Out Of The Deep I Cry

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  He flipped to the legal document. “Jonathon Ketchem is the last landholder.” He looked up at her. “It wasn’t customary to include the wife on land grants in those days.” He dropped his attention back down to the binder. “Bought it in 1916. They probably sold it to a land speculator in the twenties. If they didn’t, it would have been condemned in 1929.”

  “Condemned?”

  “Some of the small landowners turned down the river regulating board’s offer and tried to stay put. Didn’t do them any good, of course. The HRRB wasn’t a governmental agency, but it had plenty of political muscle behind it. Anyone who didn’t sell voluntarily at the board’s asking price found their land condemned by the state. Evicted.”

  “Did they get any money for it?”

  “Of course they did. The government can’t take land without compensation, that’s unconstitutional.” He looked up at her. “Of course, once it was condemned, it was the state that decided what would be a fair price. And how much do you think land that’s going to be at the bottom of a lake is worth?”

  “So the Ketchems wouldn’t have made much money from the deal?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then where did-” She stopped herself. The historical society’s librarian wasn’t going to know where Jane Ketchem got the money to send her daughter to college and pay for Allan Rouse’s medical education. Besides, that was years after she had been forced off her farm. And Mrs. Marshall had said her mother was good at investing. Maybe she bought into IBM when it was fifty cents a share. “Why did the Hudson River Regulating Board decide to dam the Sacandaga, anyway?”

  “To control flooding. The Sacandaga is part of the Hudson’s watershed. It’s a natural floodplain, that’s one of the reasons it was such fertile soil.” He pulled the clipping toward him with two fingers, keeping it flat. “See the course of the river before the dams went in? All along here was the Sacandaga Vlaie.”

  “The Sacandaga Fly?” Clare said.

  “Vlaie. It’s an old Dutch word meaning a swamp or lowland meadow. Ours was a huge marshland, teeming with wildlife. If they tried to build this dam nowadays, the DEC would be all over them. But in those days, wetlands were something to get rid of, not something to protect.” He traced the course of the river as it meandered east toward the Hudson. “The floodwaters would overflow the Sacandaga, fill up the Hudson, and next thing you knew, you’d have people rowboating through the streets of Albany. Caused some bad breakouts of disease in towns along the way, too, with the floodwaters washing sewage out into the open. Typhoid, cholera.”

  “Diphtheria?”

  “I suppose so. Businesses were the moving force behind…” He was on a roll now, recounting the movement to dam the river and the formation of the regulating board, but his words flowed past Clare like the river itself. She felt the awful weight of it, the rushing of her own blood the sound of the water. The river had run through Jane and Jonathon Ketchem’s life, bringing them good rich soil and cool summer days and the disease that destroyed their family. And then it had washed them away and cast them up in the village of Millers Kill, where Jane had lived out her days, pouring her grief into her remaining child until the mother Mrs. Marshall might have been sank beneath the depth of it, ensuring no more children to be carried away, ever. And Jonathon? Clare had a sudden, piercing conviction she knew where he had gone. Not to start over again, as his daughter had grown to believe. Clare could see him, as clearly as if she had been there, driving his car far away from the town, back toward his burned, wrecked farm, back toward the road that ran by the river that had sluiced through his life. When was it Mrs. Marshall had said her father disappeared? March 29, 1930.

  “When was the dam completed?” she said, cutting off the librarian’s discourse on the railroad’s suit for compensation. “When did the valley start flooding?”

  “Nineteen thirty.”

  “But when? What date?”

  “Ah,” he said, his eyebrows knitting together. He got up again, reaching his hand out, as if the book he needed could fly off the shelves into his grasp. He pulled a narrow paperback off a shelf, flopped it open, and flicked through a few pages. “March 27, 1930.”

