by Merry Jones
The night air felt dense, clammy. Moisture clung to my skin, as if the river were oozing upward, trying to engulf me even in my boat. Keep moving, I told myself. Lean forward, slide up, reach out. Pull. The mantra. Keep repeating the mantra.
With each stroke I held my breath, afraid that my oar would catch something other than water, that I’d feel the tug of a body dragging on my blade. I waited for the boat to lurch or tip, and I recalled the helplessness of falling into murky liquid, swallowing it. Pulling a woman out of the water and feeling the limp, slippery indifference of her skin. Oh, God. I rowed on, expecting that a hand might at any moment reach out of the water and grab my oars. Or a head pop up and grin with blind, glowing eyes. Stop it, I told myself. Concentrate on what you’re doing. Think about your stroke. Reach out and catch the water. Push with your legs and thighs.
Somehow, after a few minutes, I passed under the Girard Avenue Bridge and headed upriver past the statues of three angels. My eyes had grown accustomed to the night. The darkness glowed black beams; the river seemed a negative of its daytime self. I peered into the darkness but saw no boats, no Nick. Nothing but shadows in varying shades of darkness. No movement. I rowed on, losing track of time. Had I been rowing for five minutes? An hour? I kept looking around, ignoring grisly memories, focusing on balance. My technique was sloppy but I was moving. And as I approached the Columbia Bridge, I told myself that, for a novice, I wasn’t rowing badly. My boat was not as wobbly as before; its glide was steadier. I was getting into a rhythm, and the boat was responding. I felt almost confident that, despite the darkness and the dangers it might conceal, I’d be able keep rowing as long as I had to. Until I could find Nick.
FORTY-SIX
ABOVE PETERS ISLAND WAS WHERE SUSAN’S OAR HAD GOTTEN caught on a woman’s dress. It was where we’d flipped among the bodies. As I neared it, my skin prickled with memories, my muscles tightened involuntarily. Stop it, I told myself. No one’s floating in the water. But my body reacted on its own, on alert.
The island itself was no more than a mound of craggy rocks overgrown with wild shrubs and trees. Maybe three hundred yards long and thirty-five wide, it sat in the middle of the Schuylkill River about a hundred yards above the Columbia Bridge, and although a jagged stairway was carved into the rocks on one side, a weathered sign, almost hidden by vines and branches, declared: KEEP OFF: NO ENTRY.
People were not welcome on Peters Island; its only inhabitants were geese, turtles, ducks, occasional egrets. Wildlife. So when I saw Nick’s shell and a coaching launch banked at the top of the island, I froze. What I saw made no sense. Nick’s boat and a launch? At Peters Island? In the middle of the night? Why? I sat in the middle of the river, gaping, unable to comprehend what I saw.
But there they were. A motorboat and, with its distinctive red markings, Nick’s brand-new WinTech racing shell. The launch was tied to a tree trunk; the shell had been dragged partway out of the water onto the rocks so it wouldn’t float away. Its oars were crossed, and it rested, partially submerged, against the island’s steep incline. I sat for a moment staring into the dim woods, listening for I didn’t know what sounds. But all I heard was the water lapping softly, indifferently against my hull. Everything else, even the air, even my breathing, was still.
Inside my head, though, nothing was still. Questions ricocheted—What was Nick doing here? Whose launch was that? Why would they abandon their boats on the rocks of Peters Island? Had there been an accident? Had someone been hurt? Or, I wondered, had something more sinister happened? Something to do with nineteen floating dead bodies?
The boat swayed gently, rocking me, and I had the sense that none of this was real. I wasn’t alone in the middle of the river on a dark, humid night. I wasn’t staring at Peters Island searching for Nick. I was home in bed, dreaming. On my sofa, wrapped in an afghan. But my skin tingled, alert, and my eyes insisted that I stop resisting and accept the shadowy images before me.
Get moving, I told myself. It was clear what I had to do. I rowed as close as I could to the spot where Nick had left his boat, but no matter how I steered, either my oars or the length of the boat kept me ten feet or so from the shore. There was only one way to get onto the island; I had to get wet.
