The Rivers Webb

by Jeremy Tyler

  Walking bravely onto that crude dock, he seated himself as comfortably as possible in the center of the boat. Dan cast off the line and jumped in himself, and they were off.

  Surprisingly, the little craft proved not only seaworthy, but quite fast. Just as unexpected, Earl clearly knew what he was doing, as he guided them past fallen tree limbs and nearly invisible cypress knees poking out from the riverbed. Partly to pass the time, and partly to prove that the cobbled boat didn’t bother him, John yelled above the roar of the outboard to ask Earl questions.

  “How long have you been running along this river?”

  “Since I was twelve, on my own. But my Daddy had me propped on the front o’ his old skiff soon as I could stand straight,” Earl yelled back, still smiling that broad, stupid grin.

  “Which is why they say you know Parrott River better than anyone.”

  “Truth is truth, sir. I get pretty much ev’rything I need from ’er. What else I get, I buy with the money I get off of her.”

  “Fair enough, then tell me this. Reverend Rivers was killed on Tuesday, but his body didn’t show up at Grandpappy Island, where you found him, until Saturday morning.”

  “Yep,” was all Earl said. His eyes showed that he was getting uncomfortable with the question. And that was just fine with John.

  “Then answer me this one, Earl. Would it usually take something four days to float from the bridge to Grandpappy Island?”

  “Naw, not really.”

  “Funny, I was thinking the same thing. In fact, judging by the current, I wouldn’t guess that it would take more than five or six hours.”

  A strange look came across Earl then. He started to say something, then shut his mouth and squinted his eyes as if he saw something off to the left, then, far much more swiftly than John was comfortable, he veered the boat in that direction and started running toward the shore. At what John was certain was too late to matter, Earl shut off the engine and pulled the outboard’s prop out of the water.

  The boat glided to a sudden stop at what looked like a tangle of broken limbs under the water. John started to shout, but before he could say anything, Earl had scooped up a long-handled hook and thrust it down among the tangle. As both John and Dan looked on in confusion, Earl poked around furiously. Then, with a smile and a triumphant spit into the water, Earl pulled up a swollen, matted clump.

  John looked over to Dan, half expecting that now familiar “I-Told-You-So” grin. But Dan only shrugged. Clearly, this had him just as confused.

  “Raccoon,” Earl stated simply, as if this explained everything. “See, them coons, they like to hang out along the riverside, on account o’ they got a warsh ev’erthing they eat. Only, we got’s river otters that are real territorial. They don’t like nothin’ or nobody to get too close to where they got their little babies.”

  Again, that look on his face. As if asking, “don’t you get it?” Exasperated, Earl went on.

  “When a coon gets too close to a otter’s home, they get mad, only the damned ol’ coon, he’s too stubborn to back off. They usually end up dead, in the river. I find ’em all the time. In these tangles. Now, if the coon were a piece of wood or somebody’s old hat, it’d just float the river nice as can be. But that old river, it’s got a kinda claim on the dead, and it’ll pull ’em down into those tangles, sometimes days at a time, ’til it decides they had enough, then the current’ll switch off a little ways, and let ’em go.” With that, Earl tossed the ragged body back into the river, where it bobbed up and down, then was swept back under.

  As noisy as the river was, it felt silent. John pondered a moment, thinking about his poor Uncle Carl, caught amongst those cypress knees and sunken tree limbs at the bottom of the river.

  Earl sat back down in the boat, pushed off of the bramble with the hook, then started the motor again. John didn’t have any more questions. At least, not for Earl.

  “Dan, can I ask you something?”

  Dan nodded briefly.

  “It’s probably a sticky subject, so I haven’t asked anyone in the family…but there’s one thing that’s been bugging me since I got here.”

  This managed to break through some of Dan’s reserve; he turned to face him full.

  “George Rivers,” John said.

  “Yeah?”

  “His last name is Rivers.”

  A wide smile crossed Dan’s lips as realization dawned upon him.

  “You’re wondering what kind o’ shameful little secret must be lurkin’ behind that? Well, you’ll be disappointed. Wilhelmina Rivers was married right and proper, before little George was conceived.”

  “So, why doesn’t he bear his father’s name?” John asked.

  Dan looked downriver for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

  “George Wamble was, from what I’ve been told, one of the bravest and most trusted men in all o’ Coweta County. Like Wilhelmina, he came from a family of means, but he always seemed to hold the community above himself. A very civic minded man, he was one o’ the first to volunteer for overseas duty durin’ the Great War, even though he’d just been married only four months earlier. He never came back.”

  “So George never knew his father.”

  “No. And Wilhelmina never forgave him for choosing a war half a world away above her. When she received the news of his death, she changed her name back to Rivers. Little George was born just a few weeks later. George Rivers.”

  John gave some serious consideration to what this revelation meant. It told him a great deal about the kind of person Wilhelmina was. He wasn’t sure if it would help him with the bigger questions, but he had a hunch it might. He remained silent until they reached Grandpappy Island.

