The River Killings

by Merry Jones

  Lifeless, floating women. And I closed my eyes, giving in, letting the headache rage, riding waves of emotions I didn’t want to name. Breathe deeply, I told myself. Relax. And I lay on the purple sofa, too sad to be tense, listening for the door to unlock, hearing only the silence of the air-conditioned summer night.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  AT THREE THAT MORNING, NICK WAS STILL GONE. AND HE WASN’T answering his phone. It had been three hours. Where could he be? Bars were closed. If he’d gone to the office, he’d have answered his cell phone, if only to tell me to stop calling him. In fact, no matter where he was, he should have picked up his phone by now, just to stop it from ringing. unless he couldn’t. I pictured Heather coming at him with a cleaver. Had she been stalking him? Waiting in the shadows outside, following him on his walk? Ambushing him in some dark alley? Oh, God.

  I told myself that Heather had nothing to do with Nick’s absence. Nick was fine. But I got up and paced, thinking. If I were Nick and upset, where would I go? And instantly I knew. Of course. Nick was at the river. He was rowing. Rowing was what he did to work off stress; I should have known all along. But he’d been gone for hours. Rowing usually took him an hour, maximum two. He should have been back by now. Or at least picked up his damned phone.

  Worrying, I continued to pace. I sat down, stood up. Poured another cup of coffee, dumped it down the drain. No matter what I did or told myself, I couldn’t settle down. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just our fight. I didn’t know what it was, but I felt it; Nick was in trouble. And I had to find him.

  And so, at three fifteen in the morning, I pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts and went into Molly’s room to shake her gently awake.

  THIRTY-NINE

  EXCEPT FOR A DIM NIGHT-LIGHT IN THE BOAT BAYS, HUMBERTON barge was completely dark. I unlocked the heavy carved wood front doors, and Molly and I stepped into the foyer. Molly stood quietly while I felt the walls for the light switch. Then, under the faceted light of the crystal chandelier, she waited, holding my hand. She hadn’t said a word since I’d pulled her out of bed; she’d simply held my hand and floated along with me, somewhat dazed, not fully awake. How cruel of me, taking her from her sleep. But I’d had no choice. I had to find Nick. Holding Molly’s hand, I stood at the steps, looking for signs that he’d been there. upstairs, the hallways were black and silent, the door to the lounge closed. Downstairs, the boat bays were shadowy and still. No one was around. What was I doing here? Maybe Nick had gone home while we’d been on the way to the boathouse—maybe I should try calling him one more time. I took my cell phone out and punched Nick’s buttons. Nothing.

  “Mom,” Molly finally spoke. Her voice was husky with sleep. “Are you going to row?”

  “No, Molls. We’re looking for Nick.”

  She seemed to accept the answer as if it made sense. As if we did this sort of thing regularly.

  In the bays, a single lightbulb lit each row of shells. Long and sleek hulls lay on the racks, one over the other, wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling, the darkness slicing thinly between them. From the doorway I scanned the room for signs of Nick, but there were none. The room was empty, silent. Humid. undisturbed. No, wait;

  it wasn’t silent—not quite. I listened, heard a rustling. An undertone of movement. The scuttle of little feet? Oh, God. River rats?

  My knees felt weak; my toes curled. Rats infested most buildings along the river. Everyone knew that, but I hadn’t encountered any until now, in the middle of the night. They could be everywhere. Surrounding us. Eyeing the floor, looking for red rodent eyes or long hairless tails, I clutched Molly’s hand and turned, ready to run. Nick wasn’t there; we could go. But at the door, I stopped. Wait, I told myself. Slow down. You haven’t even checked the sign-out log. Every boathouse had a log; for safety purposes, rowers signed the book each time they went out on the river and each time they came in.

  Humberton’s log was on an antique secretary’s desk at the bottom of the boat-bay steps. Cautiously, stomping loudly to scare away small creatures, I led Molly down. In the dim light, I scanned the entries. The last name on the list was Nick Stiles. He’d signed out at twelve twenty. And so far, at three thirty, he still hadn’t signed in.