  Two days before Mrs. Marshall’s father disappeared. He probably couldn’t have made it to that road by then. He would have known which way to head, though. He must have made the trip dozens of times in the past, between the town and the farm, so that his hands on the wheel would have known the way, even at night. Even with every landmark cut down, torn away, burned. He would have kept on driving, the water rising around his wheels, until his engine submerged and he could no longer drive. Then he would have gotten out, wading through the pitch-black, icy water, rising as he pressed on into the valley, rising as the snowmelt-swollen mass of it piled up behind the new dam, rising until he couldn’t feel his legs or his arms or his chest for the cold of it. And still she could see him walking, walking farther and farther, until he disappeared from sight forever. Heading home.

  Chapter 24

  NOW

  Clare rested the box of one dozen of Kreemy Kakes’ finest on the counter of the nurses’ station and smiled at the woman typing away at a computer behind it. “I’m looking for Russ Van Alstyne’s room?”

  “Mr. Van Alstyne.” The nurse glanced at a clipboard stretched to its limit with a sheaf of papers. “Oh, yes. The broken leg. He’s in 403.”

  “Thank you.” Clare settled the box beneath her arm and made her way down the hall. The door to room 403 was closed. She knocked.

  “Come in,” Russ yelled.

  She sidled through the door. He was alone in the two-bed room, propped up at an angle, his injured leg slung between a pair of struts assembled at the end of the bed. His cast ran from the ball of his foot to below his knee, and was highway-department orange. It reminded Clare of one of the Tonka cranes her brothers had played with back when they were kids. He was talking on the bedside phone.

  “I’m sorry, go on.” He beckoned Clare into the room. “No. No, it’s not my mom.” He glanced at Clare, and his eyes fell on the box she was holding. “It’s just someone dropping off some food,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “How much extra?” he asked. He held out his hand for the doughnuts. “Six hundred bucks? For a one-way flight? That’s ridiculous! I thought it was like a fifty-dollar fee to change your departure date.”

  Clare handed him the box, which he dropped in his lap. He flashed her a distracted smile, then frowned.

  “Why do you have to buy a whole new ticket? That’s three times what you paid to get down there.”

  Clare glanced around and spotted a boxy little chair of blond wood and fake leather in the corner. It looked as if it had been designed to discourage long bedside chats. She pulled it away from the wall.

  “See, that’s why I hate the idea of those Internet specials. If you’d have paid a little more to start out with, you’d have more flexibility now.”

  Clare paused before sitting down. Maybe getting a soda would be a good idea at this point. The newspaper. A magazine.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t.” She glanced over toward Russ, but his face was turned toward the room’s other, empty bed. “I mean, you just got down there yesterday. You only get to see your sister once a year. I don’t want to ruin it for you.” Clare watched as he twisted the phone cord back and forth in one hand. “I could ask Mom to come stay with me until you get home.” He tilted his head back and squinted at the ceiling tiles. “I don’t know. I might be able to drive one of the squad cars. They’re automatic. There’s nothing wrong with my right foot.” He glanced over at Clare, then looked away. “I know you do. And I want you home, too. I’m just thinking six hundred dollars is a lot to pay for the privilege of playing my nursemaid.” He flicked at the hospital-issue blanket covering him from knees to stomach, brushed it as if something unclean were stuck to it. He smiled a little and pushed a laugh out. “Not until my leg’s healed up some more, we’re not.”
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br />   Enough eavesdropping. Way more than enough. Clare pasted a social smile on her face and waved bye-bye. Russ shook his head sharply. “All right, honey, if you feel that strongly about it, sure. Yep, you’re right, it’s not like we don’t have the money. But don’t try to get a flight tonight. I’m going to be here at least till tomorrow afternoon.” There was a long pause. “Do you think you can get your friend Meg to do it? Okay, that’ll be fine.” Clare took one step, then another, toward the door. Russ held up one hand. “Honey? I think I need to get off now. Yeah, there’s someone waiting for me.” His eyes cut away from Clare. “Yes. I will.” There was a final pause. “I love you, too. Bye.” He twisted away from Clare and hung up the phone.

  “Linda,” he said.

  “I gathered.”

