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

there’s no final judgment to worry about? Good luck with that.” Gabe stood by the bed, watching both Peterson and his monitors.

“You’re a believer?” the old man snickered.

“Yeah, I am. I’ve seen some things. Remember that old line about no atheists in foxholes? That’s me and most of the guys I work with. We live in that foxhole, and it makes believing easy,” Gabe answered with a hard smile.

“How did you know about the deal with McFarland?”

“You mean how do I know about the scoured out piers, the two sets of construction plans you used to make sure McFarland got the best contracts, and the fact you dropped that bridge span on Wilson Corbitt? How do I know all those things?”

Peterson shifted uncomfortably in the bed. “You can’t prove—”

“Doesn’t matter, like you said, you’re dead either way.”

“How did you find out?” he gasped for breath and lay back against the pillows.

“I had a talk with an old friend of yours, Clayton Mayweather.”

“Mayweather’s dead.”

“Right, but sometimes the dead still get the last word. He told me everything, just before the hellhounds got him.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Then how do I know all your dirty little secrets?”

Peterson tilted his head and studied Gabe. “Hellhounds?”

“Only the beginning. There’s not much left when they get done with you.”

“And you’ve seen them? You’re crazy.”

“I get to feed them from time to time. Probably again quite soon.” He smiled again.

“You’ve lost your mind!” Still, there was a flicker of uncertainty in the old man’s eyes.

“Maybe. Are you’re willing to bet your soul on that? If this is the legacy you want, fine.” Gabe stood as though to leave.

“What do you want from me?”

“Clean it up. How many more bridges are at risk? How many more contractors have you helped cut corners and create disasters? Last chance to save some lives. Last chance to go out with at least a shred of honor.”

Peterson hesitated, looking around the room sadly. Then as if he’d just had a final meeting with reality, he asked, “How does it work?” He was struggling to get his breath. Nothing like dying to bring one closer to the truth.

“We bring in a court reporter. You make a statement. I record it. That’s it.”

The color left Peterson’s face, “Don’t you dare die on me yet,” Gabe growled.

“Bring in your reporter. I don’t believe a word you’ve just said, but . . .” Peterson rasped.

“But what have you got to lose? Is that what you were going to say? Okay, I’ll call her.”

It took a grueling, coughing, hacking two hours for Peterson to make his statement to Gabe and the Mexican police stenographer. When he was done, Gabe had it all, and Peterson was finished. He’d given up names, dates, and shoe sizes. He implicated Wesley Rogers, McFarland Construction, Steve Overstreet, and a team of construction inspectors. At the top of the food chain was Congressman Justin Conners.

He listed the other bridges, which would eventually have the same issues. Then explained how by using false inspection reports, both during construction and in follow up and by awarding McFarland the repair contracts, they’d been running the scam for years.

Peterson also dictated a will, leaving anything left following the court decisions to his only grandchild Zack Greenly. Drained and exhausted, he fell back against his pillow and asked, “That stuff you told me about those hellhounds, it was just to scare me, right?”

“Oh, I think you’re going to find out very shortly, everything I told you was God’s honest truth,” Gabe answered. “Sorry, pal, but you’re not getting anything you don’t deserve.” Is there anything left to prove what you’ve told me is true, or did Rogers burn it all?

Peterson’s eyes opened wide, and his jaw sagged. Gabe guessed the old man could see what was coming. Reality can be such an ugly mother.

“Under the house. Locked room by the tunnels. Harriet will show you,” the old man gasped and coughed. His eyes focused on the infinite, and it wasn’t pretty. His lips trembled, his breathing rattled, and he recoiled back violently. He raised an arm to protect himself from the hounds Gabe knew were coming. “No!” Peterson cried out in terror. Then he died.

Gabe watched and nodded slowly. Then he said quietly, “Amen and amen.”

With Peterson’s confession safely in Gabe’s hand and Wes Rogers facing life in a Mexican jail, they flew home ready for a well-earned rest. On the way, Gabe and Carol talked quietly while Zack, three rows back, slept.

“Do you think he blames us for what happened to his mom?” Carol asked.

“Maybe. But it wasn’t our fault. Rogers pulled the trigger. It wasn’t you. You did everything possible to save her.”

“But I—”

Gabe took her hand and kissed it. “It was an accident. He was a lousy shot. He missed me by three feet. You can let it go, I promise.”

“I guess it depends,” she said wiping a tear from her eye.

“On what?” he asked.

“On what happens next.”

“Ma bel fanm,” Cas said as she looked into the cage where Souriciere had gorged herself on a tender young rabbit. The huge snake raised her head and studied Cas with ebony black eyes.

“Come, beautiful girl, you’re mine now.” Cas reached into the cage and lifted the snake’s head to her shoulder. Soon Souriciere was wrapped around Cas’s waist, and they moved together to a small SUV. “Sorry about your cabin. But you should never have been here. And you should never come back.”

She surveyed the devastation from the storm. Chickens wandered in and out of the cabin’s remains, and an orange and white striped feral cat peered out from the flattened outhouse, then went back to her pursuit of the rat she’d cornered in the rubble. Cas eased the big snake into a padded crate on the back seat, closed the door, and drove back up the dirt road to the highway.

CHAPTER 24

1045

30,000 feet

They slept until they changed planes in Houston.

“I’ve been thinking,” Carol began as she sipped coffee. “Do you think we could buy the