Page 3 of The River We Remember

“Jimmy Quinn,” Felix said. “If it’s true what Ostberg says, feeding those catfish is just about the only unselfish thing that man ever did.”

“Come on, Hector,” Brody called to his dog. To Sam Wicklow and Felix Klein he said, “Let’s go see for ourselves what the truth is.”

CHAPTER THREE

JEWEL WAS NESTLED in a crook where the Alabaster made a wide turn in its course. Brody followed Ostberg’s dusty pickup over the bridge at the edge of town. They turned south and the road climbed out of the narrow river valley, and in a few minutes, they were driving through farmland, between fields striped green with rows of young corn. Outside Jewel, the road turned to dirt and gravel and became bone-rattling washboard. The air that day was still, and Ostberg’s tires kicked up a thick cloud of dust visible for a mile.

Felix Klein sat in the back of Brody’s cruiser, Hector beside him placidly gazing at the land sliding past. Wicklow sat up front and watched Ostberg churning up dust ahead. For a newspaperman, Brody thought he seemed awfully quiet.

“I saw Jimmy in church last Sunday. Him and the kids,” Felix said. He spoke loud in order to be heard over the road noise.

“Not Marta?” Brody said, speaking of Quinn’s wife.

Felix shook his head. “Too sick, apparently.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Only to say hello.”

“How’d he look?”

“He didn’t look like he’d be feeding catfish pretty soon.”

Wicklow finally spoke. “I once saw a man chewed on by fish. Carp, most likely.”

“Yeah? Where?” Brody asked.

“The Philippines. Leyte. A Japanese soldier. He’d been in the water awhile.”

Some people might have asked for more, wanted the gruesome details. Brody simply said, “Wonder how long Quinn’s been in that river.”

Wicklow said, “I’m wondering if Marta’s missed him yet.” Then added, “Or ever will.”

Under the warm afternoon sun, the land rolled gently into the distance, reminding Brody of a restless sea, and the scattered farmhouses were like ships riding those swells. A century earlier all this had been wild grass taller than a man. But every bit of that tall grass was now cropland, and the winding course of the Alabaster River, outlined on both banks by the dense growth of broad-leafed trees, was easy for the eye to follow.

Just before he came to the bridge on County 7, Ostberg turned his old pickup in to a couple of ruts that ran through wild oats and milkweed and timothy grass. He pulled into a turnabout, an area worn bare of vegetation. Brody was familiar with the place, a spot where a lot of fishermen parked and also folks planning to swim in a deep pool just upriver. Ostberg killed his engine and got out. Brody did the same and then opened the back door for Hector to hop out and Klein to follow. Wicklow maneuvered himself out the cruiser’s passenger side.

“Bring your camera,” Brody told him.

Which was an unnecessary directive, because Sam Wicklow’s camera was as much a part of him as that prosthetic leg.

Hector trotted ahead of the men, sniffing his way, looking back periodically to check on Brody. After a hundred yards, Ostberg cut into the trees along a path that wove down to the Alabaster. It was a path Brody knew well, and he found himself thinking, Not here. God, not here. They came out on a little beach nestled beneath a sandstone cliff where the river curled in on itself, forming a deep, gently swirling pool. Dragonflies darted over the water and swifts shot into and out of little holes in the cliff face where they’d built nests. The pool was heavily shaded by cottonwoods, which loomed atop the high banks of the river. It was a beautiful spot, popular for swimming. And for skinny-dipping. For Brody, the pool conjured up a number of treasured memories in that regard.

“Over there,” Ostberg said, pointing.

Brody saw the humping of driftwood and detritus caught where the current of the river nudged against the cliff. To Hector, he said, “Stay,” and the dog settled himself patiently in the shade.

The sheriff walked slowly, taking note of the many footprints in the sand that edged the pool. People had been here, but there’d been no rain for a week, so probably no way of telling when. As he neared the woody tangle, he saw what Ostberg had seen, a body caught up among the limbs and branches. He also noted an indication of aquatic activity, ripples where the body met water.

Behind him, he heard the click of a shutter and the crank of film being wound. He glanced back and saw that Sam Wicklow was already shooting.

The body was positioned on its back, legs sticking into the current of the river. The head was turned to the side, so that Brody looked directly into the face, or what was left of it. The eyelids and eyes and nose had been eaten completely. So had most of the lips, which gave the face the grin of a Halloween skeleton. The skin was puckered and wrinkled. Brody could see a portion of the lower torso in the tea-colored water and could see the cavity below the ribs, where even as he watched, he caught the black flicker of a tail as a small catfish darted in and then out of the great gaping wound. Although there’d been a lot of carnage done, Brody, like Ostberg, could tell that he was looking at what was left of Jimmy Quinn. This was because of the great mane of red hair and the size of the body itself.

“Sam,” he said over his shoulder. “I need you to document this.”

He stepped back and let the newsman snap away. Ostberg kept his distance.

After Wicklow had shot the body from every possible angle, Brody said, “I could use a hand here, Herman.”