  He looked down at the box of doughnuts as if he had forgotten putting them on his lap. “Thanks.”

  “I figured you’d like them more than flowers.”

  He smiled to himself, still not looking at her. She wondered how much he remembered about his behavior while he was pumped full of painkillers and whether she ought to mention anything. Set his mind at ease.

  He popped open the top and took out a French cruller. “You want one?”

  She got just close enough to take a peanut-covered doughnut while still maintaining the maximum degree of personal space. Okay, she thought, now I’ll tell him he was stoned and being silly and it gave me a good laugh on the way to the historical society. And I’ll ask him all about how Linda’s doing and how soon she’s getting home. She opened her mouth, but what came out was, “Did you know that the Ketchem graveyard was part of a property that was flooded when the Sacandaga was dammed?”

  He stopped, a bite of cruller half in, half out of his mouth. His expression spoke even though he couldn’t: a polite So what?

  “Jane Ketchem and her husband lived there. The couple that lost the children. She’s the one who went on to found the free clinic. It was named after her late husband. He disappeared in 1930. Mrs. Marshall, who’s on our vestry, is her daughter.” She knew she was babbling, but once she got going, she couldn’t seem to stop it. “She thinks her father took off for a new life, but I’ve been thinking, and I think he killed himself. He drove off one night two days after the dam was finished. I think he went back to their old farm and drowned himself.”

  Russ swallowed his cruller. “Great. As soon as I get out of here and back to the station, I’ll close the case.”

  “There’s a case?” Her info dump had been as much protective camouflage as a genuine desire to share what she had found out, but his remark caught her. “What sort of case?”

  He tore another piece of the cruller off. “You may be surprised to know that you’re not the first person to look into Jonathon Ketchem’s disappearance. The department spent a lot of time trying to track him down back when he disappeared. They couldn’t find him, but the chief at the time refused to close the case. It’s been handed down through the generations.” He popped the bite into his mouth and chewed with relish. “It’s probably our oldest cold case. I wouldn’t have been aware of it, but I saw the name when I was going through the files when I first came on board. I had had a”-he paused, as if choosing the right word-“very weird run-in with Mrs. Ketchem back when I was a kid. I saw the name and was curious.”

  She dragged the chair next to his bed. “What sort of run-in?”

  “She tried to drown herself in Stewart’s Pond. I was fishing that day, and spotted her. I jumped in and pulled her out.”

  She sat in the chair, but found she was irritatingly low, like a prisoner in the docket. She stepped onto the seat and perched on the back of the chair. “That place, that reservoir-it’s a bad place.”

  He laughed. “Oh, come off it. It’s just a graveyard. I may not be all up on my Christian theology, but I’m pretty sure being afraid of the dead goes counter to some of the basic tenets.”

  “Not like that. I mean…” She broke her doughnut apart, trying to put into words how she had felt at the historical society. The sensation of cold water in the middle of old books and three-ring binders. “There’s a specific gravity to the place. The drowned farm and the dead children. It’s dragging people down.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Well, now we know why I broke my leg.”

  “Think about it. Ketchem disappears, his wife tries to kill herself there, and now Dr. Rouse has disappeared.” She cat-cradled her fingers. “And they’re all connected to one another.”

  “Three bad things happening over a spread of what-seventy years?-does not a bad place make.” He finished off his cruller and flipped the box open again, considering his choices. “You forget what a small town this is. Between Millers Kill, and Fort Henry, and Cossayuharie, we have maybe ten or eleven thousand people. Three quarters of us are related if you go back far enough. Of course there are going to be connections.” He eased a chocolate-frosted doughnut out without breaking its glossy surface.

  She took a different tack. “Why was Jonathon Ketchem’s case never closed?”

  “Because there’s no statute of limitation on murder.”

  “Was that what they thought had happened? Back in 1930?”

  “It was one theory. I guess the chief at the time didn’t want to close out any possibilities.”

  “Like you, with Dr. Rouse’s disappearance.”

  “Like me,” he agreed. He bit into his doughnut.

