Chapter 7: Shadows at the River Pump House
The county pump house sat on a concrete slab three hundred yards from the riverbank, surrounded by chain-link fencing topped with rusted barbed wire. It was a municipal utility building on paper, designed to regulate water flow to the defunct lumber mill three miles downstream. In practice, it had been converted into an off-the-books storage locker for people who needed to make things disappear without leaving a paper trail through the county clerk's office. A single Ford pickup truck sat parked beside the rusted loading bay, its radiator clicking as the engine block cooled in the damp night air.
Marcus cut our headlights fifty yards short of the gate, killing the Ford Explorer's ignition and rolling silently into a thicket of scrub oak. The forest was dead quiet except for the distant rush of the river over the spillway and the rhythmic croak of bullfrogs in the reeds.
"Trooper Higgins and I take the front perimeter," Marcus whispered, unholstering his sidearm with a soft metallic click that sounded too loud in the stillness. "You and Miller flank the utility door on the east side. If anyone comes out that door holding a weapon, you put them on the ground. No warnings."
I checked the weight of the heavy steel flashlight in my right hand, my knuckles scarred and calloused from years of gripping steering wheels and heavy iron gates. "They're not expecting state police, Marcus. They're expecting local deputies who know when to look the other way."
"All the more reason they'll be jumpy," Marcus muttered, opening his door with slow, deliberate care.
We moved through the underbrush, boots sinking silently into the damp mulch until we reached the concrete foundation of the pump house. The building smelled of stale bilge water, creosote, and cheap cigarette smoke. A yellow sliver of light leaked from beneath the heavy steel utility door on the east side, accompanied by the low hum of an electric generator working overtime inside.
May you like
I pressed my back against the rough cinder block wall beside the door, listening. Faintly, through the insulated metal, I heard a man's voice cursing under his breath—a sharp, gravelly rasp that belonged to someone who had spent too many years shouting orders across county commission tables. It wasn't Arthur Vance, but it was someone wearing his coat.
I caught Marcus's eye across the doorway. He raised three fingers, counting down silently. Two. One.
