Blood River Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Newsletter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

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  Blood River

  Douglas Pratt

  Blood River is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Douglas Pratt

  All rights reserved.

  For Ashlee, I love you

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  1

  No matter how much I keep running, I find I still hate it. Two miles into this run, and I was already considering new activities. I only recently started jogging every day. Age was quickly making daily exercise a necessity, especially if I didn’t plan to change my lecherous ways. For anyone who doesn’t know me, let me promise that I will die from those aforementioned lecherous ways. Perfectly pickled for eternity. Since I don’t want that to be this year, I opted to start running.

  Regrettably, I can tell a difference, so I can’t quit. A few years ago, I was pretty soft around the middle. The running has actually helped me lose that cushion. As much as I hate the running part, I do enjoy eating and drinking. Lots of drinking. I haven’t found a good diet that lets me continue to eat carbs, drink bourbon, and eat bacon. Jogging allows me to eat what I want. I still don’t like it. I’m considering adding swimming so I don’t have to run every day. In case anyone does not fully understand me, I hate running.

  The light was at the end of the tunnel. My street was one block away. When I finish this last block, I can leisurely walk the last half a block. Sweat dripped in my eyes, another thing about running I hate. When I break a sweat, it’s like a geyser. Every part of me sweats, and I end up drenched. Yet one more reason to consider swimming as a viable option.

  Stopping at the corner, I turned and caught my breath. My house was at the other end of the street, about fifteen houses down. A little blue Toyota sat in front of my house. That wasn’t unusual lately. I had put the house up for sale a few weeks ago. After a forced remodel of my kitchen last October, I decided that the house was too big for just me. With the house so recently listed on the market, lots of cars had stopped to look at it.

  I crossed the street behind the Toyota which was still sitting there. It was an older Corolla model with a fair number of dings and scratches. The woman in the driver’s seat was in her early thirties with short brown hair. As I walked past, I noticed the back seat filled with clothes and trash. She didn’t strike me as the type to buy in this neighborhood.

  I know, I sound so judgmental. I’m really not, I just make observations. My house is located in an upscale neighborhood in east Memphis. That sounds a bit pretentious, and while that can be true about me. I recognize my own faults. I just don’t go out of my way to fix them. The truth was, I bought the house while it was in foreclosure at a rock bottom price. Initially, I had hopes of one day having a family in a big house, but those aspirations were beginning to fade. I’d rather take my money out of the house while I can. That why my asking price was high enough that I ouldc avoid those low-ballers. I have no mortgage on it, so I am in no rush to sell. I’m probably just about the last guy left that is trying to make money off his house.

  All this means, a woman driving a 2006 or 2007 Toyota Corolla with fairly balding tires doesn’t seem to fit the asking price. Crap, I still sound judgmental. Never mind, ignore me. I apologize to anyone driving a Toyota Corolla. I understand Warren Buffet drove a 2006 Cadillac until recently.

  I opened the front door and turned at the sound of the car door opening. The brown-haired woman got out. She was thin, but toned as if she stayed active, and not by doing a daily run. Maybe I should ask her what her routine was. She was wearing a peasant blouse that had been white. The top had a yellow tint to it as if it never went into the bleach load. She wasn’t tall, maybe a little shorter than me. She was wearing cut-off jeans that had not been bought at the store as cut-offs. The strings on the bottom weren’t uniform, which I immediately forgot because she had stunningly good legs that curved down to the dollar store flip-flops she was wearing.

  “Hello,” she said. Her voice had a rasp to it that sounded natural.

  “Hi,” I responded. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, are you Max?” she asked as she approached me.

  “Yes.”

  She extended her hand. “I’m Jess. I’m Leo’s cousin.”

  “I’m super sweaty,” I explained when I didn’t take her hand.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I don’t mind sweat.”

  I took her hand. She took care of her skin, but it wasn’t soft like some people who don’t do anything. She was active but tried to moisturize.

  I asked, “What can I do for you? I haven’t talked to Leo in a few weeks.”

  Leo was a friend of mine. We met a couple of years ago and had become immediate friends. He was a former Marine Recon, although he didn’t talk about his service much. He talked even less about the work he does now, which is mostly private security. I like to assume he overthrows governments for people, but I really don’t know.

  “Yes, he’s out of the country. Said he couldn’t get back for a while.”

  See, overthrowing a government takes time.

  “What can I do for you then?”

  She sighed. “He told me you would help me.”

  She was right. Leo was one of my closest friends, and he helped me with a few things in the last couple of years. We developed a camaraderie. He was the one who got me running, so that part of our friendship is debatable. He practically forced me to run with him. I couldn’t keep up. For the first two weeks, he hounded me like a drill sergeant to push myself.

