The River Killings (21 page)

I T
OLD
M
YSELF
A
GAIN
T
HAT
I H
AD
N
O
C
HOICE
. A
FTER
ALL,
I
T
W
AS

my fault Nick had gone rowing; if we hadn’t fought, he’d be home safe in bed. And there was no question that something was wrong; his boat had been gone way too long. I had to go find him. Molly would be safe until Susan got there. She’d have to be.

But without Molly by my side, the boat bays looked even darker. The shadows were harsher, more menacing. Just keep moving, I ordered myself. I opened the door to the dock, grabbed a pair of oars, lugged them outside, and came back in for a boat.

The shell I’d rowed the day before was about twenty-five feet long, weighed about thirty-five pounds. But it felt heavier, bulkier, longer and wider as I strained to lift it off the rack. It’s a lever, I told myself. You’re the fulcrum. Stand at its center and balance it like scales. But I couldn’t find the boat’s center, couldn’t get it to balance. It tipped like a seesaw, too far to stern, then too far to bow. I bumped its nose against other boats, its tail against metal riggers. Thunk. Scrape. Thwap.

“Mom?” Molly called from somewhere near the ceiling. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

But Coach Everett screamed in my mind, blasting me for clumsiness, blaring out commands. “Correct your grip.” I heard him bark. Resting the bow gently on the floor, I moved my hands toward the center of the boat and lifted again. Better balanced, but still unsteady, I concentrated on where I was heading, aiming the
stern carefully through the narrow aisle, slamming it only six or seven times into shells resting on the racks.

Oh, God. What was I doing? I couldn’t even carry the thing down to the dock; how was I going to row it? I had no idea, but also no choice. I kept going, tipping the shell at impossible angles, squeezing my torso between its hull and the metal riggers that were supposed to hold oars but instead contained my twisted, contorted body.

Slowly, the shell and I sidestepped along, proceeding in tiny increments to the dock where, sweating and panting, I paused to steady myself and let my eyes adjust to the moonlight. Then I continued, step by step, toward the water, assuring myself that the boat was not getting heavier, that I was not going to drop it, that I could manage one more step, then another. Finally, miraculously, the boat and I made it to the water’s edge where, without proper form or grace, I ducked out from under the rigger and let the boat splash into black water where it bobbed awkwardly, eventually righting itself.

My lungs felt heavy with dense night air, and I smeared sweat across my forehead with equally sweaty arms. The oars, I thought. Get the oars. In moments, my oars were locked onto the boat and I stood on the dock, ready to shove. I glanced back at the boat-house, trying to catch a glimpse of Molly, wondering if Susan had arrived yet. I considered going back in to check, but didn’t. Because if I did, I might not have the nerve to come back out.

T
HE
M
OON
W
AS
A
LMOST
FULL,
A
LMOST
T
HE
S
AME
S
HAPE
I
T
H
AD
been a few nights before when Susan and I had rowed. And the dark water glittered the same way, alive with slivers of reflected silver light that slapped gently, teasingly at the dock.

Balancing carefully, I stepped barefoot into the boat and lowered myself onto the seat, fastened the clammy Velcro shoes and shoved, letting the current carry me. For a moment I sat in the dark, watching the dock float out of reach. I gripped my oars and held my body rigid, not daring to breathe.

Oh, God. What was I doing? I was alone on the river in the middle of the night. A novice without a coach’s supervision. using a Humberton shell without permission. Leaving my child alone not just in the boathouse, but up in the racks. I was breaking every rule there was. And not thinking clearly, either—I’d rowed a single only a couple of times before during lessons, and then I’d almost flipped. What was I going to do if I flipped again? I felt Molly’s pinkie gripping mine, heard myself swear that I wouldn’t drown.

Stop it, I told myself. There’s no sense thinking about flipping. You’re here, on the water. Just settle down and row. Go look for Nick’s boat. That’s what you’re here for. I took a tentative stroke, then another. The boat wobbled, tilted dramatically, first to port, then to starboard. Steady, I told myself. Breathe. Keep your hands level. Relax your shoulders. Push with your legs. Gradually, my body began to remember the drill, moving the way it had the day before. The mantra of Coach Everett. Push with your thighs and legs. Lean back. Finish.

