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

slowed to semi-panic mode. Gabe tried the door again. Even with the pressure released it was still jammed.

No matter, the driver was on his way out the window. He was a big guy, and it was tight, but he was motivated. With Gabe’s help he cleared the window frame and once out, grabbed Gabe in a powerful bear hug. Gabe dropped the concrete ballast he’d borrowed from the bridge, and as they ascended above the truck, there was a loud grinding, metal-tearing, glass-breaking, concrete-fracturing roar as the span’s upper end tore loose from the remaining shore-side pier, crashing into the river, dropping the truck the rest of the way to the black bottom below.

Without the bridge giving shelter the current grabbed Gabe and his new dive buddy. Gabe felt his harness, where the umbilical and safety lines attached, cutting into his shoulders. His neck and arms felt broken. The driver was blind without a mask, and the river was freezing. He panicked and tried to climb Gabe, getting an arm around Gabe’s neck and in the process broke the seal of Gabe’s full-face mask. The big guy had Gabe’s face and neck in a choke hold, and Gabe couldn’t get to the mask to hit the purge. The situation was definitely out of control.

“You guys all right down there?”

When Gabe tried to answer he choked on the water in the mask. He slammed his head hard into the big guy’s face, who was startled, and relaxed just long enough for Gabe to get his hand free, hit the purge button, and fill the mask with life-saving air.

“Got him, Jim. Bring us up, and get us out of here,” he gasped.

“Roger that, coming up now.” On deck it took three men to pull Gabe and his new best friend up into the boat.

The boat skipper did a good job fighting the current back to the barge. Gabe sat momentarily gasping for breath while Jim helped him out of the dive gear and then brought him a mug of coffee. The rescued driver’s name was Mike. He had turned on the lights to let them know there was life in the cab. He thanked God and Gabe Jones for sparing his life and was delighted to share the story of Gabe’s heroism with the reporters, lights, and cameras. Little mention was made of the passenger who died or how Mike got the cut on his forehead that a paramedic quickly dressed.

When reporters approached Gabe, he just smiled and waved at the cameras, keeping as much distance as possible. Not feeling in the least heroic, he was just thankful big Mike hadn’t strangled him before they could make it to the surface. Uncomfortable in the spotlight, Gabe was relieved when his radio squawked, ordering them to respond to another emergency. But before loading back into the boat, Gabe asked the McFarland foreman who the passenger in the truck was.

“Clayton Mayweather, one of our best engineers. Intended to retire this year. Over forty years with the company. He helped build this bridge. Ironic it got him like this.”

“Clayton Mayweather?” Gabe asked, repeating the name to lock it in his memory.

“Yeah, you ever meet him?”

Not yet, but I’m certainly looking forward to it. “No, no. Just curious,” Gabe said. “Sorry for your loss.”

The rest of the night and until nearly noon they ferried homeowners to safety and chased drifting cars. The rain had eased by ten that morning, and the sky was clearing. Calls for help stopped, and he and Jim were able to load the inflatable back on the trailer and return to the dive locker before noon. Gabe was exhausted and ready to call it a day. The news reported they’d been blessed with eleven inches of rain in less than nine hours. Not a record but ample. The news also reported the state police rescue teams had saved over fifty lives that night.

Gabe climbed into the cruiser for the drive home. On the way he worried. How on earth will I ever be able to prove construction fraud with no blueprints, no reports, and half the bridge and all the evidence on the bottom of the river?

Emily was the first to greet him as he came up the porch steps.

“We saw you on TV!” she began and gave him as big a hug as a four-and-a-half-foot, exuberant eleven year old could manage. “You were awesome!”

“Thanks,” Gabe said and rubbed her head. “How were things here?”

Carol answered from the kitchen, “We ran out of pots for the leaks, but we managed. Have you had anything to eat?”

“Not since yesterday. I’m hungry enough to eat your buckshot gumbo, Alethea.”

She scowled at him and then laughed. “I only use steel shot. A little extra iron is good for you.”

The dogs were both curled contentedly with Mickey on the couch and had not gotten up to give their usual enthusiastic welcome-home-dad greeting. Both managed a tail wag, but that was it. Cher was by herself on a rug in the fireplace corner. She looked up briefly, then dropped her head back on her paws.

“They had a rough night with the storm,” Mickey offered.

“Where are the guys?” Gabe asked.

“Zack is looking for snakes,” Mickey said. “He has a thing about them. He said high water drives them into the open. Is that true?”

“True,” Alethea confirmed.

“Zack used to bring them home and scare his mom out of her wits. She hates them. I don’t know why she let him do it,” Mickey continued.

“What are sons for?” Carol asked with a laugh.

Alethea sat in a straight-backed rocker quietly smiling. Gabe looked at her and winked.

“Chili and cornbread?” Carol asked.

“Perfect. Do I have time for a shower?”

“Sure, cornbread will take ten. Any news on that other thing?”

“Nothing. There’s a warrant, but our guys haven’t found him yet. We just need to be careful.”

As Gabe was undressing in the bathroom, he heard the boys come in, and Carol say adamantly, “No snakes in the house!”

“Aw, Mom . . .” Paul