The water shimmered in the moonlight, trying to look innocent and calm. Feathering my oars to steady the boat, I took my feet out of the shoes, centered my weight and slowly stood. There must be a better way to do this, I thought. But, not knowing what it was, I simply held my nose, let go of my oars and, before I could fall, jumped into the river. I closed my eyes, waiting for chilled, dark water to swallow me. But the river didn’t swallow me. It splashed my chin and neck, but when it settled, the water came barely to my waist and my feet hit bottom, sinking into swampy, knee-deep, toe-swallowing muck.
Don’t stop, I told myself. Go find Nick. Each step was a challenge; river mud sucked me down, clutching my ankles. Struggling, I grabbed my boat and, crossing the oars, lifted its stern onto the rocks, resting it beside Nick’s. Then, squishing and soggy, disentangling myself from river plants, slipping on slimy rocks, I splashed out of the mud and pulled myself up onto the veiled darkness of Peters Island.
FORTY-SEVEN
MY ARRIVAL HADN’T GONE UNNOTICED. GEESE, AROUSED FROM their sleep by my splashing, began honking and hollering, alerting every creature on the island. Shrieks, hoots, quacks and howls assaulted me from all directions, and the night came suddenly alive with rattling leaves and cracking branches. I stood at the edge of the island balancing on a boulder, waiting for the pandemonium to settle, telling myself to keep going, hoping the geese wouldn’t attack.
There was no bank, as such. No gradual incline out of the water. The rocks were steep, but grabbing onto branches and stepping into sticky mounds of what smelled like goose poop, I made my way up to the dark carved stone steps that led into the island. At the top I stopped, my path blocked by a dense growth of trees and bushes. The squawking had grown deafening; even the turtles had to be screaming. I hugged myself, surrounded by unseen creatures and impenetrable panic.
Great, I thought. Now what are you going to do? There was no path, no light. My eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness on the water, but I was in a forest now, surrounded by shadows, commotion and cries. The glow of the night sky was blocked out by treetops. Still, Nick was there, somewhere, and I had to find him.
“Nick?” I called. My voice was lost among the others. “Nick? Are you here?” I tried again, louder. Still, the only answers came from creatures screeching in alarm. I groped through vines and bushes, aware of scratching branches and biting insects. Stepping gingerly, I felt with my toes for the sting of brambles, the slither of snakes. Oh, God. Were there snakes on the island? What if I stepped into a nest? What if one was in the trees, dangling over my head? Hunched and bent, I hurried ahead, afraid of what might be at my back. Was that the nip of night air or a spider biting my neck? Was that a sharp rock or fangs jabbing my bare foot? Was an outraged goose chasing me, her strong wings outstretched like blades? I pressed on blindly, feeling my way, wondering where I was headed, how long it would take. The island had seemed tiny from the water, but it was almost impenetrable, and my progress was slow. More than once, island creatures careened past me, swooping or flapping in warning or alarm, and, too often, I tripped, stubbing toes or scraping limbs. Cursing and moaning, I told myself to keep going. To find Nick. And, clearing my way with frantic arms, squinting futilely into darkness, I stumbled on the habitats of turtles and disrupted the peace of geese until, suddenly, I was flat on my face.
It took a moment to realize what had happened. I’d fallen. I must have, although I couldn’t remember it. I lay still, stunned, absorbing the shock. And then, slowly climbing onto my hands and knees, I realized what I’d tripped on. What lay under me wasn’t a rock or a bush. Not even a snake. No. It was human. The body of a man.
FORTY-EIGHT
OH, GOD. OH, GOD. MY HANDS WERE SHAKING, SLAPPING AT HIM.
“Nick .
. . Nick.” I kept calling his name, trying to revive him. I felt his mouth for breath, his chest for a heartbeat. Nothing. But his shirt was soaked and sticky, drenched in what felt like blood. Oh, God. A wail rose on the island, penetrating the night as I pounded on his chest, performing CPR. And then, breathing into his mouth in pitch-darkness, it hit me that the mouth didn’t feel right. The lips were too thin. The nose was too sharp. The smell wasn’t familiar.
The body wasn’t Nick’s.
Then who the hell was it? And where was Nick? I stopped CPR, felt again for a pulse. Finding none, I felt the face of the dead man, trying to recognize his features by touch. Dimpled chin. Thin lips, pointed nose. Bushy eyebrows. Thick belly. Oh, God. I knew this man. What had happened here? Coach Everett was dead.
FORTY-NINE
“NICK?” I SCREAMED HIS NAME, AND MY VOICE BLENDED INTO the other maddened screams of the night. “Where are you?”
