Bill Cameron lives with his wife and a menagerie of critters in Portland, Oregon. He's an eager traveler and avid bird-watcher, and likes to write near a window so he can meditate on whatever happens to fly by during intractable passages. His stories have appeared in Spinetingler, The Dunes Review, The Alsop Review, and in KILLER YEAR, edited by Lee Child. LOST DOG, his debut suspense novel, is available from Midnight Ink Books. His second novel, CHASING SMOKE, will be available Fall 2008 from Bleak House Books. He is currently at work on his third novel. Bill a member of Friends of Mystery and International Thriller Writers, and serves as Vice President of the Northwest Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America                                

                                         COUNTERFLOW

He'd always remember the air under the bridge as ten degrees cooler than the

day above‹, cool as her skin the day they met, hands brushing as both reached

for a handout during third period language arts. The creek there ran mostly

shallow, water flowing over round stones like fossilized teeth, though an

eddy had gouged a deep pool around the center pier. The counterflow trapped

branches, beer cans, and plastic bags, all tangled in a slick of yellow

foam. A bank of wet gravel and sand sloped down on the north side of the

creek, too damp to sit on but open and flat: a fresh canvas.

After school most days he¹d ride his bike down to the creek, four miles past

blank, staring houses that all looked the same. The sheltered bank was a

place to be alone, to mope and to long. She lived just a quarter mile away

in a subdivision hidden from view by a line of trees on the creek¹s edge. He

could sense her house over there beyond boiling clouds of gnats which rose

off the water when the heat pressed down in the afternoon. He knew she came

to the bridge too. He saw her once from far up the road, climbing from

below. He waved, but she must not have seen him. Gone by the time he

arrived. He thought of the bridge as her place too. Maybe they¹d even run

into each other some day. An accidental meeting in a shared refuge. The

start of something perfect.

As the year wore on, the bridge served more and more as his place of

sanctuary, a safe place to conjure. She¹d appear in his thoughts and they¹d

talk about the trivially significant. Somehow she always wanted to discuss

whatever was on his mind. His insights always impressed her. He was earnest

and wise and she adored him for it. Then there were the days he arrived at

the bridge to find her already there, beset by hooligans. Aimless drifters

with black gums and stolen shoes. Maybe there¹d be a bit of rope on the

bridge and he¹d swing down from above. One day he¹d wield a sword, the next

double-fisted .45s ‹ or more often only his own limbs. Kick one backwards,

arms windmilling, into the eddy. Send another flying onto the rocks with a

well-timed upper cut. An eighth grade boy against men, but faced with his

fury they¹d flee, bleeding and bruised. Then she¹d fall into his arms in

relief and gratitude. Her hero, swinging in on his rope to save the day. No

wonder their passion took root in the sandy lee of the bridge across from

the eddy full of trash.

Spring gave way to summer and school let out, cutting him off from the one

place he could count on seeing her in the flesh. He found himself spending

more and more time under the bridge, anxious and adrift in fantasy. The

shape of her face began to merge with reflections of light off the water,

and in response she teased him in his mind that he should declare his

feelings for her in some lasting way, a way that anyone could see. So he

waded into the shallow water and gathered creek-rounded boulders as big as

his head. He placed them on the damp, sandy bank in the shape of his desire,

³I love you,² spelled out in stone. He left them, validated by a syllogism

of dreams, convinced these stones would be the thing that lured her to him

at last. He returned each day after he finished his chores, indifferent to

his friends, and talked his long talks with his beloved. Saved her life

again and again. Then one Saturday he couldn¹t go, pinned down by some

pointless to-do of his mother¹s. Sunday he biked out to the bridge again.

Four long miles through dead air thick with humidity.

She¹d been there. She¹d seen the stones, knew them as hers. He didn¹t even

have to name her name. She saw the shapes of the words, and she responded.

Fossilized teeth jagged in the sand. "Stop", they now read. "Please."