Dead River
A Novel
Fredric M. Ham
iUniverse, Inc.
New York Bloomington
Dead River
A Novel
Copyright © 2010 Fredric M. Ham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-1-4502-0271-8 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-4502-0273-2 (cloth)
ISBN: 978-1-4502-0272-5 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010903735
Printed in the United States of America
iUniverse rev. date: 3/24/10
For my wife, Emily,
who is always there …
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty
Sixty-one
Sixty-two
Sixty-three
Sixty-four
Sixty-five
Sixty-six
Sixty-seven
Sixty-eight
Sixty-nine
Seventy
Seventy-one
Seventy-two
Seventy-three
Seventy-four
Seventy-five
Seventy-six
Seventy-seven
Seventy-eight
Seventy-nine
Eighty
Eighty-one
Eighty-two
Eighty-three
Eighty-four
Eighty-five
Eighty-six
Eighty-seven
Eighty-eight
Eighty-nine
Ninety
Ninety-one
Ninety-two
Ninety-three
Ninety-four
Ninety-five
Ninety-six
Ninety-seven
Ninety-eight
Ninety-nine
One hundred
One hundred one
One hundred two
One hundred three
One hundred four
One hundred five
One hundred six
One hundred seven
One hundred eight
One hundred nine
One hundred ten
One hundred eleven
One hundred twelve
Author’s Note
1
NEVER BEFORE HAD Magee, Mississippi, seen such an event. It was 1989, the city’s centennial, and the city fathers decided to celebrate with a full weekend of festivities. There would be a children’s carnival on Saturday and Sunday after church, a pie-eating contest Saturday afternoon, a rock-and-roll band from Jackson Saturday night, and a dunk-the-mayor booth both Saturday and Sunday.
All of the activities would take place at Prichard Park. The park was tucked away on the north side of town in a small forest of large trees covered with kudzu. Behind the park the crystal-clear water of Cherry Creek trickled over loose rocks nestled in the creek bed and moistened the moss that covered the gently sloping banks on both sides.
The band and their roadies had made their appearance in town early Saturday afternoon and began setting up their equipment. Jebavy Hardware and Lumber had donated the wood and labor for the stage and built it on the knoll at the back of the park. Guitar amplifiers were arranged on the stage, microphone stands planted, and the PA system checked several times. Most of the local teenagers ignored the children’s carnival and gathered around the stage area. None of them had ever seen such a sight: men with earrings and women dressed like men. The teens laughed and poked at each other, occasionally glancing toward the stage at the strange but alluring people weaving various cords and cables, sometimes mouthing a check and a test over the PA system.
Night fell and the band moaned and wailed. They blared out a rendition of Guns N’ Roses’ “Move to the City,” and the crowd waggled and rocked. Some danced, some clapped to keep beat, and others just watched, mesmerized by the bright lights, the cry of the guitars, and the pounding of the drums. The clamor filled the heavy, humid air and could be heard miles away. There was bedlam in Magee, and no way to hear the cries of one young girl.
The slippery moss-covered bank of Cherry Creek was where the naked teenager’s body was found the next morning. No one could immediately identify her. She was face down, her hands tied behind her back with a piece of thin nylon rope, and her short blond hair was matted with mud. A similar length of blood-drenched nylon rope was cinched so tightly around her neck it was buried halfway into her flesh.
“Look here, Carl Ray,” said deputy sheriff Darrell Stebbins, squatting beside the body.
“What?”
“I don’t know. Take a look at this.”
The other Simpson County deputy, Carl Ray Boudine, carefully joined Stebbins beside the body, now face-up. “What the hell’s that?” Boudine asked, scratching his bald head.
“Don’t know. But it’s been freshly carved, probably with a knife.”
“I knew it, goddamn it, I knew something like this would happen.”
Stebbins removed a crumpled white handkerchief from his back pocket and dipped it into the creek. He gently wiped the dried blood from the girl’s forehead revealing three letters carved deep into her skin.
“CXJ.”
2
IT WAS ALMOST CERTAIN sh
e would be voted the best-looking senior girl in the class of ’02 at Roosevelt High School in Cocoa Beach next year. At least Sara Ann Riley’s boyfriend, Brad Richards, thought so. In his first love letter to her, he had described her blue eyes as penetrating and her long blond hair as framing the face of an angel. It was this letter, written during Brad’s history class in their junior year, which won Sara Ann’s heart. She never expected something like that from him, not from Brad the Jock. To her, he was adorable, something only she could understand most of the time. Now they were inseparable.
