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CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
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CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE F rank drove the dirt lane alongside Chesterton's cornfield, heading down to the river, the truck bumping and sliding in and out of ruts. What had happened back on the road left him edgy and tight, but in some ways he felt better than he had in a long time. He'd been swinging at ghosts for months now and finally one had stood still long enough to get hit. He understood he'd made the man pay for the collective sins of others but devils and wolves ran in packs and he'd been lucky to catch one out alone. The corn over here looked as sodden and flooded-out as it did anywhere else in the county. Ahead lay the sparse trees that lined the river. Under them was the big gravel bar where he'd launched his boat for years. Under the river was the bedrock even the current had been slow to erode, and so it ran shallower here, and in the fall or late summer it gurgled as it rolled over beds ofstone. Music ofwater. The air felt cool in the shade ofthese old trees that had withstood hundreds offloodings. The river was still high, the water brown. Not much gurgling today-more a constant thrum of energy. He was about ten miles upstream from his place-far enough away from the proposed dam that he didn't think the reservoir would change this stretch. Just downriver from here ran a series ofbends and cutbacks where the river carved nasty, deep holes into itself Spots where the current ate away at the banks trying to withhold it. Bankside trees leaned when their roots were exposed and dislodged by the swirling water, and then the trees themselves would topple and be swept downstream until they piled on the outer edges ofmassive bends. Catfish country. Ifhe rode the river the better part ofa day he'd end up on his own farm. He'd done that many times, fishing the whole run, but he usually fished the piece just below this gravel bar. Sometimes he wondered about dropping a stopped bottle in the river here-how long would it take to reach his woods? In his more romantic youth he'd toyed with the idea ofsending a message downriver to Ethel. Like so many things, that was an idea he'd run out of time for. But even in times like these the river lifted him up. He launched his boat and tied a rope from the bow eye to a tree standing above the bank. He parked his truck and trailer up by the cornfield, in case the river rose while he fished. The outboard started fine so he levered it into gear and the boatjoined the current. The farther downstream he went the deeper he got into land being claimed. He understood what would become of the river when the lake consumed it. Every dammed reservoir had a channel winding like a snake under its surface. Channels were flooded rivers. This river would always exist-even these logjams and cutbanks would remain, hidden under many 307 308 Greg Schwipps feet of water. He knew he was passing good spots to fish but still he motored on. Here was where they'd netted Catfish from the river. He put the motor in neutral and the boat drifted until the bow nudged the cliffofdirt that rose six vertical feet from the water. Swallows darted in and out ofholes in this soil. Above him towered rows ofcorn, planted right to the edge ofthe bank. The stern of the boat spun around slowly and he felt it lodge against the root ball of a sunken tree. He remembered how the man had looked when they'd come across him that day, how they'd wondered what he was throwing into the water. He thought ofhis dog now. He felt again the cane in his hand, colliding with that man's spine. He didn't think he'd killed him. He didn't really care if he had but he wondered if they could trace it back to him. It'd be a hell ofa thing, to go to prison at his age. Ethel would never forgive him. But as long as he lived, even if they came and hauled him away in a squad car, he wasn't going to feel any guilt. Ifhe could change one thing, he wished Catfish had been along to...