So Cold the River(92)

But, still… that had been strange. Then the dreams began, culminating in this last experience which should have been a dream but absolutely was not. It was like the man in the bowler hat snuck up on him only when Josiah let his conscious mind down a bit, when he was asleep or close to it. And strange as it was, the man felt familiar. Felt connected, the way old friends did. The way family did.

He popped the door handle and crawled down, his legs numb from the long stretch of sitting, looked all around the dark barn and saw nothing but shadows. Even the streaks of sun were gone, and that realization unnerved him, sent him toward the doors. When he slid them back, he saw the sky had gone the color of coal and rain was beginning to fall. There was even thunder, and how in the hell he’d missed that, he couldn’t guess. Maybe this was proof that he had fallen asleep, that it had been another dream.

As he stood in the open barn door and let the rain strike his face, though, he knew that wasn’t it. He’d had dreams with the man before, and this had not been one of them. This time, the man had been here. He’d been real.

He stepped out into the rain, heedless of the storm, and walked toward the trees. He felt strange, off-kilter. As if some worries had been lifted, not from his memory but from his ability to care. The rain and the thrashing trees and the lightning didn’t bother him, for example. Neither did the murder warrant they were probably filing for him right now. That was strange. He should have been concerned as hell about that.

But he wasn’t.

The rain soaked his clothes and made a flat wet sheet out of his hair, but he figured, what the hell, he’d needed a shower anyhow. He walked on into the woods, moving along the top of the ridge, the saturated ground sucking at his boots. He was out of sight of the timber camp and Danny was due back at any time, but the hell with Danny. He could wait for Josiah.

He came out to the edge of the ridge and stood in the open, looking out over the wooded hills that stretched away from it, a few cleared fields in the distance, the towns of French Lick and West Baden somewhere beyond. There was a sturdy sapling near the steep side, and he wrapped his hand around it and then leaned out over the drop.

“My valley,” he said. His voice sounded strange.

His priority, just hours ago, had been escape. He’d need some money to do it, but if he could pull that off, he was going to get the hell out of Dodge. Now, hanging here above the stormy landscape, he didn’t much want to leave. This was home. This was his.

But that didn’t mean he intended to let go of the money. Lucas G. Bradford’s money, a man who bore Josiah’s name and had some tie to old Campbell himself. Could be Campbell had left this valley and made himself a dollar or two, then left it to Lucas G.; could be Lucas G. had made it for himself. Josiah figured it was the former. He was feeling a strange sense of loyalty to Campbell, the great-grandfather he’d never seen. Poor old bastard had become a figure of infamy in this valley over the years, but time was when he ran it, too. He’d been a big man here once, and people liked to forget that. Would be nice to offer a reminder.

The rain was gusting into his face, no trees shielding him from the west wind now, but he was enjoying the water. Felt good to be in it. Funny, because most times he hated to get caught out in the rain.

No, he wasn’t feeling like himself at all.


There were five messages on Eric’s phone. One from Detective Roger Brewer, who said he was wondering when they might be able to finish their talk. The edge in his voice wasn’t anything as casual as his words. Three from Claire, each with a sense of growing urgency. One from Kellen. “Heard from the police,” he said. “This is no good, is it? I’d like to hear what you think.”

Was there suspicion in his voice? Couldn’t fault him if there was. Eric called Claire first, and the relief-fueled anger he heard in her voice when she answered warmed him in an odd way.

“Where are you? I’ve called that hotel fifteen times. They’re probably going to throw you out of there if I call again.”

“I was talking to the police,” he said. “And then I, uh, I had a rough spell.”

Her voice dropped, softened. “Rough spell?”

“Yeah.” He gave her the update.

“You left the police station? Walked out in the middle of an interview?”

“Wasn’t much else I could do, Claire. You don’t have any idea what these spells are like. I barely made it to the door.”

“You could have tried to explain—”

“That I’m having drug reactions to mineral water? That I’m seeing dead men? I should explain these things to a cop who’s questioning me about a murder?”