So Cold the River (2010) (52 page)

Eric stumbled past him and around the open door of Danny Hastings’s Oldsmobile and got into the driver’s seat. The guy was
following him, and over his shoulder, Campbell Bradford walked leisurely down the road.

“Buddy… you need to wait for help. I’ve called the fire department. You can’t drive, man, not after something like this.”

Eric slammed the door and put the car in reverse and backed up, feeling the jar when the right-side wheels popped back onto
the surface of the road. He kept it in reverse as the heavyset guy closed in and Campbell Bradford walked toward them in the
middle of the road. The stranger was talking and just a few feet away, but now Eric couldn’t hear his voice. He could only
hear Campbell’s.

She’s dead, and I’m still here. Forever. Thought you could control me, contain me, defeat me? She’s dead and I’m still here.

Eric backed up all the way to the intersection beside Wesley Chapel. The old white church was still standing, oblivious to
the two tornadoes that had snaked through on either side of it today. He cut the wheel then and swung the front of the car
around so it was pointing south. He looked in the rearview mirror as he accelerated down the road and saw Campbell just behind,
strolling along but somehow keeping pace with the car. Eric dropped his eyes and hit the gas pedal, tore up the road. Ahead
he could see police lights flashing, maybe a half mile away. He ignored them and banged a left turn back into the gravel lane,
drove all the way to the end, and parked the car beside its dead owner’s body. He got out and leaned over and placed the keys
in the dead man’s hand. This time he did not recoil at the touch or the sight of the wound.

You’ve left people dead all over today, haven’t you?
Campbell said. He was no more than five feet behind Eric now.
How many
have died today? I can hardly keep the tally. We’ve got this one, Josiah, your wife…

There were flashing lights through the trees now, back toward the road, and a police car blew past and continued on toward
the wrecked Ford Ranger. Eric watched it go, and the lights set off a blinding pain in his skull, a single burst like all
of the headaches of the past days combined into one extravagant stroke of agony. He gasped and dropped to his knees in the
wet, bloody grass.

So many dead people,
Campbell said.
So many. But guess what? You’re still here, and so am I. So am I.

Eric looked up at him, into the horrible shadowed face beneath the bowler hat, and thought,
He is right. The blood is on me, Claire’s is, at least. She came for me, came to help me, to save me, and I left her behind.
Went out into the storm in search of that spring and left her behind.

It was all gone now, everything he’d ever needed and loved was lost because he was too selfish, too stupid, to know what he
needed or how to love.

Only Campbell remained with him now.

The muscle tremors in his hands had worked into his forearms, and his left eyelid was fluttering constantly. His skull ached
as if someone were piping in additional air pressure; it was hard to walk in a straight line once he got back to his feet
and pointed toward the trail, Campbell following him with a strange whispering laugh.

The hell with it—let him follow. All that mattered had been lost; all that was left did not matter.

Eric walked on for the gulf.

E
RIC WENT LEFT INSTEAD
of right at the first fork in the trail, ignoring the path that would have taken him down to Kellen and walking instead along
the top of the ridge. Soon he left the trail entirely and climbed down into the trees, went out right to the precipice and
looked down.

The gulf still swirled. It was higher now than it had been, still climbing those cliff walls. He could hear a churning sound
and saw that on the low end it had crested the hill and begun to pour into the dry channel. He could not see Kellen, but that
was a good thing. He’d probably climbed farther away, into a safe place.

The truly dark clouds had moved away, passing to the northeast, and the sky now was a winter gray with a light rain falling
from it. Eric worked along the rock rim, using trees to keep his balance as he moved toward the far end of the gulf, where
the cliff walls were highest.

He circled around to the back, and now he could see Kellen. He wasn’t far from where Eric had left him, maybe five feet back.
The water wasn’t near him yet, though. He was on his back with his hands pressed over his eyes, and he didn’t see Eric.

