SWAINS LOCK (The River Trilogy, book 1) (42 page)

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.