Cold River

by Carla Neggers

  Bowie’s van. It had to be his black lab, Poe, creating the racket.

  She shoved her hands into her pockets and told herself she should go back to the village and see to her brothers, the café, her studying. Instead, she crossed Ridge Road and walked along the edge of the cemetery to the corner.

  She noticed snowshoe tracks and boot prints in the snow, most leading to the oldest of the headstones, simple rectangular slabs leaning crookedly in different directions. The McBanes had told her they didn’t worry about living in a haunted house with so many ghosts right across the road. People came from all over the country to research their family roots and locate the graves of ancestors. Many of the graves had metal markers identifying a veteran of the Civil War, the Spanish-American War, the two World Wars, Vietnam. There was even a handful commemorating those who’d fought in the American Revolution.

  Drew Cameron was buried in the Cameron family plot on the far southeast corner of the cemetery. Hannah and her brothers had attended his funeral but not the graveside service. She doubted any of her ancestors were buried at Four Corners. Her parents were buried at a little church graveyard past the hollow where she’d grown up.

  She zipped up her jacket and hunched her shoulders against the cold as she came to the corner. Bowie’s van was parked a little ways down Cameron Mountain Road, at the end of a narrow lane cut between the cemetery and a steep, wooded hill.

  Hannah crossed her arms on her chest, really cold now.

  Poe continued his barking and growling.

  She looked out across the old headstones just as a breeze kicked up, blowing fine snow into the air.

  Creepy, she thought, and kept walking toward the parked van.

  Eight

  Poe, who had to be at least six or seven years old, jumped up in a side window, yapping madly as Hannah eased between the van and the snowbank on the side of Cameron Mountain Road. “Hey, Poe,” she said, trying to soothe the agitated dog. “What are you all excited about? Did you see a rabbit?”

  He calmed slightly as she reached the lane. Exertion and adrenaline had warmed her up, if only slightly. She glanced around for Bowie. He’d never leave Poe in the van in the cold for too long, but she didn’t see him. Could he have scooted across the street into the church?

  “Easy, Poe. I’ll find Bowie, okay?” The lab’s barking was more intermittent now, and she raised her voice as she called for his master. “Bowie, where are you? Poe’s going crazy here.”

  She listened for any response, any indication of what had gotten the dog so excited. She could see that Bowie had done a careful, thorough job on the old stone culvert that ran along the edge of the lane and provided drainage for the cemetery. He must have stopped by to clean up or check on a potential problem. Whatever his other faults, Bowie was an expert mason who did quality work.

  Poe settled down, and Hannah called Bowie again. She could feel the effects of her long hike and the day’s tension in her legs now. She debated going back to the van and letting Bowie’s dog out to come help her find him. She wasn’t sure she believed in ghosts, but she definitely didn’t like being alone in an isolated, cold cemetery at dusk.

  “Hannah.”

  It was as if someone had just whispered her name into the wind.

  She stopped abruptly, her boots crunching on the packed snow.

  “Bowie?” She heard a slight catch in her voice. “Is that you? Are you hurt?”

  A stiff breeze blew across the cemetery, cracking naked tree limbs together and whooshing through the branches of the hemlocks and white pines on the hillside.

  “Hannah…Hannah…Hannah.”

  The voice—rhythmic and unnerving—came from near the stone-and-concrete crypt built into the hillside farther down the lane. Hannah felt her throat tighten and her hands stiffen inside her jacket pockets. She went as still as she could, listening, but she heard only the wind in the trees.

  Where was Bowie?

  Who was whispering her name?

  She noticed several long-handled tools leaned up against the end of the crypt close to her and decided she’d arm herself with a shovel, then head back to the McBanes’ and get help if Bowie didn’t surface.

  She crept a few steps closer to the crypt. She didn’t know if there were any bodies inside. The McBanes could be pragmatic about cemeteries, but she wondered if she’d be as spooked if she’d heard someone whispering her name at the old church across the street. It had to be Bowie. Who else could it be?

