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

That couch must have broken my back in at least six places, he thought as he stretched and staggered to the coffee pot. He poured a mug, put it in the microwave, and tried to decide which had been the worst thief of his sleep: the couch, the wind dropping pine cones on the tin roof, or Carol’s pronouncement she intended to revenge Charlie’s death regardless of the consequences. He grabbed the mug before the microwaved beeped and sat at the table thinking. I don’t blame her. I just hope and pray it doesn’t come to that.

Gabe sat with his coffee in solitude. Emily emerged and ducked into the bathroom, still half asleep. On her way out, she padded barefoot to his chair, hugged him, and then padded back to her bedroom.

Gabe smiled as he watched her go. What a great kid. Charlie, I wish you could talk to me, buddy. I’m in way over my head here.

The numbers on the microwave showed five. Gabe rolled up the sleeping bag, stashed it, and answered the scratching at the door. The dogs came in, checked their bowls, ate, and then politely hit the couch and were shortly asleep again. He refilled the mug, rebuilt the fire to warm the house, and eased out the door to his truck.

The sun was an hour from rising as Gabe drove from the river camp to the RV park. He turned left onto the dirt road from the river to the two-lane asphalt. As he passed a white-fenced horse farm on his right, high-beam headlights hit him from behind.

A black Chevy with big off-road tires and a light rack on the roof was coming up fast. Blinded and irritated by the lights, Gabe adjusted his mirror as the truck pulled up tight behind him. What . . . ?

The driver roared up beside him and through his open passenger window fired three shots.

Gabe saw the gun just in time, slammed on his brakes, and rolled low in the seat. Not hit, he was still showered with hot coffee and broken glass. Three more shots hit the engine, which coughed and died an honorable death.

Gabe rode the brakes to a hard stop, jumped out Sig Saur in hand, and tried to draw a bead on the Chevy. Quickly out of handgun range, the truck topped the hill and disappeared into the pre-dawn dark. The county road was now quiet and lonely again as though nothing had happened. Gabe leaned against the truck and breathed deeply to steady himself. Dazed, he looked at the gun still in his hand. “Worthless,” he said as he holstered it. He took the cell phone from his shirt pocket, and as he pulled up Bob’s number thought, surely someone in the oil field would hire me, don’t you think?

“Was it Rogers?” Bob asked when he arrived thirty minutes later siren on and lights flashing.

“Who else? But it was still dark, and the light on his plate was out. It could have been anyone.” Gabe said. “I’m used to being on the stupid end of a dive hose, but not the dumb end of the stick. We have got to get ahead of these guys.”

After a day of arranging for a tow truck, calling the insurance company and finding a garage and body shop to do the work, Gabe got a ride to the motor pool, picked up a cruiser, and went back to the office for two hours of report writing. Bob found him late in the afternoon.

“Guess who owns a jacked-up black Chevy pickup?”

“Don’t tell me he was stupid enough to use his own truck?” Gabe laughed and closed his computer.

“Oh, it was stolen last night. He filed the report around midnight.”

“This just gets better and better.” Gabe shook his head still laughing. “Is the armory still open? I left my Remington with Carol. This isn’t going to happen again.” The smile and laugh were gone.

CHAPTER 13

1700

The River Camp

Finally, a warm Florida winter day

Gabe finished his shift frustrated. Rogers had vanished. The APB got no results, and the truck was going to need a new engine. McFarland’s commercial divers were removing the bridge iron and concrete from the river, and he and Bob were now officially on Richard Greenly’s murder case. Still no word on what had happened to Wilson Corbitt. But at least, as far as Gabe knew, there were no more ghosts waiting in the ominous murk of the river.

He returned to the river camp in late afternoon. The weather had been cool, but today was unseasonably warm. Soon long shadows would blanket the dirt drive, but along the river’s edge, in this magic hour, golden light flooded through ninety-foot bald cypress trees formally attired in Spanish moss. It was a scene he never tired of. As he turned the state cruiser onto the sand and shell driveway, he heard gunfire.

His first thoughts were of Rogers and to call for backup. Then he realized the firing was rhythmic. Target practice. To be safe, he parked before reaching the house and walked in on a path through the trees. He had guessed correctly. Carol had the kids lined up with Charlie’s Sig and his Cobra firing at cardboard targets at twenty-five feet.

“Keep your sight picture. Push the trigger, don’t pull it,” Carol coached Mickey. “Pulling jerks. Exhale slowly as you push it straight back toward your nose. Let it surprise you.”

Mickey fired, hitting the man-sized target dead center. “Good. Again.”

Bang! Another good hit. Cheers from the others.

“The things I didn’t learn in high school,” Mickey laughed. “That’s really cool.” She opened the cylinder, dumped the brass, and, keeping the barrel downrange, handed the Cobra back to Carol.

“The range is cold,” Gabe said from behind them.

Carol laid the Cobra on the makeshift table beside Charlie’s Sig, which had the clip pulled and action open.

“Range is cold,” she repeated. She and Mickey stepped back from the table.

“How many shooters qualified today, Range Master?” Gabe