SWAINS LOCK (The River Trilogy, book 1) (45 page)

He sprang to his feet and slipped back into
the water, then stroked and kicked to the next rock, climbed out,
and retraced his path to the riverbank. Was Kelsey Ainge floating
unconscious somewhere downriver? Or was she harvesting what Vin had
struggled for almost a year to find? And why couldn’t he dismiss or
outreason a dread that Nicky was in danger? He worked his way up
the shoreline, then paced to find the opening to the deer path.
Jogging through the woods in his soaked shirt and shorts with the
light from his headlamp swaying maniacally before him, he reached
the clearing and stopped to train a steady light on the towering
sycamore at the opposite side.

If anyone was there, he or she was hidden
behind the conjoined trunks. Or had heard him coming and vanished.
He approached the tree warily, withdrawing the knife and opening
the blade. No hidden creature emerged or stirred. The ground before
the nearest trunk looked as it had before, with a single shovelful
of earth upturned. He cautiously circled toward the trunk on the
Maryland side. The hole he had dug was still there and his shovel
was lying beside the dirt pile where he had left it. The dirty
canvas mat was in its place as well, unrolled and lying flat next
to the hole. But nothing was on it. The toolbox was gone! Spears of
anger stabbed him. Kelsey Ainge or someone else had manipulated him
like a wind-up toy and walked away with Lee Fisher’s buried
money.

Wait, he reminded himself. The box was
locked and you don’t know what was inside it. You never had a
chance to try the keys. He reached into his pocket and pressed the
keys against his thigh. Whoever took it can’t open it easily. Maybe
I can catch up to the thief.

And what about the other artifacts he’d
uncovered, at the base of the trunk with the initials of the dead?
He circled to the trunk on the Virginia side. The hole with the
forked root at its bottom looked untouched. He found the flask with
the rotting holster lying on top of the dirt pile. Where was the
necklace? Zigzagging the beam around the pile, he concluded it was
gone. But something else caught his eye – flakes of bark and wood
shavings sprinkled between the hole and the base of the trunk. He
knelt down to roll a few between his fingers, then lifted them to
his nose. They smelled freshly-cut. Fallen from the trunk above
him?

His throat tightened as he stood and tilted
his head back, drawing the beam up along the axis of the trunk.
There was the scabbed and swollen mason’s mark. And above it the
initials. KE and LF, for K. Elgin and Lee Fisher. Then MG, carved
in a hand that looked more recent but still decades old. And higher
still, a final set of initials that hadn’t been there earlier –
that must have been carved in the last few minutes! Incised with
straight and ruthless strokes, exposing the living wood below. NH.
His heart pounded and he whirled to make sure no one had crept up
behind him. Feeling dizzy, he braced himself against the tree. His
instincts had been trying to tell him this for hours, and now her
initials had been added to the tree of the dead. Nicole Hayes!

He took deep breaths and tried to think
clearly. He had to get off the island to find Nicky. She might have
come looking for him and found his locked bike at Swains. And
Kelsey Ainge may have followed her, since she would have seen Nicky
leave the house. He snatched the shovel and jogged to the edge of
the clearing, then thrashed through underbrush until he saw night
sky over the river ahead. The Maryland-facing bank was pitched
steep to the water, so he picked his way along it, sidestepping the
trees on its crest. He had beached the canoe at a narrow cut
fronted by three rocks, and he swung the headlamp beam along the
bank until they emerged from the darkness downstream. He hopped
down and followed the drainage to the river’s edge. A sickening
suspicion proved true and he berated himself for falling into the
trap. His canoe and paddle were gone. He stabbed the shovel into
the bank in disgust.

He stepped out on the center rock, which
seemed smaller than it had when he disembarked from the canoe. The
soft pulsing of eddy water against it reminded him that the first
fingers of floodwater always stole downstream unnoticed. He looked
across to the Maryland shore, which he knew was only a few hundred
yards away. There were no lights at Swains Lock, but he knew it was
near the center of a broad span of darkness between two well-lit
estates on the hillside above the river. And he knew that he had
drifted downstream while paddling across to the island. He decided
his best option was to swim for the lights upstream from Swains.
Aiming straight across the river wouldn’t get him there any faster
and would wash him far downstream. The water might have risen to
shoulder-deep or neck-deep, but there were still large rocks to
cling to, and he might still be able to find places to stand and
rest while resetting his course.