  She reached for a shovel that was leaned against the crypt. On the other side of its thick wood door was a four-foot pallet of granite blocks. Next to it was a taller pile of what looked like debris Bowie had collected in repairing the culvert. Rock, dirt and broken bits of concrete had dislodged from the pile and fallen, bringing along most of the black tarp that had been draped crookedly over both the debris and the pallet of blocks.

  The tarp flapped in the steadying wind.

  Hannah took a tentative step forward to investigate, but there was no sign of Bowie—or a deer, moose, wild turkeys or anything else that might have disturbed the pile of debris.

  Various scenarios ran through her head. Bowie could be under the fallen debris. He could have hit his head and be disoriented, wandering in the woods or among the headstones.

  He could be hiding from her. He could be deliberately trying to scare her.

  No.

  The tarp blew into her, and she batted it with the shovel, her heel slipping on a glistening patch of ice. As she regained her balance, more of the tarp came at her. She tried to get clear of it, but snow, ice, dirt and chunks of rock were crashing onto her.

  She leaped backward against the crypt’s door as something sharp—a bit of broken granite or ice—cut her left cheek, and a baseball-size rock struck her left wrist. She ignored the sudden pain, batting aside the tarp with her shovel, kicking past stones, dirt and chunks of ice.

  Still holding on to her shovel, she burst out from the rubble and ran into the middle of the lane. She was freezing now, her face and wrist stinging where she’d been hit, but she saw footprints in the snow on the edge of the woods and charged over to a trail that led straight downhill through the white pines.

  Had Bowie just knocked her over and run off?

  “Hannah!”

  This time it was a shout—a distinctly male voice coming from behind her in the cemetery. She pivoted, shovel raised.

  Sean leaped over the stone wall to the crypt, and in another two bounds was onto the lane, grabbing her around the middle before she could launch herself off down the trail.

  “Someone just…” She was aching, gasping for air.

  Sean tightened his hold on her. “Just what?”

  “I don’t know. I have to find Bowie. I can’t tell if these prints are new.” Most were boot prints, not ski or snowshoe tracks. “It’d be easy to lose someone in all these evergreens. I don’t even know if he’s out here.” She realized Poe was barking madly again. “Did you see him? Bowie?”

  “No.” Sean eased back from her, holding her by her upper arms as he assessed her. “You’re hurt.”

  “Not badly.” She pointed the shovel at the mess in front of the crypt. “That pile came down on me. I didn’t see anyone, but I heard someone calling my name. It was barely a whisper.”

  Sean peered more closely at her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded, realized with a jolt that she didn’t want him to release her and forced herself to stand back from him. Her breathing was calmer. “It’s creepy out here,” she said, giving an exaggerated shudder. “Damn. I do not like cemeteries.”

  “Hold on—”

  Before Sean could stop her, she picked her way over fallen blocks and grabbed an edge of the tarp, still flapping in the wind, and heaped it into a pile in the snow in front of the crypt.

  She caught a glimpse of torn orange fabric on the other side of the main pile of debris.

  Then it was gone, snatched away.

  “Bowie
, is that you?” She scrambled over dislodged, frozen dirt and rock to get a better look. “What’s going on?”

  She heard a moan and started to move faster, but Sean leaped up behind her, got one arm around her middle again and lifted her off her feet. Before she could catch her breath, he set her back down on the ground, staying on the pile of rock, ice and dirt between her and whoever was on the other side of the crypt.

  “Relax, Cameron.” Bowie stood up and grunted in obvious pain. Blood dripped from gashes on his left hand and the left side of his face. He was ashen, his orange sweatshirt covered in dirt, his down vest unzipped, his breathing hard and fast. “I just got my butt kicked by a wall of granite. I’m in no condition to kick anyone else’s butt.”

  Sean’s expression was tight. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Bowie staggered out to the lane, blood dripping from his hand into the snow, dirt and rock dust in his hair. He ignored Sean and looked at Hannah. “I heard Poe barking like crazy, but I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I can call an ambulance,” she said.

  “Nah.” He shook his gashed hand, a gob of blood dropping onto an icy patch on the lane. “It’s nothing.”

