The station was near the northern edge of the mile-long park and his meeting place was past the middle, so he turned onto a path that climbed into the woods and crossed the hillside, paralleling both the railroad tracks and the creek they followed, Arlington’s Four Mile Run. Beyond a small pavilion, a stone-lined shaft the width of a fireplace was cut into the hillside. Clear water pooled in the shaft and bubbled over its rim, spilling down the base of the slope toward the creek. The young couple admiring the spring didn’t notice Zimmerman as he passed.
Decades earlier, John Carlin had developed a resort around his two hillside springs. He’d carved a swimming hole into Four Mile Run, then built a dance pavilion, restaurant, and ice-cream parlor along the tracks. In those days people came to Carlin Springs to socialize and escape the city. Now all trappings of the resort were gone, leaving only the untended springs and the tulip trees, oaks, and beeches of Glencarlyn Park. People came here to get away from each other. That was one of the things Zimmerman liked about it.
Glencarlyn’s other advantage was that it lay only three miles from the terminus of the Washington and Old Dominion Railway in Alexandria. And that station was just three blocks from E.S. Leadbeater’s, the apothecary that employed a clerk who was Zimmerman’s source of heroin. Zimmerman didn’t mind taking the electrified railway to these meetings with Taviston, since he could cross the river at Whites Ferry and park at the Leesburg station. Even though the ride to Glencarlyn was thirty miles and almost as many stops, that was better than driving in on the Maryland side and trying to reach Alexandria from Georgetown or DC.
And today he’d had business out in Harpers Ferry anyway, tracking down Folito now that Underwood was dead. But Folito had vanished, so Zimmerman would probably have to rebuild the West Virginia network from scratch. He hadn’t found the missing twelve-and-a-half ounces either, despite digging up the planters behind Underwood’s shop. The widow might have been watching from an upper window, but no one confronted him as he pawed through dirt and pulled up roots. Maybe the Italian bitch got the message that her husband had been in over his head.
Zimmerman’s path turned down the hillside and into the wooded drainage that carried Long Branch, a tributary of Four Mile Run. Before descending, he stopped to peer down through the trees at the tapering spit of land between the two streams, where a few dozen flagstones framed a small stone monument. He couldn’t tell whether Taviston was already there; the emerging leaves had grown too dense. He carried his satchel down to Long Branch and along the bank to the point between the streams.
The peninsula’s flagstone patio was empty, and when he panned a full circle from its center he saw no one. Screened by trees along the stream banks and accessible from a single direction, the spot was hard to stumble upon. And the waist-high stone column wasn’t much of an attraction, maybe because its inscription was weathered and hard to read. Zimmerman had deciphered it on a prior visit:
On the spot where this monument now stands… stood a great oak tree bearing a survey mark which was put there by General Washington.
Taviston had told him that George Washington once owned twelve hundred acres overlooking Four Mile Run, stretching from Long Branch down toward Columbia Pike. Zimmerman had been surprised to hear this historical tidbit from a third-generation Californian, transplanted only two years ago into northern Virginia. Maybe Taviston had learned it from someone at Leadbeater’s, since Washington had been a customer and part of the drug shop’s history. Or maybe the kid was just more of a reader than his father. Zimmerman had worked with Arch Taviston for over a decade out west and couldn’t remember ever seeing him with his nose in a book. The elder Taviston wasn’t much for fancy words either, but he could multiply and divide three-digit numbers in his head, faster than a cat could swat a songbird.
His son Randall could do that too, but Randall must of got the reading and writing bug from his mother. It was a good combination to have: work fast with numbers to make money and talk your way out of whatever trouble comes along. Maybe that was why the Tavistons sent him east to run distribution for the Washington area. With a good position at a drug warehouse that ordered all kinds of powders and solvents and chemicals, Randall was making it look easy. Two years on, Zimmerman had yet to see him slip up.
“Scouting for a place to dip your pan?” called out a voice behind him. Zimmerman had turned his back to the path and was staring at the confluence of the two creeks.
