The drill had pinned a thin sheaf of yellowing papers to the exterior planks, so he set it down and reached for them. The folded pages enclosed an old black-and-white photograph, which he lifted to the light from the windows. It was five by eight inches and remarkably well-focused, like old photographs always seemed to be. Cycles of heating and cooling had left it dry and stiff but otherwise undamaged. In the foreground a young woman leaned against a hip-high rock, upper body facing the camera and legs angled away. She wore a trim jacket over a light-colored dress with a sash around the waist, and her hat had an asymmetric upturned brim. A pendant necklace shaped like an elm leaf rested against her dress below the collar. Her lips were closed in a half smile and her wavy hair glinted where it fell into curls halfway down her neck.
Beside her stood a tall young man, clean-shaven and serious…dark thigh-length coat, white shirt, and gray pants tucked into boots that rose over his calves. He held a flat cap in one hand, leaving his close-cropped hair uncovered, and one foot was propped jauntily on a rock.
A farrago of boulders lay behind the couple, beyond which the surroundings fell away. In the background Vin saw ten or more waterfalls plunging different heights and tilting in different directions, connected by a wide labyrinth of flowing whitewater and enormous knuckles of fractured rocks. The chaos of water and rock extended into the distance upstream, and it was hard to tell where the water came from or where it went. He turned the photo over and saw a faded penciled annotation in the bottom corner:
R. L. Fisher and K. Elgin at Great Falls
March, 1924
He unfolded the pages surrounding the photo and noticed their left edges were uneven, as if they’d been torn from a book or ledger. The outer page was blank except for a pre-printed list of underscored column headings:
Date Time Boat no. Capt. Cargo Tonnage Origin Destination
Maybe this page had been ripped from an old log-book for canal traffic, he thought. The remnants of Pennyfield House were only a stone’s throw away at the bottom of the hill, and this shed must have belonged to its owners. And the whitewashed stone locktender’s house stood boarded up and abandoned, just across the canal.
Since there was no other writing on the outer page, he guessed it served as a protective envelope. The inner page had the same pre-printed column headings, but a note had been written in ink below them. Though the penmanship was inconsistent, the margins were flush and the lines evenly-spaced. It looked like a carefully composed letter from an unpracticed author.
March 29, 1924
Charlie,
If it is April and I am missing, I fear I have been killed because of what happened today at Swains Lock. I may be buried along with the others at the base of three joined sycamores at the edge of a clearing. The name of the place is well knowed by Emmert Reed’s albino mule. One tree leads to the money, the second leads to the killers and the third leads to the dead. In your search for me you may find the truth. Be careful you don’t share my fate.
Your friend, Lee Fisher
As he re-read the note, Vin felt the back of his neck chill. He studied the photo of the young couple again, turning it over to see the notation “R. L. Fisher and K. Elgin at Great Falls”. That could be Lee Fisher in the picture, he thought, since Great Falls was only a few miles away and the picture was also dated “March, 1924”. He turned back to the letter. Who was Charlie? And why was the note placed here, where Charlie – hell, anybody – would have been highly unlikely to find it? Maybe Charlie had already found the note and hidden it here himself. But then why would the drill be hidden along with the papers? Strange.
He plucked the finishing nails from the planks, then carried them back to the house along with his tools and the newfound drill and papers. On his way to the driveway his throat felt dry, so he set everything down in the foyer and climbed the half-flight to the breakfast nook and kitchen for a glass of water.
Between sips in the foyer, he finger-tapped the planks as they leaned against the wall. Definitely cedar and quite solid. The strange mark was facing outward at the top of one plank, so he spun the plank to its original orientation. The curve and one of the slashes suggested a sickle, but the other two slashes made the symbol look alien. Wondering whether there was a connection between the mark and the photo, he studied the picture again but couldn’t find one. The doorbell rang and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He laid the photo on the foyer table and opened the door.
“Hi, Vin,” the woman at the door said. He stared at her blankly for a second. “We met yesterday.” Her gray-green eyes flitted left and right, then settled on his own. She smiled as he remembered yesterday’s dogfight.
“Sure, sure,” he said, sweeping his hair back from his brow. “You’re Kelsey, right? I’m sorry, I was asleep on my feet when you rang. Come in.” He stepped back and held the door.
“Thanks. Where’s your dog?”
“Napping on the deck. At least he better be.” She laughed as Vin found himself locating the faded scar on her left temple. He quickly made eye contact again. “How does your dog’s ear look today?”
“About the same. I’m trying to make sure she doesn’t scratch it, but given the amount of time she spends rolling around outside, the ear spray sounded like a good idea.”
“Right, the gentamicin. Nicky told me where to find it. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Kelsey watched as he headed off to the kitchen. He ducked into the pantry, flicked on the light, and started checking labels on the medicine shelf.
***
In the foyer Kelsey surveyed her surroundings. A split-level from the late sixties or early seventies, she thought, with no major updates. A generic pendulum lamp overhead and a cute little red-and-orange kilim rug over slate tiles. To the right, a half-flight down to the first floor and another up to a breakfast nook. An alternate half-flight on the left led up to the living room. An antique table in front of her and cedar planks propped beside it against the wall. Her gaze drifted down the face of the nearest plank and her eyes widened when she saw the symbol carved near its base. Her mind went blank in disbelief and all she could think of or feel was the hammering of blood against the walls of her heart. The mark from Whites Ferry. A vague intuition formed like a bubble in her subconscious and ascended until it became a discernible pearl. The pearl shattered into a premonition, and the premonition flew beyond her grasp.
Chapter 3
Whites Ferry
Tuesday, June 20, 1972
Destiny Gowan, née Melissa, pushed the twelfth and final four-by-four until its opposite end nudged the windshield just above the dash. She swept tiny beads of sweat from her forehead, then looked up at her boyfriend and smiled. “That’s the last one,” she said, slamming the tailgate shut. The yellow Ford station wagon squatted cautiously in the heat, unused to its burden of two hundred paving stones and a dozen beams of varying lengths.
Miles Garrett checked his watch and brushed the dirt from his hands. “Damn, I hope so,” he said. “Since we still need to take all of this shit back out.” He pulled on the tailgate to make sure it was fully closed. “I thought artists were supposed to use art supplies. Like paint…or chalk...or clay.”
“It’s architectural sculpture, Miles,” Des said. “Tell him, Kelsey.”
“It’s architectural sculpture, Miles,” Kelsey said. “And thanks for taking the morning off to help. Teresa is a talented artist – even when we were in high school she was talented – ask Des. And you can come to the open house at the Collaborative next week to see what she can do with this stuff.” Kelsey ducked and shaded her eyes to peer in through the open tailgate window. The back seat was folded over, buried beneath the stones and beams. “Des, do you think all three of us can fit in the front seat?”