  Sean eyed Bowie warily, making no apparent effort to hide his suspicion. “Were you in a fight?” he asked.

  Bowie shrugged. “A fight with granite.” He touched the cuff of his sweatshirt to his cut, swelling face as he nodded to Hannah. “You okay? Your cheek’s bleeding.”

  “Just a little. I’m fine. I got out of the way in time.”

  “Most of this mess fell on me,” Bowie said. “It knocked the wind out of me.”

  Hannah winced at the blood dripping from his hand and face. “You should get yourself checked out. You might need stitches, and if you have a concussion—”

  “I’ve got a med kit in my van. If I went to the emergency room for every nick and scratch I get in this work, I’d never finish a job.” He grimaced at the tarp, rock and dirt. “I stopped by to pick up some tools I left out here and heard a noise.”

  “What kind of noise?” Sean asked.

  Bowie glanced back at him, slightly less hostile. “Probably the tarp. I’d secured it with rocks, but it was blowing around in the wind. I figured a critter crawled under it looking for a warm place to sleep. I climbed onto the edge of the pallet to secure the tarp and must have knocked this stuff over on myself. Stupid.” Clearly in pain, he turned back to Hannah. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I thought I heard someone calling my name…it was weird.” She saw Sean’s eyes darken, but he said nothing as she continued. “Honestly, Bowie, you should see a doctor. Don’t take chances.”

  “I’ve been hit in the head before. This time—hey, at least it was an accident.”

  She didn’t smile at his stab at humor. “Are you sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” He gave her a crooked grin. “Prosecutor Hannah.”

  Sean didn’t smile, his expression serious as he toed a pile of small rocks. “Where were you when you heard the noise?”

  Bowie picked up the shovel from the frozen ground and leaned it against the front of the crypt. “I was at the end of the lane by my van. Thought at first it might be a deer or a moose. Poe started barking. I couldn’t hear anything after that. I came down here, and next thing, I was fighting off granite.”

  “Bowie…” Hannah hesitated. “Could it have been an attack?”

  His gaze settled on her, practical. “I don’t see how. It was probably just a big old raccoon making trouble.” He grinned, blood trickling into the corner of his mouth. “Or maybe a ghost.”

  “Funny, Bowie.” Hannah cradled her injured wrist, felt it swelling. She shivered, very cold now. “Look, with everything that’s been going on lately, it’d be a good idea for us to tell our story to the police and let them check out what happened.”

  “You do what you want. I’m getting a couple Band-Aids.”

  Next to her, Sean inhaled sharply and reached into his parka for his cell phone. He hit a couple of buttons. “Hey, Elijah. I’m at the crypt at Four Corners cemetery. Hannah and Bowie got banged up. You and Jo need to get over here.” He disconnected and turned to Hannah. “What did you mean you heard someone calling your name?”

  “Just what I said. It was a whisper—I don’t know. Maybe it was the wind and my imagination is so fired up I just turned it into my name.” She made an effort to smile. “Or there is a ghost out here.”

  Sean returned his cell phone to his coat pocket. “Whatever you heard, it wasn’t a damn ghost.”

  “Bowie,” Hannah said, “did you hear someone call my name, or was it you?”

  He clenched his cut finger with his uninjured hand, stemming some of the bleeding. “I didn’t hear anyone, and no, it wasn’t me. That I’d remember.”

  “You could have hurt your head more than you realize—”

  “No. I didn’t call your name, Hannah.”

  She frowned. “Maybe no one did.”

  Sean settled in alongside her, more out of suspicion, she thought, than any protective impulse. “Why did you run out to the trail after you were hurt?” he asked.

  It was Bowie who answered. “Because she thought I’d knocked over the debris on her and was getting away, and she took off after me. Hannah has a temper, in case you haven’t noticed. She controls it most of the time. Most people don’t realize what a hothead she can be.”

  Hannah took no offense. She had been mad. “Come on, Bowie. I can at least get your first-aid kit out for you.”

  He started down the lane toward his van. Except for the dark green of the pines and hemlocks, there was no hint of color in the landscape of gray sky, bare trees, granite headstones and endless snow.

