The River Killings

by Merry Jones

  Apparently, Susan was similarly absorbed; she didn’t call a warning. Maybe she hadn’t looked ahead. Or maybe, in the darkness, she simply hadn’t seen anything that low to the surface. But, when we made impact, our boat lurched so violently that I flew off my seat. I stopped rowing midstroke, but my oars crashed into Susan’s. The boat shuddered, and we dipped dangerously to port.

  “Shit,” Susan shrieked. “Hold still; don’t move.”

  I squatted, trying to balance, not able to get back onto my seat. We were tipping at an impossible angle. Slowly, I turned my head to look over my shoulder. Susan’s starboard oar stood erect in the water, definitely out of reach. She’d lost hold of it; its blade was entangled with mine, and both were caught in a mass of what looked like floating cloth. I couldn’t see what we’d hit, couldn’t turn far enough around.

  “Zoe—stop. Don’t move.”

  “I’m not moving.”

  “Don’t turn around. Set the boat.”

  “I can’t set the boat—my oar’s stuck with yours.”

  “Oh, shit—hold still.” Cursing, Susan flailed at her starboard oar, trying to grab it, inadvertently knocking my oar deeper into the water, rocking the boat, tipping us even farther.

  “Susan—stop—we’re flipping—”

  Susan stopped. In fact, she held completely still. “Dear God,” she breathed. “A floater.” “What?”

  “We hit a floater.”

  Slowly, careful not to shift my weight, I turned to look. At first, all I saw was bloated cloth, lumpy yards of it, adrift on the water. Then, near the surface beside our oars, I made out a dim opalescent oval bobbing with the movement of the river. I stared, focusing, and the pale oval took on definition. It had features. Eyes, a nose. Lips. Hair that disappeared into the dark water and reemerged, washing against its skin.

  “Oh, damn.” I don’t know who kept repeating that, Susan or I. Or maybe both of us. For a timeless second we sat, not moving, tilted at an unmanageable angle, staring at the body, balanced precariously at a forty-five-degree angle, our oars tangled up with a dead woman’s dress, our minds racing to figure out how to right the boat. Soon, though, we grasped the grim reality: It was too late. Any movement we made would disturb our delicate balance and flip the boat. In fact, even if we made no movement at all, we couldn’t maintain our balance much longer. We’d tilted too far. There was nothing we could do. We could reach for our oars or not; either way, we were going over.

  For endless seconds, our boat hung tenuously as if holding its breath. Then, gently, teasingly, it rolled over, spilling us into the chilly black water of the Schuylkill.

  TWO

  I WENT IN SIDEWAYS, BUMPING INTO MY OAR HANDLES, HEARING Susan’s shouts muffle as I submerged, realizing only after I’d sunk that I was trapped in the boat—my feet were fastened into the shoes. I dangled upside down in cold water, realized that I was going to drown, and I panicked, thrashing blindly through long thin vines, river plants that curled around me, entwining my head, my arms. I began to choke. Then, as if from a great distance, I heard a man’s voice—Coach Everett’s? He was hollering commands, telling me what to do. I stopped thrashing and held still, listening. “Pull the shoe flaps,” he yelled. Of course. The shoe flaps. They’re Velcro. I reached up through the tangling vines to my feet, found the strings and yanked. The Velcro peeled open; my feet came free. And so did I. I dropped out of the boat. The water swallowed me, and I swallowed it. Murky river water flooded my nose, my mouth, my hair, my pores. I fell deeper into dark water, certain that I was going to die.

  Somehow, it wasn’t as bad as I had imagined. In fact, the water felt cool, soothing. It moved gently, enclosing me, and I suddenly understood that the river was alive, seducing me as it tugged me down, welcoming me into itself. Drowning wasn’t so bad, I thought. It was soft. Hushed and womblike, the water caressed me, comforted me, tempting me to stay. I considered giving in to it, but the air left in my lungs must have lifted me and I surfaced, shocked at the sudden assault of air, the harshness of sound, the brightness of night.

  Then I remembered. Susan—where was Susan?

  “Susan!” I called, but all that came out was a gurgle and a cough. I treaded water, calling again, hearing no answer but the splashes of water around and under me. Dear God. Where was she? I called again. Still no answer. Maybe Susan had been stuck in the boat as I had. Maybe she’d been hurt and couldn’t get out of her shoes. Couldn’t surface. Oh, Lord, where was she?

