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

his feet, giving up their search, he knew Emily was gone.

He called his office for help, and within minutes Bob landed in the clearing, followed by two patrol cars. Police dogs joined the search but shortly agreed with Smith and Wesson: Emily was gone. It was dark now and cooling. Carol kept close to Gabe and fought back her tears as the patrol cars left, leaving Bob and the pilot.

“I’ve called the FBI team,” he told Gabe. “They asked us to wait here until they arrive.”

Gabe’s phone rang just as the Fed’s Suburban entered the clearing.

“I’ve got her,” Wyatt said. His voice was flat, all business. “Look, I’m sorry, but I warned you. I don’t want to hurt her. Just do what I asked, and bring me everything you’ve got on McFarland. Once it goes public, I want twenty-four hours. Don’t get stupid. I’ll call again with instructions.”

“There’s no way you walk away from—” Too late, Gabe’s cell phone went silent. His first inclination was to throw the phone into orbit, but he settled for slamming his palm on the hood of the cruiser. However his rage quickly abated when Carol took his arm and leaned against his chest, waiting. “How bad is it?” she asked.

Gabe looked down at her and said, “Wyatt’s got her. I don’t think he’ll hurt her, but he wants the McFarland files and twenty-four hours to get out of the country.”

“He can’t possibly think he can get away with this,” Bob said.

“He must have some kind of plan. He wants revenge for his dad and his sister,” Gabe said. “But he’s not obsessed about that enough to go down for it. There must be something else. Something big.”

“Well then we need to find it,” Bob responded.

Carol gave Bob a frown. “First let’s find Emily, and then I don’t care what he does.” She turned to Gabe, “Give me back that shotgun.” Gabe handed it to her.

“Wyatt said it was all Peterson, Rogers, and Mitchell Conners,” Gabe said. “One way or another, Conners is involved. It’s time we talked.”

“I’m going with you,” Carol said.

Gabe looked at Bob.

“I’m not saying no to an enraged Texan with a 12 gauge,” Bob answered. “Let’s go.”

2305

The Conners Estate

The Conners home was a gated mini-mansion on several manicured acres, overlooking a private lake. Gabe leaned out the truck window, repeatedly pushing the gate’s call button until getting an answer.

“Do you know what time it is?” Conners growled.

“State police. Open up,” Gabe replied, just as gruffly.

“I’m calling my attorney.”

“Call your grandmother, for all I care. Open the gate. My daughter’s been kidnapped. I want answers.”

“Your daughter?” Carol asked as the gate swung open.

“Maybe I should have said goddaughter.”

“I don’t think Charlie would mind. Daughter works just fine.”

They parked on the cobblestone drive and marched to the door. Conners was waiting in his silk pajamas and bathrobe. He led them into a formal living room the size of a basketball court.

“I had nothing to do with any kidnapping,” Conners began.

“But you know who did,” Bob answered. “Why would Wyatt Bodine want to destroy your company and kill you?”

Conners was silent.

“He took Emily because he wants the evidence we’ve got against you and your company. We know about the fraud and the killings, now start talking, or I’m going to give you to Bodine.”

“You can’t threaten me . . .” Conners snarled.

Conners’s wife stepped into the room wearing a floor-length frilly robe and looking twenty years younger than her spouse. She crossed the room and stood by Carol. Mary Conners put her hand on Carol’s shoulder and said quietly, “What have you done, Mitchell? You and Jewels Peterson, I heard you on the phone.”

“Shut up, Mary; you don’t know—”

“What’s going on?” Catherine Conners came in wearing a snug T-shirt and what looked like men’s boxers.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” her father snapped. “Put on some clothes or go back to bed.”

“Did you have anything to do with Bo’s death or those other murders?” Mary asked, glaring at her husband. When she raised her hand from behind the robe, she was holding a shiny five shot Ruger.

“Mom, what are you—”

“Getting answers, like we should have done a long time ago.”

Conners shook his head, “I had nothing to do with any of it. It was all Wyatt Bodine. He killed Bo, and he tried to kill you,” he said looking at Gabe and Carol, “that night on the river.”

“What does Wyatt have to do with this?” Catherine asked.

“You know Wyatt Bodine?” Bob asked.

“We grew up together. He’s not a killer.”

“Shut up, Catherine,” Conners snapped. “You don’t know anything.”

“What about Wilson Corbitt and Nancy Bodine?” Gabe pushed. “I suppose you’re going to tell us Wyatt killed them too?”

“I had nothing to do with that. I don’t know anything about it,” Conners said and tried backing away. Gabe swung forward on the crutches, closing the gap between them, getting seriously in his face.

“What did Corbitt have?” Gabe demanded. “Bo and Peterson were skimming millions, and you didn’t have a clue? Don’t think a jury’s going to buy that one.”

“They could have been rigging bids, maybe Corbitt knew,” Conners answered hesitantly.

“What? Rigging bids? I don’t believe it!” Catherine said.

“Shut up, Catherine, I told you to put on some clothes.”

“Okay, they were rigging bids. Then what went wrong?” Gabe continued.

“We built the bridges to the specs Peterson gave us, and that’s all.”

“It’s over, Conners. Unless you want to be criminally liable for every accident that happens on those bridges you need to start talking,” Gabe growled.

“Tell him, Mitchell, or you and I are done. Rigging bids is one thing. Killing innocents is totally different. Start talking.” Mary leveled the gun at him and waited.

“All right. All right. We never meant to hurt anyone. The bridges Peterson designed needed two or three times the maintenance of a normal bridge. The bridges looked the same, and all bridges need repair sooner or later, but these bridges were a gold mine in repair contracts. If there were problems, blame