He stripped off his sodden shirt and dropped
it onto the shrinking rock, then looked wistfully at his running
shoes. They would protect his feet and make life easier on the
towpath if he landed a half-mile below Swains. But it was hard to
imagine swimming with them, so he yanked them off along with his
socks and left them on the rock. His headlamp wasn’t waterproof so
he left it behind. The other items in his possession – his knife,
nylon wallet, and the two small keys he’d found with the toolbox –
should survive the crossing if they didn’t fall from his pockets.
And they shouldn’t, as long as he kept swimming.

He stepped into the water and sunk to his
knees in silt. Extending his arms and collapsing forward pulled his
legs free. He swam a few strokes with his head above water to align
himself with the hilltop lights. The river seemed colder than it
had on his retreat from the swamped canoe. Fran’s chilled brown
fingers were stretching downstream. He lowered his head into the
water and swam as straight and fast as he could.

Chapter 37
Full Circle

Friday, September 6, 1996

The river concealed underwater objects, but
Vin kept his eyes open out of habit as he swam. The questions
washed over him like the flood. Who had carved Nicky’s initials on
the sycamore? Was it a prophecy, or had she already met the same
fate as Lee Fisher and K. Elgin? He refused to believe that. But
could NH refer to anyone else? The other cryptic messages had all
seemed meant for him: the “be careful you don’t share my fate”
annotation in the margin of the library book; the “why are you
here?” etched on the snow-covered rail at Carderock; the crosses
labeled “then” and “soon” on the Bear Island stop-gate; the drawing
of the “soon” cross on the note slipped under Randy’s collar. Why
shouldn’t the initials carved tonight in the sycamore be meant for
him as well?

He stopped stroking to raise his head and
discovered he’d already been swung downstream. He changed course
while treading water and set off again. Maybe I’m off track with
the initials as well, he thought. I didn’t find any bones at the
base of that trunk. Maybe Lee’s fear was unrealized, and he wasn’t
killed after all. The initials could mean something else. KE, LF,
MG, NH – of course! – they’re a sequence! So NH was just the next
logical pair. It didn’t mean the trunk was a grave marker for K.
Elgin and Lee Fisher.

And the initials MG, apparently carved
later…they didn’t have to stand for… a finger of cold water coursed
over him as a chilling image resurfaced. The second small cross
he’d found on the crown of the stop lock, inscribed with a name
he’d read aloud but forgotten until now: Miles Robin Garrett, 1972.
Vin had hurled the cross into the river from the Bear Island
cliffs. So even if the initials were a sequence, that sequence
still memorialized the dead. He pulled harder in frustration. What
was happening, or had already happened, to Nicky?

Something invisible passed just below his
eyes and his chest slammed into a submerged rock. Breathless and
jolted, he stopped and groped for handholds, then lifted his
buzzing head above the surface. Had this rock been underwater
earlier? The water all around him seemed faster and sounded
different than it had on his first crossing, the gurgling, lapping
noises replaced by a rushing sound that was steadier and
deeper-pitched. Head above water, he grasped the rock’s upstream
face and let the current pull his legs downstream. He took full
breaths, aimed for the upstream lights, and thrust himself back
into the flow.

His arms grew tired and almost numb as the
river cooled them, and he considered shedding his shorts to swim in
his underwear. It would be much easier, he thought; I’d be almost
naked. But I don’t want to give up my knife yet… or my wallet and
all my cards. Or the two small keys. If I drop them I’ll have
nothing to show for my trip to Gladys Island.

But I’ll have nothing anyway if I lose
Nicky, or if she’s already gone. Nothing left but an aging dog and
a tenuous connection to the surface life. Maybe I’ve lost it all
already, and I’m swimming out of my old life into something else.
He stopped to glide with his face in the water. I could let go and
drift downstream. Then I wouldn’t need my ID cards. It’s two miles
to the Falls.

