Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [120]
He was drinking an RC cola, eating a MoonPie and listening to an old Keith Whitley tune: “When You Say Nothing at All.” It was one of our favorite songs.
Abbie heard it, too. She stirred, tapping the side of the canoe with her toe. I flagged him and cut the canoe toward the river’s edge. “Caught anything?” He nodded and glanced at the fire. He tipped his hat back and scratched his chin, sizing me up.
I beached the canoe and lifted Abbie. The nosebleed trickled again, so she pulled the scarf off her head and dabbed her nose. When she did, his expression changed. He reached in his cooler, twisted off a top and handed me a soda. I lifted it to her lips and she sipped. She smiled, the cola dripping off her chin. “Mmmm…good.”
The kid picked at his tooth with a toothpick and whispered, “You that guy? The one on the news?”
I pushed my hat back. My left eye was still puffy, swollen and tender to the touch. “Yeah.”
He tilted his head sideways. “You don’t look dangerous.”
“Don’t feel it.”
“You seen them two Pathfinders?”
“Yeah.”
“I reckon they looking for you.” He looked south toward Highway 17. “I hear they got folks camped out on the bridge at Highway 17. And I been hearing helicopters, but they sound fu’ther off. Maybe the in’erstate.”
I nodded, thinking to myself.
“You got a plan?”
“Not really.”
He said, “You know Miller’s Creek?”
Miller’s Creek used to run up around the south side of the bridge, through the marsh, and skirt just under the lowest section of the bridge on the Florida side. But when they finished the bridge, the construction crew dumped all the used rebar and concrete into the middle of the creek, protecting the base of the bridge but blocking off the creek. I nodded. “Used to until they dammed it up.”
He shook his head. “Not anymore. The tree-huggers found out. Said it wasn’t eco-friendly. Whatever that is.” He swigged and chewed. “Gov’ment came in and cleaned it up.” He stared at the canoe. “You might give it a try, get to the other side without nobody knowing.”
I didn’t know whether to trust him or not, but I didn’t have many options. Given the look of him, chances were good that the kid knew this part of the river better than me.
“Many thanks.”
47
JUNE 11, MORNING
Abbie was snoring quietly. I wanted to wake her, but sleep was good. When she slept, she felt no pain. The water was alive around us—a combination of water rising rapidly through the oyster beds and game fish feeding on the fiddler crabs driven from their holes. On the shoreline, four rows of neatly planted cornstalks rose above the surface of the water. I don’t know how tall they were, but they had tassled and corn floated above the water’s surface. In the air above us, a great blue heron glided silently. He flapped his wings once over the span of the river, landing somewhere in the marsh beyond. Further in the distance, I heard the whine of a chainsaw and the buzzing of a tree cutter.
Here marsh leads from the river’s edge for nearly a half mile before it reaches dry land. It’s a flooded wasteland. Nothing but wiregrass, pluff mud and muck. Even the treetops flatten out. The smell of the marsh was thick and pungent mixed with a whiff of pine and salt.
From underneath the blanket, Abbie stirred. She pulled it down off her face, dabbed her crusty nose and faked a smile. “You tired?” The slurring had faded temporarily, but the blood had returned.
Every inch of me hurt. I shook my head. “I’ll paddle you to China if you keep talking to me.”
She closed her eyes. “I’d like that.” Along the bank, the cicadas tuned up, singing their singular psychedelic tune. She raised her hand above the gunnel of the canoe and pointed at the noise. “Any chance you can get them to be quiet?