I must have known when I entered the cabin that no one was lying in wait for me. It was on fire, after all, and the dog out back had continued its staccato barking. Anyone inside had to be badly wounded or dead. So it was only after kneeling by Drew's corpse for a minute with tearing eyes that I thought to survey the rest of the cabin. There was really only one direction to look.
Between Drew's body and the flaming wall was a tipped-over kerosene can next to a square opening in the floor that led down to a wood cellar, and dark smoke was gushing up through the hole. The split logs in the low-ceilinged cellar were on fire. The trapdoor cover had been slid across the floor, but my eyes were riveted by what was lying near the edge of the opening closest to Drew. Four severed fingers resting side by side in a pool of blood. And a few inches away, a bloodstained hatchet lying on the floor.
My eyes shot back to Drew's hands; the fingers weren't his. I crawled toward the opening and, shielding my eyes from the smoke, tried to see what was in the cellar. Smoke. And burning logs and kindling, framing a silhouette. The blackened body of man, rimmed with flickering blue flames. I sprung to my feet, lunged out the door, fell on my knees in the dirt, and vomited up the ashes in my throat.
Chapter 5
By the time I stopped vomiting, I was no longer alone. Two men had run up to the cabin, and together they dragged Drew's body out and laid it on level ground by the path. Then more people were coming, some carrying buckets. The fire must have been visible from the Bridge Hotel. Maybe a canal barge had tied up to help. A bucket brigade formed, then grew, and soon water from the creek was being dumped into the fiery cellar.
A man showed me a badge pinned to the lining of his coat, then asked if I could identify the corpse and if I knew what had happened. I wiped my mouth and told him my name. I said that Gig Garrett must have shot my brother Drew, that he and Henry Zimmerman had come to the cabin without me, and that I'd seen another body in the cellar. And then when I tried to stand up, I collapsed.
I don't remember anything else from that night. I woke up the next morning in my own bed at my parents' house. The police had turned me over to my father at Lock 7, after a doctor pronounced me well enough to go home. For three days I slept feverishly, hardly ate, rarely got out of bed. My parents were shattered and spoke in whispers. Inspector Bullard visited twice to question me, though I had nothing new to tell him. Maybe he thought I was lying and would trip myself with an inconsistent detail, but I stuck to the limited facts I knew. And I told him to find Henry Zimmerman, though I wasn't certain Henry had ever shown up that night. But it just seemed impossible that Drew would have ventured to Garrett's cabin alone.
They tried to find Henry, both because of my story and because the sheriff confirmed that Henry and Drew had talked with him about Garrett. But Henry was gone. He never went back to the boarding house in Big Pool or his job at the railroad yard. People wondered whether he'd had a hand in the shootings and fled west. That seemed possible, because Henry had migrated five years earlier, when he'd joined Garrett in the Yukon during the Klondike stampede.
Without Henry to provide an account of the scene at Garrett's cabin, Inspector Bullard and the police were left to construct their own. After the fire was drowned, they examined its source in the wood cellar, where they found Garrett's blackened, smoking corpse. A broken oil lamp was beside him, and the extensive burns on the body convinced them that Garrett had been doused with kerosene. A full kerosene can in the corner had caught fire and helped spread the flames. The shotgun found near Garrett's body had delivered the fatal volley to Drew's chest. Drew's revolver was found tucked into the waistband of Garrett's trousers, with five bullets still in the cylinder. The sixth had splintered Garrett's right clavicle. Its casing was found on the floor near Drew.
The heavy gold ring seared onto Garrett's right pinky identified its owner. It was a trophy from his gold-rush years, and had drawn attention to him during his recent visits to the Rathskeller tavern in the basement of the Bridge Hotel. No one knew for sure how much gold Garrett cleaned up or stole in the Yukon. Thousands of dollars worth at a minimum. Some said tens of thousands.
