It was a sluice. A spillway. But it was partially blocked with debris. The converter, which was mounted on her back, was caught against mud and concrete.
She found the mouthpiece, gratefully put it between her lips, and took a deep breath. The air tasted very good. But she was fighting panic.
She would not get out the way she came in, and she could not squeeze through. As long as she tried to hold onto her breathing system, she was going to stay right where she was.
She tried again to wriggle free.
How far was it through the dam and out the other side? How far could it be? Surely not more than twenty meters.
She took a deep breath, removed the mouthpiece and released the converter clip. The torrent threw her against the straps but she struggled out of them and the river tore her away from the unit, thrust her deeper into the spillway. It swept her along, forcing her against walls and rock. She tried to protect her face and head. Once, for a few desperate seconds, she was caught again, but the obstruction broke loose almost immediately.
The flood carried her through the dark. She raised her head periodically hoping to find trapped air, but there was only water and concrete.
She crashed into something metallic, a screen, a grate perhaps. She felt her way past it and was moving downstream again, reminding herself that the water was only passing through the dam, that the lower river lay just ahead. That she’d be out in seconds.
A curious kind of tranquillity settled over her. As if some deep aspect of herself had given up, had accepted the darkness and the river.
And suddenly the pressure was gone and she was falling.
The fall went on and on. The river torrent turned to mist and she caught a glimpse of the river below, of white water and shadows. She gulped down lungfuls of air, straightened out and hit feet first, sinking into quiet depths. Then, delighted that her parts still seemed to be working, she kicked back to the surface.
13
I don’t believe the truth will ever be known, and I have a great contempt for history.
History is bunk.
It was close at both ends.
When Air Rescue finally got to Solly they found him pinned against a gate in the powerhouse penstock. He had been in the water almost four hours.
He was not happy.
Nevertheless he and Kim were both on the scene next morning when police brought up a mummified corpse. It was wrapped in a plastic sheath.
The salvage operation was directed by a tall, dark-skinned, dark-haired official who introduced himself as Inspector Chepanga. “Tell me about it,” he said.
He wore a black pullover sweater with a rolled collar. His beard was trimmed to a point, and he studied Kim with a world-weary attitude, suggesting that he fished corpses out of the Severin with depressing regularity. In that age of general prosperity and respect for law, the numbers might actually have run to once every few years.
“It’s Yoshi Amara,” Kim said. Solly was trying to signal her to be quiet, but she could see no point in that. She had no reason to protect Tripley or to hinder any investigation that might take place.
“How do you know? How did you know she was here?”
Kim explained about the shoe and the gold, and how they had conducted the search.
Chepanga listened, nodding occasionally, frowning frequently. At last he looked over at Solly, as if he at least should have known better. “You two are damned lucky to be alive,” he growled, suggesting he’d have been just as happy if Kim hadn’t created a problem for him.
The body had been weighed down with rocks. There wasn’t much left except teeth and bones. And a bracelet and a necklace.
“Tripley’s place?” asked Chepanga.
“Yes.”
He stared out over the river. “The trail’s a long time cold.”
Solly and Kim celebrated their escape from the Severin by treating themselves to lunch in the most expensive restaurant they could find. They toasted each other’s courage and good fortune, and Kim sat back to relish the moment. She assured him that he had behaved heroically, even if the rescue hadn’t gone as planned. She was genuinely touched by this new evidence of his willingness to put himself on the line for her. He seized the first opportunity to grumble about her foolhardiness and she admitted she’d been less than prudent. But there was much that was charming in his insistence that next time he’d appreciate it if she’d try listening to him for a change. She smiled and squeezed his hand and insisted on refilling his drink from the decanter. Solly looked at her as severely as he could manage. He was, in his own way, the most charming person she knew. Well, maybe not quite as charming as Mike Plymouth. But Solly was unique. Toward the end of the meal, one of Chepanga’s assistants called to confirm it was Yoshi Amara.
Afterward they returned to the hotel, and she tried to reach Sheyel. The reception wasn’t good, trouble on the lines somewhere, and her old teacher’s image, when it finally appeared, lacked definition. It was fuzzy around the edges, particularly up around his shoulders, and occasionally he faded to near-transparency. Add his gloomy demeanor, and the result was spectral.
“I’m sorry,” Kim said, the words inadequate as always even though the victim had been dead almost three decades.
“Murdered?” he asked.
“The police are looking into it. But, yes, I’d say that’s a safe assumption.” Kim had given few details, had in fact few to give.
“In a river,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know how else to respond.
“Thank you, Kim. I appreciate what you’ve done.” He looked empty. She realized that until that moment he’d never really given up hope.
“What will you do now?”
“Wait for the results of the investigation.”
“I don’t want to sound discouraging, Sheyel, but with the principals dead, I doubt there’ll be much of an investigation.”
The picture cleared up. “Surely they’d want to establish the truth about this,” he said.
“Maybe. I have my doubts.”
“I see.” The image faded again, down to a silhouette. “Kim,” he said, “have you finished?”
“You mean, do I plan to pursue this any further?”
“Yes. That is what I mean. Because I honestly don’t understand—can’t imagine—what happened. I’ve done a lot of research on Tripley and Kane. I mean, I’ve looked at everything that’s available. I just don’t believe either of them is capable of murder.”
“Those are my thoughts exactly.”
“So are you going to continue?”
“To the extent that I’m able.”
“Then I want you to be careful. Yoshi’s killer may still be out there.”
“After all these years?” She tried to sound skeptical. “You have someone up there with you?”
“Yes,” she said. “A colleague. Solomon Hobbs.”
“Good. Stay close to him.”
Chepanga conducted a virtual interview that afternoon. He asked Kim to repeat her story in tedious detail. When she was finished he asked why she had become interested in the case. “End of the century,” she told him. “It got me reminiscing about the sister I’d lost.”
He had clearly hoped for more. He asked Solly whether he had anything to add.
Solly did not. “I was just trying to help a friend,” he said.
“How did she die?” Kim asked.
“Her neck was broken.”
“And what do you plan to do now?”
“We’ll conduct a thorough investigation, of course. Although we have to face the reality that it’s been a long time. A case of this nature—Well, we’ll do what we can.” He thanked her and blinked out.
“I think he’s telling us it’s over,” said Solly.
“He thinks Tripley did it, and Tripley’s dead. At least he’s legally dead.”