  “Want to come inside?” I asked. “I need some water.”

  She followed me in the house. “You have a nice place,” she commented.

  “Thanks, want to buy it?” I asked as I shut the door behind her.

  She laughed. “Probably out of my price range. Why are you moving?”

  “Too big for me. Want something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” she said. “Where will you move to?”

  I rummaged through the cabinet for a glass. “You know, I haven’t decided. I might just get an apartment. I bought the house years ago thinking by now I’d have kids or a wife or a dog. Seems like a waste.”

  “I get that,” she said somberly confirming my suspicion that she was single and childless.

  My brand new refrigerator, which I had to buy after someone shot my last one, dispenses ice cold water. My last fridge came with the house and was over twenty years old. Although it was big and nice for its time, it didn’t give me cold water, and since the guy at the store didn’t sell one that dispensed chilled bourbon, I opted for this one.

  “So what kind of help do you need?” I asked Jess as I took a drink.

  “My brother has gone missing. Leo said that you are good at finding things.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’m good at stirring pots until something comes to the top.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “I mean, if it’s a case of lost keys, then I’m not very good. If someone took your keys, then I sometimes ask the right person the right question and the answer I’m looking for comes up.”

  “Oh,” she said, “that works?”

  “Not always to my benefit, but sometimes.”

  “Will you help me?” she asked.

  “Leo told you I would, didn’t he?”

  She nodded. “I wasn’t sure you actually would. Leo’s kinda a hero to me.”

  “I can see how that would be true. He’s inspiring,” I thought about my jogging. “Now, tell me about your brother.”

  I gestured for her to follow me to the den.

  She sat down on the couch. “Chad was cruising the Great Loop. You know, it’s the path that goes around the east coast and comes back down the Mississippi River to the Gulf.”

  “I know the Great Loop,” I said sitting in the recliner. I had actually looked into doing the same trip a few years back. I couldn’t talk Lisa into going with me.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said shaking my head. My facial muscles sometimes react without my consent.

  Jess continued, “So, he called a few weeks ago from Cairo, Illinois. He was supposed to be in Me
mphis a week later. He’s over three weeks late.”

  “Have you contacted the Army Corps?” I asked. The Army Corps of Engineers has maintained the river since the early 1900s. I wasn’t sure what their role in a search and rescue might be, but it seemed to me to be the first step.

  “I did. They haven’t had any reports, but without knowing where he might be, they cannot conduct a search. The police in Cairo confirmed he left the port the day after I talked to him. That was May 3rd.”

  “Did he have an itinerary?”

  “General one. He was in no rush. So, even if he was late getting to Memphis, I wasn’t worried.”

  “How often did you talk to him?” I asked.

  “Not much. Every few weeks. We are close, but he’s been something of a loner since his divorce.”

  “So, is it possible he is just holed up in the mouth of a river somewhere?” I asked.

  “I hope so, but I’ve called his cell phone for weeks. It just goes to voicemail.”

  “What kind of boat does he have?”

  “He built it himself. It’s a twenty-five-footer. He called it a shanty boat. It is supposed to be able to go in less than two feet of water. He wanted to be able to explore some of the tributaries and smaller rivers.”

  “Impressive. Did it have a name?”

  “He named it after his daughter, Sarai.”

  “Alright, let me take a shower. We can start to figure out where he might be.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You aren’t from Memphis, are you?”

  “No, I live in Missouri. Well, my address is there. I like to travel.”

  “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Not yet, I just drove in today.”

  “Alright, make yourself comfortable. We will get on this.”

  She smiled a crooked smile.

  2

  After a quick shower, I threw on a pair of shorts and buttoned down shirt before heading back downstairs to find Jess sitting in the same spot I left her.

  “Sorry for that,” I said, “it doesn’t take me long to go bad.”

  She smiled. “No, thank you for your hospitality.”

  “You haven’t even seen my hospitality. On every third Sunday, I host a champagne brunch with a little jazz trio that sets up in that corner” I said with a grin.

  “Really?” she asked.

  “No, I’m just kidding,” I said. “Can I get you anything? Maybe some breakfast?”

  “No, thank you,” she responded with courtesy. I guess it’s down to business.

  “When did your brother leave on his trip?”

  “A year and a half ago.”

  “Wow, sounds like a great adventure. Was that like a bucket list thing?”

  “Maybe, we both like to live outside the bounds,” she said. “Probably why Gretchen left him.”

  “Is Gretchen the ex-wife?”

  “Yeah, about four years ago, she took their daughter and left one night.”

  “How old is his daughter?”

  “She’d be ten now. He never gets to sees her.”

  “He doesn’t have custody?” I asked.

