Ghost River

by Jon Coon

  “Yeah, and hospitals on full alert. Fire trucks are going where they can, telling folks to get out, helping the ones who need it.”

  The new team captain, Captain Brady’s replacement—cigar-chewing, rolled up sleeves with Navy tattoos Marty Martin—called them together.

  “The storm driving this isn’t that big. No storm-of-the-century stuff. It’s just one big thunderstorm. Reports of hail, always as big as golf balls or softballs in the reports. We’re going to go ahead and deploy. Same areas as last time, same com channels, same everything. Watch for hot wires. Don’t eat the road kill, and smile for the cameras. Remember, this is the stuff dreams are made of. We need the good PR. Gabe and Jim, stand by just a minute. The rest of you, get out there and save somebody.”

  When the room cleared, Captain Martin said to Gabe, “I heard about the break-in at Charlie’s. Carol and the kids okay? I haven’t been getting much news.”

  “Yes, they’re fine.”

  “Heard you got assigned to work with Bob Spencer. You were in Tallahassee this morning? What was that about?” Martin’s face was noncommittal, hard to read.

  “We’ve had some breaks. We found out about Richard Greenly, an inspection diver who was murdered on the bridge fifteen years ago. That’s why we went to the capital.”

  “I had a call after you left. You lit a fire under that administrator you talked to. Didn’t appreciate your visit. He threatened to go to a congressman if you show up there again. We can live without that. So best you stay out of Tallahassee. I don’t want to get blindsided again. You get any more bright ideas you check with me first. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry about that.”

  “He said you think Charlie’s death wasn’t an accident. That true?”

  “Yes, sir. Captain Brady, Charlie, and Greenly. The murders are connected. That engineer’s involved. I just don’t have the whole story yet.”

  “Show me the evidence, then we’ll decide if he’s involved. Don’t be making accusations based on your gut. Get me some proof before you light anymore fires.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gabe said and picked up his hat and goggles off the desk. “One question, Captain, did Overstreet mention which congressman he was threatening us with?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact he did. He said Justin Conners, and we do not want that man unhappy with us.”

  And Congressman Conners is the brother of Mitchell Conners, president of McFarland Construction. How cozy. Gabe said nothing and just nodded to Captain Martin. Martin’s a player, Gabe thought. But on which team?

  “Okay, this storm is going to get ugly. Stay safe out there.” Captain Martin turned and picked up the handheld radio to respond to a call. Turning back, he waved them off. They zipped up and headed out into the storm.

  Launching the inflatable boat in driving rain, against the wind, was an exercise in futility. The flooded parking lot above the launch ramp had white caps, and the wind tried desperately to flip the boat until they got it loaded with gear and fuel cans. From the moment they were operational, radio calls had them cruising the black water, rescuing folks from roofs, submerged cars, and the local country club. No shelter, no dry place to rest, just the hammering of wind, rain, and waves. Trees were down, power lines were down, and then the call came that Gabe had been dreading.

  “It’s the bridge,” Jim shouted over the wind. “The center span collapsed. There’s a utility truck in the water with two men in the cab.”

  “Alethea, would you like more hot chocolate?” Carol asked. Pans had been strategically placed to catch the rain dripping in through the rusted tin roof. The three teens were by the fire while Carol, Emily, and Alethea remained at the table.

  “Thanks,” Alethea said. “This cup will do nicely.” She looked at the array of cookware on the floor and laughed. “I think you must have the same roofing contractor I use,” she then described the ongoing battle with the leaks in her cabin roof and Gabe’s several attempts fix them. “I’m afraid this will be the last storm for that old place. It was coming apart when we left. Looks like I’ll be going back to New Orleans, at least for a while.”

  They were quiet for a bit, then Carol began, “About New Orleans . . . something happened to Gabe when he was there after Katrina,” Carol said. “He was so depressed when he came home. It took months for him to start to be himself again. He told me you helped him. Can you tell me about that?”

  “Gabe needs to tell you the specifics, but I’ll say this. No one should have to see or do the things he had to do. I’m surprised he would ever go back in the water.” Her eyes reflected the sadness of generations.

