Blood Relations by Rett MacPherson Page A

sank, then we’ll have a plaque made for it. Because when the river gets back to its normal level, you won’t be able to see the wreckage anymore. It’d be nice if we had some sort of reminder as to what lies beneath the water.”
    â€œOh, that would be so cool,” he said.
    Just then, two men came out of the Murdoch Inn and joined us on the porch. “Oh, this is my assistant, Jeremiah Ketchum,” Professor Lahrs said.
    â€œMr. Ketchum,” I said, and shook his hand. Jeremiah Ketchum was about forty, I’d say. He had smooth skin and blond hair, and I only guessed his age at about forty because he held himself like somebody who had been around the block a few times.
    â€œAnd Danny Jones,” the professor said. “A very promising student of mine.”
    Danny Jones, however, was young. Very young. I’d say about nineteen. His eyes were brown, and his hair was done in one of those two-tone styles that all the young boys were wearing. Although short and dark on the sides, the top was a little longer and bleached blond. He looked as though maybe somewhere way back on his family tree, there had been an island ancestor. Based on his hairdo and his baggy pants, my daughter would be in a serious swoon if she saw him.
    â€œNice to meet you,” I said. “All of you.”
    â€œWe’ll try to do the least amount of damage to your town as possible,” Professor Lahrs said.
    I gave a small laugh, wondering how he had read my mind. “Well, good luck, again.”
    â€œOh, I’ve got more than luck on my side,” Professor Lahrs said.
    â€œOh?” I asked.
    Danny Jones smiled. “His great-grandfather was the captain of The Phantom, ” he said. “He thinks he’s got help from his long-dead ancestor or some such supernatural crap.”
    I’m not sure why that particular tidbit of news bothered me, but it did. Maybe it was because Jacob Lahrs’s great-grandfather had succumbed to a pretty gruesome death, and if it were me, I wouldn’t have welcomed help from beyond the grave.
    â€œThe river is in my blood,” Jacob Lahrs said, looking out at the Mississippi.
    Maybe it’s more like your blood is in the river, I thought.

Eight
    Fraulein Krista’s is the coolest place in the world. It’s where I retreat when I want to get away from everything. Not that there are a great many things I want or need to get away from, but it seems to be the one place, other than the riverbank, where I can collect my thoughts and just veg. Part of it is because the owner watches out for me when I come in and tries to make sure that nobody bothers me.
    On Saturday, I sat in my favorite booth, the one in the corner of the restaurant, which has a good view of the street and the tourists outside. And even though I could see what was going on outside, nobody could really see me in the restaurant, unless they were sitting right across from me, because the tall wood walls of the booth hid me from the other patrons.
    Everything in Krista’s is dark and rugged. Exposed beams on the ceilings, and dark wood, almost black, all around the booths and halfway up the walls. At the end of the bar, there is a stuffed grizzly bear that we’d nicknamed Sylvia. I’m not really into stuffed things, so I just tell myself that it is a pretend stuffed bear. But the best part about the restaurant is all of the waiters and waitresses hustling about in their green velvet knickers and dresses, serving beer in steins and food on pewter dishes.
    â€œWhat’s it gonna be, Torie?”
    I looked up to see Krista herself, who always seems to know when I come in and who waits on me personally. She is tall and has blond hair, blue eyes, dimples. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that she is one of Tolkien’s elves. She holds herself as one would expect a tall beautiful blonde to hold herself—like the world is hers for the