Ghost River

by Jon Coon

  “Here’s what we know so far. He was a protégé of Stewart. Former Army diver, combat swimmer, and explosive ordnance disposal technician. Joined the team in the mideighties and dove with Captain Brady. He, Brady, and Stewart, were best buds until Stewart died. But that was later. Just after ’87, he was loaned to the Department of Transportation to start a special team based in Dade County to only do bridge inspections.

  “Officially, Rogers has nearly forty years in and is on track for retirement with a gold watch and nice pension. Unofficially, my pals tell me he’s a bad boy. He’s suspected of multiple acts of miscreant behavior, including stealing state property, turning in reports for inspections that were never done, sexual harassment . . . But someone up the food chain likes him because, without protection, he’d have been written up and gone long ago. At least that’s the scuttlebutt.”

  “If his team is in Dade, what’s he doing here?”

  “He’s working for DOT. So not on our clock. All I got from them is that he’s on special assignment. However he’s still here. I had command track him down this morning. We can bring him in anytime.”

  “That’s how Captain Brady knew about the bridges. That’s why he got the blueprints. He knew Rogers was involved in something serious.”

  “Yeah, and it got him killed,” Bob added.

  “Also, you said Rogers has experience with explosives.”

  “Right. He certainly fits our profile.” Bob put down his fork, staring at his empty plate.

  “There was a break-in at Charlie’s house last night.” Gabe told Bob about the trip to Atlanta and bringing back Zack and Mickey.

  “Carol and the kids okay?”

  “We’re all at the river camp. I’d appreciate a patrol keeping an eye on the place until we sort this out. I don’t think whoever broke in at Carol’s found everything they were after.”

  “No problem. What else?” Bob said.

  “I think Wesley Rogers killed Zack Greenly’s dad. I can’t prove it yet, but it just fits.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “The old bridge had just collapsed, Greenly was sent to do an inspection. Zack says his dad kept a notebook. In it are references to problems with the construction of the new bridge. You heard his widow talk about the blow up with her dad. The notebook suggests Rogers was involved, and I don’t believe what Rogers told Zack’s mother about her husband doing an unauthorized dive. Why would he do that? Remember, Peterson told us Greenly was there to inspect the fallen bridge span.

  “So either Rogers or Peterson wasn’t telling the truth. And I don’t see what Peterson would have to gain by lying. But if Rogers did it, he had plenty of motive to tell us Greenly was out there on his own, with Rogers and the department knowing nothing about the dive. I think we need to have a talk with Wesley Rogers.

  “Like I said, we didn’t get to really study the reports before they were stolen, but I don’t believe anyone could have missed scouring that serious. Regular inspections should have reported the damage, and repair work should have started years ago. We need to see the most recent reports to see if I’m right.”

  Gabe picked up the remains of his cheeseburger and polished off the last bite before adding, “Someone in DOT had to know what Rogers was doing.”

  “But do a few false inspection reports add up to murder? What are they hiding?” Bob wondered. “So we assume Rogers is turning in bogus reports. But I don’t see how that helps either the state or the construction company.”

  “Unless they were covering up construction flaws. Maybe the bridge wasn’t built to spec and they were afraid of what inspections might find. Got any friends in Tallahassee who could get us recent inspections and the original blueprints?”

  “Talk about stirring up a hornet’s nest,” Bob answered. “Those guys don’t like us on general principles. This is really going to make them furious. But I’ll get started on it. We need answers. Okay, now what about Zack and the girl? What’s her name again?”

  “It’s Mickey, and they are with me. You can talk with them whenever. But let’s not bring them in. I think being seen in the office could put them at risk.”

  “I can’t wait to hear that story. Man, you’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah, well, protect and serve can be a hard life.” Gabe grinned, but with Bob still surprised by Gabe’s revelations, the humor never had a chance.

  Gabe added one more item to Bob’s list, “We found a reference to a Wilson Corbitt. I’ve run him through DMV and state—nothing. He’s a Brit and was an engineer with the demolition company Explosive Services, but they’ve been out of business for years.

