Black River Read Online Free PDF

searched through ice, pulling out a small yellowtail snapper. He slid the filet knife from the leather sheath on his belt, cut the head off the fish, and tossed it to the cat. Ol’ Joe clamped down on the fish head with one bite, held it in his mouth, and strolled back down the dock, a sea gull squawking from one of the pilings.
    “Sean, are you expecting a package?” Dave Collins shouted, standing in the center of his cockpit across the dock and one boat away from St. Michael . He held up a brown box.
    “It might be my bilge pump,” O’Brien said, walking toward Dave’s boat, Gibraltar , a 45-foot trawler. Nick set Max back on the dock, and she followed O’Brien, pausing a moment to look in the direction she’d last seen Ol’ Joe disappear.
    Nick tossed the fish in the cooler and also followed O’Brien over to Gibraltar . Dave said, “Shipping label indicates it came from Pacific Marine. UPS guy left it with me since you weren’t on Jupiter . I signed for it. Let me know if you need any help installing the pump. Not that you’re challenged in that area.” Dave grinned. “How’d you do, Nick?”
    “Real good. Caught enough to pay dockage fees, fuel, beer, food—a few bucks to entertain the ladies. What else is there in life, huh?”
    Dave nodded, pushing his glasses on top of his thick white hair. He had a matching beard, wide chest, and inquisitive, sea-blue eyes. For a man in his mid-sixties, he kept in shape, jogging daily on the beach, spending time at the gym. He had a passion for craft beers and scotch. He’d spent most of his career in the Middle East, Germany and England before returning to Washington and a desk job at Langley. After retiring, he moved to Florida with his wife of twenty-eight years, divorcing within eight months. The only times O’Brien ever saw Dave sad was when, after a few martinis, past reflection brought out bits and pieces of the story.
    O’Brien moved the file folder under one arm and lifted the package. Dave said, “When did you start carrying your newspaper in a file folder?”
    “Since an elderly man asked me to search for a ghost.”
    “Ghostbusters,” Nick said, smiling.
    Dave nodded. “I have to hear this. Nothing like a good ghost story. Come aboard, gentlemen. I’ve had a pot of chili simmering since the pelican crowed this morning. It ought to be ripe about now.”
    They boarded Gibraltar , Max following at the rear, her nose going into overdrive as soon as she trotted inside the salon. A crockpot sat on the bar in the salon. Dave went into the galley and came back with three bowls and a small saucer. He lifted the glass top off the crockpot, steam rising, the salon filling with the smell of rich chili. Max stood on her hind legs and glanced at Nick.
    “We gottcha covered, hot dog,” Nick said.
    Dave ladled chili into the bowls and cut up some turkey meat for Max. He reached inside a small refrigerator under the bar and brought out three cans of craft beer, The Poet , from a Michigan craft brewery. “Let’s eat,” he said, taking a seat on the leather couch. “Ghost stories are told, or received, better at night, but I’m sure we’ll get the effect, Sean.”
    O’Brien went over what he’d heard from Gus Louden, showed them a copy of the old photo and the article in USA Today. Dave pushed back from his empty bowl, sipped his beer thoughtfully and said, “The woman in the picture was certainly striking, enigmatic eyes. So all it would take is for you to hunt down her original image captured in oil paints on a canvas somewhere? It could have been destroyed in a house fire, or maybe sold a few times for ten cents on a dollar in a garage sale.”
    Nick chuckled. “That painting might be on the wall of a Cracker Barrel restaurant. You see that kind of period Americana art in those places right up there with the old Coca Cola and Burma-Shave signs.”
    O’Brien said, “The last time Gus Louden saw it was when he was a kid…he must be at least