Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [123]
Northeast, the red-brick chimney of the deserted iron factory rose some hundred feet or more into the air, marking the north side of town. Between it and me, swaying above the mirage of the marsh, the masts of a hundred or more sailboats moored at the marina shimmered in the sun. If the senator’s people were anywhere, they’d be standing on the dock, binoculars poised to spot us.
From Crandall, the river winds around five S-curves to Reed’s Bluff, where the water flows deep and dangerous. Beyond the bluff, the river stretches nearly a mile before it is joined by Burrell’s Creek. The two merge, forming a narrow mess called Devil’s Elbow. Once through the elbow, the river flows past the marina, past the fish houses and restaurants and then to Cedar Point, where she slingshots to the ocean.
I looked behind us. Fourteen years had led to his. Seven miles were all that remained. Seven impossible miles.
The sun, once high and hot, now sat low in the west, threatening to slip behind the treetops. And though I tried, I could not stop it.
48
JUNE 11, AFTERNOON
An hour later, we reached the bend that flowed into Reed’s Bluff. The water was moving faster than I’d ever seen it. It was the worst kind of water. Not rapids above but undertow below. The water here was forty feet deep and the volume was squeezing through, ripping a fast current. I threw the canoe into the flow, it caught us and began pushing the back end around. I dug the paddle in, fought it and pulled, but it was no use. The undertow swung the stern around, then the bow, then the stern again. The water swirled, billowing up from the bottom, and threw us into the mix. All the debris, the trees, logs and trash, had gathered in a hole just north of the bluff, swirling like in a blender. The canoe rammed the center, climbed onto the pile and I grabbed Abbie’s hand just as water spilled over the stern. The river flooded in, angry and violent, swamped my seat and then shot us airborne like a canon. I hit the water and began pulling upward, but the water pulled us down and apart. It flipped us, tumbled us, and then wrapped us together in a knot. I struggled for air but could not break through the blanket of debris that held me beneath the water. My lungs were screaming and when I reached for Abbie, she was gone. I clawed at the water, pulling and kicking, but I could not break free. Locked in a somersault, I desperately needed air. The bottom sat some forty feet below me. The surface only a foot above. But I could reach neither. My lungs closed in and the familiar stars returned.
Had it all come to this?
From below me, a swirl of water caught my foot and righted me. It lifted me like a bobber and freed me. My eyes broke the surface and I saw a flash of bathing suit. I took three strokes, grabbed Abbie’s foot, and dug my arms beneath hers, pulling her toward the air. She sucked in a breath and hacked, coughing. The bank was only ten feet away. A fallen tree reached out across the water. A single, leafless limb stretched through the air above me. I lunged, caught it and it broke. The two of us spun, flipped and twirled through the water. My shoulder slammed into the bank and the water flipped us again, but I held fast to the broken limb and Abbie. We turned a cartwheel and when my arm came down I slammed the limb into the soft bank. The splintered end spiked into the sand and momentarily anchored us. I looped an arm around Abbie’s chest, pulled and threw myself at the bank. The sand was soft, gave way beneath me and the water sucked us down again. I dug my fingers in, kicked with my toes, and inched onto the beach. Slowly, I pulled Abbie toward me. She was spitting blood and water—both of which had smeared across her face. Her breathing was short, raspy and the effort not to drown had exhausted her. She was a rag doll. I combed the beach but everything was gone. The canoe. The purple blanket. The revolver.
Only we remained.