Late Saturday morning, Sara Ann stood on the sidelines at Brad’s soccer game, dressed in powder-blue shorts and a white Lycra top. The grass was soggy from an early-morning rain and her black open-toe shoes were sprinkled with wet grass clippings. She shimmied with excitement as she followed Brad’s movements on the field. He drove the ball down the field and soared past his opponents as if they were standing still. With an assist from Brad, a teammate scored the winning goal with two seconds remaining.
“You looked great today,” Sara Ann said.
“I know, I’m the greatest,” Brad teased, still breathing heavily.
She twisted her shoulders coyly from side to side, her hands on her hips. Her blond pigtails swung in synchronous rhythm across her wide smile and soft dimples.
“Oh sure, you’ll be playing pro soccer after college.”
“Only if you come watch me.”
Sara Ann knew Brad would be satisfied just to receive a letter of acceptance from Florida State. She planned to go there after graduation. She was assured of acceptance plus scholarship. Why wouldn’t she be? She was an honor student.
“What I want is to see you on campus at FSU next year.”
Brad reached out with both hands and stopped her twisting. Her smile disappeared, the dimples vanished, and her nose wrinkled.
“What if you don’t get accepted?” Sara Ann asked.
She watched as Brad moved closer, his face now only inches from hers. Her Tommy Girl perfume permeated the air around her in a luxuriant aura.
“Then I’ll go to community college for a year or two,” he retorted, sensing her rich perfume.
Brad’s attempt at a kiss was denied with a hand to the top of his head. His hands broke loose from her shoulders. Sara Ann felt his sweaty hair and retreated. He shook his head and beads of sweat shot from his jet-black hair. Brad’s indifference concerning his future was sometimes too much for her. “Gross,” she said, wiping her face with her right arm.
Brad again rested his hands on her shoulders, and this time she didn’t resist the quick kiss to her red-frosted lips. Sara Ann wrapped her arms around him and lowered her head on his shoulder.
“I want you to go to FSU,” she whispered, “it wouldn’t seem right without you there.”
“I know. I want to go too, but my GPA really dropped last year.”
Sara Ann pushed back and folded her arms. Her lips pursed with disapproval. “That’s because you didn’t study.”
“I studied.”
“Yeah right, you studied really hard last year.”
Brad kicked the wet grass. “Maybe not as much as you, Miss soon-to-be attorney, defender of the people, but I did.”
“Look, you can bring your GPA up this year if you try harder. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I will. You’ll see.”
“I hope so.”
Brad cocked his head to the side and kicked at the grass again. “I said I would.”
“I’ve got to go now. I told my father I’d be home to eat lunch with him.”
“So you’d rather go home and eat lunch with your father than be with me? Wow, what’s that all about?”
“It’s about eating lunch with my father.”
Brad’s eyes widened as he stepped toward Sara Ann. She unraveled her arms and held them out for him. This time their kiss was much longer, but it was still time to go. She retrieved her waist pack from the grass beside her feet and secured it around her midriff.
She walked toward her car and glanced back at Brad one more time, wondering if he would ever be able to improve his grades. A sudden sadness swept over her as she thought of him attending classes at Brevard Community College instead of FSU.
As she approached her car, fatigue overwhelmed her body, her mouth suddenly parched. She slumped into the seat and pulled a prepared syringe from her waist pack. Lifting the bottom of her shirt, she thrust the thin needle into the soft, tan skin of her stomach, and it was over. She rested her head on the steering wheel as the weakness gradually lifted from her body. She hated doing this. She hated her diabetes.
Adam Riley glanced up from the front page of the Orlando Sentinel and checked the wall clock in his upstairs study. Sara Ann was ten minutes late for their lunch date. He tossed the newspaper on his desk, reached for the phone, and punched in her cell phone number.
“Hello, Daddy. Why are you calling me? Is it because I’m ten minutes late?” she teased.
“Yes, princess. Where are you?”
“I’m almost to the Minutemen Causeway.”
“Great. Will you turn your radio down? I can barely hear you.”
“Sorry.” Sara Ann snapped the stereo knob, and Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle” was reduced to a faint murmur.