No. He rolled his head sideways for a breath
and resumed swimming. I need to find Nicky. For better or worse.
We’re getting married next month. He raised his head to get his
bearings and the hilltop lights swam in a hazy aura. Both upstream
now, but seemingly closer. He blinked and squinted while treading
water, then reset toward the upper lights and swam on.

I will find Nicky, he told himself, and
leave this ill-starred odyssey behind. This riddle has toyed with
me for almost a year and has pulled us apart. We’ll get married and
I’ll finish my consulting work. Then I can restart my career. Can,
he wondered, or will? A wave lapped his open mouth and he inhaled a
mixture of air and water. He stopped to lift his head, coughing and
gasping. Maybe I can stand here, he thought. He stretched his legs
but didn’t find the bottom, and his head slipped back underwater.
Shit! He kicked and thrust to the surface, and the burst of
activity inflamed his muscles. His lungs felt raw. He caught his
breath, lowered his head into the water, and swam on.

He was close enough to the Maryland shore
now that the hilltop lights were far apart and hard to see. His
hand brushed a large rock, then another. He held it and looked up
to see the dark shape of the mainland looming ahead. There were too
many rocks now, some visible and some submerged, to swim blindly.
He took shallow strokes with his head up, pulling himself forward
when he found an underwater handhold. Soon his hands felt silt. He
pulled himself to the water’s edge and scrambled up to the
vegetation.

The water streamed off his legs and back and
his skin tightened with chill as he assessed the terrain. Where was
he? Somewhere below his launching spot at Swains. The flat apron
with its scattered trees and campsites was nowhere in sight; the
ground in front of him was a clutter of twisted saplings and
rotting washed-up trunks. He plunged into the brush, stepping
lightly with bare soles but moving as fast as he could. Across a
ditch he confronted another channel of water – he had landed on a
seamed and nameless claw downstream from Swains. Long enough, but
too emaciated to be called an island. The backwater channel was
barely moving, filled by seeping veins from the main current
upstream. A steep, rocky bank across the channel climbed to the
canal and the towpath, only eighty feet away.

Groaning, he staggered down and pushed out
into the channel. Every muscle wanted to float and rest, but thirst
for air made him breathe and his breathing made him swim. He
crossed the backwater mindlessly and crawled out, then scrambled up
the bank and saw the pale ribbon through a screen of trees. A cry
of gratitude and relief in the back of his throat was throttled
before it found release. He still had to find Nicky.

He stepped through the trees and stared at
the crouching water of the canal. The towpath glowed softly and he
peered into the gloom along its course. Was that a faint white
shape in the distance upstream? When he strained to see it, it
receded into the darkness. His feet were already sore, and he
rubbed his soles on his shins to brush them free of pebbles. Thin
slices of the towpath had been smoothed by the tires of countless
bicycles; he stepped into one of these tracks of softer dirt, then
leaned into a few long steps and started running.

Water dripped from his shorts onto his legs
and feet, which were soon caked with mud. The night air felt humid
against his bare chest and his lungs began to burn. I’ve been
running on the towpath for a year, he thought, but this is the
first time I’ve run it at night. Or barefoot. A breeze arose and
died and the trees swept arching branches through the sky over the
canal. He settled into a rhythm of striding, breathing, and
pain.

This all started on my birthday, he thought.
When Nicky gave me the driftwood collage and I had to assemble it.
That was the only reason I went out to that old shed in the woods –
to look for a work surface. And I found the mark on the plank and
the note and the drill hidden in the wall behind it. Was I drifting
before I found the mark, as Nicky implied, or have I been drifting
since? The white shape appeared in the distance again. It should be
closer by now, he thought. Is it moving upstream along with me?
Maybe I’m still chasing Emmert Reed’s albino mule.

No, I found her. I found Gladys and visited
her island. And I dug up pieces to Lee Fisher’s puzzle, but lost
the one that might be worth something. My search is over now, and
the money – if that’s what was in the toolbox – is gone. I’m sorry,
Lee, but I don’t know what happened to you. I never learned the
truth.