  FORTY

  MAYBE HE’D FORGOTTEN. MAYBE HE’D BEEN TIRED OR MAD AND had just come in, put his boat away, and left without signing in. In fact, he was probably home in his condo now, not answering his phone because he was sleeping too deeply or snoring too loud.

  Or maybe, my gut told me, he was still out. Maybe he’d had boat trouble. Maybe he was hurt.

  Images of cold dark water and clammy bodies flooded my mind. Stop it, I told myself. Don’t imagine disaster. Just go check. Go see if his boat’s here. If it’s on its rack, he’s back.

  Good plan, I told myself. Members who had their own boats rented rack space. Each boat had an assigned spot; it made sense to check Nick’s. So, taking a deep breath, bracing myself to walk through a swarm of scurrying vermin, I picked Molly up and carried her like a toddler.

  “Mom?” She didn’t resist. She leaned her head on my shoulder, the way she had as a baby. “Why are you carrying me?”

  I kissed her forehead and kept moving, not looking down, weaving my way through row after row of smooth, torpedolike shells, coming to the singles rack, looking up and down, searching for Nick’s boat, finding only one empty space. Nick’s.

  FORTY-ONE

  I STOOD THERE, HOLDING MOLLY, STARING AT THE EMPTY RACK.

  Nick had signed his boat out almost three hours ago. And he still wasn’t back. Even if he’d rowed the normal course of the river twice, he should have been back by now. Where was he? What had happened? Images flooded my mind, thoughts of floating corpses, overturned boats.

  Oh, God. The air became fuzzy, too thick to breathe. I had to think. Figure out what to do, how to find him. At this hour, no one was around except Tony, and Tony lived up in the attic apartment. Tony wouldn’t appreciate being awakened, but too bad. He was the house manager; it was his job to attend to emergencies, and I had one. Still carrying Molly, I sped up dark stairs through the heat and humidity to his apartment.

  Molly seemed to gain weight with each step, but I didn’t put her down. I held on to her as I ascended stairs out of the boat bays up to the lounge, then up to the locker rooms, finally up the attic stairs to Tony’s door. Panting, I knocked rapidly, loudly. I knocked, waited a beat, and getting no answer, knocked harder. Then, setting Molly down, I banged both my fists on his door. Tony didn’t respond. I shouted his name. Still nothing. Molly gaped at me in alarm, but I kept pounding and shouting. And getting no reply. Maybe Tony was deliberately ignoring me. Or maybe he was sleeping somewhere else. Either way, he wasn’t opening the door. I was on my own. Oh, God. Desperate, unwilling to accept that, I tried the knob; the door was locked.

  “Mom,” Molly said gently. “Stop. He’s not answering.”

  She was right. It was useless. But I had to do something. Maybe I should call the police, get the authorities to search the river for Nick. I pictured them arriving, taking my statement, setting up spotlights, assembling rescue vehicles. I recalled the media circuses of recent nights. And I realized that by the time the responding cops got authority to call out the river police with a search launch, it would be dawn. If Nick was in trouble, it might be too late to help him. More likely, though, Nick would have rowed his boat in to face cameras and lights. I’d look like an idiot. And Nick would not be amused that the entire police force and the news media had been alerted just because he’d gone for a late-night row.

  No, no police. Not yet. I led Molly down the stairs, trying to figure out what to do. I had to hurry, had to go find Nick, but what about Molly? I couldn’t take her with me, but I couldn’t leave her behind. There wasn’t time to take her to Susan’s, not enough time to wait for Susan to get out of bed and come to us. I was in an impossible situation. Nick was missing. He might have had boat trouble, might be hurt or stranded. Or suffering from hy
pothermia. Minutes, even seconds might make a difference. But I couldn’t endanger my daughter, either. Heather was prowling around somewhere. And so was whoever had killed Agent Ellis. And the entire slave cartel.

  “Mom, tell me again? What are we doing here?” Molly was waking up, beginning to think.

  “We’re looking for Nick.” I tried to sound casual. I didn’t want to frighten her.

  “Why? Is he lost?”

  “Not exactly. I just don’t know where he is.” She seemed unimpressed. “Did you call him?” “He’s not answering his phone.”

