So Cold the River (2010) Read Online Free

bottle at all, but he accepted it when she pushed it across the table, wrapped his hand around it and felt
     that unnatural penetrating cold from within.
    “What do you have in that purse, dry ice?”
    “It always feels that way, actually,” she said. “I don’t understand why. Something about the mineral content? Or maybe that
     old glass.”
    He put the bottle in his briefcase and refilled his coffee while she wrote him a five-thousand-dollar check, keeping his palm
     pressed against the warm side of the mug until she’d signed it and torn it free and handed it to him.

3
    I T WAS THE SORT of story that begged for telling, and with the addition of those wild, extravagant hotels in so rural a place, it was a story
     with a strong visual component. Perfect for film. Maybe this could go somewhere beyond the Bradfords. Maybe, if he did it
     right, this could open some doors that had swung shut in his face out in L.A.
    Before even setting foot in the town, Eric had swiftly developed a sort of possessive fear about the place, a worry that somebody
     else was going to get there first. The stories he’d found in his first pass of research were countless. Rich and poor, gangsters
     and politicians, the explosion and then death of the passenger trains, Prohibition and the effects of the stock-market collapse—all
     of it had swirled through these bizarre little towns. They were a microcosm, really, a story of America. It was a chance to
     do something real again.
    Alyssa Bradford called him three days after their meeting tosay he could check into the West Baden Springs Hotel on the first Friday of May. That was just one week away, and she’d arranged
     for him to have his first—maybe his only, depending on the man’s health—chance to talk with Campbell Bradford on the Thursday
     prior. Alyssa warned that the old man was not well, might not be able to communicate. Eric said he still wanted to give it
     a shot.
    Claire called that night, and when he saw her number on the caller ID, he felt flushed with relief and gratitude—it had been
     a week since they’d spoken, and each day was drawing longer and harder on him. Then she said, “I was just calling to check
     on you,” and that was all it took to erase the positive feelings. Calling to check on him? Like he was suicidal or something
     now that they weren’t together, incapable of maintaining a life without her in it?
    He made a few cutting remarks, threw in one jab about her father, and guided her toward an early hang-up like a dog herding
     cattle toward an open gate. When she invited him to give her a call in a few days, he said not to count on it.
    “I’m headed out of town for a while,” he said. “Few weeks, maybe a month.”
    “Spontaneous vacation?” she said after a beat of silence.
    “Work.”
    “And where are you going?”
    “Indiana,” he said, biting off the word with pain.
    “How exotic.”
    “It’s a hell of a story. Believe it or not, those don’t always come from Maui or Manhattan.”
    “I’m just kidding. Tell me about the story.”
    “Maybe later. I’ve got a lot to do, Claire.”
    “Okay.” Her voice had some sorrow in it, and that pleased him. “Well, I hope it goes great for you, whatever it is.”
    He swung a closed fist toward the wall, pulled the punch at the last minute, and landed it with a soft thump, no real pain.
     Damn her
hopes
for him, her well wishes, and her blessings.
    “I’m sure that it will,” he said. “I’ve got a good feeling about it. Things just seem to be looking up for me lately.”
    That was a cruel parting line, and he knew from her frigid
Good-bye, Eric,
and the click of the breaking connection that it had scored a direct hit. He turned off his phone and went to the kitchen
     and poured himself two fingers of Scotch.
No, hell with it, pour four.
He dropped an ice cube into that—
Water the drink down a touch, and the quantity becomes no problem at all, right?
—and then went into the living