“If you don’t let him go, you won’t get what you came for. And if you hurt him, that will be the last thing you do.”
Cole laughed out loud. Jake had delivered those lines deadpan, like he wasn’t bluffing and could back them up. Maybe the kid really had learned something in prison.
“Well before you get all riled up, I got a job for you. Take all them bricks you been stacking and drop ‘em into the canal.”
Jake stared at him as if he hadn’t heard.
“Go on and do it.” Cole extended his arm and sighted along the barrel.
Jake turned slowly toward the pile and lobbed a few bricks into the water below.
“Keep going,” Cole growled. “My friend will put a bullet in Pete and sink him in the canal if I don’t get back in an hour, and you’re the one killing time.”
That sped him up a bit, Cole thought. He watched Jake settle into a rhythm of scooping and tossing a few bricks at a time, as if he were shoveling snow. When Jake slung the last bricks over the wall and turned to face him, Cole gestured at him with the pistol.
“Now throw yourself off,” he said.
Jake squinted at him as he brushed the dust from his hands.
“Go on,” Cole said. “If you’re scared, hang on the wall and lower yourself halfway. Then it ain’t more than eight feet to the water.”
“Go!” he said. “Pete’s waiting for you!”
He watched Jake sit on the parapet wall, twist his legs out over the edge, wrap his fingers onto the inside face and ease his lower body over the side, then awkwardly transfer his grip to the outside edge. He hung from his fingers long enough for Cole to study his skinny waist and the hang of his jacket. No sign he was carrying a gun. Then he dropped from the wall, kicking his feet into the tunnel and landing backside-first with a double splash.
Cole strode back to the trail, jogged down the remaining switchbacks, and loped up the towpath to the mouth as Jake raised himself from the waist-deep water, rubbing the runoff from his eyes and struggling for even footing on the submerged bricks that littered the canal floor. Water streamed from his jacket sleeves as he lifted his hands and shook his arms.
“You stay right there in the water,” Cole said, “until you see Pete come out the tunnel. When I get what I come for, I’ll send him running this way. If I don’t, the both of you will be sleeping with them bricks on the bottom.”
He turned his back on Jake and followed his gun barrel into the dark.
Chapter 44
Hand Over Hand
Sunday, May 11, 1924
Ten paces in, the light from the entrance faded to nothing, but Cole decided not to light a candle. That would give Jake a way to track him. He didn’t think the young jailbird was much of a threat, but he also knew Jake wouldn’t heed the order to stand in the water and wait. That didn’t signify, Cole reckoned, given he wasn’t armed and had settled for an ambush with bricks.
Cole cocked his pistol to his shoulder, muzzle up, and let his left hand skim the surface of the worn wooden railing. He walked a straight line over the undulating depressions of the towpath, making no effort to avoid the occasional puddles. The only sounds were of his footsteps and of water lapping the tunnel walls. He couldn’t see it, but the water seemed closer than it had outside the tunnel. As if it were rising.
What was Jake up to? He’d said the toolbox was in the tunnel and “you can’t miss it.” The passage was narrow enough that Cole would probably kick the box if they’d centered it on the towpath. But he couldn’t be sure, because the only thing visible was the distant daylight moon suspended in the blackness. He decided he’d walk and wade to the other end in the dark, confer with Zimmerman, then retrace his steps by candlelight.
The sound of a feeble waterfall became noticeable, then steadily louder, and Cole realized it was seepage dripping into the canal from overhead. As he drew even with the sound he turned to look for its source, then ducked and stumbled as he crossed under a shower of water himself.
“Rat piss!” he snarled, taking off his Stetson and shaking off the drops. He stopped to let his heartbeat subside. The splattering cascade was the only sound. He put a hand on the rail, cocked the pistol barrel upright, and started forward again.
Then a light appeared in the distance, centered in the blackness and below the daylight moon. It was yellow, weak, unsteady. Someone was waiting for him ahead. Maybe the Elgin girl. As he got closer, the light drifted lower and to his left, as if it were on the surface of the canal. Closer still he saw it was a candle standing on a low platform in the water. The platform had rectangular shapes and shadows on it. Stacks of lumber. He couldn’t see a person on board.