  “There should be federal licenses. I’ll check ATF and immigration.”

  “Thanks.” Gabe checked his notes. “Any word on Nick?”

  “Still on target to be released from the hospital this week. Medical leave for a month.”

  “Good, and how about the captain’s dog?”

  “Doing well,” Bob said. “I took my kids to see him, and it was love at first milk bone. His wound is healing well, and when he’s released it looks like he will be coming home with us. You done eating?”

  “Yeah, let’s go have a chat with Mr. Rogers.”

  “I’ll call the office. Tell them to go pick him up.”

  CHAPTER 12

  1400

  State Police Barracks

  Windy and cold (at least for Florida)

  Surly was the right word for Wes Rogers. Big, mean, and surly. Even at sixty plus, he was no one to mess with. Bob was asking the questions about Captain Brady’s shooting and Rogers’s relationship to the trooper Gabe had killed in the captain’s home. Rogers was acting like a bear with its foot in a trap. After denying any knowledge of either incident, he said, “Look, you’re fishing. You don’t have anything because there’s nothing to find. I have things to do.”

  But Bob had more questions. “You worked with Richard Greenly, the diver, for four years. What can you tell us about him?”

  “You want to know about Greenly read his file. I answered your questions about Brady, now you’ve got no reason to hold me. I’m outta here.”

  “Not so fast,” Bob said.

  Gabe’s turn. “You were an Army diver with EOD experience. Someone booby-trapped the old I-10 bridge. We found the detonators on those shaped charges. That’s what killed Charlie Evans. And now forensics says Richard Greenly had his head bashed in. So get comfortable, Rogers, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Rogers lunged to his feet, “Get out of my face! Get proof before you accuse me of murder!”

  “Wilson Corbitt knew what you’re hiding. When I find him, I’m coming for you.” Gabe was on his feet now too, leaning forward across the table, melting the distance between them with a blowtorch gaze.

  Rogers took a step back. “You’ll never find—” Rogers began, but quickly stopped.

  Gabe smiled. Gotcha. “Do you want to finish that Rogers? Why won’t we find him?”

  Rogers snorted and got up from the table. “I’m outta here.” He charged out of the interrogation room like a mad bull.

  “Be careful,” Bob warned as he and Gabe walked out to the Ford-150. “He’s a lunatic, but he’s right. We don’t have enough to hold him. You watch your six.” Gabe dropped Bob at his car and then drove to the RV park to shower, change, and rest for a while. Back in casual clothes, he headed to the river camp.

  1845

  The River Camp

  When Gabe returned to the river camp that evening, the dogs greeted him enthusiastically and followed him inside. Smith went to the couch, Wesson to the rug by the fireplace.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asked innocently.

  “Whatever the boys decide to cook,” was Emily’s answer. “It’s their turn.”

  Carol laughed and shook her head. “Maybe tomorrow, but it’s pork chops, mashed potatoes, veggies, and salad. Ready in half an hour. Get the kids—excuse me—get the team to show you what they found. It’s pretty interesting.”
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  Mickey and Emily came back to the large and only table now covered by notes, laptops, and a stack of CDs.

  “There was a bridge collapse in Jacksonville ten years ago,” Mickey began. “A bunch of people killed. Same builder. Another one up in Alabama two years ago. Same builder. No one killed. It just fell into the river. The article said scouring was to blame. What’s scouring?” she asked.

  “It’s erosion that happens when currents or tides wash the bottom out from under bridge foundations or sea walls. It’s a big problem any time you build on anything but solid rock. Who was the builder of those collapsed bridges?” Gabe asked.

  “I remember that story from Sunday school, ‘Build on the Rock,’” Emily said with a laugh.

  “Well, honey, there’s your proof,” Carol said.

  “The builder was McFarland Construction. They’re based in Tallahassee. They’ve built highway and railroad bridges all over the state. And they’ve had the majority of problems,” Mickey answered. “But it’s weird; they’ve also gotten most of the major repair contracts. You’d think after the problems the state would have given that work to a company with a better track record.”

  “Nice work,” Gabe said. “Do we know anything about the company yet? Zack, connections to your grandfather?”

