Dead River

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 McCaid Paul All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission by the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Audience: Ages 13+ | Summary: After seventeen-year-old Clayton Thomas discovers a dead body along the riverbank and a strange girl living alone in a houseboat, he soon learns trusting a stranger is his only chance for survival. Cover Illustration and book formatting by © 2023 Damonza Edited by Josh Vogt Author Photo by Amanda Bosenberg eBook ISBN: 978-1-7357299-5-4 Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7357299-6-1 Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-7357299-7-8 To my parents, as always And Watt Key, whose stories inspired me to write my own Contents 1: White-Skinned Creature 2: Carcass 3: A Natural Beast 4: Hidden Creek 5: Scarlett 6: Paranoia 7: Last Known Location 8: Something Sinister 9: River Men 10: Ms. Judy 11: A Million Questions 12: Face of a Fugitive 13: Betrayal 14: Dead River 15: A Bad Idea 16: Black Spots 17: Hideout 18: Telltale Sign 19: A Little Secret 20: Gone for Good 21: Suspicion 22: A Change of Scenery 23: Old News 24: In My Blood 25: Conspiracy 26: Dead or Alive 27: Death Wish 28: Hearsay 29: In the Dark 30: Smoke 31: Samantha 32: Intuition 33: Fear 34: Gunshot 35: Big Al 36: Questions 37: Radio Silence 38: Tattoo 39: Future Epilogue Acknowledgements About the Author 1 White-Skinned Creature I’m a mile out from the boat landing when I notice the yellow police tape fluttering in the breeze. Evidence of what happened here less than a month ago: a girl’s corpse found on the banks, bloated from days in the river, a logging chain laced around her ankles to weigh her down. The paper said she was my age, late teens. Her broken fingernails, lacerations, and chipped teeth proved that she hadn’t gone down without a fight. I’d heard the rumors, subjected to the hearsay a month ago when school was in session, all the lies teens tell in order to gain a leg up in the ladder of status and gossip. Some guys in my junior class claimed the girl was a prostitute who became involved with the wrong crowd, the wrong client. Others hinted that she was a drifter—someone who never stays in one place for too long. I know the type. Either way, it came as no surprise that as soon as the grisly murder hit the local press, the tragedy was the biggest news in the region. The story spanned miles, whispered about over steaming mugs of black coffee served several miles north of the Choctawhatchee at Delton Café—a place with more old men than menu items—and floated around the last month of school like the odor of burning hemp, encroaching and foul. It also came as no surprise that instead of staying far, far away from the scene of the crime, residents flocked to it, bringing with them teddy bears, bouquets of white orchids, and half-used candles, devoting a shrine of forgotten items to a lost girl. This morning, the scene is mostly submerged, several flower petals floating across the river’s calm surface. They’re the only sign that a girl’s screams stood no defense against the remoteness of the river-fed swampland. Homicides happen too often along the Choctawhatchee, but not often enough for the news to grow stale or for people to simply gawk and move on. The misfortunes fester for several weeks, until one day they’re reduced to several bolded words in a newspaper that no one reads. Forever a statistic. Forever a tragedy. Thirty-two. According to Google, that’s how many documented bodies have been found along the river through the years. Most of them are runaways—females barely out of high school. Others are unidentifiable, with no information in the database to link a name or face to the victim. Girls who—depending on those you asked—had it coming. Their cases are rarely solved. Overnight, the river level rose three feet. The culprit: two inches of rain three days ago in South Alabama. Now, the usual pale-gray water resembles a coffee brown, tainted with a hint of orange from the clay hills along the river. Shadows stretch across the muddy current. Brambles, vines, and palmettos rustle in the wind from the shore. In a couple hours, the June heat will become unbearable, the water level will begin to recede, and the harsh sun will pound down on the river until its surface glistens like fish scales. It’s been an hour without sign of other fishermen or boats roaring past. This is typical. No one comes here as often as I do. My aluminum, twelve-foot Jon boat picks up speed, wind tousling my brown hair, as I tear my gaze away from the all-too familiar crime scene. Most days, it’s a side glance in passing, a sight I’ve come to expect, like the looming cypress trees with knotted roots on either side of the bank or flocks of waterfowl resting in the overhead branches. Sometimes, like today, I can’t help but stare a second too long, drawn by the recollection of the black-and-white crime scene photos printed across the front page of The Delton Times, forever burned in my memory. Five miles from the landing, near a checkpoint known on my map as Hidden Creek, a strange sensation works its way down my spine, my palms tingling and the back of my neck prickling. It’s second nature to me now—this feeling of being watched. Maybe it’s due to the memorial of a dead girl or the thought that a killer still hasn’t been caught. Maybe it’s some subconscious alertness to nature. Whatever the cause, I’ve discovered that I