So Cold the River(114)

The whole place was supposed to be coming alive again, was supposed to be on the threshold of a grand return. There were those who doubted it would happen, but the groundwork had been laid, and those hotels shone beside their casino, and through it all nobody remembered the Bradfords, nobody recalled that Campbell had been the man that made it work for years. Hell with Taggart and Ballard and Sinclair. Some men had visions, others had deeds.

“They forgot you, Campbell,” Josiah whispered as he ducked under a branch and came up into a wind-whipped burst of rain. “You loved this valley more than any of them. Still do.”

He should have felt strange to be talking to his dead ancestor, maybe, but he didn’t. Felt close to him, in fact, felt the meaning of blood kin in a way he never had before. They were shared people, he and Campbell. Different versions of the same blood. Now, that was heavy stuff.

“I’ll make ’em remember you,” he said. “Might have to burn this whole town down to do it, but I’ll make ’em remember you, and I’ll get what’s owed to us.”

That last notion—of burning the town to the ground in order to see Campbell get his due—lingered in his mind. He envisioned those damn hotels going up in the same way the private eye’s van had, a burst of white-to-orange heat, and he smiled. That would be fucking gorgeous. See the shining dome of the West Baden hotel exploding into a cloud of flame? Yes, that would be as sweet a sight as he’d ever happened across. Wouldn’t be as easy as blowing that van up had been, though. It would require a good bit more than a pocketknife and a cigarette lighter, would require time and high-grade explosives and…

He stopped walking. The wind had died momentarily but now it returned in an irritable gust, blowing a squall line of rain into his face. It hit hard, the water like pebbles on his flesh, but he didn’t so much as blink. Just stood there staring into the dark.

High-grade explosives.

He’d just walked a few miles away from an abandoned timber camp where a box of explosives sat, those strange sausage-looking dynamite strands. It was old stuff, probably not even potent enough to blow. Certainly not worth the walk back, because even if he had the shit, what in the hell was he going to do with it? The shotgun would be all the assistance he required. And yet…

It had been there for him. A box of dynamite, sitting in a barn that had stood empty for as long as he could remember. It felt almost planned, felt almost… promised.

All you got to do is listen, Josiah. All you got to do is listen to me.

Yes, that was a promise. Consistent as clockworks, that’s what Campbell had called himself, and who cared that he was a dead man—he was a stronger friend than Josiah had left among the living.

He wiped the rainwater from his face and turned his head and spat and looked up at the hill he’d just climbed down, a slow, painstaking climb. No way he could carry that box of explosives all the way to Anne McKinney’s house. Not if he had all day, and he didn’t. He’d have to take the truck, and that was one hell of a risk.

“That shit won’t even be good anymore,” he said. “No way it’s still good.”

And yet it was there. As if it had been waiting for him. And all he had to do was listen…

He was halfway back up the hill before the rain started again in earnest.





47


THERE WERE NO VISIONS.

Eric couldn’t believe it after the first hour—and half of the bottle—had passed, went back and drank the rest down, waited thirty minutes, and started on the second bottle.

Nothing.

The headache might have faded. Might have. It didn’t worsen, but didn’t disappear either, and his hands shook unless he held them clenched together. A tremor had taken hold in his left eyelid, too, made it hard to watch Claire, the damn thing fluttering constantly, twitching. This was not good.

He got back into bed as dawn rose, lay behind Claire’s tightly curled body and stroked her arms and smelled her hair. Her presence was comforting, but still the water’s lack of impact nagged at him. He could go for Anne’s water in a few hours. Maybe that would help. But he was no longer sure that it would, and he was sure that it wouldn’t be enough. Not after the way he’d gone through it tonight.

So it was the spring, then. The source itself. He had to find it.

He did not sleep. About an hour after he got back into the bed, Claire woke slowly, letting out a soft groan before stretching and rolling over to face him, and he leaned over and kissed her. When he did that, her eyes opened for the first time and he saw a flicker in them, a trace of anger. What am I doing in bed with you? her eyes seemed to say. You left. Why am I here with you again?