The River Killings (22 page)

“Nick . . . Nick.” I kept calling his name, trying to revive him. I felt his mouth for breath, his chest for a heartbeat. Nothing. But his shirt was soaked and sticky, drenched in what felt like blood. Oh, God. A wail rose on the island, penetrating the night as I pounded on his chest, performing CPR. And then, breathing into his mouth in pitch-darkness, it hit me that the mouth didn’t feel right. The lips were too thin. The nose was too sharp. The smell wasn’t familiar.

The body wasn’t Nick’s.

Then who the hell was it? And where was Nick? I stopped CPR, felt again for a pulse. Finding none, I felt the face of the dead man, trying to recognize his features by touch. Dimpled chin. Thin lips, pointed nose. Bushy eyebrows. Thick belly. Oh, God. I knew this man. What had happened here? Coach Everett was dead.

“NICK?”
I S
CREAMED
H
IS
NAME,
AND M
Y
V
OICE
B
LENDED
I
NTO
the other maddened screams of the night. “Where are you?”

I thrashed around in the bushes, crawled in circles, feeling rocks and dirt, dreading what I might find. I clawed through the undergrowth, feeling for something softer than rock, warmer than plant life. I pushed my way through clods of earth and clusters of weeds, searching, moaning Nick’s name.

I found his hand first. My fingers came upon it as they clawed through roots and soil. Nick’s hand. I followed it to his arm, his arm to the rest of him. He lay on his back, and I smelled the metallic odor of clotting blood, felt the syrupy texture of his shirt. Caressing his face, I kissed his mouth, recognized the shape of his lips, repeated his name.

“Nick. Wake up. Please.” But he didn’t wake up. He just lay there, limbs heavy and unmoving. Oh, God. Was he dead, too? I sat holding his hand, rocking his arm, moaning.

Then the island went silent, and I heard a single voice. “Stop dawdling,” the coach growled, giving orders even in death. “Quit whining and move your butt. Help the man.” Damn. He was right. I had to get a grip. I took a breath, and trying not to tremble, felt Nick’s wrist for a pulse. There it was, faint but steady. But wait—Was that Nick’s pulse or mine? I rested my head on his chest, listening, and stayed there for a few of his shallow breaths, rejoicing in the weak but reassuring throbs of Nick’s heart.

Oh, Lord. What the hell had happened? Had Coach Everett stabbed Nick? Or had Nick stabbed the coach? For God’s sakes
why? I had no idea, couldn’t stop to think about it, had to help Nick. Gently I lifted his shirt, let my fingers wander his chest, searching for a wound. A few inches under his left nipple, I found it. Small and round, the shape of a bullet, oozing warm blood. Instinctively, I pulled off my T-shirt and pressed it against the wound. But I couldn’t stay and hold it; Nick had to get to a hospital. My free hand reached around, searching, finding a large flat rock. I lifted it, placed it over my blood-soaked T-shirt, hoping it would continue the pressure. I had no idea if the rock was a smart idea or not. Pressure could help stop bleeding, but too much pressure might weigh down Nick’s chest, preventing him from breathing. I knelt beside him just long enough to make sure he was drawing breath. And then, cursing myself for leaving the cell phone with Molly, I explained to his unconscious body that I loved him and was going for help.

Reversing my steps, I tore through branches, over roots, around boulders, past indignant hoots and threatening screeches. Running too fast either to fall or be caught, I flew across the pitch-dark island back to the slimy steps where I could see the moonlight glimmering on the water. My boat leaned against the rocky bank, waiting beside Nick’s. Trying not to slip, I descended into waist-deep water and waded through river weeds across the swampy bottom to my shell. And struggled to hop, shimmy, twist and lift my body back in.

I WOBBLED AND SWAYED, BUT MANAGED TO GET MY FEET INTO THE

shoes, my boat away from the shore. I headed upriver, toward the Canoe Club, where I could get help. I rowed along the island madly, sloppily, inefficiently, stroking too quickly, losing my breath. The splashing of water and the piercing cries of wildlife obscured other sounds. So it wasn’t until I’d almost reached the end of the island that I heard the buzzing. It was faint at first, but getting louder. I turned and saw a launch coming around the island, headed my way.

