SWAINS LOCK (The River Trilogy, book 1) (39 page)

Since it was the Friday before Labor Day,
traffic was lighter than usual and he made it home by four. He went
straight to his desk, where he dialed into the network at
Rottweiler’s Boston office. He browsed to a white-pages website,
entered “Reed” as the surname and “Sharpsburg, MD” as the city, and
clicked the Search button. Four listings appeared: Cameron, E J,
Elizabeth, and Martin. None of the addresses were on Harpers Ferry
Road. He printed the page and disconnected the call, then dialed
all four numbers.

Cameron sounded like a young guy, maybe in
his early twenties. Vin didn’t leave a message. The number for E J
was answered by a “no longer in service” recording, which left him
wondering how current the listings were as he crossed off E J’s
entry. His call to Elizabeth went unanswered. That doesn’t happen
very often anymore, he thought. Maybe an elderly person? Martin’s
phone was picked up by a teenage girl. Without much conviction, he
repeated the query he’d used previously, that he was a researcher
interested in a canal-era locktender named Emmert Reed. Would she
or anyone in her family know that name?

“I haven’t heard of him. You’ll have to ask
my Dad.” She went on to mention that her Dad was away on business
but would be back in ten days. Vin wrote “call 9/10” next to
Martin’s name.

That was a quick exercise in futility, he
thought. He skimmed the list again – it wasn’t useless yet. He
hadn’t trusted Cameron to return his call, but a few more attempts
to catch him might be worthwhile. And maybe Elizabeth was one of
those people who hate answering machines and he’d called while she
was out. Even Martin was worth another try, though it was hard to
imagine waiting ten days to do it.

He sensed a presence behind him and swiveled
in his chair. Randy was squatting nearby, watching him hopefully
while wagging his tail on the rug. It was time for a run on the
towpath.

Chapter 32
One Red Leaf

Saturday, August 31, 1996

Leaning forward in her patio chair, Kelsey
pressed the shedding blade against the base of Allie’s neck and
stroked back along her flank. When the blade reached the dog’s
hindquarters, she shook loose a clot of hair that fell into a paper
bag between her feet. Allie stood still with half-closed eyes and
the trace of a smile, panting lightly in the early-morning air.

“You’d be happy if we did this all day,
wouldn’t you?” The dog eyed Kelsey and closed its mouth to swallow,
then resumed panting as the blade traversed its left side and
chest. The early morning sun was already warming the air, so Kelsey
unbuttoned her lavender sweater and draped it over the back of her
chair. She looked down at the growing haystack in the paper
bag.

“Maybe next year we’ll just shave you on
Memorial Day and be done for the summer.” She tugged the dog’s
collar to turn her around and began stroking Allie’s right side.
When the yield of hair tapered off, she slapped the dog lightly on
the breast and laid the blade on the patio table. Allie slumped
down on shaded flagstones as Kelsey sipped her cooling coffee and
leaned back in her chair.

In the sweetgum tree past the edge of the
flagstones, a single bright red leaf near the center stood out
against the litter of green stars. It’s a harbinger, she thought,
of events that are now close at hand. Looking up she saw blue sky,
with traces of cirrus to the southwest. It’s funny that my sense of
anticipation is heightened now, when a generation ago I was
oblivious. Maybe now, all these years later, the truth will rise to
the surface and become clear. As it had become clear to her
subconscious already. A light breeze stirred the sweetgum’s leaves
and chilled her arms and shoulders. And the money? That might be
compensation for the long, long wait. She crossed the patio toward
the glass doors. It was time for her vigil to start.

Chapter 33
Reeds

Tuesday, September 3, 1996

Vin paged through the Washington Post in the
breakfast nook as he finished his coffee. Labor Day weekend was
over and Nicky had left for the Clinic early, anticipating a long
day. To his surprise, Rottweiler had thrown the ball back into his
court over the weekend by sending him the specifications he needed
for the suggestion-rating feature. He sighed, unenthused by the
prospect of getting back to work. This feeling – that what he
produced was trivial and dull – was what had made him want to quit
his job in the first place.

He reached for the front-page section, which
he usually saved for last, and read an article about two hurricanes
that the media had been covering for the last week.

A few days ago Hurricane Edouard seemed destined to
deliver a jarring punch to southern New England, but benevolent
forces prevailed and the hurricane swung back over open waters
during the weekend. Now 195 miles southwest of Halifax, Nova
Scotia, Edouard has been downgraded to a tropical storm. While
Edouard left buildings and infrastructure intact, its slashing rain
immobilized thousands of coastal residents and visitors in traffic
gridlock as they attempted to evacuate Cape Cod and the island
communities ahead of the storm.

