So Cold the River (2010) (10 page)

“Oh, they in trouble now,” he said.

Darnell Cage faced up to his defender, ball held back on his hip, leaning forward.

“Crossover coming,” Kellen said.

Darnell Cage gave a slight shoulder fake, then put the ball on the floor, moving left before shifting to the right, the defender
sliding with him, not fooled by the fake. Then came the crossover, a wickedly fast between-the-legs dribble back to his left
hand, and Darnell Cage blew down the rest of the baseline in about two strides before going into the air and finishing with
a tremendous one-handed dunk that brought the home crowd to its feet.

“Wow,” Eric said.

Kellen was grinning. “He owns that left baseline, man. Owns it. He’s a lefty, and you can give him some trouble if you force
him to the right, but if he gets you off balance on that left
baseline, you’re done. Just too damn fast. He gets you rocked at all, then there’s nothing to do but watch.”

Kellen had turned to look at Eric but now his eyes drifted higher and his brow furrowed and he said, “You got to be kidding
me.”

“What?”

“You want to meet a relative of Campbell Bradford?
My
Campbell? He’s standing back there by the pool table. This is the cat who threw the bottle at me. Josiah.”

Eric turned and found himself staring into the dark eyes of a guy with shaggy brown hair and a black polo shirt who was standing
beside the pool table, watching them.

“Appears he remembers you as well,” Eric said.

“Uh-huh. I don’t think I’ll ask him any more questions about the family tree.”

“I can’t believe he’s here.”

“Small town,” Kellen said. “Not many bars.”

But he didn’t seem confident about it.

“Well, there you go,” Kellen said, turning back to the TV. “There’s my brother, the family talent.”

“You got one in the NBA and another getting a doctorate?” Eric said. “What are the rest of your siblings, astronauts?”

Kellen laughed. “Just the two of us.”

There was someone beside them at the bar now, standing close and staring at Kellen. Josiah Bradford. He didn’t so much as
glance at Eric, and Kellen seemed well aware of his presence but did not turn to face him, choosing instead to continue to
watch the game. After a while, Josiah Bradford reached across the bar and grabbed the remote and hit a button. It exasperated
him when nothing happened.

“Becky, I want this channel changed,” he hollered. “And bring me a Budweiser.”

“Those guys are watching the game,” she responded without looking back. “Come down here, change this one.”

The man dropped his eyes to Kellen. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“How you doing, Josiah?” Kellen said, finally looking at him. “Been a while.”

The guy didn’t respond, just stood there staring into Kellen’s eyes. Becky seemed to sense the building tension when she set
his Budweiser down and came over to talk to Kellen and Eric as if to diffuse it.

“You hear about the old guy whose wife makes him stop drinking, won’t let him go up to his favorite neighborhood pub anymore?”
she said.

“Can I get that channel changed?” Josiah said. “These boys don’t mind at all.”

“In a minute, maybe,” Becky said, not even glancing at him as she continued with her joke. “Well, the wife keeps him from
drinking, but she has to go out of town for a few days, visit her sister. Leaves him with clear instructions—you don’t even
think
about going to the pub, buddy.”

“I wouldn’t last long with a woman like that,” Josiah said, and then he turned away from the bar. When he did it, his shoulder
collided with Kellen’s. Hard. Too hard for accidental contact.

“Watch it, Josiah,” Becky snapped, and Kellen just looked up at him and didn’t say a word, didn’t change his expression.

“Oh, he’s big enough it didn’t hurt him,” Josiah said. “Ain’t you big enough?”

Kellen held his eyes for a moment, then said, “Sure,” and turned back to Becky. “Let’s hear the rest of that joke.”

Josiah seemed disappointed.

“Okay,” Becky said. “So the old guy, he figures, how’s she gonna know, right? First night she’s gone, he heads up the street.
Place is only a block away. Goes in and has a few, then a few more, and a few more after that. By the end of the night it’s
catching up with him and the room’s starting to spin. Decides he better head on home. So he stands up to pay the bill and
almost falls on his face, has to hold on to the bar to keep himself up. Puts his money down, takes a few steps and,
whap,
he falls down, smack on the floor. Has a hard time getting up, and now he
knows
he’s had too much. Good thing his wife won’t know. So he crawls to the door, pulls himself up, and steps outside and falls
over again.”