His hand fell off the tail end of the railing and he stopped reflexively. If the railing was out, the towpath might be out. The candle was still too distant to illuminate his surroundings. He remembered the pile of wreckage in the canal near the downstream end of the tunnel. That would explain the lumber on the platform.
He needed to see the path ahead. If the towpath ended here, whoever lit the candle already knew his position. Might as well level the ground. He stepped back against the curving tunnel wall to make himself less of a target, then pulled a candle and matches from his jacket pocket. No gunshots sounded when he struck the match. He eased away from the wall, planted the lit candle in a puddle of wax near the railing’s end, and assessed the towpath.
Within a body length it angled into the water, which now looked like a drop of about a foot. Where the towpath should have been he saw a dual line of pilings stretching into the darkness. And near his feet, looped around the base of the last railing post, was a heavy rope. From the loop it ran taut into the water in both directions. It must be the rope he’d seen tied off near the tunnel entrance, Cole realized. From this post it extended toward the platform, which of course was a raft. Bearing a candle that had only been lit a few minutes ago.
“You can’t miss it.” There was nothing else visible here and nowhere to go but back the way Cole had come. He gazed down the tunnel at the candle and squinted. No sign of life, just the dimly-lit front of the raft and the silhouettes of stacked planks and rails. And one small shadow in the foreground, between the candle and the water. He’d thought it was part of the raft, but now it looked more like a separate object. Was it Kevin Emory’s toolbox?
To find out he would have to get wet, which was clearly Jake’s intention. That bastard, Cole thought. Should of dropped him in the canal head first. He left his hat on the towpath, slipped the Colt into his breast pocket, and stepped carefully down the sloping end of the towpath, inhaling sharply as the cold water immersed his groin and rose to the base of his ribs. He circled around to grasp the rope. The tension confirmed it was anchored to the raft, about twenty feet away. He advanced along it hand over hand. To his surprise, he could feel the current pressing him gently down the body of the canal. The water lapped his armpits and his boots barely found the canal bed. With his eyes only a foot above the surface, the candle dipped out of view, obscured by the shadowy rectangular object on the front edge of the raft. A box – now he was sure of it.
He pulled himself along the rope, toes tapping the mud floor. Then a figure emerged from the shadowed back of the raft, the part he could no longer see. It was the Elgin girl, her hair wet and clothes hanging limp. She knelt beside the candle and lifted the object by a handle on its top, then fixed her eyes on his as she turned it sideways and back to catch the candlelight. She was showing him a metal box, Cole realized. Could she handle it so easily if it still held the Emorys’ gold and silver coins? He was more than halfway to the raft, and he stretched his hands further down the rope.
Then the box filled his vision, splashing into the water just beyond his reach. He released one hand and cast about for it underwater, but it sank too quickly. Maybe it held the coins after all. He stopped to glare at Katie Elgin as a red fuse burned in his brain. That empty-headed whore! Still kneeling beside the candle, she was working on the rope where it came on boar
d the raft. Cutting it with a knife.
He kept his left hand on the rope for balance and drew the pistol with his right. A wet bullet makes as good a hole as a dry one, he thought, and now I ain’t shooting at her knees. He extended the Colt and took aim. Just as he got the barrel pointed at her jaw, the rope fell slack under his hand, tilting him sideways as he fired. The candle went out and he fired three more shots as the raft drifted into the dark. He couldn’t tell if he’d hit her.
Cole put the pistol away and held the free end of the rope with both hands, rotating to face the current. Water pressed his collarbones and eased around his shoulders. He knew the canal was normally seven feet deep at its centerline, but even at this lower level it was flowing faster than normal. Must be filling from a pour-over somewhere up the level. Not from the river, or at least not yet.