  “Gretchen took Sarai up to Pennsylvania and sued for custody.” Jess pulled on a strand of her hair.

  “Ouch,” I muttered. “That sucks.”

  Jess shrugged. She spoke about Gretchen like one discusses the weather or Minor League Baseball.

  “You call the police in Cairo? They confirmed he left, right?”

  “Yes, they reported him leaving on May 3rd. That was the last anyone saw him.”

  “What are the chances that he just kept going? Maybe he didn’t stop in Memphis at all, and he’s just pushing into the Gulf of Mexico now.”

  Jess sighed. “It’s not that it would be that odd. Like I said, he and I don’t hear the same drum as everyone else. But, I think he would touch base with someone, and he would answer his phone or return a phone call. That’s unusual. Besides after Memphis, there is a very long stretch with no marinas to stop in. Not that it couldn’t be done, but it is unlikely.”

  “After Cairo, where would he stop next?”

  “He could have pulled into lots of inlets or tributaries. The only cities though are New Madrid, Caruthersville, and Osceola. If he needed fuel or supplies then those are the next three he could have hit before getting to Memphis.”

  “Let’s then say that he most likely stopped in one of three populated areas. I wonder if we could find others doing the same trip that saw him?”

  She shrugged. I got up and grabbed my tablet out of the kitchen. When I returned, she looked a little lost sitting on a stranger’s couch. I sat back down and pressed the sleep button.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “Last year, I rented a bareback boat down in the Florida Keys. I found several forums for people cruising the islands with tips and anchorages. I imagine there are some similar forums for the loop.”

  Jess nodded. “I didn’t think about that.”

  “You say you march to your own drummer, too?” I asked as I searched the all-knowing Google.

  “Yeah, you could say so. My mother tells me I’m homeless. I don’t have a regular job. I spend most of my nights in a tent. Everything I own is in that piece of shit car out there.”

  “That’s different if you choose it. That’s not homeless. You do it by choice, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. I don’t want a nine-to-five job that sucks the life out of me. Working forty to fifty hours to enjoy maybe ten each week. Being too tired on the weekend to go out and hike a mountain or kayak. Nope, not my cup of tea.”

  I smiled. “I can’t blame you. What do you do to keep gas in the car, then?”

  “I prostitute myself at truck stops, of course.” She grinned at her joke. “At least, that’s what my family thinks. Actually, I write a blog, which doesn’t do much, but it does gas up the car. I’m going to put it together and write a memoir someday. I find a lot of side jobs, too. Waitress, farm hand, maid. Spent one whole summer in Arizona camping on a cattle ranch. All I had to do was open a gate once a day so the cattle would move to a different field. Paid $100 a week and free space. Had water from a pump, a nice stock pond filled with bream, and rabbits galore.”

  “That sounds amazing. All alone?”

  “Yeah, I don’t miss people much, and I didn’t spend a dime for three and half months. James, the rancher, would pop by once a week. His wife would send me a pie or cake and a stack of books. And the stars were amazing. They were so bright and scattered across the sky.”

  I shook my head in awe. “Why not cruise with your brother?”

  “I would have. It’s a great trip, but this was his time to clear his head. He tried to conform for Gretchen. We were both just born with this wanderlust, which is weird because our parents are the biggest homebodies. They don’t even like going to Mexican restaurants. Too spicy and the waiters’ accents are just too much.

  “Anyway, he kept trying to get Gretchen to take an adventure. She would go camping or canoeing, but that was the extent. She considered a hotel without Wi-fi to be roughing it. One day she had enough, I guess. He came home from work to find her and Sarai gone. When he tried to fight the custody or at least get visitation, he found out that Gretchen had been having an affair. Sarai wasn’t even his. He lost his wife and his daughter in one fell swoop.”

  “That’s tough.”

  Jess added, “He tried to still see Sarai. As far as he was concerned, he raised her for six years, and she was his daughter. The courts didn’t care and said he had no rights. Gretchen moved to Philly with Sarai, and he hasn’t seen her since.”

  I felt sorry for him. I was a teenager when my parents died, and I missed having them still. Growing up without a father would be tough on Sarai. I can’t even fathom how hard it was for Chad to not see his daughter.

  I had been searching the internet for some information while Jess talked. I thought I found what could be a starting point, a website devoted to the Great Loop. Loopers, as people who cruise it, are called, can register in the forums and leave updates on the best places to anchor or visit.

  “Here we go,” I said. “I might have something we can work with.”

  Scrolling through the forum, I found a post about May 5th from Captain Charlie about an anchorage north of New Madrid. He recommended the backside of an island, he said was Island No. 8. I clicked his name and found that I could send him a message.