  Once there, however, he didn’t need to concern himself with conversation. Earl stayed in the boat, staunchly refusing to set foot on that island with such “hateful memories,” as he put it. Dan set to the task of searching along the beach, as though there was anything there to find. So John was left alone to take in the whole scene of it all, drinking in the magnificent view of the rolling Georgia hills that made up the backdrop against which the Parrott River proudly displayed itself.

  Cynical as he was, John was affected by the simple beauty and stark simplicity of it all. Of course, not so affected that he failed to notice things, such as the way Earl kept shifting around in his handmade boat to try and shake the bad feelings he had for this place. And of course, he kept an eye out for Dan, who at first glance was simply being drastically overzealous in the pursuit of post-crime evidence. But John always relied on more than just his first impressions. So he watched. After just a few moments, John began to see it.

  Dan was smarter than John had given him credit for, he had already started to see that, but now he was beginning to see the depth of it. Dan Merrill, while looking intently at the surroundings, was looking for absolutely nothing. His observations would seem to be engrossed, at first glimpse, but it was clear enough to John’s trained eye that he was not actually paying much attention to whatever it was he was looking at. His focus was more outward, less focused, as if he were lying in wait for something…

  In the general direction of the south bank, an odd rustling came. John heard it, but just barely.

  “You hear that,” Dan said out of the side of his mouth. It was not a question. It was a reminder that this was Dan’s turf.

  “I heard it. Nice to know it wasn’t just me,” John returned, without shifting his gaze from the hills he had been absently watching. The sound came again, seemingly louder, now that he was listening for it, but it was still barely audible. As John’s eyes cut over briefly to Earl, he saw that the man was unchanged.

  “About 11 o’clock from your position, just past the tree line,” Dan said, seemingly without ever losing interest in the small pebbles he was studying. John tried to make out a form out of the corner of his eye, and was rewarded with a glimpse.

  “Damn it, Dan!” he yelled loudly, walking back to the boat where Earl waited. “I told
you this was a waste of time! Earl, start the boat, we’re going home.”

  Earl, not realizing this was for some strange person’s benefit, was only too happy to put some distance between him and that island. He dropped the propeller into the water, and had it humming before Dan could get up from where he had stooped to look at the ground and argue about it.

  “Oh, well, God forbid we waste any precious time looking into something that you didn’t think of!” Dan yelled back. He was hamming it up pretty well.

  If Earl had any idea that the argument was simply a ruse, he never let on.

  “There’s nothing here, Dan. It was worth a look, but it’s over, now.”

  They kept arguing even after they got into the boat, even after Earl started moving away from the island. So heated was the argument, that it seemed oddly appropriate when Dan shouldered John so roughly that he fell back into Earl and caused him to veer sharply toward the south shore. Earl tried to adjust, but the man seemed to be confused. It seemed almost as if he was trying to beach them.

  The stranger on the shore was more suspicious of motive than Earl, because he made no attempt to cover the noise as he ran this time. Both Dan and John dashed out of the boat the second it hit ground, and were in full chase. At a signal from Dan, John followed the river, as Dan moved upward. Earl was left, once again, in the boat, still wondering what was going on.

  Their quarry clearly knew these woods very well, as he cleanly and almost effortlessly slipped through trees, bush, and bramble. Dan had a rough time keeping up, but managed to keep the dodging figure in sight, shoving through low hanging branches as they slapped at his face. When possible, he tried to drive him back toward the river, to give John an opportunity to get ahead of him and spring the trap. It became clear very quickly, however, that this particular individual would not be easily herded—at least, not without some encouragement. As the quarry started to make a turn to the right, Dan quickly slid his revolver out of his holster and snapped a round off ahead of him. The effect was considerable, and instantaneous. Dan’s runner switched gears and started moving toward the more dense coverage back toward the river. Dan hoped John had gotten into position, as he followed fast.

  Truth be known, Dan was no stranger to these woods himself, but whoever was running ahead of him was far more familiar with their twists and turns. He was having to put his full attention on the path before him just to keep up. Unfortunately, that meant a rather reckless dash through the woods. With a quick cut to the left that proved to be too much to ask, as his foot caught on an upturned root. Dan went down, and hard, tumbling down the steep hillside. When he managed to regain his balance, the running figure was gone without a trace.

  “Alright, John, it’s all up to you, you arrogant northerner.”

  As if in reply, a single gunshot resounded across the hillside. Dan dusted himself off and headed toward the sound, his own gun gripped in his sweaty hand. Uncharitably, Dan wondered if John had made that shot as a warning, or if he had maybe forgotten that this person wasn’t actually identified as a suspect, yet. He was moving quickly, but more carefully, both to keep his balance and in mind of stray bullets should more shots be fired. His ears pricked to hear some signs of a struggle, or the sounds of hurried flight. Nothing. After a few minutes, Dan emerged from a rough patch of bushes and brambles and called out.

  “Over here” came a dejected and disgusted reply. Dan followed the sound a little further down the hillside to the limping form of his temporary and unwelcome colleague. The look on his face told a story without a happy ending.

  Dan worked his way down to him with some effort.

  “Any chance you seen which way he went?”

  “Yeah,” John replied between breaths, “Away from me.”

  “Funny. He was headin’ the same direction when I last saw ’im.”

  John looked Dan over quickly, noting the twig in his hair and the red clay still clinging to his knees.

