Ghost River by Jon Coon (romantic books to read .TXT) 📗

blowing sideways across the yard as he ran to the shed. Trees along the drive were doing deep knee bends, and their Spanish moss beards were flying like flags in a gale. Even in rain gear, he was soaked by the time he got to shed. He pulled his dry suit out of his dive bag and put on the underwear. Then he pulled on the suit and stored the dive bag in the trunk of the cruiser.

What was usually a thirty-minute drive took an hour. Streets had water above the curbs. In low spots, water was above the bottom of the cruiser’s doors and running fast. If the rain continued, those roads would soon be unusable. Gabe made mental notes of flooded streets and kept going, trusting the car to survive the deluge.

When Gabe finally arrived, Jim had the boat hooked up to a state truck and was also in his dry suit, but with hood and goggles. Gabe parked, checked the gear in the boat and truck, then went into the locker.

Three other teams were drinking coffee and monitoring radios. A TV with weather was on mute, while some of the team watched the computer print a weather map.

“What’s the latest?” Gabe asked.

“Forty-mile-an-hour winds, gusts higher. Choppers grounded. It’s just us. Came up so fast not many got out. Looks like a busy night,” one of the other boat captains offered.

“Shelters up?”

“Yeah, and hospitals on full alert. Fire trucks are going where they can, telling folks to get out, helping the ones who need it.”

The new team captain, Captain Brady’s replacement—cigar-chewing, rolled up sleeves with Navy tattoos Marty Martin—called them together.

“The storm driving this isn’t that big. No storm-of-the-century stuff. It’s just one big thunderstorm. Reports of hail, always as big as golf balls or softballs in the reports. We’re going to go ahead and deploy. Same areas as last time, same com channels, same everything. Watch for hot wires. Don’t eat the road kill, and smile for the cameras. Remember, this is the stuff dreams are made of. We need the good PR. Gabe and Jim, stand by just a minute. The rest of you, get out there and save somebody.”

When the room cleared, Captain Martin said to Gabe, “I heard about the break-in at Charlie’s. Carol and the kids okay? I haven’t been getting much news.”

“Yes, they’re fine.”

“Heard you got assigned to work with Bob Spencer. You were in Tallahassee this morning? What was that about?” Martin’s face was noncommittal, hard to read.

“We’ve had some breaks. We found out about Richard Greenly, an inspection diver who was murdered on the bridge fifteen years ago. That’s why we went to the capital.”

“I had a call after you left. You lit a fire under that administrator you talked to. Didn’t appreciate your visit. He threatened to go to a congressman if you show up there again. We can live without that. So best you stay out of Tallahassee. I don’t want to get blindsided again. You get any more bright ideas you check with me first. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry about that.”

“He said you think Charlie’s death wasn’t an accident. That true?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Brady, Charlie, and Greenly. The murders are connected. That engineer’s involved. I just don’t have the whole story yet.”

“Show me the evidence, then we’ll decide if he’s involved. Don’t be making accusations based on your gut. Get me some proof before you light anymore fires.”

“Yes, sir,” Gabe said and picked up his hat and goggles off the desk. “One question, Captain, did Overstreet mention which congressman he was threatening us with?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact he did. He said Justin Conners, and we do not want that man unhappy with us.”

And Congressman Conners is the brother of Mitchell Conners, president of McFarland Construction. How cozy. Gabe said nothing and just nodded to Captain Martin. Martin’s a player, Gabe thought. But on which team?

“Okay, this storm is going to get ugly. Stay safe out there.” Captain Martin turned and picked up the handheld radio to respond to a call. Turning back, he waved them off. They zipped up and headed out into the storm.

Launching the inflatable boat in driving rain, against the wind, was an exercise in futility. The flooded parking lot above the launch ramp had white caps, and the wind tried desperately to flip the boat until they got it loaded with gear and fuel cans. From the moment they were operational, radio calls had them cruising the black water, rescuing folks from roofs, submerged cars, and the local country club. No shelter, no dry place to rest, just the hammering of wind, rain, and waves. Trees were down, power lines were down, and then the call came that Gabe had been dreading.

“It’s the bridge,” Jim shouted over the wind. “The center span collapsed. There’s a utility truck in the water with two men in the cab.”

“Alethea, would you like more hot chocolate?” Carol asked. Pans had been strategically placed to catch the rain dripping in through the rusted tin roof. The three teens were by the fire while Carol, Emily, and Alethea remained at the table.

“Thanks,” Alethea said. “This cup will do nicely.” She looked at the array of cookware on the floor and laughed. “I think you must have the same roofing contractor I use,” she then described the ongoing battle with the leaks in her cabin roof and Gabe’s several attempts fix them. “I’m afraid this will be the last storm for that old place. It was coming apart when we left. Looks like I’ll be going back to New Orleans, at least for a while.”

They were quiet for a bit, then Carol began, “About New Orleans . . . something happened to Gabe when he was there after Katrina,” Carol said. “He was so depressed when he came home. It took months for him to start to be himself again. He told me you helped him. Can you tell me about that?”

“Gabe needs to tell you the