Wait, he reminded himself. The box was locked and you don’t know what was inside it. You never had a chance to try the keys. He reached into his pocket and pressed the keys against his thigh. Whoever took it can’t open it easily. Maybe I can catch up to the thief.
And what about the other artifacts he’d uncovered, at the base of the trunk with the initials of the dead? He circled to the trunk on the Virginia side. The hole with the forked root at its bottom looked untouched. He found the flask with the rotting holster lying on top of the dirt pile. Where was the necklace? Zigzagging the beam around the pile, he concluded it was gone. But something else caught his eye – flakes of bark and wood shavings sprinkled between the hole and the base of the trunk. He knelt down to roll a few between his fingers, then lifted them to his nose. They smelled freshly-cut. Fallen from the trunk above him?
His throat tightened as he stood and tilted his head back, drawing the beam up along the axis of the trunk. There was the scabbed and swollen mason’s mark. And above it the initials. KE and LF, for K. Elgin and Lee Fisher. Then MG, carved in a hand that looked more recent but still decades old. And higher still, a final set of initials that hadn’t been there earlier – that must have been carved in the last few minutes! Incised with straight and ruthless strokes, exposing the living wood below. NH. His heart pounded and he whirled to make sure no one had crept up behind him. Feeling dizzy, he braced himself against the tree. His instincts had been trying to tell him this for hours, and now her initials had been added to the tree of the dead. Nicole Hayes!
He took deep breaths and tried to think clearly. He had to get off the island to find Nicky. She might have come looking for him and found his locked bike at Swains. And Kelsey Ainge may have followed her, since she would have seen Nicky leave the house. He snatched the shovel and jogged to the edge of the clearing, then thrashed through underbrush until he saw night sky over the river ahead. The Maryland-facing bank was pitched steep to the water, so he picked his way along it, sidestepping the trees on its crest. He had beached the canoe at a narrow cut fronted by three rocks, and he swung the headlamp beam along the bank until they emerged from the darkness downstream. He hopped down and followed the drainage to the river’s edge. A sickening suspicion proved true and he berated himself for falling into the trap. His canoe and paddle were gone. He stabbed the shovel into the bank in disgust.
He stepped out on the center rock, which seemed smaller than it had when he disembarked from the canoe. The soft pulsing of eddy water against it reminded him that the first fingers of floodwater always stole downstream unnoticed. He looked across to the Maryland shore, which he knew was only a few hundred yards away. There were no lights at Swains Lock, but he knew it was near the center of a broad span of darkness between two well-lit estates on the hillside above the river. And he knew that he had drifted downstream while paddling across to the island. He decided his best option was to swim for the lights upstream from Swains. Aiming straight across the river wouldn’t get him there any faster and would wash him far downstream. The water might have risen to shoulder-deep or neck-deep, but there were still large rocks to cling to, and he might still be able to find places to stand and rest while resetting his course.
He stripped off his sodden shirt and dropped it onto the shrinking rock, then looked wistfully at his running shoes. They would protect his feet and make life easier on the towpath if he landed a half-mile below Swains. But it was hard to imagine swimming with them, so he yanked them off along with his socks and left them on the rock. His headlamp wasn’t waterproof so he left it behind. The other items in his possession – his knife, nylon wallet, and the two small keys he’d found with the toolbox – should survive the crossing if they didn’t fall from his pockets. And they shouldn’t, as long as he kept swimming.
He stepped into the water and sunk to his knees in silt. Extending his arms and collapsing forward pulled his legs free. He swam a few strokes with his head above water to align himself with the hilltop lights. The river seemed colder than it had on his retreat from the swamped canoe. Fran’s chilled brown fingers were stretching downstream. He lowered his head into the water and swam as straight and fast as he could.
Chapter 37
Full Circle
Friday, September 6, 1996
The river concealed underwater objects, but Vin kept his eyes open out of habit as he swam. The questions washed over him like the flood. Who had carved Nicky’s initials on the sycamore? Was it a prophecy, or had she already met the same fate as Lee Fisher and K. Elgin? He refused to believe that. But could NH refer to anyone else? The other cryptic messages had all seemed meant for him: the “be careful you don’t share my fate” annotation in the margin of the library book; the “why are you here?” etched on the snow-covered rail at Carderock; the crosses labeled “then” and “soon” on the Bear Island stop-gate; the drawing of the “soon” cross on the note slipped under Randy’s collar. Why shouldn’t the initials carved tonight in the sycamore be meant for him as well?
He stopped stroking to raise his head and discovered he’d already been swung downstream. He changed course while treading water and set off again. Maybe I’m off track with the initials as well, he thought. I didn’t find any bones at the base of that trunk. Maybe Lee’s fear was unrealized, and he wasn’t killed after all. The initials could mean something else. KE, LF, MG, NH – of course! – they’re a sequence! So NH was just the next logical pair. It didn’t mean the trunk was a grave marker for K. Elgin and Lee Fisher.
And the initials MG, apparently carved later…they didn’t have to stand for… a finger of cold water coursed over him as a chilling image resurfaced. The second small cross he’d found on the crown of the stop lock, inscribed with a name he’d read aloud but forgotten until now: Miles Robin Garrett, 1972. Vin had hurled the cross into the river from the Bear Island cliffs. So even if the initials were a sequence, that sequence still memorialized the dead. He pulled harder in frustration. What was happening, or had already happened, to Nicky?
Something invisible passed just below his eyes and his chest slammed into a submerged rock. Breathless and jolted, he stopped and groped for handholds, then lifted his buzzing head above the surface. Had this rock been underwater earlier? The water all around him seemed faster and sounded different than it had on his first crossing, the gurgling, lapping noises replaced by a rushing sound that was steadier and deeper-pitched. Head above water, he grasped the rock’s upstream face and let the current pull his legs downstream. He took full breaths, aimed for the upstream lights, and thrust himself back into the flow.
His arms grew tired and almost numb as the river cooled them, and he considered shedding his shorts to swim in his underwear. It would be much easier, he thought; I’d be almost naked. But I don’t want to give up my knife yet… or my wallet and all my cards. Or the two small keys. If I drop them I’ll have nothing to show for my trip to Gladys Island.
But I’ll have nothing anyway if I lose Nicky, or if she’s already gone. Nothing left but an aging dog and a tenuous connection to the surface life. Maybe I’ve lost it all already, and I’m swimming out of my old life into something else. He stopped to glide with his face in the water. I could let go and drift downstream. Then I wouldn’t need my ID cards. It’s two miles to the Falls.
No. He rolled his head sideways for a breath and resumed swimming. I need to find Nicky. For better or worse. We’re getting married next month. He raised his head to get his bearings and the hilltop lights swam in a hazy aura. Both upstream now, but seemingly closer. He blinked and squinted while treading water, then reset toward the upper lights and swam on.