SWAINS LOCK (The River Trilogy, book 1)

by Edward A. Stabler

  Tom finished his cornbread and echoed Kevin’s yawn. “Why don’t you go invite her yourself. I’m too comfortable to get up. Like a possum in a pumpkin patch.”

  “Don’t much feel like climbing that ladder myself,” Kevin said, succumbing to another yawn. “Maybe we can serenade her from here.”

  “Be my guest. Since you got the musical persuasion in the family.” Tom laughed as he leaned his head back against the cabin wall and lowered his hat brim over his eyes.

  “Oh Miss Elgin,” Kevin sang out. He followed Tom’s lead, leaning back against the cabin wall and shading his eyes with his hat. His voice softened as he added a second line. “Our porpoises are swellin’…” The third line was a light snore, sung by both Emory brothers.

  ***

  Ten minutes after the Emorys stopped talking, Katie emerged from the lockhouse carrying a lock-key in one hand and Lee’s leg-irons in the other. The open cuffs were aligned in her palm, her fingers curled around two of the C-arms. She stood on the lock wall and looked down at the scow. The Emorys were slouched side-by-side with their backs against the cabin wall and their legs extended toward the bow. Their hats were pulled down over their eyes, but the rise and fall of their chests convinced her that both men were asleep. Heroin and whiskey, she thought. Two sedatives at work.

  She set the leg-irons and lock-key down beside the rope ladder and walked to the end of the swing-beam, then pushed it to swing the gate closed. She crossed over the lock and closed the downstream gate on the towpath side. Now the lock was a sealed chamber.

  Neither Emory moved as she descended the rope ladder and stepped onto the deck of the scow. She walked stealthily along the starboard rail past the snoring men and toward the cabin stairwell. From the stern deck she ducked down the steps and through the door.

  In the starboard corner in front of her was a coal-burning stove and to its left a freestanding cupboard. Two bunks were built into the left-hand wall. She scanned the upper reaches of the room, lowering her eyes until they reached the floor, where she found what she wanted near her feet. Under the drop-leaf table was the toolbox she’d seen the last time the Emorys had transited Swains Lock. It was heavier than she expected and she had to slide it out from under the table to lift it, but the thick, hinged handle supported the box and its contents easily. She tightened her grip and carried the box up to the stern deck.

  Tilting toward the cabin wall for balance, she retraced her steps along the rail past the legs of the sleeping men. She quietly set the toolbox down a few inches from Tom’s feet, perpendicular to and flush with the rail. After retrieving the leg-irons from the lock wall, she knelt next to the toolbox, flipped its handle upright, and threaded one of the open cuffs and half the chain through the opening beneath it. Leaning over the box, she held the open cuff above Tom’s right ankle. After a deep breath, she eased the opposing C-arm under his ankle and pushed the arms together until she heard a click. She pulled lightly to test the cuff; it was closed and locked around his ankle. His rhythmic breathing rattled on.

  She sidestepped to Kevin’s shoulder and listened for a second. The breaths were slow and deep, so she gingerly gripped his coat with a hand near each shoulder. He didn’t stir. She pivoted and dragged him toward the rail, then gently lowered his head and shoulders to the deck. He was still snoring, with his hat balanced precariously on his forehead. She slid his feet into alignment with Tom’s, soles facing each other across the toolbox. The second cuff was still open and she positioned it above Kevin’s left ankle. Speed was more important than silence now, so she drove the C-arms together with a metallic snap. She pulled to confirm the cuff was locked and backed away to survey her work.

  Both Emorys were still asleep, though Kevin was twitching and starting to move his hands. Tom was still slouched against the cabin wall, hat brim concealing his eyes. The leg-irons ran along the rail – from Tom’s right ankle, through the opening under the toolbox handle, to Kevin’s left ankle. The cuffs were wider than either man’s ankle but narrow enough to prevent the shackles from slipping off.

  A knowing smile formed on her lips. Making no effort now at stealth, she retrieved the lock-key and carried it back toward the sleeping men. She plucked Kevin’s fedora from his face and he sputtered momentarily, lips and brow twitching. She flipped the hat toward the middle of the deck, then removed Tom’s hat and tossed it alongside. The light made Tom stir and bring his hand to his face.

