He tucked the camera into the case, set it aside, and pulled the two remaining strips of shirt from his pocket and held them in the pool of gasoline forming by the car. When they were damp, he got the lighter out and lit them, one at a time. The first flared too hot and burned his hand, the hand that was already bleeding, and then he tossed the strip down onto the dead man’s body. For a moment it looked like the flame would go out, so he held the other strip of cloth over it and squeezed and the drops of gasoline got the blaze going again, and this time it caught the dead man’s shirt and then he was burning.
Josiah lit the final strip of cloth and tossed it back up on the gravel, into the pool of gasoline, which went up like a bastard, three feet tall and brilliantly light before he’d even had a chance to move. He got to running then, grabbed the leather case in his bleeding hand and ran for his house as the fire spread behind him. He was no more than a hundred feet away when the gas tank blew, and he felt the shock of it in the ground, and the whole night was filled with orange light then and he knew his time was slim, indeed.
He hit the front yard at a dead run, dropped the case in the grass, got his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door, ran inside in the dark, and went to his bedroom. Pulled a fresh shirt on, then opened the closet. There was a twelve-gauge pump shotgun inside, and he took that and a box of shells and ran into the yard. Tossed the shotgun and the shells into the bed of the truck and pulled a plastic tarp over them, then grabbed the leather case and threw it onto the passenger seat. His front yard was lit by the fire, but already the blaze was going down. He thought he could hear voices up at the Amish farm, but maybe that was his imagination.
He got into the truck and started it, thought about leaving the headlights off but then realized that would be begging for trouble and turned them on, pulled out of his driveway and sped down the gravel road, came out to the county road, and turned west. Sirens were audible by the time he reached the first stop sign. He drove on into the night.
Eric didn’t expect to sleep again, but he did. Long after the vision had passed he was still on the balcony, waiting, willing it to return.
It did not.
Eventually, he rose and carried the chair back into the room and looked at the clock and saw it was four in the morning. Claire was in the central time zone, an hour behind, and it was too early to call. Kellen would be asleep. All sane people would be asleep.
He lay on the bed and stared at the bottles on the desk as the sounds of early-morning preparations carried on around him in the old hotel.
Campbell, the old man had called the one in the bowler hat. Campbell.
It was what Eric already knew, had known since he looked into Josiah Bradford’s eyes and saw the similarity. The man in the bowler hat was Campbell Bradford, and he’d arrived in town yesterday on an all-black train. The boy, then? The boy who played the violin with his eyes squeezed shut to block his terrible stage fright?
He was Alyssa Bradford’s father-in-law. Eric was sure of that in the way he’d been sure of Eve Harrelson’s affair in the red cottage and of the Nez Perce camp in that valley in the Bear Paws. But the boy’s name was Lucas, and he had not been a relative of Campbell’s. So why had he claimed the man’s name? Had he been adopted, removed from the care of his uncle and placed into Campbell’s? Why take the name, though?
Amidst all the questions were two other confirmations: Anne McKinney’s water both alleviated his withdrawal pains and brought back the visions. Only this time, the vision had been more like watching a movie. He had distance. Previously, Campbell had looked right at him, spoken to him. He’d been a participant, not a bystander. With Anne’s water, what he’d experienced felt truly like a vision of the past, a glimpse into something that had happened long ago and could not affect anything in this world. What he’d seen from the Bradford bottle was hardly so tranquil. In those moments, Campbell had been with him.
He fell asleep sometime around six and woke to the phone ringing at nine-thirty. He fumbled for it with his eyes still closed, knocked the thing off the base, and then got it in his hand and gurgled out a sound that didn’t even come close to hello.
Kellen said, “You made it through.”
“Yeah.” He sat up, rubbed at his eyes.
“No problems?”
“Wouldn’t say that.”
“Uh-oh.”
Eric told him about it all, disclosing the depth of physical agony and the drinking of the water and the vision that had followed. It was odd he’d be willing to tell this stranger so much, but he was grateful that Kellen was willing to listen to it. He wasn’t running yet, dismissing Eric as crazy. That meant something.
“This changes things,” Kellen said. “It’s not the specific bottle of water that hits you, it’s Pluto Water in general.”
“I don’t think we can go quite that far. I’m getting visions from them both, yes, but there’s still something different about that first bottle, the one that started it. Last night, after trying Anne’s water, it was like I was watching something out of the past. When I’ve had the Bradford water, everything I see is right here with me.”
“So you still want to run the test.”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I’ll come by and get the bottles then, take them up to Bloomington.”
Eric opened his mouth to say that was great, then stopped, realizing what it meant. If Kellen took both bottles to Bloomington, Eric would have nothing in his arsenal. It was a thought that chilled him.
“Do you know how fast they can test it?” he said.
“No idea. But it’s Sunday, you know, so probably not today.”
“If there’s any way they could test it today… or at least tomorrow… I’m just thinking, the faster, the better. I’ll pay whatever it takes.”
“Well, you’re talking to the wrong person, my man. I got no idea what the process entails. But I’ll see what I can do once I’m up there.”
