“Hi, Ben. This is Vin Illick calling. I’m researching an article for the Maryland Historical Society about the last decade of commerce on the C&O Canal. I’m interested in a man named Emmert Reed who worked as a locktender at Edwards Ferry in the early 1920s. If you or anyone you know has any information about him, I’d love to talk to you.” He thanked Ben and left his work phone number, then ate a few grapes and studied the second name. D. Reed – a woman? He dialed and again reached a recording, this time in Diane Reed’s voice. He left the same message he’d left for Ben.
On the next call he was startled to hear the voice of a live person. Thomas Reed confirmed his identity with a raspy, unmodulated voice that gave Vin hope he might be over sixty – maybe old enough to be Emmert Reed’s grandson. But after Vin recited his pitch, Thomas responded abruptly. “There’s no Emmert Reed around here.”
“Well,” Vin said deferentially, “the man I’m researching worked as a locktender in 1913. So I’m actually hoping to talk to one of his relatives. Perhaps a grandson or a great niece.”
“You won’t find one in Poolesville. I was born and raised here and I know every Reed in town. For four generations. I never heard of an Emmert Reed.”
“Some people may have known him as M-Street Reed.”
The old man paused. “Did you say M-Street? What the hell kind of name is that?”
“It was just a nickname… from his canal days.” Vin’s confident tone wavered as the doubt he’d felt at Edwards Ferry resurfaced.
“You want information about the canal days, maybe you should go to the library and ask a librarian… instead of calling people just ‘cause they got a certain name.”
Vin thanked Thomas Reed for his time and hung up, then slumped back into the couch. Labor Day weekend was only two days away. Nicky was working through Saturday morning, after which she’d be off until Tuesday. Saturday afternoon they were meeting friends from New Jersey at Cool Aid, an expansive pastoral party at a defunct farm bordered by rolling hills and the Gunpowder River, a half-hour north of Baltimore. Their friends had attended Cool Aid weekends for years, pitching their tent alongside others on the far-flung lawn, listening to live music, wading in the shallow, tree-fringed river, and drinking beer from an endless supply of refrigerated kegs. It sounded like a nice escape. Between now and the weekend, Vin had to extend a program feature and upload the new version of his project to Rottweiler’s Boston office; there was no avoiding it, regardless of the tedium involved. But during the next two days there might also be time to grasp another straw from 1924.
Chapter 30
Emmert’s Lockhouse
Thursday, August 29, 1996
Vin lifted Lee Fisher’s old drill to eye level and set the bit against the head of the wood-screw. It was too small and spun uselessly. He selected a larger screwdriver bit and twisted the chuck open, admiring the eggbeater-style drill once more. The auburn handle and knob were dense and smooth – maybe cherry or rosewood. He’d cleaned and oiled the drill this morning, and now when he tightened the chuck and spun the crank, the gears and bit turned without friction or noise.
The silence reminded him to check for observers. His position behind the lockhouse was screened from the closest portions of the towpath and he couldn’t see anyone approaching from the distance in either direction. He’d already confirmed that there was nobody behind him on the path to the boat ramp. So he just had to listen for the idling of an engine or a slammed car door, which seemed less likely now that a light rain was falling.
When he applied the bit again, resistance from the crank arm confirmed the fit. The black screw groaned in protest with its first rotation, then conceded. It was two inches long and his arms burned after extracting it. Fifteen minutes more dislodged the remaining screws. He struggled to pull the heavy partition away from the window frame and prop it against the foundation wall, then stared into the dark cavity of the basement. The frame of the double-hung window was invitingly empty. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to negotiate broken glass to get inside. Cool air that smelled like an old junkyard seeped from the darkness. He tapped the pocket of his windbreaker to find his flashlight.
I must look like a thief, he thought, smiling at the notion. Black jeans and a drab pullover on a humid summer morning. A thief here to steal what? All he could hope to find was a finger pointing into the past. He extended a leg through the orifice into the gloom, ducking and shifting to follow it in. Looking out, the overcast day seemed impossibly bright. I should really put the partition back in place while I’m in here, he thought. Right now it looks conspicuous. But it’s too heavy to maneuver from inside, so I’ll just have to be quick and hope nobody notices.
Light streamed into the basement as he turned to examine the space. To his surprise, the ceiling was high enough for him to stand upright. He swung his beam across the room. To his left, a fireplace was built into the stone foundation. Straight ahead he saw the exposed stones of the windowless front wall – the lower part of this wall was underground. Ahead and right was a staircase, and a partition wall bisected the basement from its underside to the rear wall. Overhead were thick wooden beams and joists that formed the bones of the lockhouse. It’s small, he thought, but built to last a century or two.
The fireplace held soot-covered andirons, a blackened pot-lid, and a broken pint-bottle. He followed the beam to the front wall and brushed dust from a stack of doors and shutters leaning against the stones. The front wall led to a landing at the foot of the stairs, beyond which was the other half of the basement.
Steering the beam up the stairs revealed a closed door, which he climbed toward carefully, the worn wood creaking under his weight. At the top he turned an old doorknob. The door held fast as he pushed gently, then harder. He realized with frustration that it was locked with a deadbolt or a latch, so he went downstairs to try the far side of the basement. With its apertures still boarded up, this parallel room was much darker.
He panned the periphery. There was no fireplace on the exterior side wall, so it must be on the first floor instead. In its place was an old dresser with two drawers missing. He painted it with the rays – scars and dust, rough edges. Unworthy of an antique dealer, he thought, tugging at the bottom drawers in turn. They were hard to open and held nothing. Along the rear wall, cracks of light filtered through the boarded window and door. Nothing of interest. In this darker chamber, the partition wall emanating from the underside of the stairwell supported a set of bed springs and a disassembled frame. He brushed dust from a portion of the headboard. Crude and simple like the dresser, not the work of a craftsman.
Disappointed, he directed light into the corner this wall formed with the rear wall, where he noticed a vertical shape tucked into the shadow. It was a black iron rod, about his own height, with chisel ends. Used to dig holes or split rocks, he guessed. He set his flashlight down and held it like a spear; it was even heavier than he expected.
Putting it back, he reached for a shorter iron rod leaning in the deepest recess of the corner. It was about three feet long, with a square socket at one end and a graceful curve at the other. The curved end seemed smoother than the rest of the rod, almost like it had been sanded, or worn by human hands. The worn end terminated in a rounded tongue. He’d never seen a rod like it before but immediately recognized it on a visceral level. Finding a name for it took a few beats. It’s a lock-key. He visualized the socket on the end of the key fitting over an iron stem that protruded through the swing-beam of a gate. All of the lock-keys on the canal are gone, he thought, but I’m holding one. Maybe Emmert Reed used it to turn…