Free So Cold the River (2010) by Michael Koryta

running with him at all times, bodyguards.
    “Well, after the market crashed, this whole town shut down and the cash flow vanished. ’Round that time, Shadrach Hunterwas murdered, and Campbell Bradford disappeared, leaving his family penniless.” Kellen spread his hands. “So, you can see
     where the myth developed. I’ve got some great stories about it but damn few facts. Was hoping you could offer some.”
    “All I’ve got is a dying old millionaire in Chicago who goes by the same name.”
    “No way it can be the same guy?”
    “He’s old, but he’s not a hundred and sixteen.”
    “Well, I’ll put you in touch with a man named Edgar Hastings tomorrow,” Kellen said. “I’ll be interested to see what he thinks.
     He knew the family, is one of the last people alive in this town who has clear memories of Campbell Bradford. Campbell’s got
     a great-grandson left in the area, too, but I won’t put you in touch with him.”
    There was a dry smile on his lips. Eric said, “What’s his deal?”
    “Oh, a bit on the surly side. Edgar warned me, said it would be best not to talk to him, but I ignored that advice and went
     to his house. Took about two minutes for him to run me off the place. Threw a beer bottle at my car as I was leaving.”
    “Charming.”
    “Hospitable, no question. But assuming he isn’t going to be more helpful with you than he was with me, Edgar’s all I have
     to offer.”
    “Okay.”
    “So, how’d you get into this business?” Kellen said. “Want to be a filmmaker all along, or was it a hobby that turned professional,
     or…?”
    He let his voice trail off, waiting, the question asked in absolute innocence, but Eric was feeling anger bleed through him.
I was a filmmaker,
he wanted to shout,
and if a few breaks had gone my way and a few assholes had stayed out of it, you’d be asking me for an autograph right now.
    “I went to film school,” he said, trying to keep his voice loose. “And then I worked out in California for a while. I was
     a director of photography on some stuff.”
    “Things I’d know?”
    Yes, things he would know. But if he named those, he saw the inevitable follow-up question—
What films have you worked on recently?
And what would Eric say to that?
Why, you mean you haven’t seen the Anderson wedding video? Or the Harrelson funeral piece? What, you live in a cave, man?
    “Probably not,” he said. “I couldn’t stick it out there, so I came back to Chicago and started doing my own thing.”
    Kellen nodded. “‘Director of photography’—what’s that mean, exactly?”
    “You run the cameras and the lighting crew. The director’s in charge of the film as a whole, obviously, but the DP is in charge
     of the images.”
    “Getting the ones the director wants?”
    Eric gave a small smile. “Getting the ones he needs. Sometimes those are the same. Sometimes they aren’t.”
    Kellen’s face was showing genuine interest, but Eric didn’t want to step any deeper into this conversation. He said, “You
     know, I’d actually like to get a few shots in here,” basically just to buy some silence.
    “You got plenty to work with,” Kellen said. “Check out the fireplace.”
    Eric turned to look at the fireplace near the bar. It, like the hotel, was both beautiful and massive. The facade was built
     out of river stones, with a mural painted across their surfaces. The mural depicted swirling blue waters and lush green fields,
     a small image of the hotel set back and to the left, behind a buckeye tree. In the upper-right corner, perched above the tumbling
     water, was Sprudel—the West Baden companion to French Lick’s Pluto,god of the underworld. He looked more like a gnome than a devil, but it was enough to remind Eric of the black train, and
     that sent a dark flourish through him. He
had
seen the train. No doubt about it. So what the hell did that mean? Was he losing his damn mind?
    “Was a time they burned fourteen-foot logs in there,”