  Carol responded, “All he ever said to Charlie was that it was bad. We could only guess.”

  “How is it going with all of you in this old place?” Alethea studied Carol’s face and body language and wondered, are you in love with him?

  “It reminds me a little of home—the land, the woods. I’ll never be a city girl. I wish we could just fix it up and stay. It would be great for the kids to have horses.”

  “Does that mean you and Gabe?” Alethea tilted her head like an owl, fully attentive.

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. But we’ve been close for years. In fact,” she smiled, “I think I’ve had a crush on him forever. Charlie knew; we didn’t have secrets. He used to tease me about it.”

  “Mom, you shouldn’t say that!” Emily was shocked. Carol smiled at Alethea.

  “Nothing ever happened, honey. I just always liked him a lot. Adults can have friends. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “I like him a lot too, but that’s different. I’m just a kid.”

  Alethea changed the subject. “Forgive me, this is going to sound clinical, but, Carol, are you giving yourself time to grieve?”

  “It’s so hard. Part of me expects Charlie to come home for dinner like nothing has happened. But part of me just wants to go and hide. Right now, go and hide is winning. I don’t want to go home and see his clothes in our closet or his truck in the garage. Gabe is such a good friend, no expectations, no pressure, and he lets me be me. Nights are the worst. I reach for Charlie in the dark and cry when he’s not there.”

  Emily reached over and took her mother’s hand.

  Alethea reached across the table and took both their hands in hers, like offering a blessing. So lost, so much pain, no wonder she’s reaching out to Gabe. They were quiet for a bit. Carol dried her tears then smiled.

  Emily broke the silence, “It’s going to be okay, Mom, you’ll see. And I think it’s good for us to stay here, at least a little longer.”

  “Of course it is, Emily,” Carol answered.

  I wonder if that’s true, Alethea thought, and turned to Carol. “You know you can’t avoid going home forever. Sooner or later you’re going to have to deal with it. Charlie will always be with you, but you need some distance, some healing, before you can move on.”

  “I know. God, I miss him so much.” Carol hugged Emily and kissed her. “I know we both do.”

  Emily nodded and wiped tears from her cheek.

  Alethea quietly asked, “Carol, has Gabe ever talked about his family?”

  Carol refocused and answered, “Not really. Gabe’s not a talker. Not like Charlie. Gabe doesn’t talk about feelings or much of anything unless I pry it out of him. Especially not since Katrina. I know his parents died early, that’s it. I don’t think he’s ever said a word about his dad except that he’s dead too. Is there more?”

  Oh, child if you only knew.

  CHAPTER 16

  2300

  Chattahoochee River Bridge

  Life jackets required

  The I-10 bridge collapsed. They need us,” Jim shouted.

  “It was supposed to be closed,” Gabe yelled. The wind was so strong yelling was the only way to be heard. They were twenty miles from the bridge. God help anyone in the water. No one could last long in this. “Send for our dive gear. Have them meet us on the north abutment.”

  “If y
ou dive in this you’re an idiot.”

  “It’s in the job description,” Gabe yelled back.

  The ride up the river was treacherous. Trees, parts of buildings, and vehicles came at them like bowling balls. Fortunately the Mercury outboard had the power to hold them on course and make headway, but the pounding they took was teeth jarring, and the wind-driven rain felt like they were being sandblasted. Without the goggles it would have been impossible. Two upside-down boats passed floating downriver.

  Gabe fought the tiller and kept the motor pushing upstream. Holding course put a strain on his arm, back, and shoulder. He tried to stretch, but sitting on the hull and hanging on to keep from being thrown out of the boat made that impossible. It would be a double-Motrin night. Tough it out. It’s in the job description.

  For forty minutes the inflatable pounded into headwinds and waves. Finally they saw lights ahead. What was left of the bridge loomed out over the water silhouetted in work lights from the barge. They could hear the drone of a big generator even above the howling wind.

  “Maybe they have hot coffee?” Jim shouted.

