Mary Jane Beaufrand - The River

Veronica Severance feels cut off from the world.

Forced to move from the city to rural Oregon with her parents, she is haunted by loneliness and the chilling sounds of the Santiam, the river that runs through her backyard.

Through the fog of isolation, Ronnie finds herself becoming close with Karen, a young girl whom she babysits. But when she discovers Karens body on the banks of the Santiam, Ronnie feels compelled to uncover the truth.

As she becomes increasingly obsessed with solving Karens death, Ronnie is led deeper and deeper into the woods surrounding the river and to the dark secret hidden within its midst.

The River is a darkly atmospheric story of murder, isolation, obsession, and deadly secrets that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very last page.

THE RIVER

Publication Date: February 2010

Hardcover ISBN: 978-0-316-04168-3

Trim Size: 5 8

$16.99 ($19.99 in Can.)

Ages: 15 & up

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Copyright 2010 by Mary Jane Beaufrand

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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First eBook Edition: February 2010

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN: 978-0-316-07214-4

Contents

para Juancho

I suppose there are worse things than being soggy and dateless and shoveling bunny carcasses into a garbage bin on Valentines Day, but if there are, I cant think of any. Dad might say being dead in a ditch is worse. Mom would say being dead in a ditch wearing tattered underwear is worse still, at which point Dad might say dead is dead, what does underwear have to do with it anyway, and Mom would shut him up with a pumpkin bar delicately spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon, slathered with cream cheese frosting, which Dad would eat thinking he had cleverly won his case, while the real winner went back to the kitchen to check on her rack of lamb.

Be that as it may, it was ten at night on Valentines Day, the most romantic day of the year. Fred the Eagle had dropped his latest kill on the back porch again and some of our guests had complained, so I went out to deal with the problem before the neighborhood dogs did.

This being February and the western side of the Cascade Mountains, I hadnt been outside for a minute before I was marinated in cold rainwater. I did my best to deal with the carcass problem quickly, while inside the inn diners wearing shades of red and pink had graduated from tables in the caf to the sofas around the river rock fireplace in the sunken living room, where they snuggled, forking chocolate fondue into each others mouths, flush with heat and growing passion. I had never felt so outside , as though I werent a real girl made of flesh and blood but some spirit made of rainwater, doomed forever to hover around windows of places I couldnt enter.

Ive been dumped, said a voice behind me, drawing me back to my own skin. I turned around to see a dark figure in a rain parka and thick-soled boots stomp up the porch steps. He pulled back his hood and I exhaled. It was Ranger Dave.

What do you mean, dumped? I said. I was still thinking of an eagle pecking at a bunny and then dumping it on our back lawn.

Dumped. D-U-M-P-E-D. Like a bald tire or a three-legged dog, he said. It was a weird comparison but I understood. Our place was the last building on a dead-end road in the middle of nowhere. Random people decided that this stretch was great for getting rid of things they no longer needed. Tires, puppies, kittens, Styrofoam coolersit all turned up in our ditches. Including, apparently, Ranger Dave.

Poor guy. His face seemed to have eroded, like an embankment worn away by a swift current. He needed help fast. Id have to postpone feeling sorry for myself. I hoisted the bunny carcass into the bin marked yard waste and stowed the shovel against the house.

Lets get you inside, I said.

As Ranger Dave shook the water off his parka in the sun porch, I leaned on the carved-beaver banister at the top of the stairs that led down to the Astro Lounge. Dad! I yelled. Ranger Daves here!

Dads head appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He was drying a huge beer stein. Wed been country innkeepers for almost a year, but I still hadnt gotten used to the change in my father. He had morphed from Republican Attorney Dad to Hairy Viking Dad. He had facial hair. He wore flannel.

Veronica, what have I said about shouting? he yelled just as loudly as I had. He took in all the rainwater sluicing off me and onto the carpet. Get a towel and change your shirt, please. And wash your hands!

I ignored him. Ranger Dave is having a crisis.

Dad and I stared at each other for a beat. I continued to drip.

What kind of crisis?

Girl kind.

Dad kept wiping, even though the stein was clean and dry. Be right there, he finally said.

Ranger Dave, meanwhile, either didnt hear me broadcasting his woe, or didnt care. He took off his boots and shuffled over to the hearth, where he carefully swept little embers back into the fireplace. As an employee of the U.S. Forest Service, he was always on the lookout for anything untended and emitting smoke.

When Dad emerged he was holding two bottles of Black Butte Porter, one of which he handed to Ranger Dave.

What is it, dude? Whats going on? Dad asked. I dont think my father had ever had a cool friend before, so now he got all embarrassing when Ranger Dave was around. He called him man and dude and even slouched. Ranger Dave was in his thirties and had that long, grunge-band hair, so it was okay for him to at least pretend to be hip; but on Dad it just seemed wrong. He should stick to his new strengths. Chopping trees. Eating manly breakfasts. Sacking villages.

Kristi dumped me, Ranger Dave said, not looking at my father as he said itnot looking at any of us.

Oh, Dad said, trying to look serious, stroking his beard to hide his smirk. Kristis boobs were bigger than her IQ. She didnt deserve him. And dumping him on Valentines Day? That was cold. Colder than runoff.

Ranger Dave sighed. And I thought she might have been the one.

Seriously? I interrupted. I mean, she listened to Christian rock. Dont you hate Christian rock? I thought you said it was an oxymoron.

I thought it was cute, he said, whacking a burning log.

That is not cute, its pathetic, Dad said, rolling his eyes. Even I know that.

And remember what you used to say about Kristis hair? I prodded.