  Katie knelt beside the toolbox and removed the sandstone pendant and its cord from around her neck. She wrapped the cord around the toolbox handle, tying off the loose end to hold the pendant against it. Then she pulled the box halfway out across the rail. The chain grew taut as the toolbox teetered over the water four feet below. The box began to tip and the cuffs pulled against the ankles of the men.

  She stood up and held the lock-key like a sword, then swung its socket against the sole of Kevin’s shoe. He swiveled his foot and began to grumble. She swung the key back and tapped Tom’s shoe. He waggled his head and brought an arm to rest on his extended leg. She swung the key more forcefully, again striking the soles of both men’s shoes. The third time she struck, the snoring had stopped. Kevin was trying to sit up and Tom was rubbing his eyes with both hands. She struck a fourth time and heard Kevin issue a guttural protest.

  “God dammit. Stop hitting my foot!” She looked back at him and smiled. He was sitting now, hands against the deck, trying to understand his position. His eyes settled on the cuff around his ankle and followed the chain through the toolbox to the cuff on his brother’s leg. Tom’s eyes were open as he gripped his shackled leg and tried to bend his knee. His effort swung the toolbox away from the rail and left it dangling more precariously over the water.

  “The money!” Kevin cried as the scene in front of him began to register. He thrust toward the toolbox, but the slack in the chain created by his lunge allowed the box to tumble free, and the falling box pulled his foot off the rail. The cuffs bit more deeply into their ankles. Tom tried to retract his leg but pain from the strangling cuff dissuaded him. He swore and jerked his head, then noticed Katie for the first time, standing just beyond reach. “Get these things off of us!” he yelled at her.

  She glanced at him, then turned back toward Kevin. He was poised on one knee now, left leg stretched out over the water by the leg-irons, eyes focused solely on the toolbox. It hovered three feet above the water in the lock, but the chain was tantalizingly close. If he could just snare it with his left hand… He took a deep breath and stretched for the chain just as Tom made a parallel gesture, which sent the toolbox dipping toward the water. To Kevin’s horror, the chain fell away from his outstretched fingers and he felt his center of gravity follow it past the rail. Tom tried to roll toward the centerline, but his effort was overpowered. Both Emorys tumbled into the lock.

  Katie walked to the rail and looked down. Part of a hip and a shoulder broke the surface. The lock held almost five feet of water and she knew the toolbox would find the dirt-covered stone floor at its base, pulling the men into an upright position. The water was cold despite the warming weather, and the chill should jar them to their senses.

  As she expected, both Emorys brought their heads above water. They used their free legs to tap-dance against the floor of the lock, balancing themselves. With water draining from their heads, they looked first at each other and then up toward the scow, where Katie was already stepping from the rail onto the rope ladder. She climbed to the top of the lock wall.

  Kevin tried to hop toward the ladder while Tom prepared to jump for the scow’s rail a few feet overhead. Their efforts nullified each other and both brothers lost their balance and cursed. Katie retracted the ladder, which she bundled up and tossed toward the lockhouse.

  “Fuckin’ whore!” Tom swore.

  “No use cussin’ her now, Tommy,” Kevin said grimly. He shook his head and spat into the lock, then looked up toward Katie on the lock wall above. “If you help us out, Miss Elgin, we can forget about w
hat your brother owes us,” he said, using his unchained leg to bounce against the floor of the lock. “Maybe better than that… maybe we could provide some financing for him.” He shaded his eyes to see her better. “I mean, for both of you. You and Cyrus.”

  Katie looked down at him with no sign of recognition.

  “I think using the ladder might be easiest,” Kevin said. “Or if you got a key for these cuffs…”

  She walked over to where the ladder had been and picked up the lock-key, then carried it to the upstream gates, stepped onto the walkway, and turned to face the lock. The outermost stem was in front of her and she placed the socket over its squared end. With both hands on the key, she rocked it to make sure it was seated, then swung it ninety degrees at full force. Water flooded through the open wicket and a kicking, haystack-shaped fountain formed instantly at the bottom of the gate.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Kevin screamed above the sound of rushing water.

