Eli McMorn: The Strange Case of the Missing Professor - Part II

I went out to the east bank of the Alabama River the next night and again the following night, but it wasn’t until the third night that something finally happened. I was sitting in the dark, wrapped in my old poncho with my back to a large ash tree. My wristwatch told me it was about three a.m.

This would be the last night of my investigation into the disappearance of Professor Gruner. I wanted that $10,000 reward, but I hadn’t turned in a newspaper story in several days. It wouldn’t be long before my editor began to ask questions. If nothing happened tonight, Plan B was to write a quick story on the fact that the professor remained missing.

I fished a couple of caffeine tablets out of my shirt pocket, popped them in my mouth and let them dissolve. I then glassed the opposite bank with my binoculars. Other than the headlights of a few cars on Water Street, there wasn’t much to see, just dark trees on the other side of the river.

Not for the first time, I wished for a pair of night vision goggles like I’d had in Iraq. With a pair of those I would have been able to see much more. I doubt it would have helped much in light of what happened later.

My back ached from sitting too long, and I stood to stretch. I tried to be as quiet, but it was nearly impossible not to make some noise. I flinched when a night bird that I couldn’t see took flight from a treetop off to my right.

I’d read the professor’s notes and logbook. Some of it was in cipher, but I could tell that he’d come to this same area countless times over the course of many months. He never said what he was looking for, and I wondered if he wasn’t a little touched in the head.

A cold chill ran down my spine, and I considered walking back to my truck and calling it a night. I could ride back to the office, type up a quick story about the lonesome quiet of the riverfront at night and tie it in with Gruner’s disappearance. I’d snapped a picture of a lone jogger running through Travis Park last night that I could use with the story. It wouldn’t win any awards, but it would justify my paycheck for another week.

I could feel the caffeine kick in, and I promised myself that I’d stay at least until five. The first fingers of sunrise would begin to show a little after that, and I could go on home and hit the rack. Instinctively, my right hand dropped to the reassuring weight of the Beretta M9 on my belt.

Suddenly and without warning, something caught my eye across the river. At first, I thought it was a small light from a fishing boat, but realized seconds later that that wasn’t what it was at all. It looked to be about the size of a cannonball, and I watched as it slowly made its way across the top of the dark river.

I stood there, frozen in place, as it reached the muddy bank in front of me. It paused for a second before it began to ascend the hill. It came closer and closer, about four feet off the ground. Winding its way around the few trees in its path, it occurred to me much too late that it was headed straight for me.

(All rights reserved. This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.)