  As she headed back down the lane, Sean stayed close to her. “Why did you come here alone?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t about to ask Reverend McBane to escort me.”

  Sean inhaled sharply. “All right.” His tone was even. “Why did you come at all?”

  None of the fight eased out of her. “I heard Poe barking.”

  “You could have called the lodge.”

  “To get you or one of your brothers to check out a barking dog with me?”

  “You knew it was Bowie’s dog.”

  “Exactly.”

  Sean narrowed his gaze on her injured cheek. Hannah remembered that as a smoke jumper he was trained in emergency medical care. “You should get some ice on that bruise,” he said. “On your wrist, too.”

  “My main problem right now is that I’m freezing.”

  “Ah. Just what you need, the cold weather stiffening your spine even more.”

  She smiled suddenly, in spite of herself. “I’m being combative. Sorry. You raced across a bone-cold cemetery to my rescue. Thank you. If it’d been a particularly mean raccoon or ghost—”

  “Whatever it was, Hannah, we’re all going to want to know what really happened out here.”

  “Because it involves Bowie. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t care.”

  She picked up her pace and went ahead of him, but she realized he just had to lengthen a couple of strides and he’d catch up with her. But he didn’t, and as she approached the van, her head was throbbing. She felt a little unsteady on her feet and made herself take a couple of deep breaths as she stood behind Bowie at the passenger door.

  Without looking at her, he said, “What’s on your mind, Hannah?”

  She rubbed her fingertips over her bruised wrist. “I guess we were lucky we didn’t break any bones.”

  “Go back to your car before you get frostbite.” He glanced at her, the swelling on the side of his face reaching his eye now. “You look as if you’ve spent some time out in the wind today.”

  “I hiked up to Drew’s cabin this afternoon.”

  Sean stopped at the end of the lane, and Hannah was aware of him eyeing Bowie for his reaction.

  Bowie merely shrugged and stood up with a small black bag. “Cold day for a hike.” H
is black lab was up and barking again. Bowie tapped the window. “Poe. Settle down. You know Hannah. She’s a friend.”

  She noticed he didn’t mention Sean.

  Bowie set the bag on the passenger seat. “How’d you do up on the mountain?”

  “It wasn’t easy seeing Drew’s cabin. Devin gave me good directions, but no wonder it took Drew forty years to find that old cellar hole. It’s in the middle of nowhere. There’s no trail—nothing but woods and more woods.”

  “Yep.” Bowie unzipped the bag and pulled out a large bandage, tearing it open with his teeth. “Drew must have had an idea it was on that part of the mountain, or he just stumbled upon it one day.”

  Sean was silent, as still and stiff as a man could be, Hannah thought, and not crack into pieces. She watched as Bowie tossed the packaging into the van and secured the bandage to his cut face. It looked as if the worst of the bleeding had stopped. She assumed if anything looked seriously awry with Bowie or the bandaging, Sean would step forward.

  “One more scar to go with all the others.” Bowie splayed the thick, callused fingers of his injured hand, still bleeding freely. “Mind grabbing a bandage for this thing?”

  “Of course not.” Hannah stepped past him and rummaged in the med kit for the supplies. Bowie had always been stubborn, and he had a high tolerance for physical pain. For good reason, she thought. “Are you sure you don’t want Sean to do this? He’s—”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Hold out your hand, then.” She ripped open the bandage as she frowned at the gash on his hand. “Are you going straight home?”

  “I have a stop to make.”

  “Where?”

  “The Whittakers. I’m starting work on their guesthouse tomorrow. It’s a good winter job.”

  Hannah had no doubt it was. Lowell and Vivian Whittaker were wealthy New Yorkers who’d bought a “gentleman’s farm” in Black Falls a little over a year ago. It was just a few miles from Bowie’s place on the river. They had befriended Alexander Bruni, a longtime regular in Black Falls, and his wife, Carolyn, Nora Asher’s mother—which eventually had led Melanie Kendall and Kyle Rigby to the Whittakers’ Vermont estate in November as guests.