  “The bitch is fixing to drown us!” Tom yelled.

  Ignoring the men, she jiggled the key and lifted it off the stem. She sidestepped across the walkway, set the key on the second stem, and swung it to open the wicket. The roar of the water intensified as the level in the lock surged higher. She looked up to find the Emorys. The water was rising toward their chins. She twisted the key off the second stem and continued across the walkway toward the stems on the opposite gate.

  The wall of the lock offered the Emorys no handholds but the rail of the scow was within reach, if they could thrust their heads high enough above the water. They dog-paddled toward the side of the boat, dragging their cuffed legs and the toolbox between them. Both men slipped underwater, drove hard against the lock floor with their legs, and propelled themselves above the surface. They thrust their arms toward the rail and all four hands were able to grasp it.

  “Got to climb back up!” Kevin said, pulling himself toward the rail. Tom was able to elevate his chin to the level of the deck and Kevin reached that level with his eyes. But the weight of their shared anchor prevented them from climbing higher. Their muscles burned and both men slowly extended their arms, lowering their bodies back toward the water. The scow rode almost four feet above the surface, so for as long as their arms held out, the Emorys could keep their heads above water. But as the water rose, their chained legs raised the toolbox from the floor of the lock, its weight borne by both men. Their muscles throbbed and the cold water sapped their energy. The water churned higher, filling the lock at an accelerating rate. Three of the four wickets were opened wide, and the haystacks had broadened and converged into a wall of tumbling whitewater behind the upstream gates.

  Katie opened the fourth wicket and left the key in place. She stepped from the plank onto the towpath, where her view of the Emorys was blocked by the hayhouse in the bow. She eased downstream past it. Two faded fedoras, one black and one gray, sat serenely near the center of the deck. She looked down and saw the surging flow was a long foot from the top of the lock wall. So the water in the lock was now over twelve feet deep.

  She studied the scow’s starboard rail. Four sets of fingers were lined up along the edge, not far from the forward wall of the cabin. The hands were perfectly spaced, shoulder-width apart, with all of the fingers pointed in her direction. The bent fingers rose into pale and bony knuckles straining toward the sky. Screams from the tiring men pierced the background chorus of bubbling water. She watched the two left-most sets of fingers slip off the rail and disappear. Seconds later the right-most fingers followed. The screaming fell silent and no fingers remained.

  She turned away from the scow and walked up the towpath, stepping around the towline that lay flat on the dirt. The Emorys’ mules were grazing unperturbed along the fringe of grass just past the lock. She passed them and continued down to the apron. At Swains this ground was commonly used for campsites, since it was flat and open with grass and scattered trees. Ahead the campground gave way to thicker foliage, and the river and towpath diverged until one was invisible from the other. She found the end of an old path and followed it into the witnessing woods.

  Chapter 23

  Angling

  Saturday, March 29, 1924

  Cy rounded a bend on his way up from Great Falls and the lockhouse at Swains came into view. With every step on the two-mile walk, his satisfaction from selling the bicycle was eroded by the grinding pain in his hip. From a distance he could see that a boat with a blue-painted cabin was riding high in the lock. It had to be the Emorys’ scow. They must have locked through at Great Falls while he was selling the bike. The mule team was grazing beyond the lock, but he saw no other evidence of life.

  Usually you’d see the locktender or boathands standing around the swing-beams while a boat was locking through. Get close enough and you’d hear the banter of voices. Boatmen might be buying groceries from a locktender or exchanging news from along the canal. He was close enough now, but he heard no voices. The two benches along the façade of the lockhouse were empty. And something else about the scene looked strange, but he couldn’t point to it right away.

  It registered as he approached the closed gates. The lock-keys were missing. The naked, square ends of the stems were sticking up through the swing-beams into the air. Without the keys, the lock was useless. A few steps later he realized that one key was still in place – the one closest to the towpath on the upstream gate. He angled over to the mid-point of the lock wall. As he’d surmised, the lock was full and the scow was a light boat, still snubbed to the post with the usual amount of slack in the line. Aside from two well-worn hats lying in the center of the deck and a jug, plate, and cups near the forward wall of the cabin, the scow looked deserted. On a mild spring day under the noon sun, the scow in the full lock and the quiet lockhouse formed a placid scene, but Cy was unnerved. There was something profoundly wrong with the view before him.