With Edouard receding, Atlantic seaboard residents
are turning their attention to Hurricane Fran, whose
80-mile-per-hour winds were gaining strength as Fran passed 495
miles east of the Bahamas, en route toward a possible landfall
later this week in the Carolinas.

Vin wondered whether his friends in West
Falmouth were among those who had fled Edouard to idle in traffic
on the arteries that connected Cape Cod to mainland Massachusetts.
And for no reason, as it turned out – a waste of a long weekend at
the beach. The wind and rain dispersed the crowds and made sailing
small boats or windsurfers on Buzzards Bay a thrill.

He folded the paper – there was no
postponing work any longer – and went downstairs to his office,
where he examined the array of pages on his desk. Lying askew to
his binders and notes was an orphaned page near the phone… a
screen-print from the white-pages website he’d consulted after his
trip to the Archives. With the listings for Cameron, E J,
Elizabeth, and Martin Reed in Sharpsburg. He’d already crossed out
E J’s listing, and for Martin written “call 9/10.”

He tapped out Elizabeth’s number and hit the
dial button. The annoying buzz of a busy signal blared from the
speaker. No voice-mail and no roll-over, he thought. At least she’s
consistent. He dialed Cameron and got voice-mail again. While
listening to the greeting he composed a message, but hung up
instead at the beep.

What is wrong with me? he asked himself. Why
am I worried that a message about Emmert Reed will sound idiotic?
Or maybe quixotic is the word. Is it because I believe that myself?
Why can’t I stay focused on my work? It’s a legitimate project for
decent pay. Just like the job I walked away from in Boston. I could
get back on a career path here… maybe at one of the Beltway-bandit
firms. God knows there are enough of them around. Obviously that’s
what Nicky wants. He sighed and dialed Elizabeth’s number again.
This time he heard ringing, followed by a live voice at the end of
the line.

“Hello?” The word was extended into three
bright syllables. She responded to his inquiry by telling him her
name was Betsy. Her voice was warm and brittle and he guessed that
she was in her sixties, maybe seventies. He launched into his
script: he was researching an article for the Maryland Historical
Society about the C&O Canal and looking for information about
Emmert Reed, who had tended lock and captained a canal boat in the
1910s and 20s.

“That’s a name I haven’t heard for a long
time,” she said, and Vin thought he heard a note of
wistfulness.

“Emmert Reed?”

“He was my husband’s grandfather,” she said,
a warm tone returning to her voice.

“Do you suppose your husband might be able
to help me find…”

“My husband passed on three years ago,”
Betsy interrupted gently.

“I’m very sorry.”

“Yes.” She paused long enough that he
wondered how to break the silence. Betsy did it for him. “Dan
always loved to pass along the stories he heard from his
grandfather. To our children, when they were young. About the
boating life. He would always tell them that it was a hard life
back then, but a good and simple life. And everyone knew you only
got what you worked for. Dan used to worry sometimes that young
people don’t see things that way.”

Vin made small sounds of affirmation to let
her know he was listening.

“Of course, I think our children turned out
alright,” Betsy said, “but now I wonder if they’re raising their
children the same way!” She chuckled, and Vin could picture an
elderly woman smiling and shaking her gray curls in bemused
admonishment. He tried to steer the conversation back toward Emmert
Reed.

“Did your husband know his grandfather
well?”

“Oh yes,” Betsy said. “I mean, he did as a
boy. Old Grandpa Em – that’s what Dan called him when he talked to
our children – was still alive back then, living here in town. I
think Jake and Ida used to take Dan and Sarah over to see their
grandparents quite often. Of course, Emmert died many years ago.
Sometime around 1950, I think. And then Dan would drop by to check
on his grandma Helen as she got on.”

Vin cupped a hand over the receiver and
cleared his throat as he thought about how to phrase the next
question. “I’d love to hear some of your husband’s stories about
his grandfather. Did he… write any of them down?”

Betsy laughed. “Oh no. Dan wasn’t the type
to do that. He could write a letter now and then when he had to,
but that wasn’t something he enjoyed doing very much.”

“I see. Did your husband’s grandfather
ever…”

“He did like to take pictures, though.” Vin
didn’t mind the interruption, since the question he had been about
to pose, whether Emmert Reed had bequeathed a journal to his
grandson, seemed ludicrous even to him.