  “I don’t know. Mom doesn’t talk about any family except Grandpa. And he doesn’t talk to me. But I have a couple cousins. I sent emails. Nothing yet.”

  “Okay, what’s next?”

  “Can I call my folks?” Mickey asked. She looked up from her phone. “Mom just sent me a text. She’s worried. I need to call her.”

  “Sure, tell her you’re both with me and you are safe, but let’s keep the details about where we are to ourselves for a bit longer. Okay?” Gabe answered.

  “No problem. Thanks.”

  Gabe was rolling out his sleeping bag when Carol rousted Smith from the recliner across from Gabe’s couch and dropped in. Smith grunted and plopped her eighty pounds on the floor by Gabe.

  “What a great old house this must have been,” Carol said. “You never told us about it.”

  “It’s not mine, and I’ve always been uncomfortable bringing anyone here. It’s in pretty bad shape.”

  “It would be fun to restore if the bones are still good. That stone fireplace is beautiful.”

  He nodded slowly, thinking about the restoration idea. “A lot of work. Maybe too much.”

  “Gabe, there’s something you need to know,” she said sitting up and leaning toward him. “When we find whoever killed Charlie, there’s going to be some Old Testament coming down. There’s no way anyone hurts my family this much and walks away. I loved Charlie Evans more than fish love water. Please don’t make the mistake of getting in my way.”

  “That’s serious stuff. What happens to your kids if you spend the next twenty years making license plates?” She shook her head and left the chair for the bedroom. Discussion over. Final decision made.

  It was a long night on the uncomfortable couch. Gabe tossed and turned and lay awake thinking about the case and Carol’s hard line on revenge. Smith realized he was awake and nuzzled him. When he didn’t respond she playfully licked his ear. “Okay, okay, I’m getting up.” Gabe rubbed her head affectionately and swung his legs off the couch. He checked his watch: 4:30. He pulled on his pants, got up, and followed the dogs to the door.

  That couch must have broken my back in at least six places, he thought as he stretched and staggered to the coffee pot. He poured a mug, put it in the microwave, and tried to decide which had been the worst thief of his sleep: the couch, the wind dropping pine cones on the tin roof, or Carol’s pronouncement she intended to revenge Charlie’s death regardless of the consequences. He grabbed the mug before the microwaved beeped and sat at the table thinking. I don’t blame her. I just hope and pray it doesn’t come to that.

  Gabe sat with his coffee in solitude. Emily emerged and ducked into the bathroom, still half asleep. On her way out, she padded barefoot to his chair, hugged him, and then padded back to her bedroom.

  Gabe smiled as he watched her go. What a great kid. Charlie, I wish you could talk to me, buddy. I’m in way over my head here.

  The numbers on the microwave showed five. Gabe rolled up the sleeping bag, stashed it, and answered the scratching at the door. The dogs came in, checked their bowls, ate, and then politely hit the couch and were shortly asleep again. He refilled the mug, rebuilt the fire to warm the house, and eased out the door to his truck.

  The sun was an hour from rising as Gabe drove from the river camp to the RV park. He turned left onto the dirt road from the river to the two-lane asphalt. As he passed a white-fenced horse farm on his right, high-beam headlights hit him from behind.

  A black Chevy with big off-road tires and a light rack on the roof was coming up fast. Blinded and irritated by the lights, Gabe adjusted his mirror as the truck pulled up tight behind him. What . . . ?

  The driver roared up beside him and through his open passenger window fired three shots.

  Gabe saw the gun just in time, slammed on his brakes, and rolled low in the seat. Not hit, he was still showered with hot coffee and broken glass. Three more shots hit the engine, which coughed and died an honorable death.

  Gabe rode the brakes to a hard stop, jumped out Sig Saur in hand, and tried to draw a bead on the Chevy. Quickly out of handgun range, the truck topped the hill and disappeared into the pre-dawn dark. The county road was now quiet and lonely again as though nothing had happened. Gabe leaned against the truck and breathed deeply to steady himself. Dazed, he looked at the gun still in his hand. “Worthless,” he said as he holstered it. He took the cell phone from his shirt pocket, and as he pulled up Bob’s number thought, surely someone in the oil field would hire me, don’t you think?