“Thanks. Will you get the mail before you come in?”
“I will.”
“See you in a few minutes.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
Adam went back to his newspaper. He rustled and snapped it into place and continued the sports article he had started. Staring at the printed letters on the page he had just finished, his thoughts drifted to his running schedule. Tomorrow was one of the four days he ran each week. The years of fitness showed. His six-foot frame resembled an Olympic swimmer’s, and he appeared many years younger than his age of forty-seven. The sparse gray streaks in his otherwise dark brown hair provided a hint to his actual age. Only two months ago he had been told by one of his fellow engineers at work: “I overheard Lucy Brinley in the coffee room. She said you looked like a young Sean Connery.”
Heavy rolling thunder could be heard in the distance. The central Florida sky threatened a thunderstorm, something all too common for that time of the year. The thunder broke the silence, and Adam glanced at the wall clock again. Sara Ann should have breezed her way through the front door by now. He peered out the window. Her red Ford Escort was parked in the driveway by the brick mailbox, with the driver’s door open, but she was nowhere in sight. Maybe she’d seen our neighbor Jessica and stopped to chat.
Adam went back to his newspaper and rifled through it until he found the business section. He started to read the lead article but then suddenly pitched the paper on the desk and leaned to the side in his chair to see down the hallway. There was only silence. Where is she?
The distant growl in the sky warned of the approaching storm. He jumped up from the soft seat of the black executive chair and walked to the window. Her car was still in the driveway with the door hanging open, the vehicle apparently empty.
Adam slipped on a pair of deck shoes and bounded down the stairs to the front door. Once outside, he could hear Sara Ann’s car running, but she was nowhere in sight. When he leaned in to turn off the engine, he noticed her cell phone lying abandoned in the passenger seat. He slammed the door, rocking the small car.
“Sara Ann!” he called.
Only the sound of the wind in the treetops answered.
He strode down the driveway, glancing from side to side into the woods of dense pines and soaring palms, their trunks pushing up through thick underbrush. He turned and came back past the parked car.
“Sara Ann!”
Nothing.
Maybe she’s in the house. He continued up the driveway toward the two-story house. Theirs was the only one on the block that didn’t have a heady Mediterranean styling. Valerie wanted a traditional house. Shingles topped the roof instead of curved red tile, and the exterior was brick i
nstead of whitewashed stucco. It rose out of the dense woods like a majestic country estate.
He burst through the heavy front door and stepped into the spacious foyer.
“Sara Ann! Are you here?”
No answer.
Adam searched every room, calling her name. The silence was deafening. Convinced she was not in the house, he went back out, walking the perimeter of the house. The backyard was deserted except for two blue jays dancing on the pool deck, bobbing their heads in a mating ritual.
Maybe at the neighbors. Sara Ann had taken a liking to Mrs. Cleveland when she was eight. She would spend hours at the neighbor’s house, helping Mrs. Cleveland in the garden and caring for her dog, Mr. Ruggles.
After the second attempt with the doorbell, Jessica Cleveland swung the door open and gave Adam one of her classic ear-to-ear smiles.
“Hi, Adam. How are you?”
“I’m fine. You haven’t seen Sara Ann have you?”
“Not since Thursday.”
“No, I mean today—I mean like within the last few minutes.”
“Well, no. Like I said, I saw her last Thursday, with her boyfriend. It was almost dark outside. I was taking Mr. Ruggles for a walk, you know he only likes to be outside in the summer when there’s no sun. So anyway, I looked up and saw Sara Ann in a car with that boy she sees, and I waved to her. Then I—”
“Thanks, Jessica. I’m going to check at the Alcott’s.”
Adam rushed down the sidewalk, past his driveway, and then turned up the Alcott’s driveway. Robert Alcott answered the door after the first ring.
The two shook hands. “What’s up, Adam? How’re you and Valerie doin’?”
“We’re fine, Robert. Say, have you seen Sara Ann?”
“No, sure haven’t.”
“Is Nancy home?”
“Naw, she’s at her Red Hat Club get-together somewhere. Say, are you all right? You look all fussed up.”
“I can’t find Sara Ann.”
“What do you mean?”
“She left her car running in the driveway with the driver’s door wide open, but I can’t find her anywhere.”
Dead River Page 1
