Текст книги "Swains Lock"

Автор книги: Edward A. Stabler

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Chapter 35

Pas de Deux

Friday, September 6, 1996

Late Friday afternoon Vin pulled his hands from the keyboard and lifted tired eyes toward the ceiling. The first incarnation of his user interface for the ratings feature was finished. There was still the server-side code to write, but he felt as if today’s work had almost compensated for the time lost on yesterday’s fruitless trip to Sharpsburg.

Behind him on a portable TV perched on a filing cabinet, a CNN commentator was saying something inaudible about financial markets. Vin tapped the buttons for the Weather Channel and eased the volume up. They’re probably still showing full-time hurricane coverage, he thought. I wonder how Fran is doing.

The station showed a reporter in Roanoke wearing crimson rain gear and standing in an empty, rainswept street. After coming ashore at Cape Fear last night, Fran had tracked north by northwest, through North Carolina and into central Virginia as it was downgraded first to a tropical storm and then to a depression. Fran’s unraveling remains were now centered just south of the West Virginia panhandle, on course for Morgantown and Pittsburgh. The only menace Fran had left to offer was rain, but rain was enough. Flash floods were already responsible for almost two dozen missing or dead.

When the storm’s projected path was superimposed over a map of the mid-Atlantic states, Vin swiveled toward the screen. From central Virginia through southern Pennsylvania, Fran would be scouring the broad western reaches of the Potomac watershed, dropping torrential rains on the Appalachian and Blue Ridge mountains. He glanced out the glass doors at the backyard. The storm’s relentless wind and slashing rain had receded during the last few hours, leaving in their wake an intermittent drizzle and the gray light of an overcast afternoon.

Those floodwaters will all be heading our way, he thought. From the Shenandoah and both upper branches of the Potomac. They’ve already started. We might even get something like last January’s flood, which was triggered by an extended thaw on the heels of what was already known as “the Blizzard of ’96.” Apparently Great Falls had been completely buried in the raging waters. The Park Service had closed viewpoints on both sides of the river, so Vin hadn’t been able to see the Falls at full flood. But the local news had shown helicopter footage and it had looked breathtaking, with brown whale-sized waves, exploding haystacks where the Falls had been, and wings of spray kicking twenty feet into the air. Did the river rise that much because it narrowed so dramatically at the Falls?

He shuffled upstairs to pull the topographical atlas of Maryland from the living-room bookcase. On the coffee table it opened readily to the page that showed their street, a quarter-inch east of the C&O Canal at Pennyfield Lock. The same page showed the Potomac River flanking the canal and running in a clockwise arc, northwest to southeast. At the top of the page was Seneca, three miles upstream from Pennyfield. At the bottom was Great Falls, five-and-a-half miles downriver. Vin had referred to this page many times last fall, when he and Nicky had just arrived and were getting their bearings.

Studying the topography at the bottom of the page, he remembered what he had seen before. Two thousand feet upstream from Great Falls, Conn Island split the river into five-hundred-foot-wide channels. Just after the channels reunited, the Virginia shoreline reversed its curvature where Olmsted Island thrust into the river from the Maryland side, compressing the entire flow into a rock-studded channel less than three hundred feet across.

Following the river back upstream from the Falls, Vin ticked off the island names in the staggered string: Olmsted, Conn, Bealls, Minnehaha, Gladys, Claggett, Sycamore, Watkins – by far the largest and longest – and then Grapevine and Elm, across from Blockhouse Point, just below Seneca Falls. He looked back at Gladys Island near the center of the chain and remembered the photo Betsy Reed had shown him yesterday of Jake and Howard Reed aboard Annie and Gladys – Emmert Reed’s albino mule. Gladys Island was equidistant between Maryland and Virginia. It’s an ironic name, he thought, since Gladys Island is one place I’m sure the itinerant white mule never knew.

He recited to himself the line he knew by heart: “The place is well knowed by Emmert Reed’s albino mule.” The sudden recognition of his long-standing error made him catch his breath. That’s not right. That’s not exactly what the message says. He crossed the room and hurried down the stairs. From between two textbooks, he extracted the note Lee Fisher had written to Charlie Pennyfield and raced through the text, eyes focused on the line he’d instinctively shortened and misinterpreted as a result.

The name of the place is well knowed by Emmert Reed’s albino mule.

It was obvious now and he should have seen it earlier. It didn’t matter whether Gladys knew the island…or any other place along the canal. What mattered was that Gladys knew her name! Carrying the note and the picture, he dashed back up to the atlas in the living room and couldn’t suppress a smile as he studied the map again. He picked up a pen and drew a line from Swains Lock across the towpath and the apron to the river, then straight out toward the Virginia shore. The line bisected Gladys Island. He sketched a rapid oval around the island and looked at Lee’s note again.

