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

Paul stood awkwardly for a moment then said quietly, “I would do anything to get my dad back or get the guys who killed him. But I know you didn’t have anything to do with what really killed him, so I don’t blame you. I just wish it had ended differently.”

Gabe nodded, affirming Paul’s response.

Mickey stepped out of her corner and stood slightly behind Zack as though wearing him as a shield. “We’re brokenhearted for you and your family, Paul. We’ve been afraid to come home and face you. I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through.”

Paul, who had been counting the seams in the old oak floor, looked up and tried to smile. “This is so hard for me. I know you didn’t want to hurt anyone. But it hurts. It really hurts. So it’s going to take me a while to work through this. What I want now is for us to find out what really happened. Then I want paybacks. Hard, bloody paybacks.”

Mickey came to Paul and opened her arms to give him a hug. It was awkward, but he let it happen. She held him and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Paul. We both are.” Zack smiled sadly and nodded.

Gabe broke up the pity party. “First thing is to get everyone safe. Let’s hit the road. It’s four hundred miles home.”

They were just south of Macon, a little after five, when Gabe’s phone rang. He and Paul were in the F-150, and Zack and Mickey followed close behind. The Bluetooth connection showed the number on his monitor.

“Gabe, someone broke into our house,” Carol began.

“Are you and Emily all right?”

“We’d gone on a girl’s day out. We’re okay, but the house is trashed. They took the files, and by the looks of things they were after something more.”

The notebook.

“Go to a movie or at least somewhere public,” Gabe said. “Don’t go home until I call you. We’re four hours out. Just stay away from the house. Go now. Keep your phone close.”

The phone disconnected, and Gabe turned to Paul.

“Does your mom still have your dad’s guns?”

“Yeah,”

“Can she hit anything?”

“Oh yeah. She’s good.”

“Good.”

CHAPTER 11

2200

The River Camp

Clear night sky

Gabe loved the river camp. It was a spacious, single floor, post-Civil War Cracker house, a common style of early Florida-Georgia houses. With its five bedrooms, a loft, and one bath, it was much larger and a few decades newer than Alethea’s slave shack. But to call it a home would have been an exaggeration. To call it a cabin or a fishing camp was closer, but still a stretch.

Archaeologists might have referred to it as a “primary cultural deposit,” and building inspectors would have condemned it. But to Gabe, while it was isolated, dilapidated, and in need of more work than he had time for, it was a sanctuary, a place where he and the dogs had room and privacy.

Showing its age, it had a rusted tin roof and badly weathered cypress siding. Sections of the pine porch floor were patched with sheets of plywood. Half of the original wooden porch columns had been replaced with rough-cut cedar tree trunks, and the sagging porch steps were propped up on cement blocks. It did have, however, two matching folding rocking chairs, which lent a homey ambiance. Still, it was a safe bet the once-comfortable river camp was never going to be featured in Southern Living Magazine.

Gabe, by nature a neat and private person, used it as a weekend retreat. A neighbor looked in on it during the week and took care of the dogs, as Gabe never intended to live there full time, much less share it. The unfolding drama was about to change that. This, whatever you wanted to call it, was off the grid. One winding dirt road through a half mile of southern pine and cypress led to twenty-five acres on the river with a dock and jon boat for exceptional bass fishing. There were two outbuildings: a sagging carriage house and an original, early American outhouse, now used for storage and to maintain the rural aesthetics.

Two large, brown, mostly Labrador retriever, pound rescue dogs, Smith and Wesson, stood at attention as the truck came down the sand and shell drive. Gabe parked, and Zack’s truck and Carol’s Mustang pulled in beside him on the remnants of a lawn in front of the sagging front porch. Gabe led Paul, Mickey, and Zack to the steps, then stopped, feeling he needed to offer some explanation for his choice of refuge.

“It’s better inside. Best thing is it’s safe. I can protect us here. There are plenty of beds and couches. Figure it out, and I’ll find us something to eat.” The dogs were still waiting patiently for an introduction.

“Oh, the dogs aren’t used to company. Give them a little time—” but Smith and Wesson forgot their manners and bounded from the porch, greeting Emily and Mickey as though reunited with long lost friends.

Tea, coffee, and chili. Grilled cheese sandwiches cooked in a cast iron skillet. Alpo for the dogs, and the generator on for light and the water pump. A modest fire in the oversized river stone fireplace. They gathered for a serious conversation in the large room that served as kitchen, dining, living, fireplace, library, and gun-safe room. The dogs dropped, heads on paws, listening intently.

Gabe started. “Zack, your mom was the only person who knew I had those files. What’s your best guess?”

“She called my grandfather.” Gabe was pacing, Zack and the other kids seated. Carol was still in the kitchen.

“Any idea who he would have called?”

“No, but I’m sure he has friends.”

“Okay, do the names Rogers or Stewart connect?”

“Rogers’s name is on the inspection reports from several of the bridges,” Paul answered.

“Right, he was the head of the inspection team,” Gabe said, recalling his meeting with Zack’s dad. “Wilson Corbitt is another name to watch for. He was involved, but so far he’s a spook.