So Cold the River (2010) Read Online Free Page A

room and began scanning through the DVD collection, looking for something to take his thoughts
     away. Something by one of his old favorites, Huston or Peckinpah, maybe. Yes, Peckinpah. Make it bloody and loud. That seemed
     right tonight.
    He’d watched
Straw Dogs
and had another Scotch and tried without success to sleep before he found himself back at the computer, researching again.
     He’d found there were matches for the correct Campbell Bradford—though it appeared in most formal circumstances he referred
     to himself as C. L. Bradford—but all of them had to do with his philanthropy. For a man of such great wealth, he’d lived a
     remarkably quiet existence. Eric couldn’t find so much as a short bio paragraph on the Web, just the name on list after list
     of contributors for various causes. His donations spanned a wide spectrum, too wide to tell Eric much about the man, but it
     was obvious he was partial to liberal politics and a supporter of the arts, particularly music. He’d made sizable donations
     to various community orchestras, but Eric noted that they seemed to be small or rural groups, with names like HendricksCounty Philharmonic, rather than the prestigious symphonies. Perhaps he assumed—correctly, no doubt—that the large ones were
     better funded.
    After cycling through pages of results without finding anything of interest, Eric went back and ran a search for Campbell
     along with the words “West Baden” and got nothing. He tried again with “French Lick” and was surprised to find three results.
     A closer look revealed all three were basically the same thing—a request for information on Campbell and a handful of others
     posted by an Indiana University graduate student named Kellen Cage. The student explained that he was researching the area’s
     history for a thesis and was hoping for any information about a handful of people—particularly, he’d written, Campbell Bradford
     and Shadrach Hunter. The latter name meant nothing to Eric. There was an e-mail address listed, though, so Eric went ahead
     and dropped him a note. If the kid was intrigued by Campbell, that meant he’d heard some stories already, which put him well
     ahead of Eric. And, for that matter, Campbell’s family.
    After exhausting the minimal possibilities for Campbell, he turned to searching for Pluto Water and soon found some old ads
     that he’d have to include in the film. They were priceless. Pluto Water cured damn near everything, it seemed. Alcoholism,
     asthma, obesity, paralysis, pimples, hives, influenza, insomnia, malaria, and venereal disease all made the list. It turned
     out the product was nothing more than a laxative, but even after that was known, the company still made millions bottling
     and selling it with the charming slogan
When nature won’t, Pluto will.
    The ads themselves were amazing things, too, perfect images of a time and place and people. Women in flowing gowns, men in
     suits, and that silly smiling devil always present. Eric was particularly taken with one of a man standing in front of a basin
     sink and mirror. In the illustration he looked back at himself inwhat appeared to be true and total horror, and the text beside his head read,
What’s wrong with me?
    He got to his feet, planning on another Scotch but then thought better of it. Maybe because the room reeled a little around
     him, maybe because he’d just seen the word
alcoholism
on those lists. Didn’t want to dance too close to that partner, no.
    But he was on his feet, and he felt like he was in search of something.
    The Pluto Water. He went into the living room and found his briefcase and opened it, wrapped his hand around the bottle. Still
     cold. Still
oddly
cold, in fact. How could water sit in a room for so long and never absorb its temperature? He hadn’t read anything about
     that quality in his research.
    “Curer of ills,” he said, running his thumb over the etchings. The water looked hideous, but millions