The Rivers Webb (6 page)

“And where is it now, Gerald?”

The man paused as if afraid to take another step, but John persisted.

“Don't press me right now, Gerald! As of this moment, that ring is evidence in two murders!”

“Two? Why, you couldn't possibly think that George coulda' been tied up in Rev'rend Carl's killin'! He loved that man like a father!”

“I've got two murder scenes within weeks of each other, in a town that hasn't seen more than kids shoplifting in thirty years! Explain to me how in hell they could NOT be connected!”

John was starting to raise his voice a little too much. He didn't want to draw anyone else's attention. He made a concerted effort to calm down.

“The ring's up in my dresser…top drawer. I was goin' into Pelham in a few days to return it, once things got a bit more settled.”

“That's good, Gerald. That's a very good idea. Except that you aren't waiting. You're going to return that ring today. And you're taking me with you when you do it.”

Maybe Gerald was thinking about arguing or making up some reason why he couldn't…John wouldn't know, because they were interrupted before he got the chance.

Dan came around the corner at a dead run and stopped short, clearly surprised to find them together.

“Alright then, Gerald. I'll meet you back here at the house at 3:00,” John said matter-of-factly. Gerald simply stammered through an agreement, then headed off with his bucket and scrub brush.

If Dan was at all curious, he did an amazing job of hiding it. For an instant, John actually found himself running through a list of perfectly legitimate reasons why he would be meeting Gerald later. He caught himself before he opened his mouth. The memory of George's pinkie ring came unbidden, and he was reminded, yet again, how dangerous the urge to explain yourself could be.

“Deputy Merrill, I thought you were on bloodhound duty?” he simply said.

“That's actually Deputy Flandon's area. Hell, it's his dog. The sheriff jes' tends to yell orders at me, on account I'm used to it a bit more than Fred is. He gets a bit jumpy.”

John waited, as though in genuine anticipation. The truth was that he would have loved to blow off the local hick police and get on with the matter at hand, but he knew that wasn't an option. In situations like this one, you had to sit tight, play nice, and hope that the idiots surrounding you didn't get too much in the way.

“So, how can I help you, deputy?” John finally asked.

“I've got a motorboat ready to take us out to Grandpappy Island,” Dan replied, as though this answered every question.

“You got a picnic planned?” Sarcasm could be an excellent camouflage. It masked emotion and deflected suspicion with equal skill, and usually required very little effort. John considered himself something of an expert.

“It's where Reverend Rivers' body was found,” Dan said, unblinking.

“Yeah, I know, but I assume that you and the sheriff already went over it when the body was discovered, right?

“Yeah,” Dan said between clenched teeth. John knew what he was suggesting, but was just sadistic enough to make the man say it.

“So why go back out?”

“Because, Detective, I'm willin' to consider the possibility that we might'a missed somethin'. You seemed to know y'er way around a crime scene back there and I figg'ered it was worth a look.”

It was downright painful to admit that. John knew it, and yet he couldn't bring himself to let up on a guy who just admitted that John might actually be better at this kind of thing than he was. Instead, he breathed out a tired sigh as if he were mentally listing out ten things that would be a better use of his time.

“I guess, it would make sense…if you had brought this up when I first got here. But instead you decided to play like you had everything under control and I was just some northerner getting in the way. Now, it's a bit late. It's been six days. Do you really think we're going to find anything helpful?”

“I don't know. But wouldn't we both just look downright silly if there was somethin' there, and we just never bothered to look?” Dan replied hotly.

The two men stared at each other for just the briefest of moments, each one trying hard to say something and not say it, all at once. An unspoken battle of word and wit unfolded as each man thought up argument and insult, then refused to give voice to it.

The funny thing was, whether they wanted to admit or not, they both understood each other far more than they let on. John knew full well how much Dan had to lose should some damn Yankee come in and solve this case. He could appreciate how desperate he was to please the sheriff, and to prove himself in the eyes of the man he revered. And, for his part, Dan could appreciate how conflicted it could be to be stuck in the middle of a town full of people that had no use for him, and where the only person that mattered was gone, and all he could do was try and bring some justice to his death.