Kellen was smiling, watching her, but Eric kept his eyes on Josiah. That shoulder move didn’t promise good things.

“Old guy has to crawl on his belly whole way home,” Becky was saying. “Drags his butt into bed. Next morning he’s hardly awake
when the phone rings. Wife calling. Starts yelling at him for going drinking and he says, ‘How do you know?’ And she tells
him, ‘Bartender called. Said you left your wheelchair down there again.’”

Kellen and Eric both gave it more of a laugh than it deserved and Josiah stood in silence. Waited until they’d stopped laughing
before he said, “I got a joke.”

Nobody reacted. Not even Becky. Eric didn’t like the guy’s tone at all, and he twisted his bar stool just a touch so he was
facing him, then cleared his feet from the rail.

“Bunch of good ol’ boys are down at their bar, gettin’ lit up,” Josiah said. “Big-ass bear comes into the parking lot, looking
for food. Knocks the door open, goes inside. Shit’s in the fan then, old boys running around, bear growling and knocking tables
and chairs and shit over. Bear wrecks the place, then breaks the door down and goes away.”

He paused for a long, dramatic drink of his beer.

“The drunk boys stand up, dust themselves off, and one says
to his buddy, ‘Damn. Put a nigger in a fur coat and he acts like he owns the place.’”

Eric got to his feet and Becky said, “Shut your fool mouth, Josiah,” as Josiah smiled, looking at Kellen.

“Get the hell out of here,” Becky said.
“Now.”

Josiah flicked his dark eyes up to Eric, just a cursory glance, and then back down at Kellen.

“What? Don’t like my joke?”

Eric moved another step away from his stool, sure now that a fight was coming. Kellen reached out, though, put up a warning
hand.

“It’s fine,” he said. “We’re all telling jokes, right? Just having some fun.”

The look that crossed Josiah’s face was disgusted and disappointed. He snorted.

“Oh, you like that joke? Well, I got a few more like it. Might enjoy them, too.”

“Let me tell one first,” Kellen said.

Josiah waited, feet spread, hands at belt level.

“You hear the one about the redneck with a hard-on who ran into a wall?” Kellen said. Paused one beat, then finished: “He
broke his nose.”

Josiah threw the first punch, but Eric was already coming at him, knocked him off balance so that the blow missed Kellen’s
head. Eric slammed him into the bar and then leaned back just enough to throw the uppercut he wanted to put into the son of
a bitch’s jaw. He didn’t get it there, though. Caught a knee directly in his groin first and then his lungs turned to vacuums
as bright, shining agony radiated through his abdomen and filled his chest. He took a stumbling step back and managed to get
his head down to avoid Josiah’s fist and catch the bottom of his forearm instead.
The blow landed flush on his nose, which promptly opened up and leaked blood over his lips and onto his chin as Josiah just
missed with another punch, his fist sliding across Eric’s face, a streak of his blood showing bright on Josiah’s hand now.
All this happening as Becky shouted at them from behind the bar and Kellen Cage slipped off his stool without a word.

Josiah seemed to have lost interest in Eric, turned from him back to Kellen with a wide grin on his face and said, “Come on,
boy.”

Kellen hit him. A flicking left that looked more like a snakebite than a punch, and Josiah’s head snapped back as Kellen easily
deflected the return punch and then hit him again, this time in the stomach.

Josiah’s knees sagged as he stumbled backward, but he took it better than most could have and was coming back for more as
Kellen waited on him quietly and Eric straightened with an effort and Becky chambered a round into a shotgun with a ratcheting
sound as loud as a bell choir.

Everybody stopped. For the first time Eric was aware that two men had risen from a booth and were advancing—toward Josiah.
Now they stopped short, too.

“You want to wait on the police,” Becky said, her voice soft and steady as she braced the Remington twelve-gauge on the bar,
“that’s fine by me. Otherwise, you better get the hell out of here, Josiah.”

He gave her a sneer and then turned to the rest of the room, saw no support there. Looked back at Kellen and said, “We’ll
finish this’n later.”

“If you do,” said one of the men from the booth, “he’ll have you swallowing your teeth, Josiah. Now listen to the lady and
get your sorry ass out the door.”