I looked over my shoulder to see what was ahead, saw nothing but black space, shimmering surface, silhouettes of trees along the banks. No other boats. Nothing. Just quiet, undisturbed water. Even the expressway along the river was deserted. The only sounds were my oars clunking in their locks and the water gurgling under the boat, and I kept moving, scanning the surface for Nick’s single shell. But there was no sign of it. Or Nick.

The night air felt dense, clammy. Moisture clung to my skin, as if the river were oozing upward, trying to engulf me even in my boat. Keep moving, I told myself. Lean forward, slide up, reach out. Pull. The mantra. Keep repeating the mantra.

With each stroke I held my breath, afraid that my oar would catch something other than water, that I’d feel the tug of a body dragging on my blade. I waited for the boat to lurch or tip, and I recalled the helplessness of falling into murky liquid, swallowing it. Pulling a woman out of the water and feeling the limp, slippery indifference of her skin. Oh, God. I rowed on, expecting that a hand might at any moment reach out of the water and grab my oars. Or a head pop up and grin with blind, glowing eyes. Stop it, I told myself. Concentrate on what you’re doing. Think about your stroke. Reach out and catch the water. Push with your legs and thighs.

Somehow, after a few minutes, I passed under the Girard Avenue Bridge and headed upriver past the statues of three angels. My eyes had grown accustomed to the night. The darkness glowed black beams; the river seemed a negative of its daytime self. I peered into the darkness but saw no boats, no Nick. Nothing but shadows in varying shades of darkness. No movement. I rowed on, losing track of time. Had I been rowing for five minutes? An hour? I kept looking around, ignoring grisly memories, focusing on balance. My technique was sloppy but I was moving. And as I approached the Columbia Bridge, I told myself that, for a novice, I wasn’t rowing badly. My boat was not as wobbly as before; its glide was steadier. I was getting into a rhythm, and the boat was responding. I felt almost confident that, despite the darkness and the dangers it might conceal, I’d be able keep rowing as long as I had to. Until I could find Nick.

A
BOVE
P
ETERS
I
SLAND
W
AS
W
HERE
SUSAN’S
O
AR
H
AD
G
OTTEN
caught on a woman’s dress. It was where we’d flipped among the bodies. As I neared it, my skin prickled with memories, my muscles tightened involuntarily. Stop it, I told myself. No one’s floating in the water. But my body reacted on its own, on alert.

The island itself was no more than a mound of craggy rocks overgrown with wild shrubs and trees. Maybe three hundred yards long and thirty-five wide, it sat in the middle of the Schuylkill River about a hundred yards above the Columbia Bridge, and although a jagged stairway was carved into the rocks on one side, a weathered sign, almost hidden by vines and branches, declared: K
EEP
OFF
: N
O
E
NTRY
.

People were not welcome on Peters Island; its only inhabitants were geese, turtles, ducks, occasional egrets. Wildlife. So when I saw Nick’s shell and a coaching launch banked at the top of the island, I froze. What I saw made no sense. Nick’s boat and a launch? At Peters Island? In the middle of the night? Why? I sat in the middle of the river, gaping, unable to comprehend what I saw.

But there they were. A motorboat and, with its distinctive red markings, Nick’s brand-new WinTech racing shell. The launch was tied to a tree trunk; the shell had been dragged partway out of the water onto the rocks so it wouldn’t float away. Its oars were crossed, and it rested, partially submerged, against the island’s steep incline. I sat for a moment staring into the dim woods, listening for I didn’t know what sounds. But all I heard was the water lapping softly, indifferently against my
hull. Everything else, even the air, even my breathing, was still.

Inside my head, though, nothing was still. Questions ricocheted—What was Nick doing here? Whose launch was that? Why would they abandon their boats on the rocks of Peters Island? Had there been an accident? Had someone been hurt? Or, I wondered, had something more sinister happened? Something to do with nineteen floating dead bodies?