You would think that would help. But it didn't. At the core of it, they were the sons of Roy Rivers, one estranged, one adopted, and there simply was not room for both.

“Are you comin', or not?” Dan said, finally breaking the silence.

“Yeah, I'll come. We can take my car.” It was that moment that John's errant nose decided to discover yet another trace of the mysterious scent that had been teasing him since he'd arrived in Georgia. Dan must have noticed, because he cocked his head slightly to one side and asked, “You ain't one o' them northerners that's allergic to ev'rything, now, are you?” John just waved him off, grateful that Dan was willing to offer him an out. John managed his best fake sneeze, then motioned for them to get into the car. He didn't know why such a simple thing bothered him so much, or why he was so insistent on hiding it. After all, he had enough to deal with as it was, before adding in this strange compunction. It was going to cause problems, he knew, and yet he just couldn't seem to help it.

When Dan had mentioned a motorboat, John had immediately assumed a mental picture of the police boats that the NYPD kept to patrol the Hudson. Of course, he didn't expect Sales City to boast anything as modern and up-to-date as those, but he was completely unprepared for what was in store for him.

The ramshackle old cabin and decrepit dock were, for all he could tell, built before anyone living could possibly remember. But the boat itself…that was something else. It was clearly handmade, and probably from planks torn from the same cabin falling apart next to it. The term “motorboat” was due solely to the hand-cranked outboard engine strapped to the keel.

He looked over to Dan. If this was the deputy's idea of a joke, he did a good job of keeping a straight face, as he walked up to the door that precariously hung onto the cabin's frame and knocked.

“Earl! Earl, we're here. Let's get a move on!”

They waited just another moment or two before the shack's occupant emerged. If there was ever a picture of a Georgia hick, this is who they would use to model. He was a big man, about 6′2″ and about 230 pounds, by John's estimate. The dirty overalls and battered straw hat were so fitting they were comical.

“Dep'ty. Sorry, I wasn't 'spectin' ya' yet.”

The big man closed the door behind him, walked down the rickety dock toward the boat, and started throwing strange-looking crates out to make room.

The odd contraptions had John puzzled, and it must have shown.

“Crawfish traps,” Dan answered the unasked question. “Earl here makes a decent living bringing in crawfish in bulk. Damn things are his own cockamamie invention, and other'n Earl, only God Hisself knows how they work.”

John looked at the traps and the boat and everything around him with a strange sense of surreal glee, as it slowly sunk in that such a place actually existed. Then, suddenly, his police training caught up to his euphoria, and he looked back at the man in front of him. John now recognized him from the funeral. He turned quickly to Dan.

“Wait a second, did you say his name was Earl?” he asked. Dan's pleased smile spoke volumes.

“Yep. Earl Cameron. Figured we could kill two birds with one stone, seein' as how the fella' that knows Parrott River better'n anybody also happens to be the same fella' that found the body in the first place.”

By now, Earl had finished clearing out the boat, and was smiling broadly, as if he had just assumed command of the finest luxury liner in the world.

John's thoughts went back to that peacock sitting on the roof of his car. In a town where peacocks roamed free, the sheriff was one of the richest men in town, and your most reliable source of information was a self-proclaimed psychic, you just might as well get used to the idea that strange things were just going to keep getting thrown at you. He looked over to Deputy Dan Merrill, with that ear-to-ear grin daring him to back down, and right there made his decision.

Walking bravely onto that crude dock, he seated himself as comfortably as possible in the center of the boat. Dan cast off the line and jumped in himself, and they were off.

Surprisingly, the little craft proved not only seaworthy, but quite fast. Just as unexpected, Earl clearly knew what he was doing, as he guided them past fallen tree limbs and nearly invisible cypress knees poking out from the riverbed. Partly to pass the time, and partly to prove that the cobbled boat didn't bother him, John yelled above the roar of the outboard to ask Earl questions.