And gold was purportedly the reason he'd settled in Cabin John, not Williamsport, even though some people still associated him with Jessie's death near Great Falls eight years earlier. Maybe Garrett thought he could strike pay-dirt on one of the nearby Potomac tributaries. Or maybe he believed he could find the pirate treasure that legend claimed was buried somewhere along the creek named for the 18th-century hermit "John of the Cabin". Whatever led Gig Garrett to the mouth of Cabin John Creek wasn't visible in the ruins of his cabin, since the only evidence of wealth was the gold melted onto his little finger.
What Inspector Bullard did find after a study of the charred crime scene was the story of Drew and Garrett's deaths. A week after Drew's funeral, he recited it for my parents and me in our living room. He began by leaning forward in his chair with his hat in his hand and absently stroking his perfect mustache. Drew's wife Susan was there too.
Yes, Drew was married for the last four years of his life. To a pleasant, pear-shaped woman who bustled around the house while talking cheerfully to herself. Susan wanted nothing more than a warm kitchen where she could stir pancake batter and bake pies, and a well-tended bungalow to hold gatherings with friends and family. After she married Drew, that life seemed within reach. But while Susan was born to be a mother, infertility and Drew's death left her destined to be a nurse. By mid-summer she'd moved out of the home she shared with Drew and back in with her parents in Alexandria.
"When Garrett opened the door," Bullard said, "Drew had his revolver ready." He raised his hand to pantomime a drawn gun. "I've concluded that he wasn't alone, because of what happened next.
"Let's assume that Owen is right," he said, glancing at me. Bullard's eyes were sparkling now, and it was hard not to contrast his animation with my father's vacant stare. "Let's assume that Drew is at the door with Henry Zimmerman," continued Bullard, "and Henry has his gun drawn too.
"They walked to the cabin together after deciding not to wait for Owen." He turned toward me again. "Drew was your older brother, so it would be natural for him to try to protect you. Perhaps your panic at the culvert made him doubt you were ready for this adventure. Or maybe he felt that two armed men would be enough, and he decided not to worry about you."
I shifted in my seat as I felt my mother's eyes settle on me. I didn't want to look at her because tears might be forming, and I wouldn't know whether to attribute them to Drew's death or my own weakness.
"But I had the handcuffs," I managed hoarsely. "And Drew said we could never make him cooperate without them."
"Precisely!" Bullard said, springing to his feet and looking at the four of us in turn.
My father exhaled audibly and buried the lower half of his face beneath his hand. "Inspector, I'm not sure I follow you."
"When Garrett opens the door, Drew and Henry tell him to turn around with his hands behind his back. But then they realize that neither one of them has the handcuffs. So they march Garrett into the cabin and Drew says that he'll stand guard while Henry runs to find Owen, who should be waiting a few minutes away on the towpath."
"Why wouldn't Drew have run back to find me himself?" I asked.
"Maybe he should have," Bullard said gravely. "But maybe he didn't completely trust Henry. Or perhaps he wanted to talk to Garrett alone."
This last possibility hadn't occurred to me, and for over two decades I've wondered what Drew and Garrett might have had to say to each other. Had Drew been trying to make sure he had that opportunity?
Bullard was still standing, acting out the scene while stepping in place.
"They know that even though Drew is armed, leaving him alone with Garrett is risky. Garrett might charge him or try to make a break for it. So they decide to make Garrett stand in the wood cellar. They remove the trapdoor cover and tell him to jump down. The cellar is five or six feet deep, and there's a notch on a post
that you use as a foothold to climb out. It's below ground, with no other exit, so Drew can stand guard from above.
"Drew keeps his eyes and revolver trained on Garrett through the opening in the floor while Henry leaves to find Owen," Bullard said, pausing to make sure we were all still with him. "And then things start to go wrong."
From the love-seat she shared with my mother, Susan issued an uncomfortable sigh, slumped back into the cushion, and started fanning her flushed face with her hands. My mother helped her stand and guided her out of the room, cutting Bullard's audience in half. He apologized for upsetting the ladies and oriented himself toward my father and me.
"Drew must not have known, and let's presume Henry didn't either, that Garrett had a loaded shotgun in the wood cellar. It could have been hung from the ceiling or propped against a post. Drew wouldn't have seen it, and it was probably easy for Garrett to shift and lean a bit until it was within reach. Maybe he says something that causes Drew to scan the room for a second or two. Then in one motion he's raising the gun and shooting Drew in the chest. From eight feet away, that one blast would be enough.