Kellen said he’d come by the hotel in a few minutes and they hung up. Eric studied the bottles for a few seconds longer and then, hating himself for it, went into the bathroom and found one of the plastic cups and emptied a few ounces of Anne Mc-Kinney’s bottle into the cup. He took a small taste. Just as bad as it had been hours earlier, no trace of sweetness or honey. Good. This one didn’t change.
He took the plastic cup and carried it over to the bedside table and set it down. There if he needed it. He would try not to need it, but at least it would be there.
The Bradford bottle he left untouched.
He got in the shower, was hardly out when Kellen called from the lobby. He threw on clothes and grabbed the bottles, then almost dropped the Bradford bottle.
Cold was no longer an accurate assessment. The thing was freezing, gave his hand the sort of cold burn you could get from touching a metal railing on a Chicago winter night. The frost was dry now; he had to use a fingernail to scrape any off.
“I’m going to find out what’s in you,” he said. He carried the bottles down in the elevator and out into the lobby, shifting them from one hand to the other because the Bradford bottle was too cold to keep in one for a prolonged time. Kellen was waiting near the front doors. He looked at Eric with a critical eye as he approached.
“Looks like you did have a rough night.” Kellen lifted a finger and indicated his own eye. “You ruptured some blood vessels, man. Across the bridge of your nose, too.”
Eric had already seen that in the mirror.
“Like I said, it wasn’t a whole lot of fun.”
“Doesn’t look like it, no.” Kellen reached out and took the bottles from him, said, “Damn!” when he touched the Bradford bottle.
“Getting colder,” Eric said.
“You ain’t kidding. That’s a big difference from yesterday.”
Eric watched Kellen study the bottle, saw the awe in his eyes, and thought, This is why he believes me. The bottle was so insane it made Eric’s story acceptable.
“I called Danielle,
” Kellen said.
“Danielle?”
“That’s my girl, yeah. Told her we needed to get somebody to look at this thing fast, and she said she’d call around and see what she could do. No promises, though.”
“I appreciate it. Tell her I’ll pay—”
“Nobody’s worried about that.” Kellen was juggling the bottles from hand to hand now just as Eric had been. “She knows somebody to do it, that’s all.”
“You said she’s going to med school?”
“Yeah.”
Eric nodded, feeling a pang of guilt. Claire had been in law school when they’d met. Had dropped out when they got married to follow him to L.A. She had a good job now, working for the mayor’s office, but it wasn’t the career she’d had in mind for herself. She’d given that up for him.
“Well, you might ask her to have them run a specific test,” he said. “If it’s even possible. I’ve got an idea of what might be in it. We know Campbell was involved with bootlegging and moonshine, and in my vision last night I saw that whiskey still…”
“Old moonshine,” Kellen said and gave a nod. “That would make some sense. Who knows what the hell they put in it or how potent it was back then, let alone now. It could be giving you fits, no question. I still think it might be worth talking to a doctor.”
“I will if I need to,” Eric said. “But I’m feeling all right now.”
“Okay. I’ll come back down this afternoon, catch up with you then.”
Eric followed Kellen out the doors and onto the veranda overlooking the grounds. Out in front, at the end of the brick drive, a TV news van was parked.
“Something going on today?” Eric said.
“I don’t know. Saw another one on my way here, somebody interviewing a cop on the sidewalk. Could be something happened last night.”
“Casino robbery. Ocean’s Eleven shit.”
“There you go.” Kellen laughed, then lifted the bottle and held it up to the sun. The frost glittered. “All right, I’m off to Bloomington.”
“Hey, thanks for helping with the water. I appreciate it, more than you know.”
Kellen looked at him, serious, and said, “You take care today, all right?”
“Sure.”
He left and then it was just Eric on the veranda, facing into a warm morning wind that was tinged with moisture. It was humid already, and though the sky was blue, it had a hazy quality. Maybe Anne McKinney had been right. Could be a storm brewing.
32
TIRED OF THIS TOWN as he was, Josiah still found himself grateful for familiarity in this situation. Figured he had to get himself hidden quick, because there wasn’t going to be a whole lot of time passing before the police were looking for his truck. Hell, they’d do that on principle, something like that happening so near his home. He wasn’t real eager to talk the matter over with them either.
Time to get off the roads and out of sight, then, and while the idea of flight was appealing, gassing up the truck and heading for the Ohio River line and points beyond, he wasn’t foolish enough to do that. He had a grand total of twenty-four dollars in his wallet and maybe four hundred in the bank, and that wasn’t going to get him far.
He drove about three miles west of his house, into the woods that climbed the hills between Martin and Orange counties, and turned into a gravel drive marked with a half dozen no trespassing signs. Had been a timbering camp at one time, years ago, and now all that remained was a weathered barn and decrepit equipment shed. The place was isolated, though. Josiah had found the spot deer hunting one year—the property wasn’t open to hunting, but hell if he cared—and filed it away in the back of his mind, knowing that such a location could prove useful to any of the handful of illegal ventures he experimented with from time to time. This wasn’t the sort of use he’d hoped to require it for, but right now he was glad that he’d stumbled across the spot.