  Gabe eased the inflatable alongside the crane barge. Hard-hatted workers grabbed the lines from Jim and secured the boat. Gabe climbed mesh netting up the barge’s side and was grateful for the chance to finally stretch. In the lights he could see half the bridge was in the water. The southern span was still attached at the abutment. The center span had collapsed, and the northern approach span was half in the water. All that held it was the pier closest to the bank, and that was canted and unstable. It looked like a giant slide dropping from the highway into the river.

  “We heard you have men in the water,” Gabe said to a worker whose white hat suggested he was in charge.

  “Yeah, two of our guys were up there in a truck when the span collapsed.”

  “What were they doing up there? Didn’t they know how dangerous that was?” Gabe asked.

  “They do now,” White Hat answered.

  “Any idea how airtight the truck might be?” Gabe asked. He wiped the rain from his face and squinted, looking down into the current ripping around the barge.

  “New truck. Maybe? We could see headlights for a while, but nothing now.”

  “Jim, grab our stuff. Let’s go,” Gabe shouted.

  “Our boat is bigger, safer,” White Hat said.

  “Great, we’re with you,” Gabe said. He jumped from the barge to the bank to help Jim unload the state truck.

  Moments later a thirty-foot metal workboat with a blunt nose, small cabin, and large work deck pulled alongside the barge. Gabe and Jim wasted no time setting up a manifold of scuba tanks and a com and safety line umbilical for Gabe.

  “I’ll have to belay my way down or get blown off the bridge.” Find me all the line you can,” Gabe told the McFarland men.

  “On it,” a stout barge hand replied. He quickly returned with line and shackles. “No carabiners, but these will do. I’m from out west. Used to climb. I can rig for you.”

  “Thanks. Let’s do it.” Gabe was dressed by the time the boat reached the span and tied off. His new rigger shackled a line to Gabe’s dive harness in addition to the safety and com line normally part of the gear.

  “We need to get up current and keep the lines tight while I go down,” Gabe directed. “I can direct you on the com. Just don’t let the current pull me off the bridge.”

  “Got enough weight?” Jim asked.

  “Both belts and ankle weights. That’s all we’ve got.”

  “Okay, you’re still an idiot, but let’s go. And, by the way, it’s been nice knowing you.”

  “Thanks, pal. Same to you.”

  Moving the boat against the current and tying it off again was a challenge. But the skipper knew his job, and after a couple of false starts, put them in a good position. The boat was bouncing in the current, and balance was difficult as Gabe made his way to the rail. Jim walked with him holding the lines, and when everything was ready, Jim gave him two taps on his shoulder. Gabe paused, prayed his pre-dive prayer, and as he was stepping off into the swirling water noticed the glare of news camera floodlights from the upper abutment.

  “Captain’s going to love this,” he said into the Aga mask’s mic as he slammed into the water.

  The raging current grabbed him and spun him on the end of the umbilical. He dumped all the air he could from the dry suit and flared his body like a skydiver, to stabilize his descent. Still sailing like a kite in a storm, he slammed into the bridge railing and landed on his back on the bridge roadbed. He rolled to his knees and grabbed onto the railing. That was fun.

  “On the bridge, Jim.”

  “Roger that. Current’s a bear. Took two of us to hold you. You going to be okay down there?”

  “For the moment. I’m on a railing. As long as I can hang on, I’m okay.”

  “What now?”

  “Give me slack on both lines. Keep it slow.”

  “Roger. Slack on both lines.”

  Gabe was lying on the bridge deck, spread eagle, to keep his profile as low as possible. As the lines eased, he raised himself slightly and slid down the railing. Good. Twenty feet down he felt the truck tires with his feet. The big tires were flat on the bridge deck meaning the trailer was on its side. Gabe called for more line and slid another sixty feet down to the cab.

  “Jim, the truck cab is off the bridge. More slack, slow and easy. I’m trying to crawl down to it.”

  “Slow and easy, roger that.”

  Suddenly Gabe felt both the truck and the bridge span shifting beneath him. There was a loud crack and metal screech as the span moved in the current and the truck slid farther down the deck.