“The only gold in this park,” he said, pivoting toward the voice, “is whatever you got in that bag.”
Taviston hoisted his satchel waist-high. It was the same kind of doctor’s bag Zimmerman had brought. “Well then, my intrepid Klondiker, I think you’ve struck a rich vein.” He smiled and set the bag down on the flat top of the column monument, then opened its jaws wide.
Zimmerman saw four mason jars, each filled with the familiar white powder. “Ten-ounce jars?”
“Keeps the arithmetic simple,” Taviston said, buckling the bag closed. “A hundred-fifty each.”
Zimmerman scanned the perimeter for observers. Finding none, he swapped the two satchels, set the loaded one on the flagstones at his feet, and pulled a folded wad of bills from his coat pocket. When his count reached six hundred, he gave Taviston the sum and pocketed the slim remainder. “This might last me three weeks,” he said, nudging the satchel with his foot. “I had to swat a mosquito in Leesburg, so now I got some ground to cover out west.”
Taviston furrowed his brow and narrowed his pale blue eyes. He was tall and thin, with wavy reddish hair parted in the middle, and though Zimmerman knew this expression was intended to convey concern, it always looked more like bemusement.
“On both sides of the river?”
“I’ll drive over to Leesburg, up to Harpers Ferry and into West Virginia, but I ain’t working the Maryland side. Not west of Frederick.”
“I thought you hailed from the Maryland side. Some place like Hagerstown or Williamsport.”
Zimmerman nodded. “That’s why I don’t like it. There’s still a couple of Zimmermans left out there.”
Taviston laughed. “Everyone in my family is three thousand miles away. That does provide a certain freedom of motion.” He flexed his brow again and lowered his voice to something above a whisper. “But you can’t be everywhere at once. How are you going to do it? If you cover this side of the river, you could find someone to work the Maryland side.”
“That ain’t what I’m thinking. I can handle Virginia out to Leesburg, and Maryland out to Frederick. The best thing would be to find a man that can go west from there, work both sides into the hills.” He gave Taviston a crooked smile. “I already got someone in mind.”
***
Zimmerman waited until Taviston had been gone ten minutes before starting back to Glencarlyn station. From the west-bound platform he caught the train to Leesburg just after sunset. The Bluemont Junction interchange was less than a mile away, and passengers to and from the Great Falls Line got on and off, but after that the stops were short and the traffic light. He slouched in his seat with the satchel between his feet and bought his ticket when the conductor came by. Zimmerman had traveled the W&OD enough times that he knew he could sleep through the rural stops and wake up coming into Leesburg. He nodded off as the train rolled northwest into the twilight.
It was three miles from Bluemont Junction to Falls Church, then five more out to Vienna. He dreamt he was back in the Yukon in winter, crossing the snow-covered river on foot. He was tracking a snow fox he’d shot on the ice near his tent, after using fish scraps to lure it within range. The fox had fled onto the white expanse. It left a trail of tracks and blood drops, but even on the moonlit snow the trail was hard to follow in the dark. Halfway across the river the trail disappeared. He stopped walking and scanned the wind-crusted snow in all directions. Nothing. But he noticed a fire burning on the opposite bank, so he walked directly toward it. As he approached he could see it was just a small campfire. A lone figure sat beside it
, huddled under a blanket, wearing a parka with a fur-lined hood. It was his old mining partner, Penson Wylie.
Wylie’s face was dark and wind-burned. He lifted his reddened eyes from the fire to look at Zimmerman. “We’re too late,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Zimmerman asked.
“It’s over,” Wylie said. “Look.” He raised his eyes to the sky and pointed a finger northward, and Zimmerman saw the sky was on fire with giant swirls of gemstone-colored light.
The train jerked forward as it pulled out of Lowland, and Zimmerman woke up in time to read the sign beside the tracks. Eleven miles traveled, twenty to go. The woods turned dark as the station receded. He looked around the dimly-lit car and saw that he was its only passenger. The train rolled and clattered through a featureless landscape for a few minutes, then hesitated and began braking. When it screeched to a stop, Zimmerman pressed his nose to the window and stared into the darkness beyond. The next stop was Hunters, on Hunter Mill Road, but the station was nowhere in sight. The train had stopped on a bridge that crossed a small creek. Maybe Difficult Run. He cupped his hands against his temples to screen out the interior light.
