had not found any dredge manufacturers by that name in the twenties or thirties, and he was moving on the assumption that the contractor’s name had been affixed to the dredge boom. “That’s the one I’m working on, but the name might be buried in old archives,” Billy said. I was always impressed by his abilities to paper-chase. It was a skill for which I had little talent and less patience. Still, I had to hand it to Mayes. Even if it had been unintentional, he’d pushed Billy’s buttons, got him on a chase I could tell he wasn’t going to give up on easily.
The kid had more going on in his head than just curiosity about his great-grandfather and uncles. He was putting most of his grandmother’s inheritance on the line to find answers. But maybe his real questions had more to do with what he had inherited from the men he never knew. That icon around his neck wasn’t there as a style statement. Something was chewing at the young man. I didn’t know what, but I could almost feel his need for the truth. Maybe he was pushing my buttons, too.
CHAPTER
7
E arly the next morning I heard the “thunk” of wood on wood before I felt the shiver in the foundation. My physical sense of touch has always been less sensitive than my sense of smell or taste or even hearing. Thunk. But still, it was the vibration that finally popped my eyes open. From my bed I looked to the east window and could tell that it was not much after dawn. Thunk. Someone was on my dock. The unexpected visitor. I rolled off my mattress onto all fours and instantly the ache in my shoulders from last night’s paddling almost caused me to cry out. I thought about the 9 mm stashed in the armoire, still wrapped tight in oilskin since it had last been fired in anger and then recovered from the river bottom. I’d tried to put it out of my head, the feel of it in my hand, the violence of it. But still it was there. I hadn’t thrown it out, despite what it represented in me. Leave it, I thought, and then stood and moved quietly to the door. Thunk.
I held the knob and eased pressure up into the old hinges to keep them from squeaking and opened the door enough to see. Down on the landing, sitting with one foot in his wooden skiff and his hands working a small line in the water was Nate Brown. He moved his leg and the skiff banged lightly against the dock piling. Thunk.
“Mornin’, Mr. Freeman,” he said in a slow drawl that was pure dirt Georgia. “Your memory is ’predated.”
He was dressed in a long-sleeved, light-colored work shirt and denim overalls. His steel gray hair was cut short to a scalp that was as tanned as the rest of his skin. His wiry build seemed folded and angled and delicate, but I knew better. He diverted his eyes from the water and looked up the stairs.
“I heard y’all was lookin’ for me?”
I made morning coffee and brought two large tin cups with me and sat on the bottom steps. Nate nodded a thanks for the coffee and took a deep draw from the cup without flinching from its steaming heat. I blew air across mine.
“How’s the river running this morning,” I said, attempting small talk and knowing better.
“Prolly high, what with that rain yestiday,” he said. “Don’t rightly know. I come in from the west.”
I looked into the homemade flats skiff, a workmanship long forgotten from a time when the Gladesmen used the small boats and hand-shaved poles to push themselves over miles of channels and shallow, grass-filled water. There was a single small bundle tucked in one corner and a long, canvas-wrapped object I knew would be Brown’s old Winchester rifle.
“Just out on a little hunting trip?” I said, making my mistake twice. I had not seen the man in two years, the last time being when he had saved my life.
“No, sir,” he said, his clear eyes working into mine from over the rim of the coffee cup. “I heard you was lookin’ for me.”
After that I talked for an hour, telling Maye’s story while the
The kid had more going on in his head than just curiosity about his great-grandfather and uncles. He was putting most of his grandmother’s inheritance on the line to find answers. But maybe his real questions had more to do with what he had inherited from the men he never knew. That icon around his neck wasn’t there as a style statement. Something was chewing at the young man. I didn’t know what, but I could almost feel his need for the truth. Maybe he was pushing my buttons, too.
CHAPTER
7
E arly the next morning I heard the “thunk” of wood on wood before I felt the shiver in the foundation. My physical sense of touch has always been less sensitive than my sense of smell or taste or even hearing. Thunk. But still, it was the vibration that finally popped my eyes open. From my bed I looked to the east window and could tell that it was not much after dawn. Thunk. Someone was on my dock. The unexpected visitor. I rolled off my mattress onto all fours and instantly the ache in my shoulders from last night’s paddling almost caused me to cry out. I thought about the 9 mm stashed in the armoire, still wrapped tight in oilskin since it had last been fired in anger and then recovered from the river bottom. I’d tried to put it out of my head, the feel of it in my hand, the violence of it. But still it was there. I hadn’t thrown it out, despite what it represented in me. Leave it, I thought, and then stood and moved quietly to the door. Thunk.
I held the knob and eased pressure up into the old hinges to keep them from squeaking and opened the door enough to see. Down on the landing, sitting with one foot in his wooden skiff and his hands working a small line in the water was Nate Brown. He moved his leg and the skiff banged lightly against the dock piling. Thunk.
“Mornin’, Mr. Freeman,” he said in a slow drawl that was pure dirt Georgia. “Your memory is ’predated.”
He was dressed in a long-sleeved, light-colored work shirt and denim overalls. His steel gray hair was cut short to a scalp that was as tanned as the rest of his skin. His wiry build seemed folded and angled and delicate, but I knew better. He diverted his eyes from the water and looked up the stairs.
“I heard y’all was lookin’ for me?”
I made morning coffee and brought two large tin cups with me and sat on the bottom steps. Nate nodded a thanks for the coffee and took a deep draw from the cup without flinching from its steaming heat. I blew air across mine.
“How’s the river running this morning,” I said, attempting small talk and knowing better.
“Prolly high, what with that rain yestiday,” he said. “Don’t rightly know. I come in from the west.”
I looked into the homemade flats skiff, a workmanship long forgotten from a time when the Gladesmen used the small boats and hand-shaved poles to push themselves over miles of channels and shallow, grass-filled water. There was a single small bundle tucked in one corner and a long, canvas-wrapped object I knew would be Brown’s old Winchester rifle.
“Just out on a little hunting trip?” I said, making my mistake twice. I had not seen the man in two years, the last time being when he had saved my life.
“No, sir,” he said, his clear eyes working into mine from over the rim of the coffee cup. “I heard you was lookin’ for me.”
After that I talked for an hour, telling Maye’s story while the
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