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

to work this morning. We need to talk about it, but I don’t want to scare the kids. I don’t think he will come here, but Bob put a car up at the turn for a while, just to make sure.”

“Encounter? What do you mean?”

As usual Gabe left for work before dawn and met Bob for breakfast. Coffee first.

Bob greeted him with a puzzled look. “What’s that smell?”

Gabe shook his head with a frown. “Skunks: two, dogs: zero. How bad is it?”

“Well I won’t be taking you to the prom . . .”

“Thanks. Any word on Rogers?”

“I’ve got a search going for plans and inspection reports and anything related to the bridges. I put a team out to find Wes Rogers and his truck. We’ll find him. What’s next?”

“Let’s go back and rattle Jewels Peterson’s cage. See how cozy he is with McFarland Construction.”

“Who’s McFarland?”

“Let’s go find out,” Gabe said.

“Mr. Peterson don’t want no visitors,” Harriet said flatly, “Y’all know he’s bad sick. Just leave him alone. That smell what I thinks it is?” She eyed Gabe.

“My dogs got skunked. Sorry, I didn’t realize it’s still that strong. Is Mr. Peterson able to talk?” Gabe asked.

“Yes, but just talkin’ wears him. Them doctors have—”

“Please tell him Officer Gabe Jones and Detective Bob Spencer are here, and it’s important we talk with him. I promise to keep it brief.”

“All right, I’ll tell him. Y’all wait here.” She gave them a skeptical look and did not open the door further or invite them in. She returned moments later and said, “Come on, but you be nice; don’t you be upsetting him again.”

Peterson was in a hospital bed on the third floor with a cardiac monitor and IV. His complexion was ashen, and his hand shook as he invited them to sit.

“Mr. Peterson,” Gabe began, “the last time I was here you left out some of the story. I need to ask you about those things.” Peterson was stoic.

Gabe continued. “You knew your son-in-law died on the river. We talked about that the last time I was here. We’ve got the autopsy report back. He was murdered. Can you tell us anything about that? Or about Wesley Rogers, one of the divers assigned to DOT when you were running things?”

No response.

“Okay, how about McFarland Construction? They’ve had more than their share of accidents, yet they continue to get the majority of contracts. I don’t understand that. What can you tell me about them?

No response.

“Mr. Peterson, help us out here. If you don’t start talking, it’s going to make me think you don’t want to help us. And if that’s the case, I’m going to start wondering why not.” Gabe paused, but Peterson was stone quiet.

“And I asked you about bridge plans so that we could check the bridge against the specs. I haven’t heard from you. Next we want to see all of the inspection reports on the I-10 bridge. It looks to us like Rogers was turning in bogus reports. Finally I want you to tell me about Wilson Corbitt. What did he know and what happened to him? Where would you like to start?”

Peterson raised a shaky arm and pointed toward the door. “I don’t work for DOT any longer, and I don’t have to talk to you. If you don’t have a warrant, get out!” he said in a surprisingly strong voice.

“Fine, but the next time we talk it will be in my office, and you will be in handcuffs. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot,” Gabe retorted.

Bob tried good cop. He held up a hand to stop Gabe and said, “It will go a lot easier if you talk to us now, Mr. Peterson. You don’t want us to arrest you. If there are good answers for Gabe’s questions, let’s hear them so we can sort this out.”

“How dare you come into my home and question my integrity. I spent forty years building this state. Leave now,” Peterson snarled. “And don’t come back.”

“That went well,” Bob said as they started down the hall.

“Do you smell smoke?” Gabe stopped and looked through the partially open door of a walnut-paneled library with a massive desk and large windows. Along one wall were walnut bookcases and on the other cabinets for maps or blueprints. Gabe eased the door open slightly and looked in. Files and drawers were dumped on the floor and on the corner of a large walnut table were the metal file boxes taken from Carol’s house. Both were empty.

Looking down, through the large windows, Gabe saw flames and smoke coming from a barrel in the backyard filled with burning file folders and blueprints. Beside the barrel was a red plastic gas can. “Nothing left there to save,” Gabe said. They heard an engine and ran to the other side of the hall in time to see the black Chevy pickup on jacked-up tires roar away from the house.

“It’s Rogers,” Gabe said. “Now we’ve got him for destroying evidence. What about the old man?”

They ran back to Peterson’s room. The bed was empty. Harriet stood with folded arms and a smug, bulldog face. “Peterson! Where are you?” Gabe shouted.

He turned back to Harriet, “Where the devil did he go? How’d he get past us?” Gabe demanded.

“I warned y’all,” she said and stomped past them out the door. They watched as she went the opposite way down the hall, opened what appeared to be a bedroom door, stepped into an elevator, and snorted at them as the gate closed and the elevator dropped.

“Of course there’s an elevator,” Gabe laughed. “Didn’t all antebellum mansions have them?”

“This old house could have more secrets than just that elevator. Hidden stairways, tunnels, who knows?” Bob said.

“Agreed, let’s get a warrant and take the place apart, see if they left anything we can use,” Gabe said as they climbed into Bob’s cruiser and drove down the pecan tree-lined drive.

“I’m on it,” Bob answered, phone in hand. “Would you mind cracking your window?”

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