Read Online SWAINS LOCK (The River Trilogy, book 1) by Edward A. Stabler - Free Book Online
Authors: Edward A. Stabler
Tags: Mystery, Gold, possession, 1920s, heroin, curse, Silver, potomac river, flood, moonshine, gravesite, chesapeake and ohio canal, mule, whiskey, great falls
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He opened to the page that covered the Potomac River northwest of
Washington, D.C. From the intersection of River and Falls – the
center of the village of Potomac – he traced River Road four miles
northwest to River’s Edge Drive. A left turn, and then two more
turns on sinuous neighborhood streets took him to Ridge Line Court.
His finger continued past the cul-de-sac to the canal, less than a
quarter-inch away on the map. That quarter-inch was the yard behind
his house, the wooded hillside beyond it, and the meadow next to
Pennyfield Lock. The map showed the border surrounding the canal in
green, denoting the area of the National Historical Park.
He traced the path of the Potomac River from
Pennyfield Lock down to Great Falls, five-and-a-half miles
downstream. A splintered clot of islands split the river from just
above Pennyfield to just below Swains, after which the river
narrowed and regained focus, passed to either side of oval Conn
Island, and then was compressed into a writhing torrent by Olmsted
Island before plunging over the Falls. Olmsted. Kelsey Ainge had
mentioned that name while looking at the old photo of Lee Fisher
and K. Elgin at the Falls.
He read the island names from the Falls back
up to Pennyfield: Olmsted, Conn, Bealls, Minnehaha, Gladys,
Claggett, Sycamore, Watkins, Grapevine, and Elm. Watkins Island
dwarfed and overlapped the rest of them, beginning near Pennyfield
and stretching almost to Swains. He and Nicky had watched the
beaver swimming between Watkins Island and their picnic spot on the
Maryland shore a week ago.
It was almost 1:30, so Nicky should be home
in about an hour. They had planned to ride their bikes down the
towpath to Great Falls. He looked out the sliding glass doors –
mostly cloudy, but still warm for late October. It would be good to
get outside, since he’d spent most of the rainy week at his
makeshift desk in the first-floor office. On Monday, he’d sent
e-mail to his former boss saying he was ready to get started on the
technical-support database project. By the time you’re thirty-five,
maybe it’s harder to be unemployed for a while without feeling
guilty, he thought. It certainly seemed as if Nicky had brightened
when he told her that he was starting his consulting work. He’d
spent the rest of the week wading through documents from Weill
Networks and roughing out a database structure and programming
requirements. This morning he’d e-mailed his thoughts back to
‘Rottweiler’ for comments. Now he needed to read a couple of books
on scripting languages, but that could wait until Monday.
He sat on the couch and studied the photo
and note he’d found in the shed last weekend. The scene in the
photo was his destination today. He re-read Lee Fisher’s note to
“Charlie”, and was struck by the line: “In your search for me you
may find the truth.” What truth was it that Lee hoped Charlie would
find? Did it relate to the money, the killers, the dead… or
something else? He was vaguely aware that this question was gaining
a foothold in his psyche, like a virus that had infiltrated his
bloodstream at imperceptible levels but was steadily consolidating
its presence. He almost felt as if Lee’s directive applied to him,
or that perhaps he had inherited the task from Charlie.
If Charlie never found Lee’s note, then no
one else would find it now. Vin had replaced the planks in the shed
this morning, but kept the drill, the photo, and the note. So in a
sense, he thought, he had picked up a torch that Charlie never
carried. And if he could find Lee, maybe Vin could find the truth –
whatever truth that was. With a wry smile, he wondered if this
meant the last line in Lee’s note would also apply to him. “Be
careful you don’t share my fate.”
Nicky got home and drank a glass of iced tea
with him in the kitchen. She eyed the open atlas, note, and photo
on the living-room table and shook her head in mock reproach. “I
thought you had work to
He opened to the page that covered the Potomac River northwest of
Washington, D.C. From the intersection of River and Falls – the
center of the village of Potomac – he traced River Road four miles
northwest to River’s Edge Drive. A left turn, and then two more
turns on sinuous neighborhood streets took him to Ridge Line Court.
His finger continued past the cul-de-sac to the canal, less than a
quarter-inch away on the map. That quarter-inch was the yard behind
his house, the wooded hillside beyond it, and the meadow next to
Pennyfield Lock. The map showed the border surrounding the canal in
green, denoting the area of the National Historical Park.
He traced the path of the Potomac River from
Pennyfield Lock down to Great Falls, five-and-a-half miles
downstream. A splintered clot of islands split the river from just
above Pennyfield to just below Swains, after which the river
narrowed and regained focus, passed to either side of oval Conn
Island, and then was compressed into a writhing torrent by Olmsted
Island before plunging over the Falls. Olmsted. Kelsey Ainge had
mentioned that name while looking at the old photo of Lee Fisher
and K. Elgin at the Falls.
He read the island names from the Falls back
up to Pennyfield: Olmsted, Conn, Bealls, Minnehaha, Gladys,
Claggett, Sycamore, Watkins, Grapevine, and Elm. Watkins Island
dwarfed and overlapped the rest of them, beginning near Pennyfield
and stretching almost to Swains. He and Nicky had watched the
beaver swimming between Watkins Island and their picnic spot on the
Maryland shore a week ago.
It was almost 1:30, so Nicky should be home
in about an hour. They had planned to ride their bikes down the
towpath to Great Falls. He looked out the sliding glass doors –
mostly cloudy, but still warm for late October. It would be good to
get outside, since he’d spent most of the rainy week at his
makeshift desk in the first-floor office. On Monday, he’d sent
e-mail to his former boss saying he was ready to get started on the
technical-support database project. By the time you’re thirty-five,
maybe it’s harder to be unemployed for a while without feeling
guilty, he thought. It certainly seemed as if Nicky had brightened
when he told her that he was starting his consulting work. He’d
spent the rest of the week wading through documents from Weill
Networks and roughing out a database structure and programming
requirements. This morning he’d e-mailed his thoughts back to
‘Rottweiler’ for comments. Now he needed to read a couple of books
on scripting languages, but that could wait until Monday.
He sat on the couch and studied the photo
and note he’d found in the shed last weekend. The scene in the
photo was his destination today. He re-read Lee Fisher’s note to
“Charlie”, and was struck by the line: “In your search for me you
may find the truth.” What truth was it that Lee hoped Charlie would
find? Did it relate to the money, the killers, the dead… or
something else? He was vaguely aware that this question was gaining
a foothold in his psyche, like a virus that had infiltrated his
bloodstream at imperceptible levels but was steadily consolidating
its presence. He almost felt as if Lee’s directive applied to him,
or that perhaps he had inherited the task from Charlie.
If Charlie never found Lee’s note, then no
one else would find it now. Vin had replaced the planks in the shed
this morning, but kept the drill, the photo, and the note. So in a
sense, he thought, he had picked up a torch that Charlie never
carried. And if he could find Lee, maybe Vin could find the truth –
whatever truth that was. With a wry smile, he wondered if this
meant the last line in Lee’s note would also apply to him. “Be
careful you don’t share my fate.”
Nicky got home and drank a glass of iced tea
with him in the kitchen. She eyed the open atlas, note, and photo
on the living-room table and shook her head in mock reproach. “I
thought you had work to
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