  “Was it Rogers?” Bob asked when he arrived thirty minutes later siren on and lights flashing.

  “Who else? But it was still dark, and the light on his plate was out. It could have been anyone.” Gabe said. “I’m used to being on the stupid end of a dive hose, but not the dumb end of the stick. We have got to get ahead of these guys.”

  After a day of arranging for a tow truck, calling the insurance company and finding a garage and body shop to do the work, Gabe got a ride to the motor pool, picked up a cruiser, and went back to the office for two hours of report writing. Bob found him late in the afternoon.

  “Guess who owns a jacked-up black Chevy pickup?”

  “Don’t tell me he was stupid enough to use his own truck?” Gabe laughed and closed his computer.

  “Oh, it was stolen last night. He filed the report around midnight.”

  “This just gets better and better.” Gabe shook his head still laughing. “Is the armory still open? I left my Remington with Carol. This isn’t going to happen again.” The smile and laugh were gone.

  CHAPTER 13

  1700

  The River Camp

  Finally, a warm Florida winter day

  Gabe finished his shift frustrated. Rogers had vanished. The APB got no results, and the truck was going to need a new engine. McFarland’s commercial divers were removing the bridge iron and concrete from the river, and he and Bob were now officially on Richard Greenly’s murder case. Still no word on what had happened to Wilson Corbitt. But at least, as far as Gabe knew, there were no more ghosts waiting in the ominous murk of the river.

  He returned to the river camp in late afternoon. The weather had been cool, but today was unseasonably warm. Soon long shadows would blanket the dirt drive, but along the river’s edge, in this magic hour, golden light flooded through ninety-foot bald cypress trees formally attired in Spanish moss. It was a scene he never tired of. As he turned the state cruiser onto the sand and shell driveway, he heard gunfire.

  His first thoughts were of Rogers and to call for backup. Then he realized the firing was rhythmic. Target practice. To be safe, he parked before reaching the house and walked in on a path through the trees. He had gues
sed correctly. Carol had the kids lined up with Charlie’s Sig and his Cobra firing at cardboard targets at twenty-five feet.

  “Keep your sight picture. Push the trigger, don’t pull it,” Carol coached Mickey. “Pulling jerks. Exhale slowly as you push it straight back toward your nose. Let it surprise you.”

  Mickey fired, hitting the man-sized target dead center. “Good. Again.”

  Bang! Another good hit. Cheers from the others.

  “The things I didn’t learn in high school,” Mickey laughed. “That’s really cool.” She opened the cylinder, dumped the brass, and, keeping the barrel downrange, handed the Cobra back to Carol.

  “The range is cold,” Gabe said from behind them.

  Carol laid the Cobra on the makeshift table beside Charlie’s Sig, which had the clip pulled and action open.

  “Range is cold,” she repeated. She and Mickey stepped back from the table.

  “How many shooters qualified today, Range Master?” Gabe asked.

  “All but one, officer.”

  “And who might that be?” he asked.

  “You’re the only one who hasn’t fired, sir.” She was grinning.

  “Come on, Gabe, show us what you’ve got,” Paul taunted.

  Gabe smiled and said, “The range is hot.” He started twenty feet in back of the firing line Carol and the kids had used. He drew his Sig, and as he walked forward put thirteen rounds through the head of the target in a group smaller than the bottom of a Coke can. When he stopped he was still ten feet behind the line. The rate of fire had been so fast it sounded automatic. He dropped the clip and slammed in another, his hands were so fast they were a blur. He paused, smiled, then flipped on the safety and holstered the weapon.

  “Holy buffalo chips,” Carol gasped. The kids stood staring in amazement.

  “Mom!” Emily scolded. “Language.”

  “Sorry, honey, you’re right. I just wasn’t expecting—”

  “Police your brass and let’s eat,” Gabe ordered. “Job well done.”

  “Way to go, Gabe,” Paul said as they pitched shell casings into a plastic bag.