Page 2 of The River We Remember

“Near the bridge on County Seven.”

“Good fishing under that bridge,” Felix noted. “Nice deep water there.”

“Quinn’s dead?” Brody said.

“Hell, yes, he’s dead,” Ostberg said. “Ain’t no living man going to let channel cats feast on his insides.”

“You found him?”

“Not half an hour ago. I was planning on fishing. Then I spotted this jumble of driftwood kind of nudged up against the bank. And right there in the middle of it was Quinn. Or what’s left of him.”

“You’re sure it’s Quinn?”

“Them channel cats pretty near chewed off his face, but even so, he’s a man it’s hard not to recognize.”

“You can show me where?” Brody rose from the small table on which the chessboard sat.

“I sure can.”

“I’d like to come along,” Wicklow said.

Without bothering to think about it much, Brody said, “All right.” He went to the radio and tried unsuccessfully to raise his deputy, Asa Fielding, then looked back at his chess partner. “I’m going to have to put you back in your cell, Felix.”

“I’d like to come, too,” Felix said.

“I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

Brody pulled a ring of keys from a drawer in the office desk and led Felix through a metal door to the cellblock. Because his missing toes made balance a little precarious, Felix walked carefully to the cell, where he’d slept the night before after Brody had brought him in for being drunk and urinating in public in front of the Alabaster Inn. Felix couldn’t go before a judge on a charge until court convened following the holiday weekend, so the cell was his temporary home. Which was not uncommon.

“You’re proposing to leave me here alone?” Felix said.

“No choice,” Brody replied.

“And what if there’s a fire and I’m locked up?”

“The building is brick, Felix.”

“Wooden floorboards and joists,” Felix pointed out.

“Felix…” Brody began.

“Lots of wood furniture in this place. And you know yourself, Brody, that most deaths in fires are caused not by burns but smoke inhalation. You want that on your conscience?”

“All right, all right,” Brody said, because he didn’t want to keep arguing. “But stay out of my way.”

Through the open window in the east wall came sunlight and a summer breeze and the sounds of the celebration. Brody thought about his deputy, who was walking the parade route, helping to maintain order. He considered whether he should wade into things and let Deputy Fielding know what was up. But that would mean he’d have to endure a lot of handshaking and backslapping and questions about why he was not in his army uniform and marching with the other vets, things he wanted no part of.

Back in the office, he found Herman Ostberg perusing the wanted posters and notices tacked to the bulletin board that hung on the wall. Sam Wicklow stood at the opened doorway of the jailhouse, staring outside down the street toward the hoopla. Wicklow was another man who opted not to walk with the veterans in the yearly parade. Brody wondered if it was because Wicklow was self-conscious about his awkward gait or if, like himself, he simply found the whole thing uncomfortable. He’d never asked. He figured he probably never would. A man made his own choices for his own reasons, and unless any of those choices put him in opposition to you, you simply let them be.

Brody wrote a note to Asa Fielding and left it on the desk. While he wrote, he said, “You parked out front, Herman?”

“Yeah. My truck.”

“Go on out. We’re right behind you.”

When Ostberg had left, Brody said, “You just happen to be here at the right time, Sam? Happy coincidence?”

Wicklow shook his head. “Saw Ostberg speed into town behind the parade going way too fast. He almost clipped the rear end of the Co-op float. I watched him cut up Cottonwood Street and head toward your office. I thought it was worth the trouble of following.”