Free BURYING ZIMMERMAN (The River Trilogy, book 2) by Edward A. Stabler

forward wall, stands a
blackened rectangular coal stove with a vent pipe that runs up
through the ceiling. The stove door is ajar and the coals within
are orange. The wall is centered by a freestanding cupboard whose
open doors reveal shelves holding a few old cups and an oil lamp
that lights the room. The scow has been here for a month, and
scavengers must have taken whatever provisions its crew had
stocked.
    On my immediate left is a drop-leaf table
that folds down from the cabin's aft wall and projects its free end
into the cabin. It's lowered, and a pair of scarred wooden stools
face each other across the table top. Past the table two narrow
bunks are built into the port-side wall, one at knee level and one
just below the rib-high window. Rumpled blankets suggest both have
been recently used. Zimmerman sits on the edge of the lower bunk,
forearms resting on his knees and hands dangling toward the
floor.
    "Welcome, my friend," he says, looking up at
me with a lopsided smile. His prominent eyes stand out against the
sunken skin around them. If they were quick and blue thirty-one
years ago when he pulled me from the mine, they're now a watery
shade of pale as they pan slowly in the lamplight. Gray strands
sweep back across his age-spotted scalp, but most of his hair is
gone. I'm thirty-eight and he's Drew's age, which would make him
forty-nine. He looks much older. Heroin, I think, and probably
opium or morphine. And twenty-two years of uneasy miles since that
night in 1902.
    "I hope you come alone, Mr. Owens." His voice
has lost depth but retains the nasal notes and cadences of his
hill-country roots. "Your niece gave me a name I trust. The problem
is, she don’t know him. And she says you don’t know him. So maybe
you can tell me the missing piece.”
    I pull the nearest stool out and sit down,
facing him with my hands on the table. My heart thumps hard but
slower, seeking its normal rhythm, as the pistol pulls my coat
pocket toward the floor. I don’t know the name he’s referring to or
how Isabelle came up with it. She lives in the area and knows a few
questionable characters. But Zimmerman is admitting that he doesn’t
know the connection to the name he trusts either.
    “Clay Austin,” I answer. “A war hero from New
York, moved to California.” Hoping this pedigree leaves enough
possibilities open, I pluck the flask from my other pocket and
place it on the table. "Maybe you'll join me for a drink to friends
of friends."
    Zimmerman manages a wheezy laugh, then stands
up abruptly without using his hands. I reassess his condition; he's
weathered but not old or frail. He retrieves two battered tin cups
from the cupboard. Between the cupboard and the bunk is a counter
built into the cabin wall, under which sits a five-gallon cask that
I hadn't previously noticed. Zimmerman picks it up and deposits it
on the counter, then twists the tap open and fills each cup
halfway.
    "You'd fit right in with this crew," he says.
"These boys was bootleggers, heading home on an upstream run. They
must of sold what they was carrying in Georgetown. Left their boat
tied up at Swains and never come back after the flood. Don't matter
– they wasn't going anywhere with the canal blown out."
    He hands me one of the cups, kicks out the
stool across the table, and sits down. "I guess them fellers never
made it home, because kinfolk come looking for 'em a few weeks ago.
Found the boat but they was looking for something else – I never
heared what. There was cord-wood and a barrel with twenty gallons
still in it under one of the hatches, but they just let that lie.
Been helpful to some thirsty visitors."
    He squints at me like he's noticing
something, and I wonder if I look familiar. The walls of the cabin
seem to draw inward. I realize for the first time how small it is,
which makes my chest feel tight. I'm not ready to meet Zimmerman's
gaze or tell him who I am, so I glance at the contents in my cup
and lift it to my lips. The moonshine