…I fear I have been killed because of what happened today at Swains Lock. I may be buried along with the others at the base of three joined sycamores at the edge of a clearing.

Lee Fisher’s joined sycamores were on Gladys Island! It was close to Swains, but like the other islands in this stretch of the river, uninhabited and ignored. He studied the map again. The almond-shaped island might be four hundred yards long and one-fourth as wide at its mid-point, with its northeast side a few hundred yards from the Maryland shore. And the Maryland shore was only fifty paces from the towpath, so it would be an easy portage and crossing from Swains by canoe. At least when the river was running at a normal summer level. But the river will start rising soon, he reminded himself. Tonight. The local rain didn’t concern him, since the watershed was narrow here. It was the much larger western expanse that mattered, where the Potomac’s western tributaries were already funneling Fran’s rainfall to the watershed floor.

He exhaled heavily. Did he have to do this right now? Staring at the atlas, he tried to think through it. It was a few minutes before six. Tomorrow was Saturday, and Nicky had the day off for once. She’d been hoping they could go for a bike ride together. And he knew her patience with his search was eroding. Tonight she was having a drink with Abby after work and probably wouldn’t be home for at least another hour. And tomorrow the river would be much higher, rising toward flood. It rose fast and fell slowly, so after tonight paddling to Gladys Island would be impossible for days. And maybe this would be the flood that finally destroyed Lee Fisher’s joined sycamores, if they weren’t gone already. Or maybe Kelsey Ainge would find them first. That was crazy; she hadn’t been inside Betsy Reed’s living room and never heard the albino mule’s name. He turned reflexively to the glass doors, half expecting to see someone watching him from the deck.

Swains was a short drive away and he could get there in minutes, but the canoe-rental counter would certainly be closed, given the weather earlier today. That didn’t mean Swains would be deserted, since visitors thwarted earlier by rain would be attracted by the clearing skies. Sunset was around seven-thirty, but it didn’t get dark until eight. If he moved quickly, that should be long enough. But he would still need his camping headlamp. And a shovel. His canoe paddle. And wire cutters, if he was lucky enough to find a minute or two when Swains was clear of pedestrians. Since if he couldn’t rent a canoe, he would have to borrow one. He leapt from the couch and walked into the kitchen, where he wrote a brief note:

N –

I know where it is! Out for a quick investigation. Should be back by 8:30 or 9 and ready for vino!

xoxo, V

He left it on top of the answering machine, then retrieved a strap-on headlamp from the odds-and-ends drawer. In the unfinished storage area downstairs, he found his canoe paddle leaning against the wall next to Nicky’s, alongside their ski gear and snowshoes. While extracting his paddle he saw the lock-key he’d brought home from Emmert Reed’s lockhouse propped against the wall behind it. A symbol of his quest. He’d moved it down here quickly for fear that Nicky would throw it out. The stack of boxes next to the ski bags had finally been unpacked, and the rope ladder lay in a heap on the floor where the boxes had been. A nearby plastic crate yielded a pair of wire cutters and a folding hunting knife, which he pocketed. Past the crates he found his shovel. He carried the shovel and paddle into the garage and tossed them into the back of his PathFinder. By the time the garage door was fully open he was already in the driveway, shifting gears.

Getting a canoe at Swains would require patience and good timing, he thought as he pulled onto Ridge Line Court. The canoe rack was near the parking lot and the canal, and he was pretty sure the canoes were only locked to the rack by thin cables or cords. So freeing a canoe with the wire cutters or the knife should be easy, once he’d confirmed the rental counter was closed. The hard part would be doing that without being seen, amidst the trickle of joggers, dog-walkers, and muddied mountain-bikers that traversed the parking lot at this time of day. In his experience, only unusual gestures caused alarm, so once he’d cut the canoe free, he was confident he could carry it down to the river without arousing the suspicion of passersby.

As he waited at the intersection to turn right onto River Road, he peeked at the rear view mirror. There it was! He watched a charcoal-gray Audi behind him slow, edge over to the curb, and stop. The tinted glass that formed its windshield made it impossible to identify the driver. The car must have been parked on his street, and he’d been too preoccupied to notice it as he passed. Was it the same car he’d been watching for all week? He was convinced the Audi belonged to Kelsey Ainge. Was it really following him?

He turned his eyes back to River Road, where the fast-paced traffic had already dried the asphalt, found an opening, and turned right. Checking the mirror again, he saw the Audo turn behind an intervening car to follow him. He slowed to the speed limit to give himself time to think. The right turn for Swains Lock was three miles away. About a mile ahead there was a farmstand on the left. It was just past six now, so it should still be open.

He nudged his turn-signal and slowed as he approached the farmstand. The cars behind him stopped to wait. He pulled in and walked across the wet grass past boxes of ripe tomatoes. Strolling toward the corn, he turned his head to locate the Audi. And there it was across the road, pulled onto the shoulder, still headed east. The tinted glass looked opaque in the late-afternoon light.

