Ghost River, Jon Coon [ebooks online reader TXT] 📗

“Life is an act of belief and faith, Paul. And I believe what I said yesterday was true, both because of what I’ve seen and because God keeps His promises. I believe that even more than I believe electricity will always keep its promise of making a light bulb work. Does that help?”

“Just what is it you’ve seen that gives you faith like that?”

“Fair question and a conversation for another time, but if you trust me at all, have faith I will never lie to you.” Nothing would make me happier than letting you see for yourself, Paul. Hopefully someday.

Carol had been standing in the doorway behind Gabe. She crossed the floor to the table and put her hand gently on his shoulder. When he turned to her, tears were running down over a thankful, broken-hearted smile. Gabe took her hand and turned back to the kids.

“There’s one more thing. Our team is going back in the river today. We’re going to find out exactly what happened to your dad and why someone wired in those detonators. Someone was hiding something they were willing to kill for. We’re going to find out what and who.” He paused long enough for his words to penetrate. Paul softened, but Gabe knew this discussion was far from over. He put his hand on Paul’s shoulder and silently prayed for him.

Then he said to Emily and Carol. “I’m sorry I can’t spend the day. I have to get back to the river, but I could sure use another cup of Emily’s wonderful coffee.”

Gabe left the house through the garage and noticed four sets of scuba gear neatly hung by the deep sink near the door. He paused and stared at the gear for a moment, remembering the hundreds of dives he’d made with Charlie. He walked past the restored F-100 pickup in the other garage bay and recalled the hours he’d spent helping Charlie rebuild it. His sadness pulled him down like a thirty-pound weight belt. He shook it off, then walked out into the sunlight and climbed into his F-150.

When Gabe arrived at the river he joined the team. They spent the day searching for the missing girl and finishing the survey of the new bridge. A state team with a side-scan sonar arrived and worked a large section close to the bridge and then down river. At the end of the day, cold and tired, the divers had mapped the area and discovered the second pier, the primary support for the other end of the center span, scoured as severely as the first. State bridge engineers were on site along with men from the construction company who would be doing the repairs. They were briefed by the divers, and a repair plan was formulated.

Late that afternoon Gabe drove the two-lane road that meandered alongside the river to Alethea’s. As he approached the turn onto the gravel road he saw turkey vultures circling. He slowed until he saw the birds on the ground ravaging the carcass of a doe. Gabe pulled the truck off onto the shoulder. When he approached to examine the deer the birds greeted him with angry protests before taking flight. A fresh kill, the blood from her wounds not yet dried.

Gabe went back to the truck and returned with gloves and a hunting knife. He gutted the doe, left the entrails for the vultures, and loaded the carcass into the truck bed. Alethea would be happy for the meat, and her roast venison was gourmet dining for Gabe. He turned into her drive and honked to scatter the chickens as the truck pulled to a stop.

“Hello, Cher, where’s Grand’Mere?”

“I’m here,” her small voice answered from behind the screen door. Alethea stepped out onto the porch and held out her arms waiting for a hug. Her joyful face and warm smile could have melted asphalt.

“A woman could starve to death waiting for you, Gabriel Jones. Jambalaya’s been ready for hours,” she said as he lifted her in a hug.

“Fresh venison,” he said. “Let me get it butchered and in the brine barrel. Then we’ll sit.”

As the sun set, throwing long shadows over the river, they sat by oil lamplight enjoying rice, sausage, and chicken. The peppers and spice made the dish authentically Creole. After eating Gabe added two logs to the stove and stoked the fire. With a fresh mug of dark roast coffee, he sat at the small table, scratched Cher’s head, and waited for Alethea to come and sit.

“Did you dive today?” she asked as she dried the last bowl and put it on an open shelf.

“Yeah. I tried to awaken the missing girl last night. I don’t think she’s there.”

“Could she have been?”

“Possible, but I doubt it. The current could have carried her downriver, but it just doesn’t feel right. Something is missing with the boyfriend and her family. The words are there like Bob said, but not the heartbreak. My guess is she never went in the water. It’s hard to describe.”

“So if she wasn’t ever there . . . if her going missing didn’t involve the river?”

“Splitting logs really is good anger management, just like you said it would be. Plus, we need the wood. But if Charlie died for nothing? That will take a major trip to the woodpile.”

Cher put her head on his knee to remind him to continue scratching her head. He complied.

“How are Carol and the kids doing?”

“I’m worried about Paul. Lost and angry. He’s going to have a hard time without Charlie to keep him in line.”

“Can you help?”

“If he’ll let me, but I’m doubtful. How’s your writing going?”

“I found some interesting information about St. Michael the Archangel last night. Our people called him Mr. Daniel Blanc. He commanded legions of angels. A good guy to have on your side. You might want to get to know him.” She paused seeing if he would take the bait.

“I’m still amazed you would give up the comfort of your house in the