  I hung on to the inverted hull, dunked under it to feel for Susan, and, shoving away the oars, I bumped into someone. Susan? I surfaced, gasping for air, grabbing a limp, slippery arm, blinking water from my eyes. In the moonbeams, clutching the woman in my arms, I swept her hair off her face. It wasn’t Susan. I saw instead the bloated features and blank eyes of the floater. Shuddering, I shoved her away, but she was heavy, wouldn’t budge. I pushed her again and she floated back again, rocking beside me like a playful inflatable float.

  “Susan!” I yelled again but heard no reply, just more splashes of moving water. I edged away from the corpse, still holding on to the hull, and reached out, feeling the water, waving my free arm back and forth, up and down, finding nothing. I let go of the boat and went back under the surface, reaching, rotating, sweeping with my arms until, a few yards away, I found her hand under the surface. I grabbed on to her and tugged, disturbingly aware that her hand didn’t grab or tug back. Susan’s hand merely sat in my grasp, passive and lifeless.

  “Susan,” I breathed, tugging at her arm, pulling her toward me. I swam under and behind her, shoving her upward, boosting her face so she could breathe, encircling her head with one arm to keep her mouth and nose above water. Her hair floated against my face, into my mouth, as I kicked back toward the boat, awkwardly backstroking with my free arm. I was tugging at her, grunting, out of breath, amazed at how heavy she was. A few more strokes, I told myself, and I’d be able to reach the boat. To catch my breath and revive Susan. On my next stroke, though, my arm smacked something long and solid, too smooth to be a log. I spun around, came face-to-face with a foot, a leg, an entire woman. Oh, God.

  Oh, God. Another one? I thrashed, still holding on to the person I’d thought was Susan, who still wasn’t moving. Who didn’t seem to be conscious, didn’t even seem to be breathing. Was she really Susan? She was built like Susan, had Susan’s chin-length dark hair. But, in the moonlight, kicking and struggling to stay afloat, I couldn’t be sure.

  Treading water, I looked out at the dark surface, slowly focusing, taking in the shadowy lumps surrounding me. Oh my God. I was surrounded by them. Dead women, bobbing limply on the surface like so many dead fish. I looked behind me, saw more of them. Bodies were floating all around me, in every direction. I let out a howl, but my mouth was too low to the water, and all that came out was a bubbly gurgle. Oh, God, oh, God. This couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be happening. But a body floated by, catching an arm around my neck, trapping Susan and me in her armpit. I shoved her and kicked away, but the cool indifference of her flesh lingered on my fingertips. Get ahold of yourself, I thought. Don’t panic. But my eyes darted from one corpse to another, and my back bumped drifting shoulders and thighs. How many were there? Six? Eight?

  I wanted to swim away, escape. But I couldn’t; I had Susan in my arms. If she actually was Susan. Was she? Oh, Lord. She still hadn’t moved. Was she dead, too? Shivering, I let her go; the night sky revealed her blue, waterlogged features, her empty gaze. Her unfamiliar, bloated face. A noise rose from my belly, something between a moan and a bellow.

  My stomach twisted and wrenched, threatened to fly out my throat. I had to get away from there. I thrust myself backward, crashed into the woman I’d just released and rebounded into the arms of the woman in the billowing dress. I was unable to think clearly or even to breathe. Oh, God. What was happening? I was caught in a swarm of dead bodies. What was I supposed to do? And, damn, where was Susan?

  “Help,” I managed to gurgle. “Somebody
—help—” My voice was raw, clogged.

  “Ugghh.” Somebody whimpered softly, nothing more than a squeak. Had I heard or imagined it? The water slapped at sounds, distorting them, drowning them out.

  “Susan?” I called.

  “Unghh.” Her voice was faint, and it came from the other side of the hull, near the bow.

  “Susan—thank God,” I breathed. She was alive. Her groan revived me, and I managed to crawl through the throng of bodies, shoving and swimming my way back to the boat. Susan clutched the bow, panting, staring and dazed.

  “Uhnnnguh,” she gulped, her gaze riveted to the water. She seemed stunned, unable to form words. I made my way to her, hand over hand, hanging on to the upside-down Andelai.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. I touched her arm, her face. She remained frozen, unmoving.