  “Good, then. Our stories match. Up until now, I was afraid no one would believe us.”

  They took a little bit of time getting back to Earl. They could have, and would have, made better time if they supported each other’s weight while limping back, but neither man wanted to offer help, and neither man wanted to accept it. So, by mutual and unspoken agreement, they slowly made their way to the boat, every man for himself.

  Earl, who still had no idea what was going on, was barely able to contain himself when he saw them coming back. He was practically jumping from one man to the other, trying to decide which needed help getting into the boat the most. Eventually, through a combination of both men’s persuasion and an overall feeling of light-headedness, he simply allowed them both to get in unassisted. After a rapid-fire round of questions, Dan calmed him down enough so he could start the boat and head back down the river while he detailed their little adventure. John was deathly quiet, simply staring at the trees rushing past.

  Once back on land, John dropped Dan off at the sheriff’s office without delay. He only had a short amount of time before he had to meet Gerald at the Rivers home, and he didn’t want to give the skittish man any time or excuse to get out of it.

  When he arrived at the Rivers home, he was met at the door by a woman he didn’t immediately recognize. It wasn’t until he managed to look past the thread-worn clothes and servant’s demeanor that he could see the pale, withdrawn face of Opal Rivers.

  She wore no makeup or jewelry, and held her head at a slight stoop, to make it look as though she were constantly at a bow.

  “Aunt Opal, it’s good to see you.”

  She smiled, but said nothing in return. Instead, she quietly ushered him into the main entryway.

  It was the first time he had actually set foot in the house since he was just a boy, and his memories of the place had always been fuzzy. The few things he could remember were softened by time and distance.

  What shocked him now, though, was something that he had always believed had been the product of his imagination, fueled by childhood stories of castles and knights and dragons. But there it was, as real as anything in this earth.

  At the far wall of the entryway was an enormous fireplace, set with an ornate mantle of jet-black wood. Above that fireplace, hung with great pomp and apparent reverence, was an immense coat of arms. Detailed in bright blue and yellow, it featured a great helmet, with what looked almost like crashing waves flowing around it. It was a rather detailed piece of art, and great care had clearly been taken in its design.

  He was about to ask Opal about its significance when a rustle from upstairs alerted her and she dashed off.

  “John? Is that you—my stars, I can’t believe what’s happening? Dan called us from the station. Are you alright?”

  Aunt Wilhelmina’s frail, yet determined, voice filtered down from upstairs. There was something odd in her voice. John thought, at first, that it must be the strain of the morning’s revelation, but it lacked the dull, sing-songy quality of shock that he would have expected. It rather surprised him when he suddenly recognized it as concern.

  “I’m fine, Aunt Wilhelmina.” To himself, John couldn’t help but wonder when he had started calling her “Aunt Wilhelmina” as though he had grown up with her affectionate embrace and sage advice all his life. He hadn’t seen this woman from the time he was a toddler until only three days ago.

  “I was absolutely afraid to have never heard from you again. And to think, it would be on my sorrowful account! You and Dan both…” Wilhelmina emerged onto the balcony overlooking the entryway and looked down at him with wide, frightened eyes. The drawn face and deep, sunken eyes told of the turmoil she was in, but her clothes were fresh and pristine, and the artfully, tastefully applied makeup did its best to portray a woman in command.

  “No harm done. And just where did you get the idea that it was on ‘your account?’ This is a murder investigation. It’s bound to get rough now and then…”

  “Still, I don’t think ya’ll would’a gone off half-c
ocked like that if I hadn’t pushed Dan like I had this mornin’. That poor boy just wanted to do somethin’, and I sent him off, desperate to find anythin’. My God, if somethin’ would’a happened ta’ either o’ you boys…”

  “Really, I’m fine. And so is Dan. Clearly his tongue got out of it in one piece, since he couldn’t wait to tell everyone.”

  “Don’t be cross. Dan wasn’t doin’ anything but callin’ to let your father know what had happened. Isn’t that what you police-folk do? Report in?”

  John nodded his ascent, but it was more to move on from the subject than to indicate he understood.

  “I suppose. Regardless, I don’t have much time to discuss it. I only stopped by to pick up Gerald. He’s…” And here is the point where John realized he had actually developed no sound excuse for taking Gerald into Pelham.

  “He’s volunteered to, uh…” John was drawing a complete blank, and had no idea what to say next.

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud, John! You act as though I were some old spinster with no idea about the world o’ man! Gerald already told me about your plans, and I think it’s a fine idea.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, of course. And don’t look so shocked. I’m no stranger to the more sordid and rougher side of life. I know a thing or two about the ways o’ men.”

  John wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that, but was spared the need to ask when Gerald walked brusquely in and broke the conversation up quickly.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Mr. John. I know you wanted to keep this thing under wraps, but Miss Wilhelmina was wantin’ to know where I was headin’ off to. I ain’t the sort that can abide lyin’—’specially my own, so I come clean about our plans tonight. Turns out, Miss Wilhelmina thinks same way as you do…that a fella what needs ta’ ‘unwind’ and kick up his heels a bit, might oughta do such things away from town.”