BURYING ZIMMERMAN (The River Trilogy, book 2) (4 page)

"I was just borrowing it," Gilbert said.
"Going to bring it back in a few minutes, with another one."

Captain Zimmerman squinted. "How was you
fixing to do that?"

Gilbert explained that he'd made a bet with a
boy he'd met on a boat at the other end of the dock, who'd boasted
that his daddy had just bought the biggest melon of the day.
Gilbert had scoffed and said he'd be back in a few minutes with a
melon that he reckoned was bigger – and then whoever was right
could keep both

So, Gilbert explained, he'd been on his way
to win a free melon, half of which he intended to leave for the
Zimmermans.

"And how was you going to pay for our melon,"
Captain Zimmerman said, "supposing that other boy is right?"

"He won't be," Gilbert said ominously.
"That'd cost him more than a melon."

Captain Zimmerman stared at the scrawny,
slate-eyed boy holding the watermelon, and maybe he saw a stray
version of Henry. He asked Gilbert his name and then told him that
he expected him back within fifteen minutes, and that he better not
be empty-handed. Gilbert marched down the dock with the melon,
passed a supply shed, and turned out of sight. If he'd looked back,
he might have noticed Henry following discreetly at a distance.

When Henry saw Gilbert carry the melon into
what looked like a tavern down the block, he headed back to the
boat and told his father that Gilbert's story must have been a lie,
and that he had stolen their melon.

"I reckon he'll pay for it," Captain
Zimmerman said. "One way or another."

Two days later the Zimmermans had unloaded
their coal and were getting ready for the run back to Cumberland.
The watermelon man was back, and Captain Zimmerman told Henry to
keep an eye out for Gilbert, who might be traveling in his wake.
Henry stalked the melon cart from behind, and sure enough, there
was Gilbert, stepping onto an empty deck and then disembarking
moments later with a melon in his arms.

Following instructions, Henry circled to
alert the vendor, who parked his cart and slipped back to apprehend
the melon thief and steer him to the Zimmermans' boat. Forty-eight
hours after their last encounter, Gilbert faced Captain Zimmerman
as if he was returning within his allotted fifteen minutes.

"This man says I'm stealing your watermelon,
but I told him you said it was OK!"

Captain Zimmerman took the melon from Gilbert
and paid the vendor for it. "Where do you live, son? I'd like a
word with your parents."

Maybe Gilbert was hungry and foresaw a chance
at a meal, or maybe his instincts told him that Captain Zimmerman
was more of an opportunity than a threat, but for some reason he
guided Captain Z and Henry to his grandmother's house in
Georgetown. The Captain's conversation with her confirmed his
impressions. Without a father, Gilbert was slipping into an orbit
she couldn't monitor or control.

Captain Zimmerman offered to take Gilbert
onboard as an apprentice mule driver on their run to Cumberland and
back. That would mean long days on the towpath and plenty of work,
but the boy would be fed and clothed and paid three dollars when
they arrived back in Georgetown in two weeks. It was mid-July, and
if he proved up to the job, he could stay on for the next
round-trip. As long as he played it straight, Gilbert could boat
with Captain Z and Henry and their older hand Otis until school
started up in the fall.

And so despite the effortless mendacity
Gilbert demonstrated in his first encounters with the Zimmermans,
Captain Z threw him a lifeline, and Gilbert was introduced to the
Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. The Captain must have seen a
resourcefulness that he thought could be channeled toward honest
and laudable ends. But even though Gilbert was only thirteen years
old, I'm convinced now that a core part of him was already
unreachable and broken.

***

We never took Gig Garrett's fingerprints, so
there is still no evidence that he strangled Jessie Delaney before
he fled to the Yukon. And while there are rumors that he stabbed a
fellow miner in Alaska, leaving the dying man with his throat
pinned to a claim-stake, there were no witnesses to that event
either.

The only killings that can be surely
attributed to Garrett were my brother's and his own – the position
of the bodies and bullet-holes left little doubt about what had
happened. But an earlier incident foreshadowed those killings, and
it inspired Garrett's nickname. Henry Zimmerman was both its
witness and its victim.

By August of 1888, the summer after his
watermelon heist, Gilbert had become a capable canal hand. He was
less than a year older than Henry, and during that second summer on
the canal the two boys were accomplices and rivals in the way that
way that closely-spaced brothers are. On normal days the boys would
spend hours walking the towpath with the mules. When Captain Z
wanted to boat through the night, Henry would drive the mules while
Gilbert slept in the boat's narrowest bunk, and at the end of each
level they'd trade places. Occasionally, like on that August day,
there were chances to escape the routine.

Captain Zimmerman's boat was approaching
Pennyfield Lock on a run back to Cumberland from Georgetown. As the
crew got closer, they could see that the lock was set for a loaded
boat approaching from the other direction. But another light boat
was ahead of them, waiting and tied up to the berm. Henry and
Gilbert realized they'd have to watch both boats transit the lock
before it would be ready for them.

That would take fifteen minutes, and it was
only a three-minute walk to Muddy Branch, a broad and puddled
stream that ducked through a culvert under the canal on its way to
the Potomac River. Muddy Branch was bullfrog territory. They tied
up behind the waiting boat, and then with a nod from Captain Z, the
boys grabbed a frog-gig and a mason jar and set out.

Gilbert had gone gigging with Henry once
before, but they'd failed to catch a frog. Henry had shown him how
to hold the fork-tined spear at an angle, then flick it with only
his hand and forearm, keeping his eyes on the quarry and his elbow
steady. Frog-gigging worked best at night. If you had a lamp you
could mesmerize them while you stood in the water and aimed at
their shining eyes.