OK, he thought. You’re keeping a safe distance. Let’s play cat and mouse. He paraded past the berries and peaches, then turned on his heel and walked unhurriedly back to his car. He backed out of his spot and waited to turn east again on River Road. The Audi betrayed no sign of life. As he turned, he checked the mirror. The Audi let two cars pass then pulled out behind them, heading east. He accelerated to gain some distance on his pursuer.

Approaching Swains Lock Road, he slowed abruptly and swung into a right turn without warning. It was easy to imagine the expletives issuing from the driver of the Mercedes on his tail. The wet, unlined asphalt was barely wider than a driveway and it snaked down the hillside under a dark canopy of foliage. He doubled the speed limit while descending the quarter-mile lane, then braked to a stop just short of the parking lot, jumped out, circled to open the tailgate, and snatched the shovel and his canoe paddle. He stepped into the woods beside the passenger door and propped them behind the trunk of a large oak tree. Then he continued to the open door, hopped in, and shifted back into gear.

There were a handful of cars in the puddled dirt-and-gravel parking lot at Swains, and he pulled straight into a space alongside the nearest one, then stared at the rear-view mirror. When he saw the gray Audi glide toward the lot, he shifted into reverse and completed the second leg of a three-point turn. Shifting forward, he pulled out of the lot as the Audi eased in. He was within a few feet of its tinted windows as it slid past, but all he could see was a shadowy presence at the wheel. He tried to match the outline behind the glass with the figure of the woman on the bridge at Cool Aid. It had to be her.

He accelerated up Swains Lock Road, then slowed to creep past an oncoming car. The familiar shape emerged behind him. He sped up again on the last stretch and quickly found the opening he needed to turn west on River Road, back toward home.

The Audi temporarily receded from view, but it crested a hill behind him as he neared the turn for his neighborhood. That’s OK, he thought. She already knows where I live. He navigated leisurely through residential streets back to Ridge Line Court, then opened his garage door and waited. When the Audi nosed into view behind him and edged to the curb, he pulled into the garage and closed the door. “Sayonara, sweetie,” he muttered getting out of the car. “Hope you enjoy the scenery.”

He pulled his bicycle from its slot in the corner and carried it into the house. Randy rose up from his bed to stretch and greet him. “Sorry, buddy, I’m just passing through. Nicky should be home soon.” His words reminded him to check his watch. Just past six-thirty. He tapped his pockets to make sure he still had the head-lamp, knife, and wire cutters, then carried his bike out the sliding door to the backyard and wheeled it across the lawn. At the edge of the woods, he shouldered it and picked his way down to Pennyfield Lock. Two minutes later he was on the towpath, where he set his feet on the pedals and took off downstream for Swains.

***

Vin’s car was in the garage, so Nicky half expected to find him at his desk as she entered the house. Only Randy was there to greet her. She climbed the stairs to the living room. Vin wasn’t lounging on the couch either. She walked down the hall to the bedroom and didn’t find him there. After changing into shorts and a v-necked shirt, she visited the kitchen and saw the note on top of the answering machine.

She read it to herself a second time, this time aloud and in disbelief: “I know where it is! Out for a quick investigation.” At first the message sounded like a joke, but her anger rose when she realized it was serious. What the hell was wrong with him? The “it” could only be the thing he’d been obsessed with for almost a year now. A chill raked her temples and she felt faint. She leaned against the kitchen counter and pressed down with both palms, taking shallow breaths to overcome an unfamiliar vertigo. Her arms suddenly felt numb and her hands against the counter looked like they belonged to someone else. And what is wrong with me?

An investigation. Vin thought he was tracking buried money and the bones of ghosts, so what did that mean? Was he planning to dig something up? And where, given that his car was still in the garage. Did he set out into the oncoming evening on foot? Whatever he was doing had to be centered around the canal, so he could have walked down there easily enough. Did he expect to exhume something from the mud and carry it home? Or maybe there was someone else involved. She shuddered recalling Vin’s suspicious comments about Kelsey Ainge. When had that started? He’d said something about it after they visited her studio in February. And then things had been normal for a while after he recovered from his infection.

Until recently. About a week ago, when he’d brought home that ridiculous lock-key. And Nicky knew he’d been pondering his imaginary enigma about an albino mule since then. He’d sardonically mentioned his impression that Kelsey Ainge was following him at Cool Aid. And now he always seemed to be looking over his shoulder.

The thought returned, reincarnated as a suspicion. What if Kelsey was luring him into something? Maybe this whole strange quest was something she had devised. Some way of using him toward her own inscrutable ends. Maybe he was with her now and that was why he didn’t need his car. They could have met at Pennyfield Lock to set out somewhere. She might have even met him here at the house.