  Molly sighed deeply. “Mom. Did you ever think that maybe he doesn’t want you to know where he is?”

  Oh, Lord. Had she heard us fighting? “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Sometimes people just need to not be found. You know, to go hide.”

  I blinked. Once again, Molly had startled me with her six-year-old insight. As we headed down the stairs into the boat bays, I held her hand, knowing what I had to do.

  FORTY-TWO

  “H’LO?” SUSAN ANSWERED ON THE FOURTH RING, SOUNDING UNconscious.

  “Wake up,” I told her. “I need you to come get Molly at the boathouse.”

  She didn’t grasp what I was saying the first few times. I had to repeat it again and again. By the time Susan understood the situation and realized that her protests were futile, Molly and I had gone down into the racks.

  “Why’s Susan coming to get me, Mom? What are you going to do? You’re not going rowing, are you?”

  I didn’t want to lie, so I changed the subject.

  “Molly,” I began. “I might be out awhile looking for Nick. So you might as well go to Susan’s and get some sleep.”

  “Mom. Why don’t we just go home and sleep? We can look for Nick in the morning.”

  Molly was, as ever, sensible. “Good idea. But I really want to find him tonight. I’m going to look for him one more time in one more place.”

  “Where? Nick’s a policeman. He could be anywhere. Chasing criminals.” She shook her head as if her mother were beyond hope. “So what am I supposed to do until Susan comes? Wait here?”

  Yes. That was what she was supposed to do. All alone. I told myself that it wasn’t so bad. Susan was already on her way. She’d be there in less than fifteen minutes. The doors were safely locked, and no one could get in but Humberton members, and the earliest of them wouldn’t show up for at least another hour. Molly would be fine. But she looked so small and pale, her eyes glazed with sleepiness. How could I leave her there? I couldn’t. Except that I had no choice.

  “Molls. This is a tough situation. I don’t want to leave you alone for even a second. But Susan will be here soon. Meantime, here’s what I want you to do.”

  FORTY-THREE

  SHE LOOKED AT ME LIKE I WAS CRAZY. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?” I nodded.

  “But wait. You told me never never ever to—” “I know. But this is different. Just this once is okay. It’s a special case.”

  She eyed me cautiously, as if wondering when exactly her mother had lost her mind.

  “Look, Molls. It’s just until Susan gets here. A few minutes.” “But I can wait in the lounge—”

  “I’d feel better if you stayed where nobody but Susan could find you.”

  Her eyes were grave. She got it. I hadn’t told her there might be danger, but she understood. She didn’t cry or seem afraid. She simply nodded.

  “I’ll leave the cell phone with you. In case you need to call Susan while you’re waiting.”

  She nodded again, looking like a small adult as she pocketed the phone. “It’s okay, Mom. I get it. This is an emergency.” She made it sound so simple.

  “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

  “Positive. Don’t worry.”

  “You’ll stay right there until Susan comes? You won’t move?”

  She stiffened her arms and legs, imitating a statue, and answered without moving her lips. “I won’t move.”

  How was she so brave? Why wasn’t she the least bit upset at being left alone? I kissed her head, gave her a quick hug.

  “Okay, then. The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll get back.” I didn’t say where I was going. Or how I’d get there. But she knew without my telling her.

  At the bottom of the boat-bay stairs, I knelt to give Molly a hug.

  “Don’t drown, Mom,” she said.

  “I won’t, Molls.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “Pinkie swear.”

  Soberly, we linked pinkies. “I swear,” I told her. “I won’t drown.”

  Molly studied my eyes. I dodged her gaze by hugging her again, aware of the bonds between love and deception.

  “I love you, Molls.” I kissed the curls on top of her head.

  “I know, Mom. Love you, too.” And then, as I watched, she scampered up the racks and disappeared into the shadows.

  FORTY-FOUR

  I TOLD MYSELF AGAIN THAT I HAD NO CHOICE. AFTER ALL, IT WAS

  my fault Nick had gone rowing; if we hadn’t fought, he’d be home safe in bed. And there was no question that something was wrong; his boat had been gone way too long. I had to go find him. Molly would be safe until Susan got there. She’d have to be.