I thrashed around in the bushes, crawled in circles, feeling rocks and dirt, dreading what I might find. I clawed through the undergrowth, feeling for something softer than rock, warmer than plant life. I pushed my way through clods of earth and clusters of weeds, searching, moaning Nick’s name.
I found his hand first. My fingers came upon it as they clawed through roots and soil. Nick’s hand. I followed it to his arm, his arm to the rest of him. He lay on his back, and I smelled the metallic odor of clotting blood, felt the syrupy texture of his shirt. Caressing his face, I kissed his mouth, recognized the shape of his lips, repeated his name.
“Nick. Wake up. Please.” But he didn’t wake up. He just lay there, limbs heavy and unmoving. Oh, God. Was he dead, too? I sat holding his hand, rocking his arm, moaning.
Then the island went silent, and I heard a single voice. “Stop dawdling,” the coach growled, giving orders even in death. “Quit whining and move your butt. Help the man.” Damn. He was right. I had to get a grip. I took a breath, and trying not to tremble, felt Nick’s wrist for a pulse. There it was, faint but steady. But wait—Was that Nick’s pulse or mine? I rested my head on his chest, listening, and stayed there for a few of his shallow breaths, rejoicing in the weak but reassuring throbs of Nick’s heart.
Oh, Lord. What the hell had happened? Had Coach Everett stabbed Nick? Or had Nick stabbed the coach? For God’s sakes why? I had no idea, couldn’t stop to think about it, had to help Nick. Gently I lifted his shirt, let my fingers wander his chest, searching for a wound. A few inches under his left nipple, I found it. Small and round, the shape of a bullet, oozing warm blood. Instinctively, I pulled off my T-shirt and pressed it against the wound. But I couldn’t stay and hold it; Nick had to get to a hospital. My free hand reached around, searching, finding a large flat rock. I lifted it, placed it over my blood-soaked T-shirt, hoping it would continue the pressure. I had no idea if the rock was a smart idea or not. Pressure could help stop bleeding, but too much pressure might weigh down Nick’s chest, preventing him from breathing. I knelt beside him just long enough to make sure he was drawing breath. And then, cursing myself for leaving the cell phone with Molly, I explained to his unconscious body that I loved him and was going for help.
Reversing my steps, I tore through branches, over roots, around boulders, past indignant hoots and threatening screeches. Running too fast either to fall or be caught, I flew across the pitch-dark island back to the slimy steps where I could see the moonlight glimmering on the water. My boat leaned against the rocky bank, waiting beside Nick’s. Trying not to slip, I descended into waist-deep water and waded through river weeds across the swampy bottom to my shell. And struggled to hop, shimmy, twist and lift my body back in.
FIFTY
I WOBBLED AND SWAYED, BUT MANAGED TO GET MY FEET INTO THE
shoes, my boat away from the shore. I headed upriver, toward the Canoe Club, where I could get help. I rowed along the island madly, sloppily, inefficiently, stroking too quickly, losing my breath. The splashing of water and the piercing cries of wildlife obscured other sounds. So it wasn’t until I’d almost reached the end of the island that I heard the buzzing. It was faint at first, but getting louder. I turned and saw a launch coming around the island, headed my way.
The launch! I’d forgotten about it—it had been there when I’d arrived at the island, but not when I’d come back for my boat. Which meant someone else had been on the island. But who? And why hadn’t he answered when I yelled for help? Had he seen Nick and Coach Everett? Their fight? Was he going for help? Whoever was in the motorboat would be able to get help far more quickly than I would. Thank God.
The launch was moving fast, coming closer. I looked over my shoulder, taking slower strokes, waiting for it to come within shouting distance. It gained speed as it approached, its engine accelerating from a buzz to a roar. I clutched my oars, expecting it to slow as it neared me. By the time I realized it wasn’t going to, that, in fact, it was going to ram right into me, it was too late.
FIFTY-ONE
WHEN I HIT WATER, THE MOTOR MUTED INSTANTLY, HUSHED BY bubbles. For the second time in a week, I drank undiluted river. It rushed into my mouth and nose, flooded my ears as I flew headfirst into shallow water; the mush at the bottom cushioned my fall. Plants coiled around my arms and legs as I rolled under the surface, hiding, holding my breath, waiting for the launch to pass. My hair floated in my face, reminding me of the other night, my mouthful of a dead woman’s hair. Oh, God. I held myself down, swimming underwater, and my foot bumped an oar from my overturned boat. Damn. I was too close to the surface, had to get down where he couldn’t see me. But I needed air. Had to breathe. Had to come up for just a second, just for one breath.