If that happened, the towpath would be submerged, making the upstream entrance unreachable. High water in the tunnel would mean a fast ride out, as long as you didn’t get wrapped around a piling or pinned under the towpath… if the towpath was intact the rest of the way; he still didn’t know. And high water could turn any pile of debris between here and the clot at the tunnel mouth into a deadly strainer. That strainer just outside the tunnel would catch Katie Elgin and her raft for sure.
But right now Cole could manage the canal. The towpath was still dry, and the rope was a line to the towpath. Even if the water kept rising, he had time to retrieve the box. The free end of the rope should mark the last position of the raft. How far away had he been when she threw the box? Eight feet? It fell between him and the raft, maybe four feet from the end of the rope. He tried to measure out four feet of rope in the dark, then held the spot and swung his feet in search of it. No luck.
He released the rope with one hand, took a deep breath, and dropped underwater, sweeping his free hand along the canal bed. The few things he touched felt like mud-encrusted branches, boards, and bricks. It was hard to stay submerged and explore while holding the rope. He came up for a breath, let the rope go, and went down again. When he resurfaced he couldn’t find the rope, and he realized he’d been pushed downstream. Pigshit! Now he was looking in the wrong place!
Lunging and stroking, he fought his way back, overcoming the deceptive current and his heavy clothes. When he found the end of the rope he gripped it tight and let his feet come free in the current while he regained his breath.
He couldn’t be imagining it, the canal was rising steadily. Right now he could pull himself back to the towpath. That might not be true much longer. If he’d been convinced Kevin Emory’s toolbox was lying on the floor of the canal, he might have risked another few minutes in the water. But the way she wielded it struck him as false. And if he wanted to retrieve it tomorrow, it would still be there when the high water passed. He fixed his eyes on his own candle, still aglow on the railing a few body lengths away, and pulled himself through the water hand over hand.
Where the rope circled the railing post it was within the candle’s glow, and Cole saw that the canal was now only a few inches below the level of the towpath. He scrambled up the slope and shook the water-pockets from his clothes. If he hadn’t shot Katie Elgin, he had no more use for her, and Zimmerman could do what he wanted. He grabbed his hat, plucked the candle from the rail, and started back.
As he dashed through the curtain of falling water, the candle went out. He flung it into the canal and began jogging in the dark toward the growing daylight moon. When he got out of the tunnel, he had a bullet or two left for Jake Reed. Cole had given him every chance to give up Katie Elgin, turn over the toolbox, and walk away clean, but he’d decided to play games instead. Do that to the Coles and you paid the price. Ten strides from the tunnel mouth, the first surge of canal water rolled over his feet.
Chapter 45
Stones
Sunday, May 11, 1924
Jake stood in the water and watched Cole recede into blackness. Then he waded toward the bank and clawed his way back up the towpath, where he took off his jacket and shoes. There was no point in setting a trap anymore, now that Cole would be expecting one. And now that Cole hadn’t delivered Pete. Was the boy really hog-tied in the tunnel with a gun to his head? Cole had come over the hill, from the trail that connected the two entrances, so he’d probably left Pete near the trailhead. If Pete was here at all. Was someone guarding him? Maybe a brother or cousin of Cole’s. Or maybe the old miner Zimmerman.
Jake hurriedly drained his shoes, wrung out his socks and jacket, and put them back on. If things went as planned in the tunnel, April would come rushing out in fifteen minutes or so. When she didn’t see him, she’d keep running on the towpath, then cut up the road to the mules… wouldn’t she?
If they didn’t get Cole off their backs today, if they didn’t recover Pete, all the effort they’d spent getting here would be wasted. Cole would keep chasing them and they would keep dodging him. But they had to rescue Pete, and the best chance to do that was now, while Cole was feeling his way through the dark.
Jake dashed to the Tunnel Hill trailhead and started running up the switchbacks at a pace he hoped he could maintain, driving his arms and legs against the weight of his drenched clothes. He still hadn’t met Pete Elgin, still wasn’t acknowledging April’s real name, but sometime during the two weeks since Cole had abducted the boy, returning him to his family had become imperative for Jake. As important as shielding April from vengeful moonshiner families and the lazy, villain-seeking verdicts of the courts. A stepping stone to something beyond this purgatory.