"So now Drew is mortally wounded, probably on his knees or worse, but he still has a revolver. As Garrett is climbing out, Drew leans toward him. Garrett reaches for the gun, but just as he grabs it Drew pulls the trigger. The bullet strikes Garrett in the collarbone and knocks him back into the cellar, with Drew's gun in his hand.
"Now Garrett is stunned and bleeding on the cellar floor. But pretty soon he tries to get back on his feet. He tucks the gun into his waistband, puts a foot in the notch, and gets both hands on the frame of the trapdoor. He can't put much weight on his right arm since his collarbone's shattered, but he gets ready to push himself up to the floor with his left. Maybe he sees Drew lying in the background, but he's focused on the trapdoor frame, and he doesn't notice the blade until it flies down on his fingers.
"Drew must have been able to crawl to the fireplace and get the hatchet from the kindling pile. And then he struck a clean blow... and took off all four fingers on Garrett's left hand.
"Garrett falls back into the cellar and this time it takes him longer to get up – neither of his arms is worth much now. As he rolls onto his knees, Drew pours kerosene on him. And before he can stand, Drew throws down the burning lamp. Garrett ignites, and the last thing Drew can do before collapsing is empty the kerosene can onto him as he burns."
Bullard paused to rest, and after acting out the struggle, his hands descended to his sides.
"Are you still looking for Henry Zimmerman?" my father asked. He had sat through Bullard's presentation while sagging deeper and lower into his chair, face propped between his forefinger and thumb, a distant look in his bespectacled eyes. Now he straightened, put both hands on his knees, and spoke for the first time since Drew's death with a vestige of authority. "How do you know he wasn't involved in the killings? The story we just heard sounds like something from a Wild West show."
Bullard nodded solemnly to show he understood. "We're still looking for Henry. I told his parents that he's wanted for questioning, and they claim to have no idea where he is. But Henry will turn up, and we'll find out what he knows." He plucked his hat from the chair and put it on. "Two guns, two shots fired, and two bodies," he added. "I'd say that's pretty simple. Closer to an old-fashioned duel than Buffalo Bill."
Bullard had made it clear on a previous visit that nothing more was expected from me. While being questioned at the scene, I'd produced the handcuffs from my coat and shown that I was unarmed. A search of the burned cabin and its surroundings had turned up no more guns or bodies, and the wounds on both victims were accounted for. It became clear that Bullard was writing the case up as he had presented it to us.
Though he had grown up on the canal and in Williamsport, by the time Gig Garrett returned from Alaska in 1902 he was considered exotic, alien, and worthy of suspicion – linked to both Jessie's death and the fatal stabbing of a miner in Alaska.
By contrast, Drew had spent his whole life in Cabin John and across the bridge in Glen Echo, and he worked for the Baltzley brothers, two highly respected landowners, developers, and benefactors. So Drew was mourned as a friend and neighbor but also as something like a hero. By sacrificing himself to kill Garrett, he had removed a potential predator from our midst.
But as I thought about Bullard's narrative during the days that followed, questions gnawed at me. And they all involved Henry Zimmerman.
First, was Henry even present that night? I concluded that he must have been, because Drew wouldn't have tried to apprehend Garrett by himself.
Once they met at the trailhead, why did Drew and Henry leave without me? Was Drew trying to protect me, as Bullard implied? Did he consider me a liability? Maybe Henry convinced him I wasn't needed. But could they really have forgotten that I had Drew's handcuffs? Maybe Henry brought a pair of cuffs himself!
Assuming that Bullard had the first part right – that Drew and Henry confronted Garrett at the door with guns drawn, why was Henry sent back to get me? Bullard implied that Drew might have suspected Henry would warn Garrett about the fingerprinting, then let him escape. But I wondered whether Drew had an agenda of his own. One that required he be left alone with Garrett.
