Page 13 of The River We Remember

“Gordon Landis won’t like this,” Felix said.

“Let me worry about Landis. But, Felix, promise me you’ll be at the courthouse Monday morning at nine. And no alcohol in the meantime.”

“What about my dinner?”

“Scott’s here with your fried chicken. Just go back to the Wagon Wheel with him and you can eat it there. Tell Angie it’s still on the county’s tab.”

Although Felix left with Scott Madison, he didn’t look particularly thrilled with the idea of freedom, probably not sure what to do with it, but he was clearly eager to dig into the dinner Angie had prepared for him. Asa Fielding glanced at the big round wall clock and said, “Lots of ground to check before dark. Maybe we should bring Connie in on this.”

Conrad “Connie” Graff was the previous sheriff of Black Earth County. For nine years, Brody had served as his deputy, then Graff’s wife had become seriously ill and Graff had decided that taking care of her was more important than being sheriff. In the election that followed, Gordon Landis ran against Brody for the office. Graff threw his support to Brody, who’d won easily. After Graff’s wife died, Brody brought Graff back onto the force as a periodic deputy, often using him to cover when Brody or Fielding needed a little vacation time, or when some extraordinary event demanded additional law enforcement presence.

“Good idea,” Brody said. “Give him a call.”

Asa picked up the phone and dialed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE ALABASTER ALWAYS had a thriving fish population—those ravenous channel catfish, of course, but also bullheads, carp, bass, shovelnose sturgeon, even the occasional walleye, and probably a lot more that savvy fishermen could name. There were fast channels in the river, deep holes, areas of snag, and where you fished depended on what you hoped to catch.

Brody didn’t know what Quinn went fishing for on the day he disappeared. That left pretty much the entire Alabaster below Jewel to be checked.

It was still a few hours until sunset when he pulled his cruiser to the side of the road at the east end of the bridge on the old Soldier Highway. The road was so named because, when it was little more than a couple of ruts across prairie land, it had served as a major military route during the Dakota War of 1862.

Conrad Graff was already there, sitting on the flatbed of his old pickup, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. Graff was tall, slender, as tough as jerky. His eyes were the gray of a gun barrel, and his nose was hawked, set in a face gone to leather from age and the summer suns and the bone chill of winter winds. He wore the khaki pants that had been part of his uniform as sheriff and above them a faded blue Pendleton work shirt rolled up to his biceps, which still had the look of steel. A beat-to-hell gray Stetson shaded his face.

Brody exited his cruiser. Hector jumped out behind him and shot toward the high wild grass that edged the pavement, where he lifted his leg to pee.

“Where’s Fielding?” Graff said as Brody approached.

“I told him to check the trestle on his way out. Good fishing spot.”

Graff let out a stream of smoke the color of his Stetson. “Jimmy Quinn. Shotgunned.” He shook his head. “Pissed off half the men in this county at one time or another, but a shotgun? Hell of a way to take care of a slight.”

Brody put his hands on the flatbed, lifted himself, and sat beside Graff. “We don’t know what’s happened, Connie.”

Graff laughed. “Yeah, officially. Me, I’m well and truly done with ‘officially.’ I can say whatever the hell I please.”

Initially, Brody had asked Graff to come back as a part-time deputy out of affection and loyalty because he thought he would be doing his old boss a favor. As a widower, Graff had seemed a little lost, uncertain what to do with himself. But Brody had found the older law officer to be full of sage advice and helpful in so many ways that he annually budgeted a significant sum to ensure Graff would continue to be a presence on the force when needed.

“You’re still officially a deputy, a sworn officer of the law.”

“You want my badge?” Graff grinned from under the shadow of his hat brim.

“I want your discretion, Connie.”

After finishing his business, Hector dashed to the bridge and began sniffing his way around the abutments.

“You talk to his family?” Graff said.

“Of course.”

“How’d they take it?”

“Stoic, I’d say.” Brody’s eyes scanned the line of trees that marked the Alabaster’s course all the way to the southern horizon. “When Asa gets here, if he didn’t find anything at the trestle, I figure we’ll work our way south down to the pool where Quinn’s body got hung up. You and Asa take the east side of the Alabaster, I’ll take the west.”

“A lot of river to cover with a lot of foliage that could hide a truck. Might take a good long while.”

“Got something better to do?”