From where Eric stood right now, at the top of the cliff edge above the gulf, there was nothing but trees and farmland to
his back and nothing ahead but open air and a damn long drop. He hung on to the trunk of a thin tree that had somehow survived
the ravaging that had claimed so many of its bigger, stronger peers, and stared down into the swirling water. Such a bizarre
shade… that water belonged somewhere deep in South America, not rising out of an Indiana sinkhole.

You’ve given up,
Campbell said.
You aren’t strong enough to go on. Not strong enough to face me, even. I can give you strength. I can purge everything you
lost and replace it with the strength you don’t have. All you have to do is listen.

Someone was calling his name, the sound barely audible over Campbell’s whispered promises. Eric heard that and realized that
Kellen must have seen him, and that was no good because he didn’t want to be delayed or distracted. Did not want, certainly,
to be stopped. He didn’t allow himself to look for Kellen; he focused instead on that whirlpool of blue-green water and the
ghostly white limbs that protruded from it at all angles.

Last words. That was what the moment called for, and they should matter—it was the end of the final act, and the last words
counted then. It was all you left the audience with. He had none.

I can turn your pain into strength, your loss into power. Don’t you want that? All that’s required of you is an ability to
take instruction.

He heard his name again, louder this time, and he stepped forward so he could see over the edge and down to the rock wall
below. When he moved, a loose stone pushed over the edge and fell. It swung back in against the cliff, hit the rock wall,
and broke into two pieces and then tumbled into the water. Better remember that, make sure he got a strong enough push to
carry him clear.

Last words. Give ’em something, buddy.

“I’m sorry,” he said, in a voice so soft no one else could have possibly heard it, and then he stepped to the edge and spread
his arms wide, bent once at the knees and closed his eyes and pushed. Pushed
hard,
a good, powerful jump that sent him into the air and over the cliff and then he was falling toward the water below. He twisted
as he fell and the world spun around him and he could see Campbell Bradford standing atop the cliff. Beneath the bowler hat,
his face looked almost sad.

He heard his name called once more as he fell, and this time, tumbling through the air, he was almost certain it was Claire’s
voice. How beautiful, he thought, that he could hear her voice one last time. She was waiting for him.

The last thing he felt was the shock of cold.

Anne was close to tears after the dispatcher cut her off from Roger Brewer of the Indiana State Police.

A body in the road. He’d dumped a body in the road.

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. Anne had been trying to help, trying so hard to play out this role that she had always believed
she would have. And they’d been close. They’d been so close…

It was a full five minutes before the dispatcher made contact again to tell Anne that Brewer had recovered the hostage, who
was alive but injured, appearing to have suffered a broken arm or collarbone or something. Anne could hardly follow those
words. The woman was alive. She was out of that truck, and she was
alive. How terrible things might have turned if she were dead. It could have become an absolutely tragic day.

“It seems someone else was killed, though,” the dispatcher said. “There’s a lot of confusion out there. We’re sending more
officers to the scene. You did well, Mrs. McKinney. Thank you.”

“What about Josiah?”

“Detective Brewer had to stop pursuit when he saw the woman in the road, but there are reports that his truck was destroyed
by a tornado just to the north of that spot. That appears to be accurate. Now, Mrs. McKinney, I’ve got to deal with my officers.
I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Anne said. And it was. She was desperate for updates, but the dispatcher was overwhelmed and she knew she had
to be silent for a while. Silent and patient. They’d give her the news eventually, and they’d remember to send someone down
here to get her out of the basement. There was no rush on such things. She’d done what she could.

She looked at the old ham radio and felt tears crest in her eyes. How she wished Harold could have known the role it had played
today. The role
she
had played today.

Her only regret was that she hadn’t seen the storms. So long she had waited to see a tornado. She was afraid of tornadoes,
yes, but always in awe. Captivated by what they were and what they could do. She’d read so much about them, studied them so
carefully, and still she’d never seen one. Now four had blown through the valley in under an hour and all she’d gotten to
see of them was that first trailing wall cloud.