On the creek’s near bank, in the middle distance, he saw a glowing presence advancing through the woods. As it got closer he could see that it was the size and shape of a person. A girl, with sparks falling from her hair. It was her! The girl’s color oscillated from green to pale orange to yellow and back as she wove through the trees toward the train. She drew closer and he saw glowing red feathers dangling from her wrists. When she passed directly through the nearest tree, Zimmerman uttered an involuntary cry but no sound came out. His heart felt like a hundred crickets were jumping inside it, ready to burst through its walls and colonize his lungs.
The glowing girl climbed to the bridge and approached his window. She stared at him with burning sapphire eyes and an incandescent smile. Zimmerman tried to flee but couldn’t move. His feet were tied together somehow, tied to the satchel. And underwater! He realized for the first time that the train car was flooding, the water knee-deep and rising. How? Reflections on the creek showed its level was well below the bridge. His eyes snapped back to the girl. She was saying something to him but he couldn’t hear her or read her lips.
He opened his eyes when someone gently jarred his shoulder.
“Next stop Leesburg,” the conductor said, continuing down the aisle.
Zimmerman felt the crickets withdraw inside him as his heartbeat spiraled down and drops of sweat trickled behind his ears. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded it in his palms, and buried his face in his hands.
Chapter 13
Pointers
Saturday, April 12, 1924
Cole followed Doc Cushing through the stable and out back. The horse doctor hadn’t seemed surprised to see him. Cushing must have known someone would show up sooner or later to claim the mules. Forearms resting on the fence-rail, he pointed them out amidst the half-dozen horses in his sand-and-dirt paddock. The mules looked groomed and happy. Cushing said he called them Lily and Lou. He’d been caring for them for ten days, so his fee would be eighty dollars.
Cole said he needed the mules hauled down to Swains Lock, where he was doing some work, and he could pay the fee on delivery. When Cushing agreed to drive them to Swains tomorrow, Cole laughed to himself while mumbling some appreciative words on behalf of Abel Emory. This stall-mucking pushover probably never even thought of selling ‘em.
Then Cushing took the bait, as Cole had guessed he would.
“What kind of work are you doing at Swains Lock? Some kind of repair project?”
Cole grinned and leaned against the rail alongside Cushing. “You could say that,” he replied. “Two repair projects. Abel Emory got a scow that washed out of the canal down there, and my job is to make sure it’s ready to float back to Washington County when the canal gets watered. And the Elgin family that sent me here to find the mules, Jack and Tessie in Williamsport, they got a daughter that went missing from Swains before the flood. They want me to ask around and find out if anyone seen her.”
Cushing took his eyes off the horses and mules and gave Cole a concerned look.
“The flood was two weeks ago. If she’s still missing, that’s not a good sign.”
Cole shook his head and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Sure ain’t,” he said. “But Katie didn’t wash up drownded like some other fellers that went missing, so the Elgins are still hoping she turns up alive. They figured maybe she got spooked by something and is afraid to come home. Her momma wrote her a letter, in case I find someone who knows how to get it to her.”
“So I assume the daughter’s not a young child like the boy who saved the mules. How old is she?”
“Nineteen,” Cole said, and he thought he saw a flash of recognition or insight cross Cushing’s face. The doctor turned his gaze back to the paddock and spoke slowly, as if he were thinking aloud.
“I met a girl,” he said, “about that age… last Sunday… at Edwards Ferry. I was on a house call for a canal mule with a puncture wound. First albino mule I’ve ever seen. The mule got stabbed by a big splinter of fence, maybe trying to break out when the water came up. The caller was a young man whose father tended that lock. He said he came to collect the mules after his father corralled them there during the flood. He and the girl helped me settle the mule so I could pull out the splinter.”
“Did you catch the girl’s name?”
