Ghost River by Jon Coon (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

“We had a lot of fun chasing parts and putting her back together,” Gabe said after Paul turned off the buffer. “Your dad always intended she would be yours.”

“After today my mom won’t let me get my license for fifty years,” Paul said. He put down the buffer and rubbed a cloth over the polish, removing the dust.

“Only fifty?” Gabe smiled.

“It’s not fair. They shouldn’t be able to just search your locker like that. I wasn’t selling or hurting anyone.”

“You sure? How do you think your mom feels? Happy? Proud? How about Emily, what’s she going to tell her friends? Her big brother, the coolest guy she knows, got busted? That’s going to go over well at church, don’t you think? How about your teacher or the kids in your class when their parents start asking questions? It’s not just about you, Paul. Dumb stuff like this hurts everyone you know.”

Paul picked up the buffer, turned his back on Gabe, and started on a section of the hood. Gabe shook his head and went into the house.

“I saw you talking with Paul. How’d it go?” Carol asked as she handed Gabe an iced tea.

He pulled a chair up to the kitchen table and shook his head. “Got to admit, I don’t understand him. Even worse, he gets under my skin, and then I’m afraid everything I say comes out like a big lecture. I don’t want to be a cop with him. I want to be his friend, to talk to him like we’re both from the same planet. Got any ideas?”

“I don’t think parents always get to be friends. I heard about this book, I think the title is, How to Raise Perfect Kids in Your Spare Time. They ship it with thumb screws, a Taser, a big bottle of therapy, and a lot of other drugs.”

“Better sign me up,” they both laughed.

After a delicious but mostly silent meal of spaghetti and garlic bread, applesauce, and ice cream, Emily cleared the table.

“How are you doing finding out who killed my dad?” Paul asked.

“We’re tracking down new leads. My guess is the same guys who killed your dad also killed another diver years ago. I hope to have results soon.”

Paul hit again. “And what’s going on with that bridge? Are they fixing it?”

“Yes. The cranes, trucks, and dredges are there. They are building cofferdams, which will be filled with cement to make new footings. It will take a couple months, but they have a good start.”

“Right,” Paul said and left abruptly to finish the truck.

Carol sat down beside Gabe and said quietly, “He’s so angry, and he’s got no place to put it. I can’t get through that wall, and I doubt you will either. I think he just has to work this out on his own, and if he doesn’t, I’m probably going to kill him.” She laughed. It was a sad laugh. Like realizing a giant meteor was on a collision course with earth, and there was nothing left to do but laugh.

The next morning, work stopped when the dredge jammed. It picked up a diver’s weight harness weighing fifty pounds. The name Greenly was still visible in the rotting leather. When the diver sent to clear the dredge hit bottom, he was greeted by the toothless grin of a skull fragment and an assortment of disarticulated human bones.

Gabe received the call to make the body recovery. He set up a jackstay grid and painstakingly worked the site, scooping through sediment, slime, and sand until he was confident he had cleared the area of Richard’s remains. After a medical examiner confirmed Richard Greenly’s identity, Helen was notified and a statement was given to the press. Nothing was said about a service or internment. When forensics discovered the skull had been fractured, an investigation was opened, and it was assigned to Bob and Gabe, as it related to the other deaths on the bridge. Gabe wondered if the news would reach Richard’s son Zack, who still hadn’t been found.

Paul had visited the state police dive locker several times with his dad. But today he was nervous, like first-day-at-a-new-school nervous. He entered through the first of four garage doors and truck bays and walked past racks for tanks and wetsuits and individual lockers with benches on the outer wall of the community shower. There were private toilets across one end of the shower area and a half-dozen sinks, all of which required regular cleaning. Paul had never cleaned a bathroom at home but found that he was both capable and competent when motivation and opportunity were mandated by the court.

“Hey, Paul, I’m Tom Branigan. Your dad and I were friends. Understand you’re going to be with us a while. Let me show you where the cleaning locker is and what needs to be done. If there’s anything more you need just give me a shout.”

“Hey Paul, I’m Bill Richards, your dad told me you were learning to dive. Are you thinking about joining the team in a few years?”

Those were common interruptions, but for the most part, the divers simply nodded or smiled and left him alone. He did his job and when possible paid attention to conversations about past and present missions involving weapons searches, recovery of stolen property and vehicles, and exciting dives in local quarries and lakes. At the end of the day, Gabe came to find him.

“How’s it going?”

“It’s okay. Better than some juvie detention center I guess. Thanks for that.”

“The way to thank me is to keep your nose clean and make sure you are getting this job done right every day. And from what I’ve seen you are doing that, so I’m satisfied.” Gabe reached out to put his hand on Paul’s shoulder, but Paul backed away. Silence lingered until Gabe asked, “Tell me about the diving you did with your dad.”

“Two summers ago, Dad took me to the dive shop to get me PADI certified