Cold River Resurrection by Enes Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

door.
    “Put them where we talked about,” Alvarez said, “by morning.”
     
    Leticia Morales drove her aging Ford Taurus as fast as she dared, the coche shaking violently when she drove over 100 kilometers per hour. She was one of the few vehicles on the Blvd Luis Encinas Freeway as she sped through the dark morning toward the center of Hermosillo.
    It was 5:15 in the morning and she was going to be late for a breakfast meeting at the hospital. She still had to drop her kids off at a friend’s house on the way. Her four year old daughter was sleeping in the back seat, her five year old son munching cereales next to her in the front. The sun was coming up behind her as she flew past the Universidad de Sonora, took the off ramp and stopped for a traffic light in front of the museum, the formal columns guarding the massive front doors.
    Something dripped on her windshield. Reddish black, thick, like softened ice cream. She reached for the wiper switch when another drop hit the window in the center, this time a splatter. Aves? Bird?
    She tapped her foot and waited for a bus to cross. Her son leaned forward and craned his head to look up above the car, his right hand poised to reach for more cereal. He pointed.
    “ Madre, La Mordida .” He waved up at whatever it was above the car.
    “ Madre , muy feo, rostro ,” he said, excited now, and Leticia thought he said, “Halloween.”
    She leaned forward and looked up as another large splatter of goo hit her windshield, and there was something up there, two something’s hanging from the stop light.
    Cabeza? A head. A cabeza with a policia’s hat.
    Cabezas, two of them, severed, blackened.
    Two severed heads, swinging from the stop light, one with a hat, the other sporting a leering, lopsided grin, as if he knew some great and terrible secret, and Leticia began to scream.
     
    Photos of the heads were on YouTube within the hour. By evening, as Alvarez was landing in Denver, there had been over a million hits worldwide.

C hapter 8
     
    Whitewater River
     
    In the morning, Jennifer made her way back to the river and stood on the bank and gazed at the churning water. She carefully placed Nanna on a rock and scooped water up, spilling most of it, and drank that way until she was done. She pulled her doll up and struggled to her feet. I think I’ll go shopping today. Must be Sunday, I’m not at work. Maybe buy some clothes for Nanna. Give her a bath, she doesn’t smell so good.
     
    SAR Base Camp
    Biddle Pass
     
    It had been a hectic night for Smokey and his officers. F.B.I. agents from Bend were investigating the narcotics raid shooting. He had found a couple of hours sleep, and now he could put this in a proper perspective – the lost Šiyápu woman Jennifer Kruger surely had a worse night.
    Day three. She hadn’t been seen for over forty-eight hours. If they didn’t find her today, tonight would be her third night alone in the wilderness. He looked around the base camp. The assembled vehicles looked like a small city. Trailers, tents, helicopter s, support vehicles.
    He had enough searchers. Over a hundred people were involved now, and at this point, more would be hard to manage.
    Smokey turned back to the command trailer and went inside for coffee. The helicopter is our best hope now, and if she’s dead, the infrared radar won’t help. At least not for several more days. He didn’t want to think about it. Within two days, the search group would be down to a handful, with most searchers going back to their jobs, the thought being that the lost person didn’t survive. Most search and rescue teams did not do body recovery, unless the victims were found early on in the search.
    Smokey sipped his coffee and planned for the next phase. Something needed to happen. They needed to get lucky and spot her today. He watched as a Ford Explorer with the Cold River patrol vehicle markings drove up and parked by the trailer. Sergeant Nathan Green walked over.
    “We get any more