He stopped and then dug his toolbox out of the truck and found a stout pair of bolt cutters. Should’ve thought to grab a hacksaw, but he hadn’t been exactly flush on time when he’d left the house. He left the lights on in the truck, used them to illuminate the sagging doors on the barn. Just as he’d recollected, there was a rusted chain with a padlock holding them closed, and the chain wasn’t thick. It took him a few minutes of grunting and swearing—his burned and bleeding hand hurt like hell each time he squeezed the bolt cutters—but eventually he broke through half a link and then he slipped the chain apart and dropped the lock at his feet.
The doors swung open with a crack and groan, but they slid apart all right, and inside there was plenty of room for the truck. He pulled it inside, hearing a harsh scrape as he dragged past the door, then turned the engine off, and sat there in the dark.
What in the hell had he done? What in the hell had he just done?
The last fifteen minutes had been too full of action for much thought, but now, up here in the dark barn, hiding his truck from the police who’d soon be looking for it, he was forced to consider what had just occurred. That man was dead, and Josiah had killed him. Killed him, then lit his ass on fire. That wasn’t just murder, that had to be some aggravated version of it. Sort that got you on death row.
It wasn’t as if Josiah had never thought of killing a man before, he’d just never actually expected to do it. Figured if he ever did, it would come slow and calculated, the product of a great deal of provocation. Revenge for some grave offense. But tonight… tonight it had happened so damn fast.
“Was the gun that did it,” he said. “Was his own fault for pulling that gun.”
Surely that had been it. A self-defense move and nothing else. You see a man swinging a gun your way, what in the hell were you supposed to do?
Problem was, it hadn’t been the first blow that killed him. Josiah was almost certain of that. Oh, it had knocked him out well enough, but the one that killed him had been that second strike, when the man in the ditch was already down and out and Josiah jumped down there and laid the cinder block to his head with every last ounce of strength he had in him. That wasn’t Josiah’s nature; he’d never been one for kicking a man he’d already put on the ground. But tonight he’d done that, and then some. And in that moment, that blink-quick moment, he hadn’t even felt like himself. He’d felt like another man entirely, a man who’d enjoyed that deathblow a great deal.
Shit, what a mess. You killed someone, better have both good cause for it and a good plan for dealing with it, and Josiah had neither. Didn’t even know who the son of a bitch was, just that he’d been watching the house. Why had he been watching the house?
He reached over to the passenger seat and got the case he’d stolen, a big leather bag with a shoulder strap, and felt around for the wallet. When he got his fingers around it, he flicked on the interior lights and opened it up. First thing he saw was a photo ID. Licensed Private Investigator.
A detective. That didn’t make a bit of sense, and the name—Gavin Murray—didn’t mean a thing to Josiah either. He studied the picture, confirmed that this man was a stranger. The address given on both the investigator’s license and his driver’s license, which was tucked in the same compartment, was Chicago.
Same city as the man who’d gone to see Edgar, pretending to be making a movie. Two of them in French Lick on the same day, one asking questions about Campbell, the other watching Josiah’s house with a camera. What could these bastards be after? Hell, Josiah didn’t have anything to take.
He removed the cash from the wallet and put it in his pocket, then felt around in the case and came across a fancy leather folder, took that out and opened it, and found himself studying a sheet of paper with his own name, date of birth, and Social Security number. Plus a list of addresses going back the better part of fifteen years, places he’d almost forgotten about. He thumbed past this sheet and saw that the next one detailed his arrest history, complete with case numbers and dates of arrest and charges. He flipped through a few more papers, then found one that said Client Contact. Ther
e were two phone numbers and a fax number and e-mail address, but Josiah was far more interested in the name itself:
Lucas G. Bradford.
This morning the humidity had arrived even ahead of the heat. It was a liquid breeze that came in through the screen as dawn rose, and Anne, expecting to see heavy clouds when she got out of bed and looked out the window, was surprised to find sun.
She showered, a process that now took too much time and too much energy, holding on to the metal railings with one hand at all times, and then dressed in slacks and a light cotton blouse and the sturdy white tennis shoes she wore every day. Had to wear them; balance was all that kept her from a hospital or a nursing home. She loathed those shoes, though. Hated them with a depth of passion that she’d rarely felt for anything. When she was young, she’d been a shoe fan. All right, that was an understatement and a half—she’d been crazy about shoes. And the shoes she loved had heels. They were tall and elegant and you had to know how to walk in them, you couldn’t just clomp around, you had to walk like a lady. Anne McKinney had always known how to walk. Had earned her share of stares over the years because of that walk, had watched men’s eyes drop to her hips all the time, long after she became a mother, even.
She took short, steady steps now in her flat, sturdy shoes. Hated the walk, hated the shoes. The past taunted with every step.
Once she was dressed, she went out onto the porch to take the day’s first readings. The barometer was down to 29.80. Quite a drop overnight. The sun was out, but the lawn didn’t sparkle under it, no heavy dew built up overnight the way there had been recently. She leaned out from under the porch roof and looked up and saw a cluster of swollen clouds in the west, pale on top but gray beneath. Cumulonimbus. Storm clouds.
So Cold the River Page 20