Ghost River Jon Coon (free reads TXT) 📖

“I’ll be praying for you. Please be careful, Gabriel.”

CHAPTER 23

The River Camp

The first thing Gabe noticed back at the river camp was that a third of the forty-foot porch deck was missing. There were new steel jacks, which had leveled the sag, and a large stack of treated deck boards waiting along with a trash pile of the original decking in a trash pod. The dogs came eagerly off what was left of the deck to meet him, as did the girls when he opened the door. As he went up the steps, the smell of fresh cornbread and pot roast reminded him he’d not eaten since breakfast before daylight. Carol’s greeting was a bit sadder, and Emily hugged him a bit longer, but life was moving on, and it was good.

Gabe looked at Zack as he settled into a chair. “Zack, have you got a passport?”

“Yes, I went on a youth mission trip to Puerto Rico last year.”

“How would you like to go visit your grandfather? I wonder if now that he’s a dying man, he’d be willing to make peace with his only grandson.”

“It’s doubtful, but I think we should check it out, don’t you?”

“If we can get answers, it will be worth the trip. How about it, you in?”

“Yes, sir, let’s do it.”

“Done. We’re going. First available flights. Get packed.”

Carol came out of the kitchen with two glasses of iced tea and pointed to the porch. He opened the door for her, and they sat on the steps in front of the missing deck.

“Mexico?” she asked.

“I didn’t think you’d really do this,” he said pointing to the deck.

“I needed something to do, or I would have spent the whole day worried about Paul, and that won’t accomplish anything. Tell me about Mexico.”

“Peterson’s there. Rogers is with him. It could be our last chance to get answers.”

“You don’t have jurisdiction, and you can’t force him to talk.”

“I don’t need it to wring his neck. If he thinks he can go down there and die and get away with what they’ve done . . . it’s not going to happen.” He put down the glass, stood, and walked to the edge of the deck, looking out into the woods for the dogs. He called, and they came running.

“I’m going with you,” she said and stood with him.

“Now wait . . .” He turned, making trooper-stare eye contact.

She held her ground, “You’re going under the radar. You’ll need a nurse to keep him alive while you interrogate him or if we bring him back. Besides, I want to meet the men who killed my husband.”

“No Old Testament, Carol. We’ve got them. There’s no need.”

“Okay, we bring him back and go to court. The first thing he says is, ‘Your honor, they kidnapped me.’ And you say?”

“Good point,” he softened. She was right.

“Maybe we should be thinking what happens in Mexico stays in Mexico.”

“We need statements that will hold up in court,” he said. “I suppose we could get a court reporter down there. I’ll check it with Bob.”

Gabe’s phone chimed. Bob explained getting extradition papers could take weeks or months. What’s plan B?

Gabe put down his phone and turned to Carol, “I think you’re right about Mexico. Get packed.”

1830

Cancun, Mexico

Warm sun, warm sand, hot blood

On the plane, Carol skimmed the in-flight magazine. A destination article began, “Cozumel Island is thirty miles long, ten miles wide, and welcomes tourists year-round.” After the flight landed, clearing customs was easy. The trip to the Peterson villa, including a stop for tacos, took less than an hour in the rented SUV.

Surrounded by a crumbling stucco courtyard wall and rusty iron gate, the grounds were overgrown, and the two-story main house was in serious disrepair. Ceramic roof tiles had fallen and shattered. Jungle vines climbed iron balconies and choked second-floor windows. Stucco was rotting from the house walls. Two midsize vans were parked on the brick drive, and dim lights were on in the house.

Zack jumped out of the rental and swung open the creaking gate. Gabe drove in and parked. The three of them went to the door and knocked. After a few moments Zack’s mother opened the door, then blocked their entrance. Shocked and angry, she looked withered. “You don’t have jurisdiction here,” she snapped at Gabe.

“Someone told me that,” Gabe said and smiled at Carol.

“Hi, Mom,” Zack said. “How are you?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I want to see my grandfather before he dies. I’ve got questions about what happened to my dad, and at this point, it’s going to be harder for him to avoid or ignore me. Let us in.” Zack pushed forward. Surprised, his mother stepped back, and Zack entered the tile-floored foyer. Gabe and Carol followed him in.

“Wait, you can’t just—”

“It’s all right, Mom. They’re with me,” Zack said. “Where is he?”

Helen pointed toward a hall door and stepped out of the way. Inside Peterson was in a new hospital bed with monitors and IV stands. The monitors blinked, and one beeped a steady rhythm. Wes Rogers stood by the head of the bed, a Glock 9 mm visible in his belt.

“Hello, Grandpa. My name is Zack. You and your friend there,” he motioned toward Rogers, “killed my dad and nearly killed me. I want to know why.”

Rogers stepped forward, but the old man motioned him back.

Peterson glared at Zack. “Who do you think you are to talk to me like that? You’re just as arrogant as your father.”

Before Zack could answer, Gabe stepped in. “It’s over, Peterson. We know about the bidding fraud. We know how you did it and who you killed because of it. We know about the bridge span you and Rogers dropped on Wilson Corbitt. It’s over.”

“So what? You’re too late. I’m not going anywhere,” Peterson said, then coughed violently, spitting up blood and wiping it on his sleeve.

“Is that the legacy you want to