Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [95]
Bob clicked off the TV. He asked, “Any of that true?”
A deep breath. “Yeah.”
“Which part?”
“Well…from a certain point of view, all of it.”
He glanced at the windowsill where an electric panel read temperature, humidity, wind direction, barometric pressure, high and low tides and chance of rain indicated as a percentage. He frowned, checked his watch and then stood. “Personally, I think you’re nuts, but I imagine you’ve got a pretty good reason or you wouldn’t be out here. And you probably think you know what you’re doing, in which case I’d also say you’re nuts. Either way, you’re nuts.” He glanced at the readout again and the wind reading had dropped to two miles per hour. “I’ve got to get to work. I’ll be back a bit after dark.”
He pulled on a shirt and began walking out a side door. I hollered after him, “Hey, if you’re going to get the police or call my father-in-law, there’s not much I can do to stop you, but I’d like to know before they show up.”
He stopped, put on his sunglasses and shook his head. “If the police show up here, it won’t be because I had anything to do with it. But if you want some advice, you should call them. Picking the location of your own surrender is much better than letting them pick it.” He smiled.
“Is that experience speaking?”
“Yup.”
He turned again and I hollered one last time, “What do you do? I mean, for work.”
Another smug smile. “Agricultural aviation.”
That explains a lot. He waved his hand across the house. “Make yourself at home. Clothes are in the closet. Mi casa es su casa.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“My house is your house.”
He whistled, Rocket ran after him and the two disappeared down a well-worn footpath that led away from the river. I stood outside thinking, listening to Abbie do the dolphin-frolic in the tub. About five minutes later, I heard an engine crank then speed away. Ten seconds later, the sound of the engine returned. The Stearman brushed the treetops then shot upward, looped once, rolled, then returned—upside down. He was waving at me.
While Abbie bathed, I tucked the revolver behind my belt and took a walk around the house. If the four amigos came back, I wanted to have an idea of how and where. As for the revolver, I wasn’t sure. I just knew I’d rather have it tucked behind my belt than sitting on top of the bed. Bob’s house was an old river house, built up on a bluff on the Georgia side. I followed the footpath down which Bob had disappeared. It led to an airstrip and a makeshift hangar. The runway was dirt and short, which made me think that he must be a pretty good pilot. Two older Honda dirt bikes leaned against a far wall. One seat was less dusty than the other. Both needed a tune-up. The dirt road that led to his house ran for at least a half mile before it ran into another dirt road. Fresh tire tracks snaked along the soft sand. Feeling too far from Abbie, I turned around.
Beyond the house, further downriver and resting atop a small bluff, sat a one-room cabin. Like Bob’s house, it was tucked up into the trees. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d miss it. I walked around, peered in the windows and checked the doors but it had been winterized and was sealed up rather tight.
We seemed to be pretty well surrounded by woods without another house in sight or earshot. Even from the air, we were hidden beneath the trees. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Bob was hiding, too. I knew the bend in the river, having passed through here a lot, but I didn’t know much beyond the banks, because in all my passing through, I’d never ventured far from the water’s edge.
I walked back in the house and found Abbie stepping out of the tub. She hung an arm over me and I helped her slip back into her bathing suit and cutoff shorts and then laid her on the couch while I searched for a shirt—seeing as how the last one I’d stolen from the yoga class had been ripped down the middle. I walked into Bob’s room, pulled open his closet and started picking through the clothes. He didn’t have much. Clothes were not