  He stood in silence on the lock wall and stared at the scow. What the hell was happening here? The scow was heading upstream, so it must have come into a drained lock. Then with all but one of the keys removed, how did the lock get filled? It only made sense if the keys were removed after the water was in the lock. But why would anybody do that? And once the lock was filled, why wouldn’t the Emorys have opened the gates and pulled their boat out of the lock? Where the hell were the Emorys? For that matter, where the hell were Katie and Pete? And why did the Emorys wander off without their hats? He reflexively pulled the sagging brim of his Stetson down against his forehead. He didn’t always wear a hat, but he couldn’t remember seeing either Emory without one.

  He called out for Katie and Pete but no one answered, and the sound of his own voice hanging in the air made his skin tighten. He called out “anybody on board?” but got no response. He shuffled across on the planks and headed to the lockhouse. The door was unlocked. He stood in the hallway at the base of the stairs and called again. No answer. Nothing looked disturbed. Poking his head in the kitchen, he saw a pan of cornbread and a jam jar on the counter but nothing unusual. He cut himself a slice of cornbread and headed back to the door.

  Propped beside the door he saw the lock-keys, which he counted while finishing his cornbread. There were seven, so that accounted for all of the naked stems. He gathered the keys into a bundle in his arms and dumped them outside on the grass. The iron keys jangled as they collided, giving voice to the melee of fears and suspicions in his mind. He stared at them while considering how to proceed. He had to move the scow.

  He opened the upstream gates, unwrapped the snub-line, and coaxed the mules into pulling the scow a hundred feet out onto the next level, where he tied it up to a thick tree. Walking back to the lock, he was no closer to understanding what had happened. Swains still offered no sign of life, and the thousand-foot reach of canal visible below the lock was equally deserted. He focused on the disturbing sight of the single lock-key suspended above the nearest upstream gate. Along with the seven naked stems, it told a story that he couldn’t decipher or ignore �
�� an unavoidable story he sensed would not end well. He shut the upstream gates and the lock became a closed chamber, ripples on the water reflecting from the gates and walls.

  He stopped to catch his breath and peer up and down the towpath. Nothing and no one. He returned to the pile of lock-keys and for the first time noticed a tangled rope ladder lying on the ground nearby. It hadn’t been there a few hours ago. His pulse quickened as he carried two keys to the downstream gate. He leaned out over the swing-beam and opened the gate’s two wickets. Ripples formed from wall to wall as water began flowing. Opening all four wickets would drain a lock in under three minutes; with two open it took about five, and that was fast enough for Cy. He stood on the wall and stared down at the receding water. His intuition told him there was something at the bottom of the lock, and he hoped it wasn’t Katie or Pete.

  When he was a kid boating with his father, they’d come upon a young couple that drowned in the canal up near Big Pool. Others had found them first, but you couldn’t take a boat past a drowning victim – that was the law. You had to leave at least some part of the body in the water until the police arrived, even if it was just the feet. That never made much sense to Cy. The couple had rented a canoe to paddle out for a picnic on a Sunday afternoon. The canal was only seven or eight feet deep in most places, but that was deep enough if you couldn’t swim. Cy watched the churning water drain away.

  When the lock was half-empty, he saw the first dark strands of sea-moss bob to the surface, and his gut tightened. Human hair. The moss welled up again and unveiled a pale ear. He exhaled with relief when he realized the hair didn’t belong to Katie or Pete. A second shape floated to the surface near the first, a thicker, russet-colored specimen of moss. These bodies must be the Emorys. His hand slipped to the roll of bills in his pocket. They wouldn’t need his money now. Their heads were face down in the water and their necks and shoulders rounded into view as the water fell. His dread flared again as he realized that other bodies could still be submerged. What if the Emorys had dragged Pete and Katie into the lock with them? But how could the men have fallen or been pushed into the water in the first place? There was only a gap of a few feet between the scow and the lock wall!