To break this line of thought, Nicky mechanically took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. There was no way to know how Kelsey Ainge was woven into Vin’s obsession with Lee Fisher’s 1924 note, but it was clear that Vin thought she was involved somehow. She picked up the handset and dialed. Doug Tuckerman answered and hailed Abby, who had just walked in the door.

“What’s the matter, did you leave your umbrella on the chair?” Abby said. They had been joined for drinks at the bistro by two friends of Abby’s, and Nicky had left first.

“No,” Nicky said. “I got the umbrella. Now I just need to find the fiancée.”

“Is Vin AWOL?”

“Sort of. Though he did leave a note that says he’ll be home soon.”

“So you need to get in touch with him right away?”

“Not exactly. I’m actually trying to get a read on one of our acquaintances.”

“Someone I know?”

“Kelsey Ainge.” Nicky heard a soft whistle. “We met with her once when we were looking for a wedding photographer,” she said, “but I remember Doug said something about her before that. When we had dinner at your house, last fall.”

“What did Doug say?”

“Something about her being pulled out of the river after she drove off a boat. And a flood, a long time ago? I remember Doug saying that one of her friends was never found, and the other drowned, with a seatbelt tied around his ankle.”

“Yes,” Abby said. “That was just before the flood of 1972.”

“But Kelsey was rescued, and wasn’t hurt?”

“That’s right.”

“So,” Nicky said, “did anyone ever explain exactly what happened?”

“I remember,” Abby said, “that there was an investigation after the flood. After they gave up searching for the other girl. But no one else saw the car go off the ferry, and Kelsey told the police it was an accident.”

“Including the seatbelt?”

“I think she claimed to have no idea how that happened. The story was in the newspapers for a few days. The dead guy’s family was pointing fingers, but she was never charged.”

“And then Doug said something about her husband dying in a car crash?”

“Right. With a high dose of valium in his blood. Some thought he’d been drugged. She got the house and the money and was involved with another guy a few months later.”

“She seems to have a way of landing on her feet.”

“Yes and no,” Abby said. “She’s set financially. She’s respected as a photographer. But no one has forgotten those strange accidents, and most people keep her at arm’s length. I think she’ll always be a pariah. My advice would be to steer clear. Both you and Vin.”

Nicky thanked her and hung up, then stared at the receiver in her hand. A thread of logic grew hot and began to glow inside her, beneath the level of conscious thought. She pulled out the Potomac phone book and found the entry she wanted. Ainge, K, at 11427 Vera Lane. She tapped out the number, then hesitated before pressing the call button. Vera Lane – that’s only a few miles from here, halfway toward town. Maybe Vin was there now. She put the receiver back in its cradle and wrote the number on a piece of paper, then stashed it in her pocket.

Circling back toward the stairs and foyer, she noticed the topographical atlas lying open on the living-room coffee table. It hadn’t seemed worth scrutiny on her way to the kitchen, but that was before she’d read Vin’s note. Now she detoured to the table and spun the open atlas to face her. She studied the left-hand page, which covered the terrain from the Capital Beltway west to the river, including the town of Potomac and their neighborhood. Vin shouldn’t need a map at this point. So maybe the atlas had something to do with his quest. Then she saw the oval sketched around an island in the middle of the river, about halfway down the page. A straight line that split the oval in half had one endpoint at Riverbend Park on the Virginia shore and the other at Swains Lock on the Maryland side.

Jesus. Was that island really where he planned on going for his “quick investigation”? If so, how did he plan on getting there? Swimming? He and Nicky didn’t have access to a boat. But maybe, she realized, he could rent a canoe. Like they’d done last fall at Swains. He was an experienced canoeist, and she knew it wouldn’t be difficult for him to ferry across to the island if the river wasn’t running too high. Still, if that was his destination, why wouldn’t he have driven to Swains? She shuddered for an instant. Maybe Kelsey drove him there. Or maybe, she forced herself to acknowledge, the circled island had nothing to do with his absence. Maybe it was part of some innocent tangent he’d pursued earlier.

She collected her keys and continued downstairs, realizing as she descended that there was a simple way to assuage her concern. If Vin was planning to canoe to the island, he would certainly take his own paddle. He and Nicky both hated the cheap plastic paddles that rental operations dispensed. At the bottom of the stairs, she crossed the carpet and opened the door to the laundry and storage area. Her gaze settled on the nylon ski bags leaning against the far wall and the snowshoes beside them on the cement floor. Their canoe paddles were usually part of the same cluster. She crossed to the far wall and found her paddle propped upside-down next to the ski bags. Behind it she saw only the iron lock-key that looked like a useless fireplace tool leaning against the wall. The glowing thread in her subconscious burned a shade brighter, and her sense of time and place collapsed as her irises darkened to indigo. Vin’s paddle was gone.