back under the water, bumped against him, then disappeared. Gallagher dry-heaved, choked and spun, his only thought to get away from what was in the river. He tried to sprint toward shore, flailing at the surface with his hand and the wading stick.
But the current caught him and dashed him face down in the rapids. Gallagher flipped twice, then surfaced, gasping at the sudden immersion. He stumbled to his feet only to vomit up the brackish water he’d swallowed. The shell-shocked numbness that had surrounded Gallagher for nearly a year had been swept away in an instant. Now every nerve cell in his body fired nauseatingly hot. The white birches around the cabin in the dim woods ashore stood out like frozen flashes of lightning.
Gallagher swallowed at the sobs that threatened to strangle him and struggled toward the birches, unable to shake the crimson vision flooding through his mind. The man had been mutilated. The wounds to his body were frequent, deep and oblong-shaped. Gallagher tripped his way into the shallows and crawled up the bank before taking off in a mad sprint across the muddy cut cornfield toward the River Road and Andie Nightingale’s house.
The detective was working in her garden, pitching compost with a fork. She wore knee-high green boots, tattered jeans and a tan barn coat. Gallagher staggered out of the field and across the road into her yard, only to fall to his knees short of the garden and gag at the aluminum taste of the adrenaline surging through his mouth.
‘Mr Gallagher!’ Nightingale cried.
‘Dead,’ he choked out. ‘There’s a dead man in the river.’
Ten minutes later Nightingale spun her beat-up Toyota pickup into the cabin yard. She leaped out, ran through the electric-white birches and jumped off the bank straight into the water. Gallagher halted at the Bluekill’s edge, unable to enter.
‘Show me!’ she demanded.
‘No,’ he said, feeling a twist in his gut.
‘You have to,’ she insisted.
‘I … I can’t.’
‘I know this is hard,’ she said, managing a professional’s smile of understanding. ‘But please, just show me where you found the body before it’s washed away and I have to bring in a team of divers to search.’
Gallagher felt the cramping again, but for some reason Nightingale’s sympathetic demeanor bolstered him enough to move woodenly out into the river, once his liquid refuge, now a sinister current. They waded into the swift flow and with each step Gallagher fought to stamp out the wild fire of panic burning in him. They reached the downed ash tree and he pointed to the eddy where the fly line disappeared
‘He’s down there.’
‘You’re going to help me, Mr Gallagher.’ It was more of a command than a statement. A strange, cutting pressure built behind his eyes, but he nodded. They went hand over hand down the line. Gallagher focused on the gentle curve of her neck as they pulled. This time the body floated quickly.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Nightingale whispered in horror.
He wore a green camouflage coat and a matching fleece knapsack. He was nude from the waist down except for a thick wool sock dangling from his left foot. The carnage that had been inflicted on him was like looking at a Rorschach test devised by the darkest of minds, and Gallagher desperately wanted to flee toward shore again.
‘Hank Potter,’ Nightingale said, giving wavering identity to the body shifting in the current. Gallagher’s head spun. He feared the river would drag him down and never let him breach again for air.
Over her shoulder came the flashing blue lights of a state trooper vehicle, followed rapidly by another cruiser and then an ambulance. Nightingale had called them before driving back to the cabin. At the sight of the vehicles, her jaw quivered. The first break in her professional composure.
‘We’re going to bring him in,’ she said at last.
Two young rawboned troopers realized they were pulling the body ashore and waded out to help. One of the
But the current caught him and dashed him face down in the rapids. Gallagher flipped twice, then surfaced, gasping at the sudden immersion. He stumbled to his feet only to vomit up the brackish water he’d swallowed. The shell-shocked numbness that had surrounded Gallagher for nearly a year had been swept away in an instant. Now every nerve cell in his body fired nauseatingly hot. The white birches around the cabin in the dim woods ashore stood out like frozen flashes of lightning.
Gallagher swallowed at the sobs that threatened to strangle him and struggled toward the birches, unable to shake the crimson vision flooding through his mind. The man had been mutilated. The wounds to his body were frequent, deep and oblong-shaped. Gallagher tripped his way into the shallows and crawled up the bank before taking off in a mad sprint across the muddy cut cornfield toward the River Road and Andie Nightingale’s house.
The detective was working in her garden, pitching compost with a fork. She wore knee-high green boots, tattered jeans and a tan barn coat. Gallagher staggered out of the field and across the road into her yard, only to fall to his knees short of the garden and gag at the aluminum taste of the adrenaline surging through his mouth.
‘Mr Gallagher!’ Nightingale cried.
‘Dead,’ he choked out. ‘There’s a dead man in the river.’
Ten minutes later Nightingale spun her beat-up Toyota pickup into the cabin yard. She leaped out, ran through the electric-white birches and jumped off the bank straight into the water. Gallagher halted at the Bluekill’s edge, unable to enter.
‘Show me!’ she demanded.
‘No,’ he said, feeling a twist in his gut.
‘You have to,’ she insisted.
‘I … I can’t.’
‘I know this is hard,’ she said, managing a professional’s smile of understanding. ‘But please, just show me where you found the body before it’s washed away and I have to bring in a team of divers to search.’
Gallagher felt the cramping again, but for some reason Nightingale’s sympathetic demeanor bolstered him enough to move woodenly out into the river, once his liquid refuge, now a sinister current. They waded into the swift flow and with each step Gallagher fought to stamp out the wild fire of panic burning in him. They reached the downed ash tree and he pointed to the eddy where the fly line disappeared
‘He’s down there.’
‘You’re going to help me, Mr Gallagher.’ It was more of a command than a statement. A strange, cutting pressure built behind his eyes, but he nodded. They went hand over hand down the line. Gallagher focused on the gentle curve of her neck as they pulled. This time the body floated quickly.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Nightingale whispered in horror.
He wore a green camouflage coat and a matching fleece knapsack. He was nude from the waist down except for a thick wool sock dangling from his left foot. The carnage that had been inflicted on him was like looking at a Rorschach test devised by the darkest of minds, and Gallagher desperately wanted to flee toward shore again.
‘Hank Potter,’ Nightingale said, giving wavering identity to the body shifting in the current. Gallagher’s head spun. He feared the river would drag him down and never let him breach again for air.
Over her shoulder came the flashing blue lights of a state trooper vehicle, followed rapidly by another cruiser and then an ambulance. Nightingale had called them before driving back to the cabin. At the sight of the vehicles, her jaw quivered. The first break in her professional composure.
‘We’re going to bring him in,’ she said at last.
Two young rawboned troopers realized they were pulling the body ashore and waded out to help. One of the