“…and collect them in photo albums,” she
said, finishing her thought. “And so did his father, though Jake
mostly just kept them loose in an old box.”

“Hmmm, that’s interesting,” Vin said softly,
encouraging her. Betsy sailed on.

“But Dan took all those old pictures and put
them into an album for his father. That was a few years before Jake
died. Jake died in 1971.”

A young girl’s voice pealed brightly from
the far side of the line, “Grammy we’re waiting.”

“I’m sorry,” Betsy said. “My daughter is
visiting with my grandchildren, and I guess I’m holding up the
show.” Vin heard fumbling at the other end of the line as her voice
grew distant for a second. Then she was back, and he sensed an
opportunity that would vanish in an instant.

“I’d very much like to stop by and meet you,
Betsy…if that’s OK with you. We could talk some more about your
husband and his grandfather. If we looked at your husband’s photos,
you might have a recollection or two that would help my
research.”

“Oh, I think I might enjoy that. But it
would be easier for me to do it after Alison and the girls go home.
They leave on Thursday morning.” Vin happily agreed to visit her
house Thursday afternoon and confirmed her address in
Sharpsburg.

“I never really find a reason to take those
albums off the shelf anymore,” Betsy said. “Who knows? There might
even be a picture of old Grandpa Em in there.”

Chapter 34
Sharpsburg

Thursday, September 5, 1996

Approaching the colonial-era city of
Frederick, Maryland, Vin checked the rear-view mirror again. He
half expected to see a charcoal-gray sedan with tinted glass. At
first it had looked familiar, but he hadn’t been able to place it.
Even in upscale Potomac, the gray Audi wasn’t the kind of car you
saw everyday. And now he’d seen it three times in the last three
days. Parked on Ridge Line Court when he and Nicky had returned
home from Cool Aid early Monday afternoon. On the opposite side of
the street on Tuesday at sunset, a bit further from the house. And
again on Wednesday during his late-afternoon run. The car had been
parked in the dirt lot at Pennyfield Lock, a stone’s throw from the
route he and Randy traveled to the towpath.

When he saw the exit sign for Route 70, he
suddenly remembered where he’d seen the car before. In his
driveway, last fall. It was Kelsey Ainge’s car. He glanced in the
rear-view mirror as he changed lanes and slowed for the exit. No
gray Audi. He shook his head, surprised he hadn’t made the
connection earlier. Before he fell on his hip in the woods and got
sick, he’d had the sense that she was shadowing him. Or maybe just
steering him around. From Carderock and the joke of the joined
sycamores to the toy crosses on top of the Bear Island stop-gate.
As if she were guiding and mocking his search for Lee Fisher’s
truth at the same time.

And now he remembered something he’d seen
over the weekend at Cool Aid. The farm where the party took place
was bordered to the south by a bend in the shallow Gunpowder River
and to the southeast by a railway line that had been converted to a
dirt-and-limestone trail. The trail was carried over the river by
an old railroad bridge. Bikers and runners often stopped on the
bridge to peer out over a strip of woods at the sprawling lawn
between the river and the rolling hills on the northern edge of the
farm. On Cool Aid weekend a necklace of two hundred tents dotted
the periphery of the lawn, surrounding a central music stage, a
white-canopied food tent, a refrigerated beer truck, and a pond
with a white-sand beach. Vin and Nicky had joined friends from New
Jersey and hundreds of other guests on Saturday and Sunday in a
low-impact pentathlon of lounging, wading, listening to music,
eating, and drinking.

The shin-high grass of the Cool-Aid parking
area was only a few hundred yards from the rail-trail, and when he
ambled back to the car for one reason or another, Vin liked to
scout the trail users watching from the bridge. Late Saturday
afternoon, he’d noticed a slim woman with honey-colored hair
standing on the bridge with her elbows propped on the iron railing.
From a distance it didn’t look like she was dressed for biking or
running; her lavender top had a button-down front and long sleeves
that she’d pushed up her forearms. She was watching Cool Aid
through pocket-sized binoculars. Sensing there was something
different about her, Vin had stopped to gaze up and out at the
bridge. And as soon as he did that, she lowered her binoculars and
turned away. He watched her deliberately cross the rest of the
bridge and disappear behind the trees. Later he’d used his camera’s
zoom lens to study the bridge from further away. She was back, with
her elbows on the railing and eyes behind binoculars, watching. He
couldn’t see her face clearly, but something about her looked
familiar.