That was all right, though. People had been saved today. Josiah Bradford was apparently dead, and that was tragic in its own
way because she knew that something had been in the boy’s head today that wasn’t right. But he’d died alone, without taking
any innocents with him, without striking at her beloved hotel as
he’d threatened. That hotel was beauty that had outlasted darkness and sorrow, and she’d been determined to do whatever she
could to protect it.

A storm spotter, that’s what she was. Ever vigilant, determined to spot the warning signs and relay them in enough time to
help the people in this valley. Well, she’d certainly done that today. It wasn’t the sort of storm she’d envisioned, but she’d
gotten the chance to help that she always knew she would. For so many years she’d watched the skies and waited with quiet
assurance that she would be needed.

Today she had been.

It felt good.

Around the area, storm reports were still coming in, but it looked as if the tornado that had struck just west of Wesley Chapel
would be the last of the cluster outbreak. That put it at four total, not a staggering number for such a storm, but not insignificant
either. They’d be clearing up damage for a long time to come. She hadn’t heard of any deaths yet besides Josiah’s, and that
was good. You could put buildings back up. Couldn’t restore a life.

She might have dozed a little at the desk. Must have slipped off for just a minute. The sound was what woke her—a hum that
seemed to be growing louder, getting closer.

She turned in her chair and looked up at the little windows mounted at the top of the western wall and was shocked to realize
that she could see through them. Always before they’d been useless to her except to filter in a tiny bit of sunlight; they
were no more than ten inches tall, placed right at ground level, and made of thick block glass. Somehow, from this angle,
they offered a perfect look toward the west. She could see the fields rolling away downhill, and at the horizon a band of
dark clouds.

The humming increased to a roar, and something white
descended from the dark clouds, and Anne realized with utter astonishment that she was facing a tornado.

First things first—the radio. Do your job, Annabelle. Do your job.

She made a dispatch, curt and to the point—gave her coordinates and said a funnel cloud was on the ground, moving north-northeast.
Several of the spotters fired off responses, asking if she was safe, urging her to get as far from the exterior walls as possible.
She said thank you and then turned the radio off and rose from her chair.

The cloud seemed to have held almost stationary while she completed the dispatch. Now that she turned back, it was moving
again, as if it had been waiting for her.

She got to her feet, thinking that she wanted to walk over to the windows and see if she could get a closer look. The walls
of the house were trembling now, and when she walked past the base of the steps, she saw a shaft of light fall across her
feet and looked up to see that the door was open. The shaking of the house had evidently knocked away whatever Josiah Bradford
had placed as an obstacle up there.

Safest place to be was in the basement, of course, but suddenly that didn’t seem to matter. She wanted to
see
this storm. She’d been waiting so long to see one, and it was fitting that on a day like today, when she’d finally been able
to play the role she always knew was hers, she would have the opportunity. It felt like a gift, almost, like this one was
intended just for her.

She took the steps slowly at first, hand on the railing, but halfway up she realized how firm and strong her stride was. Her
legs hadn’t felt this way in years. She dropped her hand from the railing.

Up in the living room she turned and looked out the wide picture window. The cloud was closer now, and she could see its
movement clearly, the fascinating swirling layers. Everything in the lower portion was pure white, the kind of white that
hurt the eyes, like sun on a snow-covered field.

She had a notion that it would be easier to see it from outside. There was an odd sense of celebration to the storm’s arrival,
and she wanted a toast. Her memory must be slipping; though she didn’t remember having had booze in the house in years, there
was a bottle of gin on the counter. Tanqueray, her favorite. A glass with ice beside it, with a sliced lime already positioned
on its rim.

She poured the gin and tonic into the glass, sure somehow that there was no rush, that the storm would wait for her. She squeezed
the lime into the drink and lifted it to her lips, took a few swallows.