The effect of my efforts seemed negligible at first, and far, far too slow. Norm began to thrash, his head tossing from side to side, which only made me hang on tighter. The water was a swirling screen of whitewash, subtly highlighted by the muted colors of the fireworks display. But my vision began to dim as I ran out of air, and slowly I felt a numbness overtake me.
At which point, Bouch desperately released my throat to grab at my hands.
Stimulated by the sudden freedom, I placed one foot firmly against his chest and pushed with all my remaining strength, tearing myself loose of him.
The result was dramatic. From a crashing, twisting whirlwind of froth, I was thrust into solid fluid. The resistance all around me doubled, and I swam to the surface, searing my lungs with warm summer air. The noise of rushing water was overridden once more by the dizzying crash of exploding pyrotechnics.
The respite was short-lived. No sooner had I taken in one big restorative breath than I was dragged underwater again, this time by the weight of my waterlogged armored vest. Pulling at my shirt and fumbling with the clinging Velcro straps, I felt once more my brain closing down. With one final effort, I stripped the vest and pushed at the water around me with my hands. This time, when I broke to the surface, I stayed put.
I lay on my back for a few stunned seconds, the undulating stream rocking me gently, my vision-moments ago shot through with frantic pinpricks of fading neurons-now filled with wondrous flowers, star-bursts, and radiating wheels of light.
All riding on the growing thunder of the falls just ahead.
My mind clear at last, my heart pounding against the coming onslaught, I twisted about, looking for something to hang on to. But all around me, moving with ever growing speed, I could only see leaping, silky, multicolored water. Ahead, the twin portals of the bridge spanning the falls arched high overhead, doorways to oblivion. And above them, like marbles balanced on a wall, the shapes of spectators’ heads all craned away from me, their eyes fixed on the sky.
I stared at them, my last glimpse of humanity, until I was sucked down into the cataract.
I’d been told years before that survival in fast water often depends on one’s position-that if you keep flat on your back, with your arms spread out and your legs held before you, the descent of a rapids can approximate a sled run down a mountain.
It had seemed reasonable at the time-appealing to my human ego that helplessness could be defeated by mere proper positioning. The reality was I felt like a leaf in a torrent, and just as likely to be pulverized.
I was thrust about, tossed up, sucked under, and twisted around with no regard for my own efforts. The force controlling me was absolute. I breathed when I could, and otherwise gave in to whatever would decree my fate. I was aware of the rocks. They loomed enormously to all sides. I felt them gliding beneath and beside me, the slippery texture of them brushing my outstretched fingers. But the water, while trying to outlast the air I held tight, also buffered the blows and helped whisk me away from the sheer mass of solid granite. At one point, near the end, when I was thrown like a salmon from the water’s embrace, it gathered me again into a deep pool, softening a two-story free fall with the yield of a down pillow. From there, I bobbed into gentle rapids, beside the outwash from the hydroelectric plant, and, more by instinct than with any remaining energy, I slowly paddled into the gravel-strewn shallows.
There, my hands and feet touching bottom like branches protruding from a log, I floated, barely conscious, and watched a parade of firefly-sized flashlights snake their way down the distant shore to the river’s edge.
Chapter 25
Greg Davis stopped near the entrance to the railroad trestle. It had been two days since my swim in the Connecticut River-and an overnight stay in the hospital for observation-and the water level had dropped back to where the hydroelectric plant could take everything the river had. The Tainter gates were closed, and only a thin film of water coated the downstream side of the dam.
Davis pointed to where Norm Bouch and I fell in that night. “That’s where we found him. Looks like a fun place to swim right now-under a small waterfall-but we couldn’t grab hold of him till they lowered the gates a few minutes, and then we had to move fast. Before that, he just kept bobbing out of sight… I don’t know how you made it.”
I stared at the placid scene, no more dangerous now than a backyard pool. Sensitive as always, Davis didn’t say any more but stared off with affection in the other direction, across the canal at the gritty, timeworn, ugly backside of his home town.
I broke away from my daydreaming and followed his gaze. A small group of carpenters was working on one of the buildings overlooking the canal, reinforcing a balcony the length of a city block. “I hear congratulations are in order,” I said.
He turned to me and smiled, embarrassment mixed with pride. “The Chief thing? Thanks. It’s only a recommendation. The powers-that-be have still got to rule on it.”
“Latour’s backing can’t hurt, especially now that he’s the hero of the hour.”
Davis went back to the view. “Yeah… He had that coming, though. He put his whole life into this town, and he did a good job. It wasn’t his fault he got tired. Not that he’s taking off… He told me yesterday he’ll stick around to help the town rebuild itself, and that Shippee’ll be his first project. He thinks he has enough on him to encourage him to go job hunting. So there may be light at the end of the tunnel.”
“How’s Emily doing?”
He laughed. “There’s someone who learned a lot in a short time. You don’t speak ill of the chief around her.” He looked at his watch. “You want a ride back? I gotta get to work.”
I shook my head. “It’s a pretty day. I’ll walk. Thanks.”
I watched him drive slowly across the tracks and down the yard toward the road. Emily Doyle had been an easy fix. She was a young enthusiast, dealing with the world in black-and-white terms, unconcerned with such inconsistencies as a contradictory alliance with Emile Latour.
Brian Padget was another matter. I’d started today’s pilgrimage to Bellows Falls with a visit to his home, to formally let him know that all charges had been dropped, and that the papers would be running a full explanation of the circumstances in a few days.
Not surprisingly, this had not affected him like the wave of a magic wand, eradicating the past and healing all wounds. He’d merely moved to the window and stood there, sightlessly staring out, fingering a curtain in one hand.
“What are you going to do now?” I’d asked. “Latour said you can pick up where you left off with the department, if you want, once you’ve paid the piper for playing maverick. Probably not a bad idea, at least for the short run. Give you time to think things over.”
He hadn’t answered, and I’d been forced to think of the differences between us. Despite the despair and the growing sense of futility that had nagged me early on, unconsciously I’d been bolstered throughout by stalwarts like Greg Davis and Jonathon Michael and even Emile Latour, who’d finally risen to the task at hand. I’d also had a lifetime of experience to call upon, and in Gail the backing of a friend on whose support I could count.
Padget had benefited from nothing like this. Manipulated into disgrace, he’d been just as passively extracted from it, and like any piece of manhandled baggage, while he’d survived the trip physically, he’d been forever scarred by the process. Watching him stare out into space, his options unknown, I’d mourned my inability to be of much use. I hoped he’d stay in law enforcement, but I knew that might be expecting too much.