The launch! I’d forgotten about it—it had been there when I’d arrived at the island, but not when I’d come back for my boat. Which meant someone else had been on the island. But who? And why hadn’t he answered when I yelled for help? Had he seen Nick and Coach Everett? Their fight? Was he going for help? Whoever was in the motorboat would be able to get help far more quickly than I would. Thank God.

The launch was moving fast, coming closer. I looked over my shoulder, taking slower strokes, waiting for it to come within shouting distance. It gained speed as it approached, its engine accelerating from a buzz to a roar. I clutched my oars, expecting it to slow as it neared me. By the time I realized it wasn’t going to, that, in fact, it was going to ram right into me, it was too late.

W
HEN
I H
IT
WATER,
T
HE
M
OTOR
M
UTED
INSTANTLY,
H
USHED
B
Y
bubbles. For the second time in a week, I drank undiluted river. It rushed into my mouth and nose, flooded my ears as I flew headfirst into shallow water; the mush at the bottom cushioned my fall. Plants coiled around my arms and legs as I rolled under the surface, hiding, holding my breath, waiting for the launch to pass. My hair floated in my face, reminding me of the other night, my mouthful of a dead woman’s hair. Oh, God. I held myself down, swimming underwater, and my foot bumped an oar from my overturned boat. Damn. I was too close to the surface, had to get down where he couldn’t see me. But I needed air. Had to breathe. Had to come up for just a second, just for one breath.

Quickly, before the driver could see me, I let my head come up, inhaled dark air and did a fast surface dive straight down to the bottom, which wasn’t very far. I tried to swim away from the spot where I’d heard the launch idling overhead, but the water was dense with stems and slimy plant life, difficult to swim through. Still, I closed my eyes and, trying to stay submerged, worked my way forward, holding my breath until my lungs ached. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I let myself come up again to grab some air.

I surfaced and filled my lungs. And noticed how quiet it was. Tentatively, I stayed above water, listening for the motor, hearing only the twittering of the island, the lapping of disturbed water against the rocks. No engine blaring. No sound whatever of the launch. Had it roared away? Was it gone? Was it safe to look? The
water still rolled from the launch’s wake, and I floated in it, bobbing some twenty yards from my abandoned, overturned boat. Careful not to splash or make a sound, I rotated, looking first to the side, then behind me. And I had just enough time to dunk as the oar came flying at my face, grazing my head.

I fumbled for a moment, then went down to the bottom, and kicking like a frog, swam through murky water, tearing ferociously at slippery tangled things that grabbed me as I passed. What the hell was going on? He hadn’t been gone; he’d been sitting in the launch, engine off, waiting. An oar’s length away. Watching for me to surface so he could bash my head in. But who was it? Who’d rammed my boat? Who’d been on the island with Nick and the coach?

Pumping adrenaline, I pulled my way through the river toward the spot where my upside-down boat drifted, guessing the distance. And then, hoping I was out of batting range, I came up for a fast breath and look. Damn, I’d gone too far. My boat was behind me. I aimed again and slipped under the surface, coming up under the single’s hull, head above water in the hollow space between the seat and the shoes. Breathing the pocket of air trapped inside the boat, wiping blood and water from my face, I stayed there, hidden from sight and protected from blows. And I thought about Nick, who was lying under a heavy rock bleeding to death.

I STAYED BENEATH MY BOAT, BLOOD POURING FROM MY FOREHEAD.

Head wounds bleed a lot, I reminded myself. Even superficial ones. It might not be as serious as it seemed. Shivering, blinking away scarlet streams, I breathed slowly, hoping the man in the launch would assume that he’d knocked me unconscious. After a while, I heard his engine start up again. The sound was muffled, but I could almost feel it idling, vibrating the water. Probably, he’d wait just long enough to be certain that I wouldn’t surface again, that I’d drowned. And then he’d leave.

But how long would that be? How long did it take for a person to drown? I had no idea. Three minutes? Two? In certain circumstances, ten? How long had I been there? I had no idea. Time had distorted, taken on lethal dimensions, become significant only in that it took time to suffocate. To freeze in chilly water. To bleed to death.

Again I pictured Nick outstretched on the island. Was he still alive? Had the pressure of the rock stopped the bleeding? Every second that passed gave him less of a chance. I waited, counting heartbeats, gradually realizing that the sound of the motor had faded. I listened, held my breath, heard only the slaps of water until, unable to wait any longer, I slipped out from under the hull and quietly spun around, scanning the water first on one side of the boat, then, crossing under the boat, on the other. The launch was gone.

