So Cold the River

by Michael Koryta

  More of the same guy. Eric remembered him in the boxcar, saw that water splashing around his ankles and the bowler hat he’d tipped in Eric’s direction. No, he did not want to see more of that guy.

  “I’m having visions,” he said, “not seeing ghosts. Maybe that shit sounds one and the same to you, but it’s not. Trust me.”

  Kellen leaned back, one shoe braced against the edge of the desk. Looked like about a size sixteen. “You know what got me interested in this place to begin with?”

  Eric shook his head.

  “My great-grandfather was a porter at this hotel back in the glory days. He died when I was eleven, but until then his favorite thing to do was tell stories about his time down here. He talked about Shadrach Hunter a lot. Had a theory that Campbell Bradford murdered the man, like I said earlier, and that it was over a dispute concerning the whiskey Campbell ran through this town. He talked about the casinos and the baseball teams and the famous folks who came down. All those stories about what it was like to be a black man in this town in those times are what gave me my original interest. But those weren’t the only tales he told.”

  Eric said, “Don’t give me ghost stories.”

  “Don’t know if you could call them ghost stories, really. The man did believe in spirits, though—he called them haints—and he thought there were plenty of them down here. An unusual number, according to him. And they weren’t all bad. He thought there was a mix of both, and that there were a lot of them here. What he told me was that there was a supernatural charge in this valley.”

  “A charge?”

  “That’s right, just like electricity. Way he explained it to me was to think of it as a battery. He said every place holds a memory of the dead. It’s just stronger in some than in others. A normal house, according to old Everett”—there was a smile on Kellen’s lips but his eyes were serious—“was nothing more than a double-A battery, maybe. But some places, he said, it’s more like they’ve got a generator going, working overtime.”

  “This hotel is one of those places?”

  Kellen shook his head. “Not the hotel. The whole valley. He thought there was more supernatural energy in this place than anywhere else he’d ever been.”

  “That a place would hold a memory of the dead, I could believe,” Eric said. “Hell, I have to believe it, with the experiences I’ve had. But the idea of a ghost, of anything that can actually affect things in the world, I cannot buy.”

  “This valley is a strange place in a lot of ways.”

  “So it is. But there’s strange, and then there’s the idea of active ghosts. You don’t believe in the latter, do you?”

  Kellen smiled. “I’m going to quote old Everett on this one, brother. ‘I ain’t a superstitious man, but I know better than to walk through a graveyard after dark.’”

  Eric laughed. “It’s a good line.”

  They looked at each other in silence for a while, as if neither one really knew how to redirect the conversation now that ghosts had become a focal point of it. At length, Kellen nodded at the phone, which was now blinking red.

  “You got a message.”

  Eric picked up the phone and played the message. Anne McKinney. He was listening with half attention at first, but then her words clarified and he focused. What the old lady was suggesting was a hell of an idea, actually. He wrote her number on the pad beside the desk, deleted the message, and turned back to Kellen.

  “Remember the woman I told you about who came by to see the bottle? She’s got a match. Same bottle style, same year, never opened.”

  “Let me guess,” Kellen said. “It ain’t covered in frost.”

  “No. But her idea was that I could take that water and mine somewhere to have them compared. Chemically.”

  Kellen tilted his head and pursed his lips in a way Eric was beginning to recognize as one of his habits and nodded slowly. “That could be worth trying. And I might be able to help. Well, my girl might. She was a chemistry grad student at IU, spent the last semester studying for the MCATs. If there’s somebody local who can run an analysis on it, she might know who.”

  “Fantastic,” Eric said, and though this suggestion of Anne McKinney’s was a small thing, it felt bigger, because it gave him some kind of action to take. Because it gave him some sense—or some illusion, maybe—of control.

  “You might not have the need for it, running on ghost-water the way you are, but I could stand to get a meal,” Kellen said.

  “Actually, I need to eat. Haven’t had a damn thing all day. But do you care if I run up to get the bottle from this woman first? I’d like to have it.”

  “Nah, man, I’ll drive.”

  Eric called Anne McKinney back, thanked her for the offer, and said they’d be by to pick the bottle up. She told him that was fine, but she sounded different than she had that afternoon. Less spark. Tired.

  The sun was low and obscured by the hills west of the hotel as they came outside and walked to the parking lot. There was a blue minivan beside Kellen’s Porsche. Eric didn’t pay it any mind until the driver’s door opened and a man in a sweat-stained polo shirt stepped out and said, “Slow down, Mr. Shaw. I’d like to have a word.”

  The driver was a short but well-muscled guy of about forty, bald except for razor-thin sidewalls of dark hair above his ears. He stood ramrod straight and with his shoulders back, a military bearing. Cold blue eyes, a BlackBerry in a leather case clipped onto his belt.

  “Should I know who you are?” Eric said, coming to a stop as Kellen walked on to his Porsche and leaned against the hood, watching them, curious. He had his sunglasses on, and when the stranger glanced in his direction, Eric could see his reflection on the golden lenses.

  “Mr. Cage,” the guy said, nodding.

  “Wow,” Kellen said, “he knows everybody.”

  “Just need to take a minute of your time if I could.”