“That was the funny thing. The young man, I think his name was Jake, said he only met her a few days before. He said he didn’t know her name because she didn’t know her name! She told him she didn’t remember anything that happened before she turned up at Edwards Ferry.”
Cole hung on Cushing’s every word, squinting to imply his skepticism. “Sounds fishy,” he said. “Was this feller buying it?”
“That was my reaction,” Cushing said. “When the girl was out of earshot I asked him if he thought she was being straight with him, and he said he didn’t know.
“I told him he might notify the sheriff’s office to find out if someone was looking for her. I think he was going to let her stay for a few more days to see if her memory came back. Until it did, he said he was calling her April.”
“Do you think he went to the sheriff, like you said?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Cushing said. “I told him to notify me if the mule wasn’t healing right, but I haven’t heard anything since.”
“You said that young feller’s daddy was the locktender. So he and the girl was staying in the lockhouse?”
“That’s how it looked to me. She brought hot water from the kitchen. She seemed to know her way around the place.”
Cole said it sounded like a couple of kids sneaking off together to play house. Maybe “Jake” was smitten with a girl his family didn’t like, or maybe her family didn’t like him, so they were holed up at Edwards Ferry and not telling anyone their real names.
“That’s possible,” Cushing said. “Though Jake didn’t have to tell me about her in the first place. He could have said she was his sister or his cousin.”
Cole shook his head as if he was admonishing love-struck young couples. “Romeo and Juliet. Seen it before and we’ll see it again. Give ‘em five years and see how they feel about being each other’s shadow.” He thanked Doc Cushing, walked back to his car, and drove away.
Cole set his feigned skepticism aside as he turned out of Cushing’s driveway. The girl at Edwards Ferry was Katie Elgin – she had to be. How far was that from Swains Lock? Twenty or twenty-five miles by road, but only about fifteen on the canal. With the towpath washed out in various spots and the canal mostly drained, Edwards Ferry would serve well as a hideout. The ferry had stopped running decades ago. The only people she might run into there would be workers repairing the lock. Now that the canal was drained and broken, Edwards Ferry was just another dirt ramp to the river.
And why would she need to hide? When Cole thought back
to the lunch conversation at Abel Emory’s table, the answer was obvious. Because she’d stolen Kevin Emory’s toolbox, with its gold and silver coins, customer ledger, and hundreds in paper money. And hadn’t Billy Emory said that Lee Fisher was courting Katie in the days before the flood? So maybe it was Katie who slashed his throat. Maybe Lee found out she’d stolen the Emorys money, and she was afraid he’d make her give it back. Or maybe Lee helped her steal it, and Katie decided she wanted it all for herself. That could be the reason the sheriff was looking for her.
Cole felt his temples throb as he tightened his grip on the wheel. Only someone that’s guilty says they can’t remember anything they done. Can’t even remember her own name! That’s horseshit.
Still, he thought, it wouldn’t make sense to drive straight to Edwards Ferry right now. Not while his blood was up. He might be overlooking something. It was late afternoon and he needed to think the situation through. Cushing was bringing the mules down to Swains tomorrow at noon, and that could be a problem with the girl on his hands. He needed to find a place for both of them. Zimmerman might be able to help with that. He felt his tension subside and his fingers unclench from the wheel. The solution was taking shape in his mind.
***
Cole parked beside the canoe rack at the bottom of Swains Lock Road and walked straight to the lockhouse. When he knocked, Jess Swain came to the door. Jess looked stricken and retreated beyond arm’s reach when he saw who was calling.
“Mister, I don’t have your toolbox and I already told you what I know! You can work on your boat and come and go as you like, but please leave me and Jimmy alone! We don’t want any trouble!”
Jess started to close the door but Cole thrust a straight arm against it and stuck his boot inside the doorframe. “Relax,” he said. “I believe you. And I ain’t here to cause trouble. I’m here to offer you a deal.”
Cole explained that he’d tracked down the two mules that had been tied up at Swains along with the scow – the team that Pete Elgin had guided up the road during the flood.
If It Is April Page 9