Page 45 of Girl, Reborn

But that was the past. This was thepresent. And in the present, justice was being served, one life at a time.

The builder's struggles were growingweaker now. It wouldn't be long. And when it was over, when the last bubble ofair escaped those greedy lungs, the cycle would begin anew.

The next name on his list was alreadychosen. The next trap is already set. It was a constant cycle, repeating adinfinitum, like the endless flow of a river. One life extinguished, anothertaken. A balance restored, however briefly, before the wheel turned again.

He checked his watch. Almost time. Thebuilder would be gone soon, joining Toledo and Ayers in whatever afterlifeawaited men who sold their souls for profit. And then – well, the list waslong, but he was patient.

He'd waited this long. He could wait alittle longer.

As he sat in the growing silence, brokenonly by the steady drip of water, he allowed his mind to wander. To the future,to the past. To the moment everything had changed.

It hadn't been sudden. That was the cruelirony of it all. If the dam had burst, if it had been a catastrophic failurethat wiped the town off the map in one fell swoop, perhaps it would have beeneasier to bear. A tragedy, yes, but a swift one. Clean, in its own way.

But this? This slow, inexorable decline?It was torture of the most exquisite kind.

First, it was just the river. Lower thanusual, they said. Nothing to worry about. Just a dry spell. It'll pick up againnext season.

But it didn't.

The crops began to fail. Livestock grewthin and sickly. Wells ran dry. And all the while, that damned dam stood like amonument to progress, holding back the lifeblood of the community.

He remembered the town meetings. The angryvoices, the desperate pleas. Surely something could be done? Surely someonewould listen?

But no one did. Or if they did, theydidn't care. The water kept flowing to Bristol, to the golf courses and theartificial lakes and the immaculate lawns of the wealthy. And Liberty Grovewithered on the vine.

Farms foreclosed. Businesses shuttered.People left, seeking opportunity elsewhere. Those who stayed grew harder, more desperatewith each passing day.

And through it all, the men responsible –men like Toledo, like Ayers, like the builder currently drawing his last,watery breaths – they prospered. They celebrated their ‘visionary project’ andpatted themselves on the back for a job well done.

Well. They weren't celebrating now.

They had brought this upon themselves, hethought. They had damned a river, and in doing so, had damned themselves.

Now, it was time for them to reap whatthey had sown.

The water would rise. Justice would beserved.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Millsville was the kind of town that madeLiberty Grove look like Las Vegas. One long stretch of asphalt masquerading asMain Street, flanked by buildings so weathered they might crumble if yousneezed too hard. The squad car sat in front of the only stoplight in town, arusted relic that probably hadn't changed colors since Nixon was in office.

Ella squinted through the shimmering heatwaves rising off the pavement. There he was, Lawrence Holbrook, environmentalcrusader extraordinaire, stuffed in the back of a Crown Vic like last week'sgarbage.

‘Show time,’ Ella muttered, climbing outof the car. ‘Ready to meet our local Lorax?’

‘Just try and stop me,’ Luca said.

Holbrook looked like he'd stepped straightout of a time machine set to Woodstock '69. His hair was a wild tangle ofgrey-streaked brown, barely contained by a frayed bandana. His beard could'vehoused small wildlife. The guy was all angles and edges, sharp elbows andknobby knees poking out from threadbare jeans and a tie-dye shirt that had seenbetter days.

As they drew closer, Holbrook's eyeslocked onto them. Sharp. Alert. Not the glazed-over look of your typicaltree-hugger riding a permanent high. The car door was open, and Holbrook’sgangly legs were hanging outside.

‘Lawrence Holbrook?’ Ella flashed herbadge. ‘I'm Special Agent Dark, this is my partner Agent Hawkins. FBI.’

Holbrook's eyebrows shot up, disappearinginto the jungle of his hair. ‘FBI? Come to plant evidence on me?’

‘Plant evidence? I haven’t done that inweeks,’ Ella said as she sized him up, trying to gauge if this scarecrow of aman could be their killer. He was wiry, sure, with the kind of sinewy strengththat came from years of chaining yourself to bulldozers. But was he capable ofsubduing a grown man? Tying concrete to his ankles and hauling him downstream?The jury was still out. ‘Mind telling us what brings you to the thrivingmetropolis of Millsville?’

Holbrook snorted. ‘Thriving? Good one. I'mhere to protest the new strip mall they're building on Elm. Like this townneeds another temple to consumerism.’

---