  “Then you better tell us who you are,” Eric said.

  The bald man took out a business card and passed it to Eric. Gavin Murray, Corporate Crisis Solutions, it said. Three phone numbers and a Chicago street address.

  “I don’t have a corporation,” Eric said, “or a crisis.”

  He moved toward Kellen’s car and when he did, Gavin Murray held up a hand, palm out, and said, “You may be headed toward a crisis, though, and I’d like to help you avert that. We should have a quick talk about what you’re doing for Alyssa Bradford.”

  Eric stopped short and looked back at him, got a cool stare in response. Kellen slid his sunglasses off and clipped them to the neck of his shirt and looked at Eric with raised eyebrows.

  “Like I said, he knows everybody.”

  “I do, Mr. Cage. I’m awfully quick when it comes to getting to know people. Congratulations on your brother’s success, by the way. Hell of a ballplayer. And your father-in-law, Mr. Shaw, why, he’s sold a lot of books, hasn’t he? Oh, I know you’re separated from Claire, but until the divorce is final, he’s still your father-in-law.”

  He gave them an empty smile. “Now, how about that talk?”

  “All right,” Eric said, reaching up to squeeze the back of his neck, the headache seeming to be lodged there now, driven toward his spine. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Good. But much as I’ve enjoyed meeting Mr. Cage, this is a private discussion. So if he’ll wait for you for a few minutes, let’s take a walk down there to the gardens.”

  Eric hesitated, but Kellen said, “Go on, man. This boy’s got a pretty clear plan. Hate to get in his way.”

  “Appreciate that,” Gavin Murray said, and then he turned and walked away from the cars, leaving Eric to follow.

  25

  I WASN’T PLANNING ON grabbing you in the parking lot like that,” Gavin Murray said as they walked away from Kellen. “Was going to go into the hotel and ask them to send you down, but before I had a chance, you walked out. Figured now was as good a time as later.”

  Eric said, “I’m guessing Alyssa didn’t send you.”r />
  “No.”

  “Who, then?”

  “I can’t answer that question,” Murray said. “I’m in a confidential business.”

  “And what business is that?”

  “CCS is an investigations and solutions firm. Think of us as troubleshooters.”

  “Traveled all the way down here from Chicago instead of making a phone call. This must be some trouble you’re shooting.”

  “We like to conduct business in person. The discussion I need to have with you is important, and it’s actually to your benefit.”

  “Is that your opinion or your client’s?”

  “Both, in this case.”

  Eric was silent. They were walking into the gardens now, toward the fountain.

  “I understand that you’re down here working on a video history,” Murray said. “Sounds like an interesting line of work. Must be fun. But this isn’t the project for you.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “I think that could stand some clarification. Like who sent you.”

  “I’m really not at liberty to disclose that. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Sure,” Eric said. “You’re doing your job. Respecting your client’s wishes, fulfilling their requests.”

  “Exactly.”

  Eric stopped walking. They were beside the fountain now, and a strong wind pushed fine drops of spray across his skin.

  “Well, that’s what I’m doing, too,” he said. “And it’s what I’ll keep doing, Gavin, old buddy. I’ve been paid, and I’ll complete the job.”

  Gavin Murray didn’t look up at him. He took a pack of American Spirits from his pocket and pulled one out, pausing to offer the pack to Eric, then sliding them back in his pocket when Eric shook his head. He lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled smoke through his nose, gazing back up at the hotel.

  “How much is she paying you?”

  “That’s both irrelevant and none of your business.”

  “I’ve been authorized to give you fifty thousand dollars to cease the endeavor.”

  “Hell,” Eric said, “that’s less than I’m making on it.”

  A lie, of course, but he was curious just how much this was worth to whoever was at the other end of Gavin Murray’s puppet strings. Fifty grand was a hell of a starting point, one that put a prickle in his spine.

  Murray smiled around his cigarette. “A negotiator. Well played. I can go as high as seventy-five while we stand here. You can ask for more than that, but you probably won’t get it, and you know seventy-five is more than you could hope for.”

  “I’m not going to ask for more than that, and I don’t hope for any of it. Go on home, Gavin. Sorry you wasted the trip.”

  “Give the self-righteous thing a rest, Shaw. I’m surprised at this. You were in the movie business for long enough that you should know how rare a sure-money offer is, and how fast they can go away.”

  “They go away fast,” Eric agreed. “But you know what never does? Cocksuckers who try to use money as muscle. There seems to be an inexhaustible supply. Shit, L.A. alone has more than I ever cared to meet. But I met a lot of them, enough to get awfully tired of the act. So go on and call your client, tell him to roll his seventy-five or a hundred or two hundred grand up nice and tight and put it right up his ass.”

  He started away but Murray followed, saying, “You’re too smart for this. You know how business works at this level. Money’s a first attempt, and other leverage is found if it’s needed.”

  Eric stopped walking and turned to face him. “What does that mean?”

  Murray tapped ash out of his cigarette. “It’s not a complex statement.”

  “It sure as hell better be. Because if it’s as simple as it sounded, then you just threatened me, asshole.”