Josiah shoved past Eric, holding the stare with Kellen for a moment before turning to the door. He kicked it open with the
heel of his boot and then stepped outside as the door banged off the wall and shuddered slowly back and Eric’s blood dripped
onto the floor.

B
ACK IN THE
P
ORSCHE
, after getting Eric’s nose to stop bleeding and then drinking one more beer to assure Becky that they were at peace with
the bar, Kellen turned to him.

“Well, I’m sorry that happened, because that idiot is in no way representative of my experience in this town.”

“Shouldn’t have dragged you out to a place like that.”

“No, man, that’s what I’m saying—it wasn’t the
place
. I’ve been in there before. In fact, I’ve been in this town a lot, and that’s the first time I’ve ever had anything like
that pulled. Which was, to be honest, against my expectation.”

“Yeah?”

Kellen nodded as he started the engine. “Some racist history to this state, really. First hotel down here was built by a guy
named William Bowles, who was tried for treason because he was involved with something called the Knights of the Golden Circle,
which was pro-Confederacy and a forerunner to the
KKK. He was a real good guy—indicted for grave robbery, of all things. Wasn’t all him, though. Back when the area was really
booming, blacks weren’t allowed to stay in these hotels. Joe Louis wasn’t allowed to stay in these hotels. All the local tourism
stuff uses his name today, brags on him being a frequent visitor, but the reality is, he always stayed at the Waddy.”

They pulled out of the parking lot, Kellen driving with one wrist hooked over the wheel.

“So when I came down here, wanting to write the black history of the area, I maybe had a sour taste in my mouth from what
I knew of the past. As long as I’ve been down here, though, people have been nothing but friendly—with the one exception being
our buddy back there, Mr. Bradford. He would be the last of
my
Campbell’s line. I hope you’re right and you’re looking for a different guy. Because Josiah isn’t going to be a help to you.”

“I’d say not,” Eric agreed. “But you’ve got to figure my guy is related to him.”

“I know it. And that’s why I’ll be interested to see what Edgar Hastings has to say. He’s the only person I’ve found in town
who has any clear memories of Campbell. But he’s also something of a foster father to Josiah, so best not to mention what
happened tonight, I guess. You free tomorrow if I get something set up with him?”

“Sure.” Eric was touching his face with his fingertips, assessing damage. His lip would be a little swollen in the morning,
but he’d kept a cool beer to it, so he wouldn’t look too much the worse for wear.

“I’ve never heard of another Campbell Bradford,” Kellen said. “It’s strange.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Eric said, thinking that the
least
strange thing in his day was confusion over the man’s identity. That
didn’t come close to the black train or the leaves or that man in the bowler hat, no.

Kellen dropped him off with a handshake and a promise that he’d call Edgar Hastings the next day. Eric was almost nervous
going back into the hotel alone and felt a childish desire to run back into the parking lot and flag Kellen down, ask him
to have one more drink.
Just stay with me for twenty minutes, buddy, enough so I can look around and make sure the place is an ordinary hotel again
and not the friggin’ Overlook
.

For some reason, thinking of Stephen King’s hotel horror story made him smile as he walked back into the atrium and looked
around. Yeah, Kubrick would’ve salivated over shooting in this location. It had everything a filmmaker desired—beauty, grandeur,
size, history, and, at least for Eric tonight, a King-size dose of creepy.

“Couldn’t ask for anything more,” he said under his breath. The hotel had quieted a bit, with just a handful of people left
at the bar, the piano player gone, and the piano itself covered up. He didn’t see anything out of place, didn’t hear anything
out of place. The hotel seemed sane again.

He headed upstairs to his room, where he put on every light and then immediately went around turning them back off when the
brightness made his headache flare. It was past eleven now. The strangest day of his life was almost done. He felt a powerful
need to call Claire, tell her every weird and frightening detail and hear her responses. No, the hell with calling Claire,
he wanted to talk to her face-to-face, to see her in this bedroom. And the hell with
talking
to Claire, he wanted to take her right here on this large, luxurious bed. Wanted to be tugging her jeans off those long legs,
wanted to feel them catch on the rise of her ass the way they always did.

Damn, but he missed her. Felt it the way old people feel arthritis in their bones, an unrelenting agony carried every day,
every hour, every minute.