What day was it? The 29th. Tapping the pen, he visualized the intended burial spot again. A name and an image crystallized and he began to write. When he was finished, he changed a few words and rearranged the sentences. Then he tore another page and wrote the message as legibly as he could.

March 29, 1924

Charlie,

If it is April and I am missing, I fear I have been killed because of what happened today at Swains Lock. I may be buried along with the others at the base of three joined sycamores at the edge of a clearing. The name of the place is well knowed by Emmert Reed’s albino mule. One tree leads to the money, the second leads to the killers and the third leads to the dead. In your search for me you may find the truth. Be careful you don’t share my fate.

Your friend, Lee Fisher

He read the note a second and third time. It was the best he could manage. Charlie had spent many years at Pennyfield Lock and Lee felt sure he would understand the reference to Emmert Reed and his albino mule. To most others the clue would be opaque. He folded the note and left it on the table. Was there something else he should he leave as a clue? A reference to Katie, in case his fears came true. The photograph of them at Great Falls. She had left it near the porch-swing during her visit last night, and he found it this morning while cleaning up. If Lee went missing, the photo would provide a tacit pointer to the people Charlie should find.

The flask with C. F. Elgin inscribed on its holster lay next to his travel bag on the stairs. Katie had probably neglected it last night because she’d been busy trying to keep him on his feet. And now he’d forgotten to return it to Swains today. Just as well, since she wasn’t there to receive it, and it would have been strange to hand the flask directly to Cy. He shook his head, amused at his diffidence. Instead you showed him the key to the leg-irons that killed your cousins! He opened the bag and pulled the photo out from between the pages of a book. Appraising the flask, he realized it would be useful tonight.

He tore another blank page from the log-book and folded it to serve as a sleeve, then placed the message and the photo inside it. His idea about where to leave the note still made sense, so he carried the papers across the lock and turned into the woods on the path up to Charlie’s shed.

The drill he’d bought recently was lying on the workbench where he’d left it, next to a hammer and a handsaw. He thought about leaving the message on the bench but realized that anyone who wandered in would see it. A safer approach occurred to him. He set the note and photo aside and took the hammer to the unadorned wall of cedar siding planks to his left.

He chose a plank near the center of the wall and used the claws to remove the nails that held it in place, tossing them on the floor one by one. The studs behind the plank could hold a little shelf of cut shingle, and there was a pile of shingles in the corner. At the workbench he cut one to fit, then tapped in new nails from the workbench jar to support it. He propped the drill on the shelf – it held. He placed the photo and his note behind it, pinned against the inner face of the thick outer siding. It was a strange place to leave a message, but no stranger than the events of the day.

He laid the plank face up on the floor. From his pockets he removed Tom Emory’s knife and Katie’s sandstone pendant, then examined the pendant’s symbol. First a curve like a tipping C, then three converging slashes. He tested the blade with his thumb; his cousin kept it sharp. He carved a shallow C near the base of the plank. Its outline was rough but he didn’t care – he was etching the symbol for himself, and to Charlie it would just be a mark. From the lower end of the curve, he extended the slashes.

He sat back with his arms around his knees and yawned, knowing he wouldn’t sleep much tonight. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes for a few minutes. A stab of hunger jarred him awake. Grabbing the plank and hammer, he pulled a handful of nails from the jar and hammered the plank back in place, with Charlie’s drill and the message he hoped no one else would ever read hidden safely behind it. He left the shed and walked down through the woods.

One more note to write… a note so pedestrian that no one but Charlie would care about it. At the dining room table he removed another page from the log-book.

March 29

Charlie,

Welcome home. I left your drill in the shed, behind the marked plank.

Lee

He left the note in the center of the table and put the log-book away, then scraped together leftovers in the kitchen. Fried sausage and potato salad from last night and the remnants of a loaf of bread. He finished what was left of his mother’s ham with a glass of water. After eating he dragged himself up the stairs and laid down. Years of boating had taught him how to sleep while still keeping track of time. He let go and was asleep within seconds.

When he woke up, the angle of the light striking the wall told him sunset was still an hour away. He closed his eyes and visualized the steps he needed to take. Bring the canoe and a paddle down from the rack next to Charlie’s house. He was pretty sure there was an old rubberized canvas tarp in the basement of the lockhouse that would be useful to cover a body in the canoe. And if they wanted to use it as a burial shroud for the toolbox, it probably wouldn’t be missed for a while. Charlie kept a pair of shovels in the shed and Lee had already carried one to the lockhouse a few days ago. It would take him almost an hour to paddle down to Swains. He took a deep breath and got to his feet.

A few minutes before six, he dragged the black birchbark canoe down the berm. The shovel and tarp were under the stern seat as he pushed that half of the canoe into the water. On a final visit to the lockhouse he retrieved his coat, sliding Cy’s flask into the empty hip pocket, balancing the one that held Katie’s pendant and Tom’s knife. He pulled his cap from a hook on his way out the door. The air felt cool now as he crossed the lock, jogged down the bank to the waiting canoe, and pushed off.

As the canoe sliced through still water, he felt a surge of adrenaline and dread. What he was going to do with Cy had to be done – there was no alternative. If he backed out, Cy would consider him a threat and might hunt him down. Or he could use Lee’s leg-irons as evidence against him. He was committed to the plan, but a subliminal fear kept reminding him his life might end tonight. He faced the stern from the bow seat, picked up the paddle, and aligned the boat’s heading with short strokes. His heartbeat slowed. He clung to the hope that Katie would return to Swains unhurt and be able to identify the killer or killers. The hope that someone other than Katie or Cy had murdered his cousins. He paddled resolutely downstream across the darkening water as the sun descended into the trees.

Chapter 25

Grave Dance

Saturday, March 29, 1924

The colors of sunset emerged and faded as Lee paddled down the canal. Approaching Swains through the twilight, he drove his canoe toward the berm near the entrance to the flume. A lone figure moved haltingly toward him. Without words, Cy caught the stern and hauled it up onto the grass. “Pull it up next to mine,” he said, turning back toward the lockhouse as Lee climbed out.

The green canoe was sitting on the beaten grass near the front door. Lee dragged his boat alongside it and noticed the Emory’s toolbox was already under its bow seat. I guess he wants the money within reach, Lee thought. And there was a paddle but no shovel.

“You ain’t got a shovel?”

“No. Couldn’t find one. Long as we got yours, that’s enough.”

What an ass, Lee thought. Maybe he plans on counting the money again while I dig.