Read Online The Rivers Webb by Jeremy Tyler - Free Book Online Page A

Yankee come in and solve this case. He could appreciate how desperate he was to please the sheriff, and to prove himself in the eyes of the man he revered. And, for his part, Dan could appreciate how conflicted it could be to be stuck in the middle of a town full of people that had no use for him, and where the only person that mattered was gone, and all he could do was try and bring some justice to his death.
    You would think that would help. But it didn’t. At the core of it, they were the sons of Roy Rivers, one estranged, one adopted, and there simply was not room for both.
    â€œAre you comin’, or not?” Dan said, finally breaking the silence.
    â€œYeah, I’ll come. We can take my car.” It was that moment that John’s errant nose decided to discover yet another trace of the mysterious scent that had been teasing him since he’d arrived in Georgia. Dan must have noticed, because he cocked his head slightly to one side and asked, “You ain’t one o’ them northerners that’s allergic to ev’rything, now, are you?” John just waved him off, grateful that Dan was willing to offer him an out. John managed his best fake sneeze, then motioned for them to get into the car. He didn’t know why such a simple thing bothered him so much, or why he was so insistent on hiding it. After all, he had enough to deal with as it was, before adding in this strange compunction. It was going to cause problems, he knew, and yet he just couldn’t seem to help it.
    When Dan had mentioned a motorboat, John had immediately assumed a mental picture of the police boats that the NYPD kept to patrol the Hudson. Of course, he didn’t expect Sales City to boast anything as modern and up-to-date as those, but he was completely unprepared for what was in store for him.
    The ramshackle old cabin and decrepit dock were, for all he could tell, built before anyone living could possibly remember. But the boat itself…that was something else. It was clearly handmade, and probably from planks torn from the same cabin falling apart next to it. The term “motorboat” was due solely to the hand-cranked outboard engine strapped to the keel.
    He looked over to Dan. If this was the deputy’s idea of a joke, he did a good job of keeping a straight face, as he walked up to the door that precariously hung onto the cabin’s frame and knocked.
    â€œEarl! Earl, we’re here. Let’s get a move on!”
    They waited just another moment or two before the shack’s occupant emerged. If there was ever a picture of a Georgia hick, this is who they would use to model. He was a big man, about 6′2″ and about 230 pounds, by John’s estimate. The dirty overalls and battered straw hat were so fitting they were comical.
    â€œDep’ty. Sorry, I wasn’t ’spectin’ ya’ yet.”
    The big man closed the door behind him, walked down the rickety dock toward the boat, and started throwing strange-looking crates out to make room.
    The odd contraptions had John puzzled, and it must have shown.
    â€œCrawfish traps,” Dan answered the unasked question. “Earl here makes a decent living bringing in crawfish in bulk. Damn things are his own cockamamie invention, and other’n Earl, only God Hisself knows how they work.”
    John looked at the traps and the boat and everything around him with a strange sense of surreal glee, as it slowly sunk in that such a place actually existed. Then, suddenly, his police training caught up to his euphoria, and he looked back at the man in front of him. John now recognized him from the funeral. He turned quickly to Dan.
    â€œWait a second, did you say his name was Earl?” he asked. Dan’s pleased smile spoke volumes.
    â€œYep. Earl Cameron. Figured we could kill two birds with one stone, seein’ as how the fella’ that knows Parrott River better’n anybody also happens to be the same