So Cold the River

shadowed steps. At the base of the stairs was a closed door, and Campbell opened it without knocking and stepped inside.

“Easy there,” he said. A short but muscular black man was standing just inside the door and had lifted a gun when Campbell intruded. There was another man, much larger, probably close to three hundred pounds, hulking on a stool on the other side of the door, and a third, rail-thin and very dark-skinned, seated behind a wooden desk. He leaned back in the chair with his feet propped on the desk, enormous feet, a pair of equally large hands folded over his stomach. He didn’t speak or move when Campbell and the boy entered, just flicked his eyes over and studied them without a change in expression. The man with the gun lowered it slowly and moved a step back from Campbell.

“Shadrach,” Campbell said.

“Mr. Hunter is what I’m called by those who aren’t friends,” the man behind the desk said.

“Shadrach,” Campbell said again, no change of tone at all.

Shadrach Hunter gave that a wry curling of the lip that seemed to pass for amusement, and then he looked past Campbell to Lucas.

“This is Thomas Granger’s boy?”

“His nephew.”

“What in hell’s he carrying the fiddle for?”

“He likes to have it with him,” Campbell said. “You’ve heard him play.”

“I have.” Shadrach Hunter was regarding Lucas with a distrustful squint. “Plays like no boy should.”

It sounded like a reprimand. Lucas had kept his eyes on the floor since entering the room, and they stayed there now.

“I’ve got the car out front,” Campbell said, “and it’s raining mighty strong. Best be stepping to it.”

“Might not be the best night for a long drive, then.”

“It ain’t far. Just out beyond the gulf. You’ve been out there, and don’t tell me otherwise, you lying son of a bitch. You’ve been looking for it on your own. I’m here to tell you that as of now, that spring is mine. You want a piece, you’re going through me to get it.”

Shadrach gave him a dour stare. “I still don’t know why you think I’d be fool enough to partner with you, Bradford.”

“Sure, you do. There’s money to be made. You’re a man, like myself, who appreciates his money.”

“So you’ve told me. But I’m also a man has made his money by staying away from those of your sort as much as possible.”

“Hell, Shadrach, I don’t care about the color of your damn skin, I care about the size of your capital.”

“You the only one talking about color,” Shadrach Hunter said in a soft voice.

Campbell went quiet and stared at him. Just outside the wall, water streamed through a gutter and exited in noisy splatters. The wind was blowing hard.

“You might have some dollars saved,” Campbell said, “but there are no more coming your way, Shadrach. With the way white folks around here are hurting, how you think your people will fare? Now, I got an offer that’s been made, and you can take it or leave it. You’ve tasted the whiskey. You know what it’s worth.”

“There’s whiskey all over.”

“You find any matches that? Shit, Old Number Seven ain’t nothing but piss water compared to that. I got connections in Chicago who’ll be ready to pay prices you ain’t even imagined for it.”

“Then why you down here looking for me?”

“Because,” Campbell Bradford said, “some projects require a piece of assistance. And I’ve been told you’re the only man in this valley got a heart as black as mine.”

Shadrach Hunter showed his teeth in a grin, then said softly, “Oh, there ain’t nobody in this valley comes close to that, Bradford. And that’s a known fact.”

Campbell spread his hands. “Car’s out front, Shadrach. I’m getting back in it.”

There was a moment of hesitation, and then Shadrach Hunter nodded and dropped his feet to the floor and stood up. His two companions moved toward the door with him, but Campbell shook his head.

“No. You ride with me, you ride alone, Shadrach.”

Shadrach stopped cold at that, looking displeased, but after a long pause he nodded. Then he opened a drawer of his desk and took out a pistol and slid it into his belt. He took a long jacket, still streaked from rain, off a peg on the wall and put that on, and then he reached back in the desk drawer and took out another gun, a small automatic, and put it in the jacket pocket. He kept his hand in the pocket.

Campbell smiled. “Brave enough yet?”

Shadrach didn’t answer as he walked for the door. He went out and up the stairs, followed by Campbell, Lucas in the rear. The top of the stairs was utterly black, and as Shadrach Hunter stepped into it, he disappeared. Then Campbell did the same, and finally there was nothing left but a pale square from the back of Lucas’s white shirt. Then that was gone, too, and there were voices and sounds of people moving in the hotel and Eric realized he was sitting on the balcony with an empty bottle of water in his hand.

Empty.

He’d had every drop.

42

FOR THE FIRST TIME, he did not feel relief when the vision passed. Instead, he felt almost disappointed. Cheated.

It had been too abrupt, like a film cut off in midscene. Yes, that was exactly what it was like—always before he’d gotten a full scene, and this time it had ended without closure.

“I got the name,” he said aloud, recalling all that he’d seen. “He said the damn name. Granger. Thomas Granger. Lucas is his nephew.”

The realization was exciting; the disappointment that countered was that the men had been bound for the spring when he lost the vision. If he could have stayed there longer, remained in the past, he might have seen the way to it. He was seeing the story, seeing more than random images, but now it was gone. Lucas and Campbell and Shadrach Hunter had been replaced by the reality of the hotel once again, and he held an empty bottle in his hand, which was astounding, because he didn’t remember drinking it. And troubling, because this meant he was out.

The effective dose had, in the space of forty-eight hours, increased dramatically.

“Tolerance,” he said. “You’re building a tolerance.”

Disconcerting, maybe, but not drastic. He’d just have to keep tweaking it, that was all. Surely, his need would plateau at some point. He wasn’t going to run out of the stuff. Springs abounded in the area, filled pipes and poured from faucets down in the spa.

Poured from faucets. Indeed it did.

There was no need for another drink. Not now. His headache was gone; the sickness had been avoided.

But he could see the story again if he had more water.

He looked at the empty bottle in his hand and thought about the conversation he’d had with Claire, her insistence that he’d always been prone toward psychic tendencies. Hell, he knew that. He’d lived through the moments, after all, from the valley in the Bear Paws to the Infiniti to the snapshot of the red cottage for the Harrelson video.

The ability had always been there. The gift, if you wanted to call it that. The only change now was that the water gave him some control over it. He’d been scared of the stuff initially, but was that the right response? Should he fear it, or should he embrace it?

“You’ve got to shoot this,” he said softly. “Document it and shoot it.”

Kellen’s response to the idea had been less than enthusiastic. The look he’d given Eric had been more doubtful than any of the looks he’d offered after discussions of ghosts and visions and the rest, and what in the hell kind of sense did that make? Oh, well, Kellen didn’t have to be involved. He didn’t appreciate the possibility the way Eric did. It was the sort of thing that was so damn strange, people wouldn’t be able to get enough of it. He could imagine the interviews already—Larry King’s jaw dropping as Eric sat there and calmly explained the circumstances that had led to the film. The gift was always there… always with me. It just took me a long time to get