“How long have you been running along this river?”

“Since I was twelve, on my own. But my Daddy had me propped on the front o' his old skiff soon as I could stand straight,” Earl yelled back, still smiling that broad, stupid grin.

“Which is why they say you know Parrott River better than anyone.”

“Truth is truth, sir. I get pretty much ev'rything I need from 'er. What else I get, I buy with the money I get off of her.”

“Fair enough, then tell me this. Reverend Rivers was killed on Tuesday, but his body didn't show up at Grandpappy Island, where you found him, until Saturday morning.”

“Yep,” was all Earl said. His eyes showed that he was getting uncomfortable with the question. And that was just fine with John.

“Then answer me this one, Earl. Would it usually take something four days to float from the bridge to Grandpappy Island?”

“Naw, not really.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing. In fact, judging by the current, I wouldn't guess that it would take more than five or six hours.”

A strange look came across Earl then. He started to say something, then shut his mouth and squinted his eyes as if he saw something off to the left, then, far much more swiftly than John was comfortable, he veered the boat in that direction and started running toward the shore. At what John was certain was too late to matter, Earl shut off the engine and pulled the outboard's prop out of the water.

The boat glided to a sudden stop at what looked like a tangle of broken limbs under the water. John started to shout, but before he could say anything, Earl had scooped up a long-handled hook and thrust it down among the tangle. As both John and Dan looked on in confusion, Earl poked around furiously. Then, with a smile and a triumphant spit into the water, Earl pulled up a swollen, matted clump.

John looked over to Dan, half expecting that now familiar “I-Told-You-So” grin. But Dan only shrugged. Clearly, this had him just as confused.

“Raccoon,” Earl stated simply, as if this explained everything. “See, them coons, they like to hang out along the riverside, on account o' they got a warsh ev'erthing they eat. Only, we got's river otters that are real territorial. They don't like nothin' or nobody to get too close to where they got their little babies.”

Again, that look on his face. As if asking, “don't you get it?” Exasperated, Earl went on.

“When a coon gets too close to a otter's home, they get mad, only the damned ol' coon, he's too stubborn to back off. They usually end up dead, in the river. I find 'em all the time. In these tangles. Now, if the coon were a piece of wood or somebody's old hat, it'd just float the river nice as can be. But that old river, it's got a kinda claim on the dead, and it'll pull 'em down into those tangles, sometimes days at a time, 'til it decides they had enough, then the current'll switch off a little ways, and let 'em go.” With that, Earl tossed the ragged body back into the river, where it bobbed up and down, then was swept back under.

As noisy as the river was, it felt silent. John pondered a moment, thinking about his poor Uncle Carl, caught amongst those cypress knees and sunken tree limbs at the bottom of the river.

Earl sat back down in the boat, pushed off of the bramble with the hook, then started the motor again. John didn't have any more questions. At least, not for Earl.

“Dan, can I ask you something?”

Dan nodded briefly.

“It's probably a sticky subject, so I haven't asked anyone in the family…but there's one thing that's been bugging me since I got here.”

This managed to break through some of Dan's reserve; he turned to face him full.

“George Rivers,” John said.

“Yeah?”

“His last name is Rivers.”

A wide smile crossed Dan's lips as realization dawned upon him.

“You're wondering what kind o' shameful little secret must be lurkin' behind that? Well, you'll be disappointed. Wilhelmina Rivers was married right and proper, before little George was conceived.”

“So, why doesn't he bear his father's name?” John asked.

Dan looked downriver for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

“George Wamble was, from what I've been told, one of the bravest and most trusted men in all o' Coweta County. Like Wilhelmina, he came from a family of means, but he always seemed to hold the community above himself. A very civic minded man, he was one o' the first to volunteer for overseas duty durin' the Great War, even though he'd just been married only four months earlier. He never came back.”