T
HE RECOVERY MISSION WAS CALLED OFF AT 6:56
P.M.

The grim announcement was made by Chief of
Police Clarence Taylor during a locally televised press conference.

His somber expression was in keeping with
his buzz haircut and military bearing. “The police
department, along with all the other agencies involved, devoted
countless hours to the search in hope of a rescue. Short of that, a
recovery.

“However, since the exhaustive
efforts of law enforcement officers, the Coast Guard, and civilian
volunteers haven’t produced any encouraging evidence in
several days, we’ve come to the sad conclusion that to
continue an organized search would be futile.”

The lone drinker at the bar, watching the
snowy TV screen mounted in the corner, tossed back the whiskey
remaining in his glass and motioned the barkeep for a refill.

The barkeep held the open bottle poised
above the highball glass. “You sure? You’re hitting
it pretty hard, pal.”

“Just pour.”

“Have you got a ride
home?”

The question was met with a menacing
glare. The barkeep shrugged and poured. “Your
funeral.”

No,
not mine.

Off the beaten path in a low-rent area of
downtown Savannah, Smitty’s attracted neither tourists nor
respectable locals. It wasn’t the kind of watering hole one
came to seeking fun and frivolity. It didn’t take part in the
city’s infamous pub crawl on St. Patrick’s Day.
Pastel drinks with cute names weren’t served.

The potables were ordered straight up. You
might or might not get a lemon twist like the ones the barkeep was
mindlessly peeling as he watched the television news bulletin that had
preempted a Seinfeld
rerun.

On the TV screen, Chief Taylor was
commending the tireless efforts of the sheriff’s office,
canine unit, marine patrol and dive team, on and on, blah, blah, blah.

“Mute that, will you?”

At the request of his customer, the
barkeep reached for the remote control and silenced the TV.
“He’s dancing around it ’cause he has to.
But if you cut through all the B.S., what he’s saying is, the
body’s fish food by now.”

The drinker propped both elbows on the
bar, hunched his shoulders, and watched the amber liquor sloshing in
his glass as he slid it back and forth between his hands across the
polished wood surface.

“Ten days after going into the
river?” The barkeep shook his head with pessimism.
“No way a person could survive. Still, it’s a hell
of a sad thing. Especially for the family. I mean, never knowing the
fate of your loved one?” He reached for another lemon.
“I’d hate to think of somebody I loved, dead or
alive, being in the river or out there in the ocean, in this
mess.”

He used his chin to motion toward the
bar’s single window. It was wide, but only about eighteen
inches deep, situated high on the wall, much closer to the ceiling than
to the floor, providing a limited view of the outside if one cared to
look. It allowed only a slash of semi-light to relieve the oppressive
gloom in the bar, and gave only a slim promise of hope to the hopeless
inside.

A ponderous rain had been soaking the Low
Country of Georgia and South Carolina for the last forty-eight hours.
Unrelenting rain. Torrents of water falling straight down out of opaque
clouds.

At times the rainfall had been so heavy
that you couldn’t see across the river to the opposite bank.
Low-lying areas had become lakes. Roads had been closed due to
flooding. Gutters roiled with currents as swift as white-water rapids.

The barkeep wiped lemon juice from his
fingers and cleaned the blade of his knife on a towel. “This
rain, can’t say I blame ’em for calling off the
search. They’ll probably never find the body now. But I guess
that means it’ll forever remain a mystery. Was it murder or
suicide?” He tossed aside his towel and leaned on the bar.
“What do you think happened?”

His customer looked up at him with bleary
eyes and said hoarsely, “I know what happened.”