  She stuffed part of her peanut doughnut into her mouth and thought while she chewed. Have you considered,” she said, after she had swallowed, “that Allan Rouse might have committed suicide? His wife told me he was acting erratically recently-sometimes manic, sometimes depressed. He’s had this protest thing with Debba Clow going on. Then Mrs. Marshall and I came along and told him the clinic was losing the funding from Mrs. Ketchem’s trust.” She felt an acid twinge in her stomach at that one, but went on. “So he takes Debba Clow to the grave site, tries to convince her one last time how important vaccinations are. She doesn’t listen, he falls and cracks open his head, then he gets into his car and drives into a tree-maybe it was all too much for him at the moment.”

  Russ swallowed another piece of his doughnut. “So he walked back to the grave site and down to the reservoir,” he said. “And kept walking until he found a spot where the ice gave way underneath him.”

  “Huggins, the rescue guy, warned me not to go onto the ice. He said there would be plenty of rotten spots with the shifts in daytime and nighttime temperatures.”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought about it. If he went into the water, the hole he went through could have been totally invisible from the shore last night. When you fall in through a weak spot, the ice that was there bobs right back up. It doesn’t fit together like a manhole cover or anything, but unless it was real close to the shore, it would have just looked like a rough patch on the surface.” He licked the chocolate icing off his fingers.

  “Are you going to send a dive team down there to look for him?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. There are still too many other possibilities. We don’t have any forensics back on Debba Clow’s car yet, for one thing.”

  “Do you seriously consider her a suspect?”

  “She’s the only one we’ve got at this point.”

  “I just can’t see it. Admittedly, she thinks he’s responsible for her son’s autism. And she was all fired up about her ex’s custody suit, and what Dr. Rouse might say against her…” She let herself trail off. The problem with Debba was, the more you thought about it, the more likely she seemed.

  “You keep on thinking that people commit murder because of this reason or that reason.” Russ tore a tissue from the bedside box and wiped his hands. “But most homicides occur for one reason only. Someone becomes stupid angry and strikes out as hard as he can, with whatever he has at hand that will hurt the most.” He crumpled the tissue and pitched it toward a plastic basket beneath the window. “The thought doesn’t go into the killing. It comes, if ther
e’s any thought at all, afterward, when it’s time to cover up the mess. And if you’re going to ask me if I think Deborah Clow could get angry and go nuts, the answer is yes. I do.”

  “I have a confession to make.” Clare propped her boots on the wooden arms of the chair so she could rest her elbows on her knees. “I’d almost rather he was murdered than killed himself. Because if he committed suicide, St. Alban’s roof is going to be repaired with blood money.”

  “Oh, come off it. Okay, the clinic’s lost a few thousand a year.”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Nobody offs himself because of a cut in funding. Except-” His eyes focused inwardly. “No, forget it.”

  “What?”

  “I was thinking, except in cases where someone’s been cooking the books. But the clinic’s not a business, where there’s a profit to fiddle with or shareholders to scam. The board of aldermen go over the clinic’s budget every year as part of the annual meeting.” He looked at her. “At any rate, it’s not St. Alban’s fault. Maybe it’s not your finest hour, and maybe you’d have liked to keep funding for the clinic as well as save your roof. But you make decisions like this all the time.”

  “I do not,” she protested.

  “Sure you do. Every time you choose to spend the church’s money and time on one thing, you’re choosing not to spend it on another. You’ve got a group of volunteers working with teenage mothers, helping them get through school, find jobs, baby-sitting, right?” She nodded. He went on, “That means that you’re not helping divorced single moms of older kids with education, child care, and getting back into the workplace.”

  “That’s not the same.”

  “Sure it is. Your parishioners give money to the church, right? Put it in the basket every Sunday.”

  “They make pledges and then pay on them. Sort of like public television.”

  “Except you don’t give them Masterpiece Theatre video sets in exchange.”

  She couldn’t help smiling, even though she knew which way he was going and it still didn’t feel convincing.