The River Killings (3 page)

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.

T
HE
N
EXT
M
INUTES
AND H
OURS
P
ASSED
IN A B
LUR
. I R
EMEMBER
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.

I
T
W
AS
A
LMOST
M
IDNIGHT
WHEN,
S
TUNNED
AND
EXHAUSTED,
W
E
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 and 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.”

Julie was twice Molly’s size and almost twice her age. I probably should have intervened on Molly’s behalf, but I watched, passive and numb, while Molly took Julie on, reminding me once again that my daughter had been adopted, that we shared no genetic material. When I was her age, if anyone had called me a cheater, I’d have dissolved into tears and run mortified out of the room, never ever to return. But Molly stood her ground without backing down, undaunted.

“Cheater, cheater, Molly is a cheater,” Julie sang, but she sank into the cushions, backing away from Molly’s small ferocious, mostly toothless face.

Wearily, Susan took Julie’s arm. “Don’t be mean, Julie. Let’s get going. Just apologize.”

“No—why should I?” Julie squirmed. “I’m telling the truth.”

Molly’s body stiffened, her fists clenched. “You’re a sore loser.” Molly glared at Julie with freezing contempt.

“Molls.” My rhythm was off; my comment came a few beats too late. “Chill. Settle this later. Let’s move.” But Molly was sputtering mad, unlikely either to chill or to move.

Emily woke up then, yawning and stretching. She watched the spat mutely, without taking sides.

“All I said was you cheated.” Julie pressed herself deeper into the back of the couch.

“Julie,” Susan pleaded. “Drop it. Let’s go.”

“Not till she admits she broke the rules,” Julie insisted.

“We never said the rules.” Molly’s hands were on her hips. “How could I break them if we didn’t say them?”

“You knew them,” Julie insisted.

“No, I didn’t. Because if I did, I wouldn’t’ve broken them.”

With an exasperated sigh, Susan gave up, sprawling onto an easy chair beside Julie’s sofa. She stared at the ceiling, rubbing her temples. I was cold and light-headed. I’d just been swimming with the dead and was desperate to go home.

“Girls, deal with this later. I mean it. We’re leaving. Now.” I tried to muster some authority.

“But Julie says I cheated—”

“Julie’s a bitch,” Emily finally spoke.

“Emily, don’t use that language.” Susan spoke on automatic, eyes still on the ceiling.

“I’m a bitch?” Julie fired back. “Well, you’re an ugly stinky little piece of shit.”

Susan’s eyes didn’t move from the beams. Her fingers continued their massage. “Girls—for the last time, don’t curse.”

“Why?” Julie countered. “You curse. You say ‘shit’ all the time. And ‘bastard’ and ‘dammit’ and—”

“Shut up. Just for once shut the hell up!”
The roar was sudden, cutting off Julie’s voice, exploding from Susan’s belly, shaking the room.

Instantly, everyone was silent. Wide-eyed, Julie sat still. Emily went to Molly and hugged her; finally, Molly relaxed. Susan resumed rubbing her temples.

“I didn’t cheat,” Molly insisted. “I just didn’t know we had to hide upstairs.”

Wait, I thought. What was that? Suddenly I grasped the facts. “You mean you hid downstairs?” Molly stared at the wall.

“Molly? You went down into the boat bays?” Alarmed, my brain jolted back into gear. “You know you’re not supposed to go in there. It’s dangerous.”

“But we were playing hide-and-seek and I have a great hiding place—”

“Molly went in the boat racks,” Julie tattled. “Way up high. How could we find her in the boat bays when we’re not even allowed in there?”

“You climbed the racks?” I almost choked. The racks where the boats were stored were twenty feet high. And the floor below was bare concrete. “What were you thinking? You could have fallen and cracked your head—”