  Murray sighed and brought the cigarette back to his lips. “Guys like you are exhausting, you know that? There’s no reason in the world—none—for you to be a stubborn bastard on this, but you still can’t stop yourself.”

  “Must be nice to have a bank ledger where your ethics should be, Gavin. You’ll probably go on to big things. Most people like that do.”

  “It would be a great idea to negotiate, Mr. Shaw. I can assure you of that.”

  “Negotiate with who? You offer me money, I damn well want to know where it’s coming from.” Eric studied him. “So which family member do you work for?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The only person who’d be worried about what I’m doing would be somebody close to Campbell Bradford back in Chicago.”

  Gavin Murray smiled. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?”

  Eric waited but nothing else was offered. He said, “I’m done with you, Gavin. And tell whoever hired you that they can find me directly if they want to talk.”

  “I’ve got one more question,” Murray said. “What exactly were you discussing with Josiah Bradford?”

  Eric cocked his head. “You really do know everybody, don’t you?”

  That got a tight smile and a nod.

  “What I told him was a private matter,” Eric said. “But if you don’t get the hell out of my sight, I’ll go fill him in on some more things. Like the fact that somebody’s in town waving seventy-five grand in my face. Wonder what they’d wave in his.”

  “Not a cent.”

  “I find that hard to believe. Looks to me like somebody’s awfully concerned about the Bradford legacy. And probably the Bradford stock portfolio.”

  “Not true.”

  “No? Then what are you doing in beautiful French Lick, friend?”

  Silence.

  “Right,” Eric said. “Well, enjoy your stay, buddy. And keep away from me.”

  This time, Murray let him go.

  26

  KELLEN WAS WAITING IN the car with the windows down and music playing. He turned the volume down when Eric got in.

  “So, who’s that guy working for?”

  “Someone who offered me seventy-five grand to go home.”

  Kellen leaned across the steering wheel, mouth agape. “What?”

  Eric nodded. “Started with fifty, then bumped it up to seventy-five.”

  Kellen said, “What?” again as if the answer had never been offered.

  “I know,” Eric said. He was staring back down the hill, looking for Gavin Murray. He finally located him beside one of the gazebos, standing with a cell phone glued to his ear. Probably calling Chicago to provide the update and await instructions.

  “Another family member would be my guess,” Eric said. “Or somebody from Campbell’s legal team. The old man’s dying, and he’s worth a few hundred million. Could be worried about Josiah.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. If Josiah’s close blood to the old man in the hospital, he could make a compelling legal claim to compensation. Campbell abandoned the family. A few generations ago, maybe, but there would be plenty of lawyers who’d be happy to argue for reparations on Josiah’s behalf.”

  “But you don’t think the two Campbells are the same guy.”

  “No, I don’t. Which makes this all the more interesting, don’t you think?”

  “Sure. Also makes me wonder what your client will have to say.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Eric said. “She’s getting a call. Right now.”

  Down by the gazebo, Gavin Murray lowered the phone and put it back in the case at his belt and lit another cigarette. He was leaning against the rail, staring up at them.

  “Think that’s a good idea?” Kellen said. “Telling her about this?”

  “She has a better chance of understanding what the hell it’s about than I do. How can it be a bad idea?”

  Kellen shrugged, then waited while Eric dialed Alyssa Bradford’s number. Cell first, then home. No answer. He left messages on both phones but no details, just a request to call him as soon as possible.

  “Headache back?” Kellen said when he hung up, and Eric realized he’d been rubbing the back of his sku
ll while he made the calls.

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get moving. I told Anne we were on our way.”

  As they drove away from the hotel, Gavin Murray lifted a hand in recognition. He was on the phone again.

  Josiah left Danny at his grandfather’s and drove off without a word minutes after the Porsche pulled out of the drive. He considered following them, driving that polished piece of shit right off the road and hauling them out of it one at a time, administering the beating he should’ve issued at Edgar’s house. They were out of sight, though, no car visible ahead except for a blue minivan pulled into the weeds.

  Josiah blew past that and on into town, stopped at the gas station and put twenty dollars’ worth into his empty tank and bought a six-pack, drank one down fast while he stood at the pump. Someone pulled in and tapped the horn, annoyed that Josiah was there blocking the pump while drinking a beer, but it only took one look to make the driver go on to the next available pump.

  He threw his empty beer can into the trash and drove away from the station, heading home. His house was out in the wooded hills just east of Orangeville, surrounded by a few hundred acres of Amish farmland. They ran up and down the road in their buggies and sold vegetables in front of the farm, and early on, Josiah would hit the gas in his truck when he passed, let that oh-so-scary modern machinery roar at them. Made him laugh. Over time, though, he began to appreciate them despite himself. They were quiet neighbors, took care of their land, didn’t bother him with noise or forced-friendly conversation or gossip. Minded their own, let him mind his. As it should be.

  The porch looked clean and bright when he pulled into the drive, but it no longer satisfied him. He’d taken a hell of a one-two punch. Seeing those guys sitting in Edgar’s living room was bad enough, but that had come right on the heels of Danny Hastings, old dumbass Danny, looking Josiah in the eye and telling him he thought Josiah’s plan was stupid. And being right to say so.