he could get her name. Maybe there was a purse.

  He sat in his sweats and pulled on the drysuit. Soon, he was dressed, the AGA full-face mask and bailout bottle in place. Jim gave him the double tap on his shoulder. He got up and walked down into the water. Standing waist deep, he pulled on his fins and dropped down to his knees.

  He checked his air, BC, crossover valve for the bailout tank, and then the com. “How do you read?”

  “Loud and clear,” Jim answered.

  “Roger that. Let’s go diving.” He rolled face down, paused, and prayed, “Lord, I’m in your hands. Please have mercy,” and then swam down the ledge. Dusk had turned to dark, and he turned on the wrist-mounted cave diving light. The water was comfortable, and unlike his river dives, there was actually some visibility. At thirty feet, he stopped and checked his gauges, flushed the AGA mask, and said to Jim, “Nothing yet.”

  “Roger that. Do you want me to turn off your air or drop trucks on your head to keep things interesting?”

  “Let’s just keep t
his one easy for once, thank you.”

  “If you say so.”

  Jim had been on the wrong side of the bridge construction scandal a few short months ago but was cleared when it was shown he’d been blackmailed into giving information to the wrong guys. Gabe had gone to bat for him to save his job, and their relationship was now stronger than ever. Strong enough that they could joke about the past. Strong enough that Gabe trusted Jim with his life. Every time they had a call-out that required diving.

  Gabe moved farther down the bank, pulling and clearing his hose behind him as he did. Forty feet, black and cold. Must have hit a thermocline. In a moment he adjusted to the chill and continued the descent. At forty-five feet he could see the outline of a Ford F-100 lodged in the rocks.

  “Oh no. It can’t be.”

  But as he got closer and shined his light on the vanity tag, his worst fears were confirmed. The tag read “NEEDH20.” It was Paul’s truck. The truck Gabe and Charlie Evans, Paul’s dad, had spent two knuckle-busting years restoring.

  Then he saw the girl’s body slumped over the dashboard.

  “Crap!”

  Chapter 2

  GABE EASED DOWN TO THE driver’s side door and scanned the interior with his cave light. The girl, young, in a short skirt and mostly open blouse and held in place by her seat belt, leaned forward, her head hovering over the dash. If she had been alive and awake when the truck went in, she would have tried to get out of that belt. Gabe looked for a purse, in hope of finding something with her name on it. Nothing. Without a name, his ability to awaken her spirit wouldn’t work, so the department would have to ID her the conventional way.

  “Jim, I’m on the truck. I can’t get to her, so let’s lift the truck. Can you tie on the first bag, and I’ll pull it down? Make sure all the air is out.”

  “Not my first rodeo, partner. Stand by. I’ll let you know when we’re ready.”

  Well, Charlie, we never thought all that work would end up as a submerged coffin. I’m just glad Paul’s not sharing it. I hope that boy’s not involved in this. With you gone, Carol has suffered enough for three lifetimes.

  “Bag’s ready. Take it down.”

  “Roger that. I’m hauling it now.”

  Gabe unclipped the messenger line from his harness and pulled the 2,000-pound-lift-capacity brown bag down the ledge. Roughly the volume of four 55-gallon barrels, there were chains for attachment to the truck axles and an air hose leading back to the surface. Gabe would attach all four bags if possible, and then Jim would inflate them from a manifold of valves on the surface.

  He dragged the bag into position over the right front tire and wrapped the chains around the suspension in back of the tire. “Got it, Jim. Give me just enough air to get it up and out of the way.”

  Jim sent down short bursts of compressed air until the bag rose from the bottom and the chains were drawn tight.

  “All stop. That’s got it. Okay, send down the next one.”

  “Roger. Give me a minute.”

  Gabe leaned against the truck and ran his hand gently over the right front fender. He remembered the body work it had taken to pound out the dents and reshape the steel to rounded perfection. Charlie had been quite a craftsman, and they’d shared many evenings talking about work, life, and the future while bringing the old girl back to competition condition. His thoughts returned to Paul, Charlie’s oldest and only son, and Gabe’s godson. What have you done, boy? Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time?

  “Back to work. We’re ready.”

  “Roger that. Is the ambulance here yet?”

  “Ready and waiting. Any idea what happened?”

  “She’s still strapped in. Windows open. Doesn’t look good.”

  “Any signs of violence?”

  “Other than being a few days dead, belted into this truck? No, man, she looks great.”

  “Okay, dumb question. I get it. You ready for the next lift bag?”

  “Roger that, send it down.”

  Jim lowered the bag until Gabe said, “Yeah. Okay, I’ve got it. This one’s going to be tight. Right rear, and I’ve got to wedge in under the truck.”

  “Ten-four. Be careful.”

  The big bag was awkward. Gabe crawled down the back of the truck and could barely reach around the tire. He stretched and fought the bulk and weight of the bag until he was finally able to secure the chain. Winded, he crawled back up the truck and moved to the tailgate.

  “Ready for number three?”

  “Roger that. Hey, how are you and Carol doing with that new house? Isn’t it about done?”

