Death accidental.
But his father’s demise had always puzzled him. Brian Walker knew every inch of Eagle Lake. Particularly the limbs that guarded Brooks Creek. It was one of his favorite spots. His skiff, the same one they were now using, came specially equipped with an electric trolling motor to allow maneuvering inside the tight confines. He and Paula had given him the motor for Christmas.
The skiff eased to the limbs, the oak six to eight inches in diameter, even thicker than he remembered. The branches still spanned the creek’s entire expanse. Grant reached out and grabbed hold. He thought he should be honest, particularly since he didn’t know how much their grandmother had told them.
“My dad’s head hit those branches.”
James looked at them in awe. “They’re big.”
The clearance from the bottom edge to the top of the water was about four feet. Just enough for the skiff to squeeze beneath. He glanced at the outboard. It should make it too.
“Grant, lie down in front. You too, James.”
Both boys did as they were told and he paddled under the limbs, ducking as they passed overhead.
They came out the other side into a pool.
“This was one of my daddy’s favorite spots.”
“Are there lots of fish here?” Grant asked.
“Not this time of day. The water’s too hot, so the fish head out to the open lake. Mornings and evenings are the best time to fish here.” He only knew that because his father taught him.
“Was your daddy here in the morning time?”
“Just after dawn. He liked to fish then.”
He glanced around the pool, its quiet shoreline still blanketed in dense forest, the water forming a narrow canyon between stands of tall vegetation. A tiny beach eased down to the water on the far side of the pool. The place was hot and eerie. A shudder shot down his spine.
“Let’s fish here,” Grant said.
“No, son.”
And not just because the fish were in cooler water. Something else about Brooks Creek bothered him. Hard to describe. A strange feeling. “We’ll go back out in the lake. Like I said, the fish are all out there this time of day anyway.”
He turned the skiff around and paddled back toward the gate of limbs.
On the other side, before cranking the outboard, he glanced back past the limbs toward the pool.
And never wanted to see that place again.
6:15P.M.
HANK SPED NORTH ONGEORGIA 16A.THE STRETCH OF HIGHWAYhad been funded by the state as a way to provide four-laned efficiency to commercial traffic in rural, outlying areas, the route from Savannah to Augusta through Woods County, into Screven, then Burke, and finally Richmond County a much-welcomed addition. He vividly recalled its opening, how eighteen-wheelers thatonce regularly roared through downtown Concord started bypassing it, taking with them their noise and pollution.
Woods County was a near perfect rectangle of three hundred square miles and carried the distinction of being the smallest county of Georgia’s 159. Down the entire length of its western boundary ran the muddy Ogeechee River. The more majestic Savannah River formed the eastern boundary of both the county and Georgia. Its northern and southern extremes were nondescript straight lines that, on maps, connected the two rivers and divided Woods from Effingham to the south and Screven to the north.
Highway 16A bisected north to south and County Road 30 spanned east to west, dividing the land into four distinct quarters. The southwest portion was dominated by farms and Eagle Lake. The northwest by Solomon Swamp. The southeast held Concord, the mill, the bag plant, and a majority of the population. And the northeast was almost totally owned by Southern Republic, the acreage gradually transformed over the past thirty years into a sprawling pine tree expanse. Interspersed among the huge company forests were private tracts, land owned by families who’d possessed title for over a century, perennially refusing to sell. Toward the extreme northeast corner, spilling over into southeast Screven County, lay a tract of old-growth timber that Southern Republic had intentionally saved from harvesting.
Hickory Row.
Hank knew all about the three thousand lush acres. They were originally bought for the hardwood and christened after the bushy trees that dominated the site. Ultimately, they were turned into a corporate playground.
Stables housed thoroughbreds for breeding and riding. A quail farm produced birds by the thousands, and manicured fields among the trees comfortably accommodated their slaughter. Four massive lakes dug into the sandy clay helped with drainage and were stocked for fishing around which wound nine holes of golf. Two lodges and many individual cottages quartered guests. Three impressive houses provided a residence for each of SouthernRepublic’s owners. A staff of 150 kept everything gorgeous and catered to both owners and guests. The entire acreage was fenced on three sides, the fourth protected by the Savannah River. To ensure both privacy and a perpetual view, the company bought all the adjoining acreage on the South Carolina side and left it dense forest.
Hickory Row, though, was more than a private refuge. It also served a corporate function, its lodges and cottages routinely filled with customers wowed with luxury then lured by the sales department into lucrative paper deals while quail hunting, fishing, playing golf, or riding the trails.
Hank slowed his pickup and approached the main gate. He provided the uniformed guard his name and was waved through. He declined a road map, as he knew his way around.