He and April had done well buying time for her memory to return, but the recollections that mattered most – what happened to the Emory brothers and their toolbox, who slashed Lee Fisher’s neck – hadn’t surfaced, and Pete had suffered for that. Maybe the answers would bubble into her consciousness in the days or weeks ahead, but Pete couldn’t wait. And with or without her memories, April would eventually have to answer the sheriff’s questions about what happened at Swains Lock. Maybe it was better not to remember.
The trail turned a sharp left, up and away from the river, then right onto a long slanting climb through the woods. As it neared the ridge top it crossed an untended dirt road, and Jake stopped for a few seconds to consider where the road must lead. This had to be an access road for the tunnel builders, who’d built the trail when they were digging into the tunnel from above. It looked like turning left would ultimately lead him down the ridge he’d just climbed, but on its opposite side. If so, the road would descend to a valley that should meet the Paw Paw – Oldtown Road, maybe a mile or so beyond where they’d left the mules. He nodded to himself with conviction and launched back into a run, up an easy grade to the high point of the trail.
How am I going to free Pete, he wondered as he started downhill. If he was hog-tied and guarded in the tunnel as Cole had asserted, there was little hope. But Cole was a born liar, Jake reminded himself. He might have left Pete with a guard or he might have tied him up, but it was doubtful he’d take the trouble to do both. Especially if he was racing to reach the tunnel early and catch Jake unprepared. And if Pete was being guarded, the guard probably wouldn’t want to wait in the chilly, dripping tunnel for an hour or more. It would be easier and more comfortable to keep an eye on Pete at the trailhead or just outside the tunnel.
The descent cut a sharp turn to skirt a knob, then straightened and joined a secondary draw. Following the merged drainage, the trail swung down toward the ravine. Jake slowed to a brisk walk when he guessed he was nearing the trailhead. The last pitch to the towpath was steep, and when the trail started switch-backing, he climbed out of the drainage and forged through the brush to the shoulder of the ravine.
At an opening in the trees he looked across to the far side, its fragmented shale walls no more than fifty feet away. Just in front of him the mossy bank gave way to the same fractured shale, on a slope you’d have to use your hands to climb. The towpath was a boardwalk appended to the base of the rock wall, twenty feet
below him. Leaning forward and looking downstream, he saw the deserted towpath and trailhead. The canal looked almost full and was visibly flowing, seemingly running faster than its normal two-mile-per-hour pace.
He worked his way upstream along the shoulder, negotiating brush and fallen logs while scouting the wet ground for small stones. When he found one he pocketed it and kept moving. He remembered that it was a quarter-mile from the trailhead to the tunnel, so it shouldn’t take him long to climb through the uneven woods to a perch above the entrance.
By the time the shoulder approached a weedy rock face, he’d filled the pockets of his jacket with stones, most the size of black walnuts but a few as big as paw paws. He crept to an overlook. Scanning down the rock face he saw the slab walkway that formed the top of the tunnel. He had to work upstream a little to bring the masonry arch and black mouth into view. Just outside the tunnel, a huge pile of split and broken planks, posts, and rails occupied the center of the canal. Below him, at the base of the ravine wall, was the towpath.
Pete was sitting on it, twenty paces from the tunnel and a few downstream from Jake, with his back to a railing post, knees bent, and head hung forward. He looked more asleep than hog-tied. Jake couldn’t see anyone guarding him, but the nearest side of the towpath was obscured by the sloping ravine wall below him. Someone might be leaning against it.
Jake backed away and scoured the brush until he found a rotting branch the size of his forearm, which he carried to his vantage point. Grasping the branch like a tomahawk, he stood up warily, bringing Pete and most of the towpath into view. He hurled the branch at the pile of debris and deadfall in the canal. It struck with a snapping sound and broke into flying fragments. Pete jerked his head up and twisted around to investigate the noise.
“You ain’t fetching today, Bird-dog, so keep your ass on that post!”
If It Is April Page 29
