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

“I’ll call the office. Tell them to go pick him up.”

CHAPTER 12

1400

State Police Barracks

Windy and cold (at least for Florida)

Surly was the right word for Wes Rogers. Big, mean, and surly. Even at sixty plus, he was no one to mess with. Bob was asking the questions about Captain Brady’s shooting and Rogers’s relationship to the trooper Gabe had killed in the captain’s home. Rogers was acting like a bear with its foot in a trap. After denying any knowledge of either incident, he said, “Look, you’re fishing. You don’t have anything because there’s nothing to find. I have things to do.”

But Bob had more questions. “You worked with Richard Greenly, the diver, for four years. What can you tell us about him?”

“You want to know about Greenly read his file. I answered your questions about Brady, now you’ve got no reason to hold me. I’m outta here.”

“Not so fast,” Bob said.

Gabe’s turn. “You were an Army diver with EOD experience. Someone booby-trapped the old I-10 bridge. We found the detonators on those shaped charges. That’s what killed Charlie Evans. And now forensics says Richard Greenly had his head bashed in. So get comfortable, Rogers, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Rogers lunged to his feet, “Get out of my face! Get proof before you accuse me of murder!”

“Wilson Corbitt knew what you’re hiding. When I find him, I’m coming for you.” Gabe was on his feet now too, leaning forward across the table, melting the distance between them with a blowtorch gaze.

Rogers took a step back. “You’ll never find—” Rogers began, but quickly stopped.

Gabe smiled. Gotcha. “Do you want to finish that Rogers? Why won’t we find him?”

Rogers snorted and got up from the table. “I’m outta here.” He charged out of the interrogation room like a mad bull.

“Be careful,” Bob warned as he and Gabe walked out to the Ford-150. “He’s a lunatic, but he’s right. We don’t have enough to hold him. You watch your six.” Gabe dropped Bob at his car and then drove to the RV park to shower, change, and rest for a while. Back in casual clothes, he headed to the river camp.

1845

The River Camp

When Gabe returned to the river camp that evening, the dogs greeted him enthusiastically and followed him inside. Smith went to the couch, Wesson to the rug by the fireplace.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked innocently.

“Whatever the boys decide to cook,” was Emily’s answer. “It’s their turn.”

Carol laughed and shook her head. “Maybe tomorrow, but it’s pork chops, mashed potatoes, veggies, and salad. Ready in half an hour. Get the kids—excuse me—get the team to show you what they found. It’s pretty interesting.”

Mickey and Emily came back to the large and only table now covered by notes, laptops, and a stack of CDs.

“There was a bridge collapse in Jacksonville ten years ago,” Mickey began. “A bunch of people killed. Same builder. Another one up in Alabama two years ago. Same builder. No one killed. It just fell into the river. The article said scouring was to blame. What’s scouring?” she asked.

“It’s erosion that happens when currents or tides wash the bottom out from under bridge foundations or sea walls. It’s a big problem any time you build on anything but solid rock. Who was the builder of those collapsed bridges?” Gabe asked.

“I remember that story from Sunday school, ‘Build on the Rock,’” Emily said with a laugh.

“Well, honey, there’s your proof,” Carol said.

“The builder was McFarland Construction. They’re based in Tallahassee. They’ve built highway and railroad bridges all over the state. And they’ve had the majority of problems,” Mickey answered. “But it’s weird; they’ve also gotten most of the major repair contracts. You’d think after the problems the state would have given that work to a company with a better track record.”

“Nice work,” Gabe said. “Do we know anything about the company yet? Zack, connections to your grandfather?”

“I don’t know. Mom doesn’t talk about any family except Grandpa. And he doesn’t talk to me. But I have a couple cousins. I sent emails. Nothing yet.”

“Okay, what’s next?”

“Can I call my folks?” Mickey asked. She looked up from her phone. “Mom just sent me a text. She’s worried. I need to call her.”

“Sure, tell her you’re both with me and you are safe, but let’s keep the details about where we are to ourselves for a bit longer. Okay?” Gabe answered.

“No problem. Thanks.”

Gabe was rolling out his sleeping bag when Carol rousted Smith from the recliner across from Gabe’s couch and dropped in. Smith grunted and plopped her eighty pounds on the floor by Gabe.

“What a great old house this must have been,” Carol said. “You never told us about it.”

“It’s not mine, and I’ve always been uncomfortable bringing anyone here. It’s in pretty bad shape.”

“It would be fun to restore if the bones are still good. That stone fireplace is beautiful.”

He nodded slowly, thinking about the restoration idea. “A lot of work. Maybe too much.”

“Gabe, there’s something you need to know,” she said sitting up and leaning toward him. “When we find whoever killed Charlie, there’s going to be some Old Testament coming down. There’s no way anyone hurts my family this much and walks away. I loved Charlie Evans more than fish love water. Please don’t make the mistake of getting in my way.”

“That’s serious stuff. What happens to your kids if you spend the next twenty years making license plates?” She shook her head and left the chair for the bedroom. Discussion over. Final decision made.

It was a long night on the uncomfortable couch. Gabe tossed and turned and lay awake thinking about the case and Carol’s hard line on revenge. Smith realized he was awake and nuzzled him. When he didn’t respond she playfully licked his ear. “Okay, okay, I’m getting up.” Gabe rubbed her head affectionately and swung his legs off the couch. He checked his watch: 4:30. He pulled on his pants, got up, and