Quickly, before the driver could see me, I let my head come up, inhaled dark air and did a fast surface dive straight down to the bottom, which wasn’t very far. I tried to swim away from the spot where I’d heard the launch idling overhead, but the water was dense with stems and slimy plant life, difficult to swim through. Still, I closed my eyes and, trying to stay submerged, worked my way forward, holding my breath until my lungs ached. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I let myself come up again to grab some air.
I surfaced and filled my lungs. And noticed how quiet it was. Tentatively, I stayed above water, listening for the motor, hearing only the twittering of the island, the lapping of disturbed water against the rocks. No engine blaring. No sound whatever of the launch. Had it roared away? Was it gone? Was it safe to look? The water still rolled from the launch’s wake, and I floated in it, bobbing some twenty yards from my abandoned, overturned boat. Careful not to splash or make a sound, I rotated, looking first to the side, then behind me. And I had just enough time to dunk as the oar came flying at my face, grazing my head.
I fumbled for a moment, then went down to the bottom, and kicking like a frog, swam through murky water, tearing ferociously at slippery tangled things that grabbed me as I passed. What the hell was going on? He hadn’t been gone; he’d been sitting in the launch, engine off, waiting. An oar’s length away. Watching for me to surface so he could bash my head in. But who was it? Who’d rammed my boat? Who’d been on the island with Nick and the coach?
Pumping adrenaline, I pulled my way through the river toward the spot where my upside-down boat drifted, guessing the distance. And then, hoping I was out of batting range, I came up for a fast breath and look. Damn, I’d gone too far. My boat was behind me. I aimed again and slipped under the surface, coming up under the single’s hull, head above water in the hollow space between the seat and the shoes. Breathing the pocket of air trapped inside the boat, wiping blood and water from my face, I stayed there, hidden from sight and protected from blows. And I thought about Nick, who was lying under a heavy rock bleeding to death.
FIFTY-TWO
I STAYED BENEATH MY BOAT, BLOOD POURING FROM MY FOREHEAD.
Head wounds bleed a lot, I reminded myself. Even superficial ones. It might not be as serious as it seemed. Shivering, blinking away scarlet streams, I breathed slowly, hoping the man in the laun
ch would assume that he’d knocked me unconscious. After a while, I heard his engine start up again. The sound was muffled, but I could almost feel it idling, vibrating the water. Probably, he’d wait just long enough to be certain that I wouldn’t surface again, that I’d drowned. And then he’d leave.
But how long would that be? How long did it take for a person to drown? I had no idea. Three minutes? Two? In certain circumstances, ten? How long had I been there? I had no idea. Time had distorted, taken on lethal dimensions, become significant only in that it took time to suffocate. To freeze in chilly water. To bleed to death.
Again I pictured Nick outstretched on the island. Was he still alive? Had the pressure of the rock stopped the bleeding? Every second that passed gave him less of a chance. I waited, counting heartbeats, gradually realizing that the sound of the motor had faded. I listened, held my breath, heard only the slaps of water until, unable to wait any longer, I slipped out from under the hull and quietly spun around, scanning the water first on one side of the boat, then, crossing under the boat, on the other. The launch was gone.
My body was numb and shivering, head still bleeding as I turned the boat upright. Chilled and shaking, I worked my way back in, strapped my feet into sodden shoes and began to row. For what seemed like hours, I rowed. My oars weighed tons. My head pulsed with pain and dizziness. The half mile to the Canoe Club became elastic, stretched like rubber. I’d never get there. I wouldn’t make it. Nick would die. Maybe both of us would. But I kept going, taking a stroke. One more. Another. Long after I’d given up hope, I was still rowing. Muscles burning, head searing, I finally felt the impact of a crash, turned and saw the planks of a dock. Thank God, I whispered, and crawling out of the boat, I began to yell for help. For the police. For anyone. I saw myself crawling as if from above, as if I were watching from the sky. Then I was standing, running up the dock to the Canoe Club, pounding on the doors to the Police Marine unit, hurling myself into the road, waving at cars along East River Drive.