  “Unguhh,” she wheezed, probably hyperventilating, her voice a clogged, frantic whisper. “Unghhud, unnghod.”

  We held on to our boat and each other, drifting under the stars, gaping at the scene before us. The clothing, the limbs. The faces. I stopped counting at thirteen. Dead women, their bodies floating down the river in an island of flesh.

  THREE

  THE NEXT MINUTES AND HOURS PASSED IN A BLUR. I REMEMBER the terror, the slow, sloppy confusion of righting our boat, and, shocked and shivering, the clumsy process of getting ourselves back into the Andelai without flipping it again. Time seemed stuck, as if it would never pass, never allow us to move on; our task seemed infinite, impossible. We were in an endless loop of effort and frustration, horror and exertion. I held the boat steady while Susan tried, for the fourth or fifth time, to climb into the bow, and I scanned the shoreline, peering into the darkness. Once, I thought I saw a human silhouette, a moving shadow. I even called out, hoping the person might help us. But as I focused on it, the image faded; I saw only streetlights and the outlines of trees. Alongside us, the flotilla of corpses slogged slowly downriver. Who were they? What had happened to them? How had they gotten into the water? Questions swam through my mind, and I tried not to dwell on the lingering sensations of the dead woman hanging in my arms or her hair floating into my mouth.

  Somehow, we made it to the nearest dock at the Canoe Club, about two miles upriver from Boathouse Row, where a car on Kelly Drive stopped for two shivering, dripping-wet women who dashed in front of it, frantically waving and shouting for help. Before long, police cars, marine unit launches, ambulances, fire trucks and news media vans poured into the area. Spotlights beamed over the water, cameras flashed, commotion reigned, and the swarm of sodden corpses was dragged en masse, like a large catch of bluefish, to the dock. Susan and I were wrapped in blankets and ushered to a nearby bench where we sat shivering, only partly from the chill.

  At some point, Nick appeared near the water, and, for a moment, I wondered who’d called him, how he’d known we were there. Then I realized he wasn’t there for me; he was working. Nick was a homicide detective; he was there to take charge of the scene. As always, Nick was unflappable, in command, no matter how grisly the situation. I watched as if from a distance, as if the fifty yards between us were impassable.

  But Nick must have sensed me staring at him. He looked our way; only his eyes registered surprise. “Susan? Zoe?” He gaped at us as if not sure the bundles in the blankets were really us, his eyes darting from me to Susan, Susan to me. “Oh, Christ.” He slapped his forehead, figuring it out. “The two rowers? The women who found the bodies?”

  We nodded, a pair of sopping-wet bobble heads.

  “We rowed smack into them.” Susan spoke for the first time since we’d flipped. She said nothing about who’d been in the bow, steering the boat. Not a word about who hadn’t looked ahead as we’d sped into the darkness at full power.

  “That water’s maybe sixty degrees,” he scolded. He put an arm around Susan, wrapped me in the other. Moist heat radiated from his body. I wanted to climb under his clothes and huddle there. “How long were you in it?”

  How long? I shrugged. A few minutes? An hour? More? I had no idea. Nor, apparently, did Susan.

  “You’re hypothermic. You should go to the ER.”

  “Can’t,” Susan said. “Gotta get going.” Her teeth were chattering.

  I finally tried to speak, but my teeth were clenched together, my jaw locked shut. I couldn’t make words.

  Nick eyed us, one at a time. His hug warmed us, and he whispered, asking again if I was okay, not noticing the silence of my reply.

  “Did either of you see any boats on the water? Or anyone along the banks? Anything unusual?”

  I looked at Susan; she’d been bow, able to look around. I’d had to keep my eyes ahead, had seen nothing but dark water until we’d hit.

  Susan shook her head. “No. Nobody. Just us.”

  Suddenly, questions flew from the darkness and cameras flashed our way. The press had discovered us. Nick left to chase them away, and I huddled against Susan, aware of Nick’s voice barking with authority somewhere in the dark. Someone handed us cups of hot coffee; my hand shook so much, I spilled it as I lifted it to my mouth. A detective held the cup for me while I sipped, then briefly took our statement. Susan, revitalized by the hot caffeine, spoke for us both. Finally, Nick came back and sat with us.