My body was numb and shivering, head still bleeding as I turned the boat upright. Chilled and shaking, I worked my way
back in, strapped my feet into sodden shoes and began to row. For what seemed like hours, I rowed. My oars weighed tons. My head pulsed with pain and dizziness. The half mile to the Canoe Club became elastic, stretched like rubber. I’d never get there. I wouldn’t make it. Nick would die. Maybe both of us would. But I kept going, taking a stroke. One more. Another. Long after I’d given up hope, I was still rowing. Muscles burning, head searing, I finally felt the impact of a crash, turned and saw the planks of a dock. Thank God, I whispered, and crawling out of the boat, I began to yell for help. For the police. For anyone. I saw myself crawling as if from above, as if I were watching from the sky. Then I was standing, running up the dock to the Canoe Club, pounding on the doors to the Police Marine unit, hurling myself into the road, waving at cars along East River Drive.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t using actual words anymore. I was merely making noise. Waving my arms, screaming.

T
HE
C
OPS
A
LREADY
K
NEW
M
E
. F
OR
T
HE
T
HIRD
T
IME
IN A
WEEK,
I’d summoned them to a violent crime scene. Officer Olsen was there, and I told him about Nick, Coach Everett, the man in the launch. Wrapped in blankets, gauze around my head, I refused to go the hospital, even though Officer Olsen advised it and the EMT said I’d need stitches. But no, I wouldn’t go, wouldn’t move until rescuers had reached the island and brought Nick off on a stretcher. I stayed where I was until I saw for myself that Nick was still alive. He was limp and unconscious, covered with bloodstains and bandages. But my boulder, it turned out, may have helped; he hadn’t bled to death. I pestered the EMTs, asking questions they couldn’t answer. Would he be all right? Had he lost too much blood? Would he survive surgery? Could he hear me if I talked to him?

Only when the ambulance had taken off with sirens blaring did I agree to leave the scene. And even then, I wouldn’t go get stitches; I had to go get Molly.

Officer Olsen sighed, eyeing me, and offered me a ride. He called ahead to Susan’s to say we were on the way, and hesitated, when he hung up, to tell me that Tim had said Susan wasn’t home yet. Neither she nor Molly was there.

I must have looked deathly, face smeared with blood, head bandaged, body scratched and bruised, hair disheveled, sports bra torn and soaked. Officer Olsen hadn’t wanted to upset me further. But I was on my feet, not waiting for him to help. By the time he’d finished his sentence, I was already telling him to try Molly on my cell phone as I was climbing into his car.

I RUSHED INTO HUMBERTON CALLING MOLLY’S NAME. MY VOICE

reverberated under the hollow dome of Humberton’s foyer, rattling the walls, the chandelier. And, when she didn’t answer immediately, my bones.

Officer Olsen followed me down into the boat bays. “Molly?” I shouted. “Molly, come out.”

Head throbbing, holding on to beams for balance, craning my neck, I scanned the shadowy racks for the form of a little girl, finding only long gleaming boats. And two empty spaces, one for Nick’s single; the other for the shell I’d left at the Canoe Club.

“Molly? Molls? Susan? Where are you?” My teeth chattered, even in the heat, and trembling, I scoured the bays, examined the spaces between racks. I told myself that Molly was fine, just hiding. Any second, she’d pop out, smiling at her game. But she didn’t.

“Ma’am, are you sure she’s down here?” Officer Olsen looked doubtful. “Wouldn’t she be waiting upstairs where it’s more comfortable?”

Yes. Of course. Molly wouldn’t still be in the racks; Susan would have taken her upstairs to the lounge. They’d probably fallen asleep on one of the oversized leather sofas. Slowly, shivering, I followed Officer Olsen to the stairs. I told myself to calm down; wherever they were, Molly and Susan were safe. Nothing could have happened to them at Humberton Barge. But in a corner of my brain, Nick’s question bellowed: “Did you or Susan lose a Humberton hat?”

A Humberton hat had been found floating among the bodies. Was a Humberton member involved with the slave smugglers? Could that member have accosted Susan as she arrived in the night? No. Ridiculous. Besides, what would a slave smuggler want with Molly, a little six-year-old girl? Oh, God, what an awful question. I couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to.