  But without Molly by my side, the boat bays looked even darker. The shadows were harsher, more menacing. Just keep moving, I ordered myself. I opened the door to the dock, grabbed a pair of oars, lugged them outside, and came back in for a boat.

  The shell I’d rowed the day before was about twenty-five feet long, weighed about thirty-five pounds. But it felt heavier, bulkier, longer and wider as I strained to lift it off the rack. It’s a lever, I told myself. You’re the fulcrum. Stand at its center and balance it like scales. But I couldn’t find the boat’s center, couldn’t get it to balance. It tipped like a seesaw, too far to stern, then too far to bow. I bumped its nose against other boats, its tail against metal riggers. Thunk. Scrape. Thwap.

  “Mom?” Molly called from somewhere near the ceiling. “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  But Coach Everett screamed in my mind, blasting me for clumsiness, blaring out commands. “Correct your grip.” I heard him bark. Resting the bow gently on the floor, I moved my hands toward the center of the boat and lifted again. Better balanced, but still unsteady, I concentrated on where I was heading, aiming the stern carefully through the narrow aisle, slamming it only six or seven times into shells resting on the racks.

  Oh, God. What was I doing? I couldn’t even carry the thing down to the dock; how was I going to row it? I had no idea, but also no choice. I kept going, tipping the shell at impossible angles, squeezing my torso between its hull and the metal riggers that were supposed to hold oars but instead contained my twisted, contorted body.

  Slowly, the shell and I sidestepped along, proceeding in tiny increments to the dock where, sweating and panting, I paused to steady myself and let my eyes adjust to the moonlight. Then I continued, step by step, toward the water, assuring myself that the boat was not getting heavier, that I was not going to drop it, that I could manage one more step, then another. Finally, miraculously, the boat and I made it to the water’s edge where, without proper form or grace, I ducked out from under the rigger and let the boat splash into black water where it bobbed awkwardly, eventually righting itself.

  My lungs felt heavy with dense night air, and I smeared sweat across my forehead with equally sweaty arms. The oars, I thought. Get the oars. In moments, my oars were locked onto the boat and I stood on the dock, ready to shove. I glanced back at the boat-house, trying to catch a glimpse of Molly, wondering if Susan had arrived yet. I considered going back in to check, but didn’t. Because if I did, I might not have the nerve to come back out.

  FORTY-FIVE

  THE MOON WAS ALMOST FULL, ALMOST THE SAME SHAPE IT HAD been a few nights before when Susan and I had rowed. And the dark water glittered the same way, alive with slivers of reflected sil
ver light that slapped gently, teasingly at the dock.

  Balancing carefully, I stepped barefoot into the boat and lowered myself onto the seat, fastened the clammy Velcro shoes and shoved, letting the current carry me. For a moment I sat in the dark, watching the dock float out of reach. I gripped my oars and held my body rigid, not daring to breathe.

  Oh, God. What was I doing? I was alone on the river in the middle of the night. A novice without a coach’s supervision. using a Humberton shell without permission. Leaving my child alone not just in the boathouse, but up in the racks. I was breaking every rule there was. And not thinking clearly, either—I’d rowed a single only a couple of times before during lessons, and then I’d almost flipped. What was I going to do if I flipped again? I felt Molly’s pinkie gripping mine, heard myself swear that I wouldn’t drown.

  Stop it, I told myself. There’s no sense thinking about flipping. You’re here, on the water. Just settle down and row. Go look for Nick’s boat. That’s what you’re here for. I took a tentative stroke, then another. The boat wobbled, tilted dramatically, first to port, then to starboard. Steady, I told myself. Breathe. Keep your hands level. Relax your shoulders. Push with your legs. Gradually, my body began to remember the drill, moving the way it had the day before. The mantra of Coach Everett. Push with your thighs and legs. Lean back. Finish.

  I looked over my shoulder to see what was ahead, saw nothing but black space, shimmering surface, silhouettes of trees along the banks. No other boats. Nothing. Just quiet, undisturbed water. Even the expressway along the river was deserted. The only sounds were my oars clunking in their locks and the water gurgling under the boat, and I kept moving, scanning the surface for Nick’s single shell. But there was no sign of it. Or Nick.