Page 68 of Overkill

“When you live in the mountains, there are two places people go to misbehave and keep their secrets. One is the woods, and the other is on the water.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His broad shoulders and crooked back showed his age, but I was pretty sure he could still take me down if he wanted to.

The man likely came from a long line of hardy country folk. The kind that survived harsh winters and sweltering summers. The kind of men who walked among bears and called them friend and foe—and liked them as both.

“Those Grays…” He pretended to spit like he’d been chewing tobacco, then glared at me. “Those boys are some of the reasons I keep to myself. I hate it when they’re there, polluting my water. Hell, if it wasn’t for him rotting up the creek, I wouldn’t have bothered calling him in. I’d have just let him ride on down until the river met the Hudson and took that bastard out to sea so he could be sucked on by the bottom feeders where he would actually do some good.”

I cleared my throat and leaned back, placing my hands on my thighs and almost smiling. “Well, that certainly paints a picture.”

I wasn’t sure what use I could get from this meeting, but I owed Braun his money’s worth, so I continued.

“That fucking shirt.” He snorted. “You don’t forget something like that.”

I didn’t miss his snarl. Absolute and total hatred.

“When was the last time you saw him wearing that shirt?”

“Who hired you and Braun to look into this?” His gruff voice was starting to sound like something out of nightmares; the kind of country hermit with bodies lined up in his cabin. It didn’t help that thunder rolled in at the same moment, the lightning casting his wrinkles in dark shadows. “One of the Grays?”

I didn’t answer.

“Of course, it is. They can’t accept that anyone wants them dead. Too rich to see reality. But also too poor not to stab each other in the back. Rich enough to dress like they’ve got class, but rotten to the core.”

My leg bounced faster the more he talked. Something tugged at my brain. A vision, a thing I knew but didn’t want to know, so I chose not to know it.

Old Man Smithy must have seen him die.

It had already been ruled an accidental drowning. He was alone. On his boat. Drunk and on meds. The rowboat was found a year ago, just drifting out in the water without signs of foul play. Even the paddles were notched where they were supposed to be, with a cooler of whiskey and beer sloshing in the melted ice.

“You were the one who found his boat, weren’t you?” I asked.

Old Man Smithy…infamous around town for seeing everything on the water.

Knowing everyone’s business while keeping his mouth shut.

He lived alone, hated everyone, and kept to himself except for these two incidents.

I cleared my throat again as a lump started to form, and I asked the next question because I had to. I had to know. I didn’t want to know, though.

“What did you see the day you found his boat last year?” I started scratching lines onto the notepad. Deep, jagged lines. Just so my irritable, twitchy hands had something to do.

The old man’s graying eyes narrowed, his hands tightening around his coffee mug. I saw the subtle impression of a US Marine globe and anchor on the ceramic. A veteran. “Exactly what was said in the report.”

I watched his proverbial walls rise brick by brick.

“What wasn’t in the report?” I said, leaning forward and mirroring his aggressive stance.

He smiled. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile of a man who knew that I couldn’t make him do a damn thing he didn’t want to do.

“You couldn’t waterboard that shit out of me, boy.” His smile told me that he would reach out and punch me in the throat at any moment.

“Nah, I bet there’s nothing the water could do to hurt you. I bet a water god would come out of the river to save you.”

“That’s right.”

He knew something.

Refusing to confirm or deny was always a confirmation.

I pushed my paper and pen away. “Tell me what you saw. I’ll keep it a secret.”