The boat swayed gently, rocking me, and I had the sense that none of this was real. I wasn’t alone in the middle of the river on a dark, humid night. I wasn’t staring at Peters Island searching for Nick. I was home in bed, dreaming. On my sofa, wrapped in an afghan. But my skin tingled, alert, and my eyes insisted that I stop resisting and accept the shadowy images before me.

Get moving, I told myself. It was clear what I had to do. I rowed as close as I could to the spot where Nick had left his boat, but no matter how I steered, either my oars or the length of the boat kept me ten feet or so from the shore. There was only one way to get onto the island; I had to get wet.

The water shimmered in the moonlight, trying to look innocent and calm. Feathering my oars to steady the boat, I took my feet out of the shoes, centered my weight and slowly stood. There must be a better way to do this, I thought. But, not knowing what it was, I simply held my nose, let go of my oars and, before I could fall, jumped into the river. I closed my eyes, waiting for chilled, dark water to swallow me. But the river didn’t swallow me. It splashed my chin and neck, but when it settled, the water came barely to my waist and my feet hit bottom, sinking into swampy, knee-deep, toe-swallowing muck.

Don’t stop, I told myself. Go find Nick. Each step was a challenge; river mud sucked me down, clutching my ankles. Struggling, I grabbed my boat and, crossing the oars, lifted its stern onto the rocks, resting it beside Nick’s. Then, squishing and soggy, disentangling myself from river plants, slipping on slimy rocks, I splashed out of the mud and pulled myself up onto the veiled darkness of Peters Island.

M
Y
A
RRIVAL
HADN’T
G
ONE
U
NNOTICED
.
GEESE,
A
ROUSED
F
ROM
their sleep by my splashing, began honking and hollering, alerting every creature on the island. Shrieks, hoots, quacks and howls assaulted me from all directions, and the night came suddenly alive with rattling leaves and cracking branches. I stood at the edge of the island balancing on a boulder, waiting for the pandemonium to settle, telling myself to keep going, hoping the geese wouldn’t attack.

There was no bank, as such. No gradual incline out of the water. The rocks were steep, but grabbing onto branches and stepping into sticky mounds of what smelled like goose poop, I made my way up to the dark carved stone steps that led into the island. At the top I stopped, my path blocked by a dense growth of trees and bushes. The squawking had grown deafening; even the turtles had to be screaming. I hugged myself, surrounded by unseen creatures and impenetrable panic.

Great, I thought. Now what are you going to do? There was no path, no light. My eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness on the water, but I was in a forest now, surrounded by shadows, commotion and cries. The glow of the night sky was blocked out by treetops. Still, Nick was there, somewhere, and I had to find him.

“Nick?” I called. My voice was lost among the others. “Nick? Are you here?” I tried again, louder. Still, the only answers came from creatures screeching in alarm. I groped through vines and bushes, aware of scratching branches and biting insects. Stepping gingerly, I felt with my toes for the sting of brambles, the slither of
snakes. Oh, God. Were there snakes on the island? What if I stepped into a nest? What if one was in the trees, dangling over my head? Hunched and bent, I hurried ahead, afraid of what might be at my back. Was that the nip of night air or a spider biting my neck? Was that a sharp rock or fangs jabbing my bare foot? Was an outraged goose chasing me, her strong wings outstretched like blades? I pressed on blindly, feeling my way, wondering where I was headed, how long it would take. The island had seemed tiny from the water, but it was almost impenetrable, and my progress was slow. More than once, island creatures careened past me, swooping or flapping in warning or alarm, and, too often, I tripped, stubbing toes or scraping limbs. Cursing and moaning, I told myself to keep going. To find Nick. And, clearing my way with frantic arms, squinting futilely into darkness, I stumbled on the habitats of turtles and disrupted the peace of geese until, suddenly, I was flat on my face.

It took a moment to realize what had happened. I’d fallen. I must have, although I couldn’t remember it. I lay still, stunned, absorbing the shock. And then, slowly climbing onto my hands and knees, I realized what I’d tripped on. What lay under me wasn’t a rock or a bush. Not even a snake. No. It was human. The body of a man.

OH,
G
OD
.
OH,
G
OD
. M
Y
H
ANDS
W
ERE
SHAKING,
S
LAPPING
A
T
H
IM
.