  “Jim, are you guys okay up there? I’ve got movement down here.”

  “Roger that,” Jim answered. “The span is trying to tear free from the approach pier. The crew had to cut the boat lines. We’re live-boating and fighting to hold position. Let’s get you out of there.”

  “Can you hold on for a little longer? I’m just about at the truck cab. If anyone’s still alive in there we have to get them out. Let’s give it a shot. Give me more slack.”

  “Okay, it’s your funeral. Slacking the lines.”

  From Gabe’s leg pocket, he retrieved a coil of half-inch line and secured it to the trailer frame with a figure eight knot. He let the line trail in the current to clear it. On his knees, on the bridge deck, he swept his arm into a piece of concrete with rebar running through it. He picked it up and wedged it into his weight belt harness. Now twenty pounds heavier, he again called for slack and eased over the bridge rail. As best he could tell he was still vertical, not horizontal. Good. He dropped until his feet hit the truck cab on the driver’s side. A dim light was coming from the cab. As Gabe reached the door window, he could see the driver waving frantically. Gabe could see the water level inside the cab was halfway up the window.

  Gabe held up a closed fist and hoped the driver would understand the hand signal for stop. The driver got it and stopped. Gabe pointed to the small tank and regulator on his harness, his bailout, and then pointed to the driver. Then he held up a circled thumb and forefinger, the diver’s okay and waited. The panicked driver returned the okay and pointed up. Gabe gave the okay again, held up two fingers, then pointed to the second finger and opened his palms asking about the passenger.

  The driver shook his head, pointing only to himself then pointing up again. Gabe put his hand on his chest lifting and dropping it to mimic slow controlled breathing. Another okay. Acknowledged.

  With a jolt, the truck slid again.

  No more air pocket. Gabe tried to pull open the truck door, but it wouldn’t budge.

  From his leg pocket Gabe pulled a spring-loaded window punch. Gabe put the punch against the window and hit the trigger. The window, already under pressure, shattered in a thousand pieces. Gabe shoved the bailout tank and regulator into the cab, found his target, and waited while the man’s breathing slowed to semi-panic mode. Gabe tried the
door again. Even with the pressure released it was still jammed.

  No matter, the driver was on his way out the window. He was a big guy, and it was tight, but he was motivated. With Gabe’s help he cleared the window frame and once out, grabbed Gabe in a powerful bear hug. Gabe dropped the concrete ballast he’d borrowed from the bridge, and as they ascended above the truck, there was a loud grinding, metal-tearing, glass-breaking, concrete-fracturing roar as the span’s upper end tore loose from the remaining shore-side pier, crashing into the river, dropping the truck the rest of the way to the black bottom below.

  Without the bridge giving shelter the current grabbed Gabe and his new dive buddy. Gabe felt his harness, where the umbilical and safety lines attached, cutting into his shoulders. His neck and arms felt broken. The driver was blind without a mask, and the river was freezing. He panicked and tried to climb Gabe, getting an arm around Gabe’s neck and in the process broke the seal of Gabe’s full-face mask. The big guy had Gabe’s face and neck in a choke hold, and Gabe couldn’t get to the mask to hit the purge. The situation was definitely out of control.

  “You guys all right down there?”

  When Gabe tried to answer he choked on the water in the mask. He slammed his head hard into the big guy’s face, who was startled, and relaxed just long enough for Gabe to get his hand free, hit the purge button, and fill the mask with life-saving air.

  “Got him, Jim. Bring us up, and get us out of here,” he gasped.

  “Roger that, coming up now.” On deck it took three men to pull Gabe and his new best friend up into the boat.

  The boat skipper did a good job fighting the current back to the barge. Gabe sat momentarily gasping for breath while Jim helped him out of the dive gear and then brought him a mug of coffee. The rescued driver’s name was Mike. He had turned on the lights to let them know there was life in the cab. He thanked God and Gabe Jones for sparing his life and was delighted to share the story of Gabe’s heroism with the reporters, lights, and cameras. Little mention was made of the passenger who died or how Mike got the cut on his forehead that a paramedic quickly dressed.