  “Yeah. She’s in. I’m still in the RV. That was our agreement.”

  “Oh, I thought”

  “Nope, not yet anyway. It’s only been a few months and there’s no need to rush.”

  “If you say so. That’s one terrific woman. Bet I could find a reason or two to speed things up.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a dirty dog, and your own mother won’t let you sleep in the house. Plus, there are kids involved. We have to take it slow.”

  “Whatever you say, boss. Whatever you say. Got that bag yet?”

  “Yeah, it just dropped on my head. Okay, here we go.”

  The left front tire was exposed and no problem. Not the same for the left rear. The left rear tire was wedged in the rocks, and that was the challenge. Gabe caught the last bag and moved it as close as possible. He tried to make the hookup from the back, the top, and finally by crawling upside down under the truck. It was impossible. He crawled out and caught his breath. He flushed the AGA mask again and dropped to his knees beside the truck to ponder the problem.

  “Jim, do you think we could lift it with three bags? At least get it high enough for me to get the last one on so we can bring it up level?”

  “Won’t hurt to try as long as you’re not under it.”

  “Okay, let’s start with the two passenger’s side bags and see what happens.”

  “Roger that. Get clear and give me the word.”

  Gabe moved clear, made sure his umbilical—his air hose, com wire, and safety line bundle—was clear, and then said, “Let’s go. Slow and easy.”

  Jim hit the two valves, and the bags began to fill. The truck remained unmoved. Gabe heard the automatic pressure relief, or “pop-off,” valves begin to dump air and knew the bags were full.

  “All stop. Let me have a look. I think it should be moving.”

  Jim turned off the valves, and it was again deathly quiet in the darkness.

  Gabe moved around the truck with his cave light, but when he couldn’t see the problem, he got down on his knees and worked by feel.

  “Got it, the left rear wheel well is still wedged. There’s a tree limb or something holding it.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “What do you suppose that truck weighs?”

  “Hang on. I’ll google it.” There was silence for a half-minute, then Jim was back on com. “This is weird. The truck weighs only a hiccup over three thousand. We’ve already got four thousand pounds of lift with just the first two bags. It should be floating up here like a cherry on a strawberry milkshake.”

  “Let’s try filling the right front bag very slowly and see if it will pull free.”

  “That’s a lot of lift. If it breaks free it’s going to blow to the top.”

  “Yeah, but that’s where we want it. Even if we have to flip it, at least I’ll be able to get that last bag on and we can take it out level.”

  “It’s your show. Tell me when you’re ready.”

  Gabe again repositioned himself clear of the truck and rechecked his umbilical. “Any time. Take it up slow.”

  The truck began to creak and pop as the frame twisted. Finally, with a loud tearing of metal and an explosive release, it blasted free to the surface.

  “Wasn’t that fun?” Jim laughed. “You should have seen it hit the surface.”

  “Can you see the girl? Is she still in the truck?”

  “Yeah. She
’s still here. Where are you?”

  “Pick up the hose. I’m coming up the ledge. We still need to put on that last bag and level the truck.”

  “Roger that.”’

  On the surface, Gabe inflated his buoyancy compensator and swam over to the truck with the last lift bag. He had a quick look into the cab and confirmed the passenger was still belted in her seat. She had been quite pretty. His jaws clenched. He shook his head sadly. If only he knew her name so they could talk. He pulled his light out of the truck and went back to work attaching the bag, but his sadness remained. If Paul was involved, it was going to kill Carol. He quietly prayed, “Oh Lord, we’re going to need your help. ‘Cause there ain’t no way this is going to end well.”

  Chapter 3

  CAROL AWOKE AND LOOKED AT the glowing face of the alarm clock on her bedside table. It was one thirty, and the room was cool. Her windows were open. She got out of bed to close them. But from the window, she could see lights on at Gabe’s RV and truck lights in the drive. Above the normal night sounds, she could hear the distinct smack of a maul striking logs. That’s not good. He must be really upset about something.

  She turned on a light, found and put on her favorite University of Texas sweats and tennis shoes, grabbed a flashlight, and went quietly down the stairs, through the house, and out the back door. There was moonlight on the river and through the trees, bright enough that she could see the dirt road without the light. She turned it off and jogged easily along the road, past the new steel shop and garage building Gabe had added to the original plans, and past the empty horse barn waiting for her to bring home new residents from her dad’s Texas ranch.

  As she approached the clearing where Gabe’s Montana fifth wheel RV sat on a knoll overlooking the river, Gabe’s dogs, Smith and Wesson, bounded off the deck to meet her with wagging tails and smiling faces.

  Gabe was standing with his back to her in the headlights, shirt off, glistening with sweat, holding the eight-pound maul in the midst of piles of split oak logs. As she walked forward, he set up another log and hit it with a grunt and such force he came off the ground landing the blow. The wood was dry and very hard. It didn’t split. He pried out the maul, and with another fierce, determined near growl, smashed the log again. The pieces flew and sweat dripped from his face and arms. He caught his breath, laid down the maul, and used his shirt to wipe his face and chest.