Dead Float Read Online Free

your understanding, not your permission. I’ve committed to go for six months.”
    Her words stung like a slap in the face. It hurt to be left out of the loop, even if she was twenty-three years old. But I knew my daughter. There’d be no changing her mind, so I swallowed my next point of argument. “Can’t blame me for worrying. It’s in my job description. Look, sweetheart, I’m damn proud of you. And I know your mother would be, too.”
    Brave words, but down in my gut I had an uneasy feeling, like things had just tilted away from me a little. Sure, I was proud. Sure, I wanted her to have the courage of her convictions. But digging wells in Darfur?
    Later that afternoon, I sat in the living room watching another squall sweep in. I thought about Alexis. I thought about her rings and diamond-studded bracelets, her powder blue Jag with the soft leather seats, her spoiled, self-centered poutiness. As the feeble December light died, I picked up the phone and ended it between us.

Chapter Four
    The motel radio alarm buzzed at six the next morning. By 6:35, I was juggling a cup of acrid motel coffee in my car while I called Well Spring on my cell. I was relieved when a live human answered. I explained my situation to the receptionist, who immediately put me through to the director of operations.
    â€œChad Harrelson.” He sounded young, too young.
    â€œUh, this is Calvin Claxton. I’m Claire Claxton’s father. She’s a volunteer on one of your teams in northern Darfur.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Claxton.” He paused for me to go on. This encouraged me in a sense. Apparently he had no shattering news. On the other hand, I sensed I wasn’t going to get much from this guy.
    â€œShe’s supposed to call me every Sunday. She’s, uh, four days late. I’m wondering if you’ve heard from her team?”
    â€œJust a moment, Mr. Claxton.” I heard his chair squeak and the click of computer keys. “Yes, she’s with Jerry Baker’s team. Let’s see, Jerry checked in last Saturday. Everything was copasetic.” He paused again.
    â€œSo, I shouldn’t worry that I haven’t heard from her?”
    â€œNo. Not at all. It happens all the time with our field teams. Communicating in northern Darfur is difficult at best. Satellite phones are great, but they aren’t very reliable.”
    I felt somewhat reassured, but not much. “I’m leaving on a three-day fishing trip and will only be in cell phone range tonight when we camp. I’m, uh, trying to decide whether to go or not.”
    â€œMr. Claxton, I wouldn’t worry about this. Go on your trip. We’ll take good care of your daughter.”
    I paused for what must have seemed a long time to Harrelson. “I’d like to call you tonight to see if you have any news.”
    â€œSure,” Harrelson replied. “I’ll give you my cell number. Call me anytime. Don’t worry, Mr. Claxton. This isn’t unusual.”
    Okay, I’m going, I decided. I should’ve felt better. After all, with any luck, word from Claire would be waiting for me tonight or at worst, when I got back. But I didn’t feel better. Instead, I sat staring out across the mesquite-covered landscape, absently pulling at my mustache with my thumb and forefinger. The knot that had quietly formed in my gut tightened, and suddenly the coffee turned undrinkable. I opened the car door and poured it on the asphalt.
    I headed north out of Madras and after a few miles turned onto a dirt road that angled off through a section of farmland made verdant by the water pumped up from the Deschutes River. Originating on the eastern slopes of the Cascades, the river traversed two hundred and fifty miles of high-desert terrain before emptying into the Columbia. I slowed to keep the dust down, thankful I wasn’t following anyone in. When I saw the narrow, wooden train trestle with Barlow Northern