Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn by Bill Hopkins

Sunshine struggled through the mess, scarcely able to cast its light
to the ground. Moss, ferns, and lichens fought
to grow in the deep shadows. Occasionally a clearing with fewer trees appeared.
There the grape, poison ivy, kudzu, and honeysuckle vines growing around and
between the trees made the hike even more difficult. A dozen or more species of
low-growing bushes inhabited both the sunny and dim places. Rosswell figured
the bird watching would be excellent here. That is, if he could struggle back
to civilization. A fatal bird watching expedition wasn’t on his social
calendar. If there was a path that they were following, Rosswell couldn’t see
it.
    Earlier, when Rosswell had carried Lazar and Ollie in
the truck toward their destination (what Ollie called “the land side, not the
river side, of the bluff”), Lazar had eventually said, “Stop here.” Rosswell
braked to a stop when Lazar gave the order. Lazar hopped from the truck.
    “Where did the road go?” Rosswell said. If he’d driven
another five feet, he’d have been stuck in weeds. He grabbed his binoculars and
camera, then jumped out of the truck.
    Ollie sidled up next to Rosswell. “This is the end of
the line.”
    “What line? Where’s the house?”
    “ Là-bas ,” Lazar said. His eyes
lifted to the top of a high bluff.
    Là-bas , French for up yonder , turned out to be over a
mile cross-country. Once the trek began, heat, humidity, blisters, chiggers,
and mosquitoes attacked the three men as they battled their way through the
brush. The sweat running down Rosswell’s face dripped into his mouth. Its saltiness
made him thirsty. Twice, he heard something rustling through the brush close to
them. It could’ve been a raccoon. Or deer. Maybe something bigger? Wild pig? A
bear? Something more dangerous? Perhaps a bobcat or its bigger cousin, a
mountain lion. Despite the heat, Rosswell’s skin prickled when icy shivers capered
up and down his body.
    Rosswell stopped, squatted, clutched his aching knees,
and panted. “Who carries the groceries back here?”
    Lazar grunted and spit. “Maman don’t allow no
pictures, her.” He pointed to Rosswell’s camera.
    Rosswell straightened up to reconnoiter. “Isn’t there
a straight way up there? We keep going back and forth. It’s only a couple of
blocks. We’re being force-marched ten miles.”
    Lazar grunted again.
    Ollie said, “Judge, save your breath.”
    After slogging several more feet up the slope,
Rosswell said, “My ears are popping.”
    “I’m reaching my boiling point listening to your
griping.” Ollie stopped to fan himself with his notebook. “You can’t climb fast
enough to make your ears pop. Besides, we’ve only gone up from the road about a
hundred feet.”
    Lazar said, “You boys soft, you,” tromping ahead so
fast that Ollie and Rosswell had to run to
keep up. The old man was outpacing them.
    After what seemed to Rosswell a climb long enough to
get a good head start on Mount Everest, Lazar jerked to a halt.
    “Now what?” Rosswell wiped his bare hands on his face,
slinging as much sweat away as he could.
    “Nothing the matter.” Lazar removed his cap, wiped his
forehead with his shirtsleeve, then pointed. “ Aquí .”
    “Thank God,” said Ollie, breathing heavily.
    Rosswell said, “Was that Spanish?”
    “Lazar is multicultural.”
    “Ah!”
    At first, Rosswell couldn’t make out where Lazar had pointed.
Then, after scrutinizing the direction Lazar’s finger had indicated, Rosswell
spotted a small house built of rock. The entire building was covered with vines
and several trees grew up the sides of the outside walls. No windows. Perfect
camouflage. Rosswell knew the river side of the bluff was beyond the house. No
one could spy from that side. And, obviously, it was difficult spotting the
house from this side.
    The old door, crafted from rough lumber, creaked when
Lazar opened it. “ Maman,
on rentre? C’est bon? ”
    Rosswell said to Ollie, “What did he