“I don’t either,” Allen said, but his tone wasn’t convincing. He nodded toward the front porch of the ranger station, where the Kowalskys stood with Brennon and the congressman. “But I don’t understand why you can’t feel good if this woman finally has some closure.”

“I will,” I said. “About that at least.”

When Luckadoo and Walters stepped out of the ranger office, Allen and I moved closer, joining a crowd of over a hundred people. Almost everyone who’d been at last night’s meeting had come to hear the Forest Service’s decision, including the press, which counted among its ranks two camera crews who had not been present at the community center. I did not see the aides to the governor or Senator Jenkins. They knew the outcome and were already headed back to Columbia and Washington.

Luke had come as well, fresh out of the county jail. He stood with the river rats. Sheriff Cantrell and Hubert McClure leaned against the porch’s side railing, their eyes steady on them.

Luckadoo took out a pair of black reading glasses and read from a sheet of paper.

“The Forest Service has decided that under the present circumstances a portable, temporary dam built by Brennon Corporation will be allowed at Wolf Cliff Falls on Section Five of the Tamassee River.”

Brennon and Kowalsky shook hands as Mrs. Kowalsky hugged the congressman.

“This will never hold up, Luckadoo,” Luke shouted, as a woman held a microphone to his face. “I promise you Sierra Club lawyers will start petitioning the courts on behalf of the Tamassee this very afternoon.”

“Are you saying you believe you can still stop this?” the reporter asked.

“We’re going to sure as hell try, lady.”

Luke turned from the reporter, and when he did he saw me. He shoved through the dispersing crowd until we were face-to-face. His clothes were soaked. Dark crescents lay beneath his eyes.

“Do you think the Kowalskys understand what they’re going to find down there after almost five weeks?” he asked me.

“I don’t know,” I said, and as soon as I spoke realized I’d kept the truth from myself. Because the image I’d been carrying around in my head was of Ruth Kowalsky minutes after she drowned, not weeks. I’d pictured her in some timeless state. Maybe her soul was, but not her body.

“Well, I have a pretty good idea, Maggie,” Luke said, “and you do as well.”

And I did, because I knew not only what water could do to a body given time but also what crayfish and larvae and fish could do.

The reporter had trailed Luke over to where we stood. She stuck the microphone back in Luke’s face.

“Are you saying the body will be damaged?” she asked.

The stupidity of the question seemed to calm Luke for a moment.