So Cold the River

watching a child wander toward traffic.

Eric’s headache was whispering to him again by the time he got off the elevator, and the sense of defeat he had at that realization was heavy. He’d hoped that the episode during dinner had been punishment enough, that he’d earned a few hours of reprieve. Evidently not.

The message light on the room phone was dark and his cell showed no missed calls. He felt a vague sense of apprehension over that, having expected Gavin Murray to try and make contact again, to put some other offer—or threat—on the table. He called Alyssa Bradford again and got voice mail. Annoyed, he waited ten minutes and called back, still with no success. This time he left a message. Call immediately, he said. There is a serious problem to discuss.

Serious problem seemed almost too light a phrase. Where was Gavin Murray now? The blue minivan hadn’t been in sight when Kellen brought him back, but it seemed unlikely that Murray was driving back to Chicago already. Eric got his laptop out and logged onto the Internet, ran some searches under both Murray’s name and the name of his company, Corporate Crisis Solutions. Didn’t find much on Murray—his name on some roll of military personnel attending a reunion at Fort Bragg was the most noteworthy result. Bragg was home to the Special Ops boys.

Corporate Crisis Solutions didn’t have much of a Web profile either. There was a company site, but it seemed intentionally vague. A few pages for private investigators offered links with CCS contact information. Hell, he should call Paul Porter, ask him what he knew. Paul had done twenty years as a criminal defense attorney before selling his first book and giving up the practice to write a series of best-selling novels about an intrepid crime-solving lawyer, no doubt some sort of pathetic wish fulfillment. Still, he was connected to the Chicago police and legal worlds both through his writing and his background, and he’d probably heard of the firm, and maybe even Gavin Murray.

“I won’t give him the satisfaction,” Eric muttered. That was just what Paul would want, wayward son-in-law calling for help. Son of a bitch had actually suggested once that he and Eric work together to shop the film rights for Paul’s novels, which he’d been hanging on to all these years despite offers. I could write, and you could direct, Paul had said. Yeah, that would’ve been a hell of a pairing.

Eric had actually liked the guy all right at first. They’d gotten along just fine back when they were separated by a few thousand miles and Eric’s career was on an upward trajectory. Paul hadn’t displayed any less ego over his little series of detective novels back then, but it hadn’t rankled Eric as much either. Probably because things were going well on his end. Gave him a layer of protection. It wasn’t until they’d moved back to Chicago and Paul was underfoot at all times that it got really bad. All those damn suggestions of his, the ideas, story proposals—shit, they had never stopped.

He closed the laptop, beginning to suspect that staring at the screen was goosing his headache. He turned the lights off and put the TV on, tried again to distract himself from the pain. Over on the desk, Alyssa Bradford’s bottle glittered and sweated, and Anne McKinney’s stood beside it, dark and dry.

Let them sit, he told himself. Let them sit there untouched. I know what’s coming for me, and I can take it. I won’t drink the water again, though.

28

JOSIAH WAS BACK IN the gray city again, that colorless empire, and the wind blew through the alleys and whistled around the old-fashioned cars that lined the empty streets. A huffing noise filled his ears and he knew before he turned to look that it was the train coming on and thought, I’ve had this dream before.

But at least the train was coming back for him. Dream or no dream, he’d lost it last time, run after it and couldn’t catch up and then found himself in that field walking hard against the dark. Yes, if the train came back around this time, he surely ought to take it.

He stood to the side and watched as it thundered toward him, stone dust rising from beneath its wheels, a funnel of black smoke pouring from the stack. All just as it had been. Good. Must be the same train.

It slowed as it passed, and again he could see the white car with the splash of red across its doors, the colors standing out so stark against all that gray. He walked toward it, eager now, as the locomotive whistle shrilled and the train lost momentum. This one was headed home. The man in the bowler hat had promised him that.

And there was the man, visible in the open boxcar door as he had been before. He wasn’t leaning out of it this time but sitting with his arms resting on raised knees and his back pressed against the door frame. He lifted his head as Josiah approached, used one finger to push the hat up on his forehead.

“’Spect you want a ride,” he said when they were close enough for words, and the smile was gone, the charm not present in his eyes this time.

Josiah said he’d be more than happy for a ride, provided they were still homeward bound. The man paused at that, considered Josiah through those dark eyes. Josiah could hear a gentle splashing from inside the car, saw drops of water coming out over the rim of the door frame and falling to the sidewalk below.

“Told you we was homeward bound last time through,” the man said. “Told you there was a need to hurry should you want a ride.”

The man seemed displeased, and that made Josiah’s stomach tremble and his skin prickle as if from the touch of something cold. He told the man that he had desired a ride, indeed, and that he’d run in pursuit of the train, run as best as his legs could do, and still not caught up.

The man listened to that, then tilted his head and spit a plume of tobacco juice toward Josiah’s feet.

“I was to tell you it’s time to get aboard now, you’d take heed?” he said.

Josiah assured him that was a fact.

“You’d also understand,” the man said, “I might be needing you for a piece of work when we get home.”

Josiah asked what that work would entail.

“A good mind and a strong back,” the man said. “And an ability to take direction. Might those be traits you possess?”

Josiah said they were, but he wasn’t overly pleased at the prospect, and it must have shown in his face.

“You don’t think that’s a fair exchange?” the man asked, his eyes wide.

Josiah didn’t answer that, and up ahead the steam whistle blew again and the engine began to chug. The man smiled at him and spread his hands.

“Well,” he said, “you know another way of getting home, you’re welcome to it.”

Josiah was unaware of another way home, and he’d already missed this train once. Time came when you had to make a sacrifice or two in the pursuit of what you desired, and right now Josiah desired a ride home. He told the man he’d get aboard.

“About time,” the man said, and then he rose to offer Josiah his hand and help him into the boxcar. When he stood, water streamed from his suit. Josiah edged closer to the train and leaned forward.

Took his hand.

Part Three

A SONG FOR THE DEAD

29

AN HOUR AFTER KELLEN dropped him off, Eric’s headache was back in full force, and he took more Excedrin and drank a few glasses of water and turned the volume on the TV louder, searching for distraction.

It didn’t work.

By eleven he had the TV off and was holding a pillow over his head.

I can beat it, he told himself. I can wait this out. I will not drink the water.

The hum soon returned to his ears, quickly built to a bell-clear ring. His mouth dried and when he blinked, it felt as if his eyelids were lined with fine grains of sand.

It’s terrible, but it’s real, too. These things are better than the alternatives. I am seeing nothing