Why put Garrett in the cellar? Surely Drew could have had him stand in a corner on the main floor, and Garrett wouldn't have been able to run without taking a bullet or two at close range. Granted, the cellar gave him no chance to flee. But it had obviously been a fatal choice, because Bullard was right – Garrett had kept a loaded shotgun down there.
What if Henry knew that? What if the entire premise of that night's visit was false, and its real purpose was to give Garrett an opportunity to shoot an armed intruder in self-defense? If so, it hadn't worked out as planned for Garrett. But maybe it had worked out just fine for Henry.
What had Henry expected or wanted to happen that night, and what would have been different if I'd been there? Those were the questions that nagged me during the weeks after Drew's death. As the autumn wore into winter and Henry failed to materialize, the nagging receded. I researched academic programs and, after consulting with my parents, decided to apply for admission to the University of Texas, where I hoped to study archaeology or anthropology. Maybe Austin was far enough away from Cabin John. I sat for the entrance examinations in Washington and was relieved to hear weeks later that I'd been admitted.
But the questions about that night never disappeared entirely, and twenty-two years later, I want Henry Zimmerman's answers tonight. And I want to know how his relationship with Gig Garrett changed after Jessie's death, and during his stint with Garrett in the Yukon.
If after all that, Henry still felt loyal to Garrett in 1902, why pretend otherwise to Drew?
And if he didn't, why leave Drew alone with a killer?
Chapter 6
The lamplight glows in Captain McDonald's lonely house as I pass by on River Road, but I'm too far away to hear signs of life. The road to Sandy Landing is just ahead. I turn left on the rutted track that follows a trickling gulch down to the canal and the river, and make sure I remember what Henry Zimmerman heard about me from my niece Isabelle, who met him at a speakeasy a few days ago. The story that Zimmerman expects to hear again tonight sounds like this:
I'm Tom Owens, here to buy heroin for my wife, who suffers from debilitating muscle pains. She used it once and found that it provided relief, but the pharmacist from Santa Fe who offered it to her closed his shop and disappeared. Since I was traveling east, I asked my niece if she knew where I could find heroin near Cabin John. She got your name from a friend of a friend, so I'm here tonight with a hundred dollars to spend.
Except that once we're seated across a table, I'll tell him the truth. I'm Owen Thompson, and we met thirty-one years ago when I was eight. He and my brother Drew rescued me from a mine. And now I want him to explain his actions nine years later, on the night Drew was killed.
Passing fence post after fence post, I
try to remember what Zimmerman looks like. The image I can conjure is a hazy childhood view of him at Rock Run on that afternoon in 1893. I'd seen him again during the days after Jessie's death, and once more during the weeks before Drew's, but I have a hard time picturing him as a man nearing fifty. Will he recognize me? How could he? Before Drew's death, I was young and unscarred.
A small shape sprints away from me into the grass and I veer off-course, startled. My heart rate spirals up as I picture Zimmerman waiting for me in an abandoned scow beside the canal. I stop for a gulp of whiskey and the thumping in my chest dissolves into a warm glow.
I don't remember exactly when I learned that he had returned to the area from his long exile in California. It was a few years ago at least, while I was working in New Mexico under Ted Kidder at the Pecos pueblo excavation site, a day's journey east of Santa Fe. My sister Penny (who moved out to a farm near Frederick, Maryland with her husband) mentioned in one of her letters that a man named Henry Zimmerman had met a friend of hers at the Great Falls Tavern a few weeks earlier. And Penny said that Zimmerman was seen at the Cabin John Bridge Hotel soon after that, but hadn't been spotted recently.
When I wrote back, I asked her to let me know if she heard more about him. But in subsequent letters she said there wasn't much more to tell – Zimmerman seemed to appear around Cabin John and Glen Echo at unpredictable intervals, circulate for a few days, then disappear for weeks or months. There were rumors that he was involved with either bootlegging or drugs. Engaged in our work at the ruins, I gradually lost interest in him. That was before my nightmares started, just over a year ago at the Pecos pueblo.
BURYING ZIMMERMAN (The River Trilogy, book 2) Page 4