  “We’ll get details from you later. Now, you both need to get home and get warm.” He called to an officer. “Officer Olsen, would you drive these ladies home—”

  “No,” Susan interrupted. “We have to go to back to Humber-ton. The kids are there.”

  I nodded, still mute, my jaws aching and stiff. I had no idea what time it was or how long the girls had been waiting there. Time hadn’t seemed relevant until that moment.

  Nick looked at me, surprised. “Molly’s at Humberton?”

  I nodded again. He frowned with half his face. Clearly, he didn’t approve.

  “It’s okay. Julie and Emily are with her,” Susan explained, but Nick still scowled. “And—oh, damn. The boat. We have to row it back.”

  “Forget it,” Nick said.

  “But we can’t just leave it here.” Susan was adamant, standing up, ready to get back in the boat.

  I was trembling; under the streetlights, Susan looked blue, not a good color for skin.

  “Forget the boat. Leave it here overnight,” Nick said.

  “We can’t. Tony’ll kill us. And Coach Everett needs it at six for his morning session.”

  Clearly, Susan couldn’t process the gravity of what had happened, couldn’t grasp that the flotilla of dead bodies in the river might minimize the importance of morning practice.

  “You’re in no condition to row, Susan.” Nick’s tone was final. “The boat stays here. Tony and Coach Everett will have to understand.” He told an officer to drive us back to Humberton Barge, then home. “Go home and get warm.” He stopped me as I turned to go, pulling me back, and held my face in his hands.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded, still silent.

  His arms encircled me and held me tight. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  I clung to him, soaking up his warmth, and when he released me the air felt raw and empty, even colder than before. I climbed into the car beside Susan. The police car pulled out of the parking lot, and I watched Nick turn back to the grisly scene at the river, where bodies were being lifted out of the water, bagged, loaded into the coroner’s wagon. I followed Nick’s gaze, saw a marine police officer carrying a watery corpse across the dock. He held her gently, gracefully, like a dancer in some gruesome ballet. His stance was strong and somber; her body arched swanlike and delicate, and her arm dangled from his grasp, slender and graceful, even in death.

  FOUR

  IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT WHEN, STUNNED AND EXHAUSTED, WE got back to the boathouse. Humberton was old and reassuringly stuffy; even its name had to be dusted off when you wanted to say it. But that night, the boathouse seemed altered, almost sinister. Hollow and dimly lit, it hid corners with odd angles an
d cast shadows with unfamiliar shapes. I told myself to get a grip, that it wasn’t the house that had become creepy; it was me. Still, I stayed close to Susan as we left Officer Olsen in the chandeliered foyer and climbed the winding stairs to the second floor.

  We pulled open the old heavy doors to the members’ lounge where two huge stone fireplaces grounded opposite sides of the room. A high beamed ceiling topped walls covered with Olympic oars, archival photographs and century-old regatta awards. The lounge was serene and old-fashioned, furnished with Oriental area rugs and clusters of heavy leather furniture. It offered members respite from competition and a break from the exercise equipment in the adjacent workout room.

  We found the girls asleep, spread out on the oversized leather sofas near the doors to the deck. As we roused them, I mentally reviewed the explanation Susan and I had prepared about why we’d been gone so long. We were going to be as honest as possible, omitting the disturbing details. Molly woke up first, curls disheveled, eyes bleary with sleep, and I took a deep breath, ready to begin.

  “Molls, I’m sorry we’re so late—”

  “Emily, Julie and me are in a fight,” she scowled.

  “—but we had a little problem.” It took me a few heartbeats to stop talking; my reaction time was slow, my mind still dull, frozen by cold water. But as soon as her words registered, I aborted my speech, relieved to let Molly’s crisis, whatever it was, take priority. “Why?” I finally managed. “What happened?”

  Julie was awake, now, too. “She’s a cheater, that’s what—”

  “I am not!”

  “Julie,” Susan sighed, “don’t call names.” “She is a cheater, though—”

  “I am not,” Molly bounded off the sofa and stood in front of Julie, hands on hips. “You guys lost, that’s all—you’re a sore loser.” All her front teeth had fallen out, and Molly’s s’s sounded like th’s. In her rage, she sounded a bit like Sylvester the cat. “Besides, you’re a tattletale.”