During the daytime it made more sense to
sneak up on them from behind. If the frog was close to the bank,
sometimes you could catch them by hand. You had to creep within a
few feet, reach slowly into the space above the frog – and then
snare it with a swipe, sweeping your hand into the water a bit
ahead of it, since the first sign of motion would make the frog
submerge and shoot forward. If you couldn't get close enough, then
you would use the gig.

When they reached Muddy Branch, it took less
than a minute for Henry to spot his frog. Its telltale nose and
eyes broke the surface where a bulging eddy receded into a patch of
marsh grass. Henry put a finger to his lips while pointing it out.
He gestured downstream, where he led Gilbert across the creek on
stepping-stone rocks. They swung wide before approaching stealthily
through the grass from behind.

The frog remained motionless where they'd
spotted it, clear-lidded eyes protruding above the waterline. Henry
handed the gig to Gilbert and hunched forward toward the frog – he
wanted to use his hands. Gilbert stepped away for a clean view of
the catch. Henry bent slowly at the waist and knees and stretched
his right hand into position... and then flashed it into the water
ahead of the frog while his left hand splashed down beside it to
brace.

His fingers touched cool, darting muscle
underwater, then closed too late to trap the receding legs, just as
a jarring impact electrified his left hand. He screamed in pain and
turned to see the wobbling shaft of the gig extending from the
mud-clouded water. His hand throbbed and burned where the metal
tines pinned it to the creek bed.

Henry's face went white while his sweat
dripped into the water and he turned toward Gilbert in disbelief.
Gilbert got busy. He freed the gig from the creek, rinsed the mud
from its tines and Henry's hand, and then carefully pulled the two
apart. Two of the tines had struck glancing blows and one missed,
but the fourth stripped Henry's ring finger to the bone.

Gilbert pulled off his shirt to wrap Henry's
hand and they ran back to the boat, with Henry streaming tears and
loping as fast as he could while holding one hand aloft with the
other. When they got there Captain Zimmerman immediately escorted
Henry to the nearby Pennyfield House to get his hand cleaned and
bandaged. Through his sniffles, Henry told his father what had
happened, and how Gilbert hadn't waited to see whether he could
catch the frog by hand.

But Henry didn't mention the part that
bothered him the most, the part that would be seared into his
memory. When he'd screamed and looked up with his hand impaled in
the mud, Gilbert was staring at the gig and smiling.

Three weeks later, doctors amputated Henry's
dying ring finger at the knuckle, and by late October he was back
on the canal for the final run of the season.

Gilbert was contrite and solicitous in the
weeks and months ahead, but it took another year with the
Zimmermans (he stayed with them in Williamsport over the winter and
attended school with Henry) before the emotions surrounding the
incident drained away. And when school friends – and then even
Henry and Captain Z – started calling him "Gig" Garrett, Gilbert
knew he'd been forgiven.

Chapter 4

I slip the pistol into my coat and walk past
Drew's grave as the stones fade to shadows. Henry Zimmerman's
message told me to meet him on the washed-up scow at eight, and it
may take until then to reach Sandy Landing via the main roads. As
the crow flies it's a shorter walk, but I don't want to cross Sam
Ford's property after dark. There are still working gold mines
along that route.

It's been thirty-one years since I fell into
the shaft at Rock Run, but beads of sweat still pinprick my
forehead when I think about underground chambers. Or enclosed
spaces anywhere... small quarters that offer no exit and admit no
light. When I was eight and had just been rescued, I didn't feel
ashamed when my heart started racing and the burning sensation
would rise from my chest to my face. I thought those symptoms would
recede as years passed and I outgrew my fear.

And the symptoms did diminish as I got older,
but only because I learned to avoid triggering them. I gave wells
and mines a wide berth, and found reasons not to walk through old
railroad tunnels or explore caves with my friends. When I was
fourteen there was a blizzard and some of the kids built an igloo
behind the gas house, but I refused to enter it. My success at
avoiding small, dark places made me optimistic that my fears would
have little impact on my life. But that hope ended when I was
seventeen, on a cool September night in 1902.

***

My hands were balled into nervous fists in my
coat pockets that night as I walked up to the entrance of the Cabin
John Bridge Hotel. Drew had told me to meet him there at
seven-thirty and I was a few minutes early. I stood outside and
watched a couple walk past on Conduit Road, arm in arm as they
headed for the nearby Union Arch Bridge and the trolley beyond
it.

Drew slipped out the front door and tapped me
on the shoulder with a smile. I followed him around to the side
lawn, where he pulled a set of handcuffs from his pocket. He'd
arranged to borrow them from a bartender at the hotel tavern. We
practiced closing the cuffs, opening them with the key, and
adjusting their settings.

"Well, sheriff," he said, "these should be
strong enough to keep our outlaw in line." I slipped the cuffs into
my pocket as Drew produced a dark revolver from his. I'd seen
enough photos in magazines to recognize it as an old army piece,
but I had no idea where he'd gotten it. He released the cylinder
and swung it wide to show me the six bullets it held.

".38 caliber," Drew said, clicking the
cylinder back into place and spinning it. "Can shoot all the air
out of a stubborn man."

"What if Garrett has his own gun?"

"It won't matter, 'cause Henry will have one
too. And we won't exactly be blowing bugles to announce we're
coming, so he'll be facing two barrels before he has time to
think."

We reviewed the plan. I'd lead the way to
Garrett's cabin near the creek delta, since I knew the network of
trails between the canal and the river best. Garrett still
considered Henry a friend and would likely open the door unarmed
when Henry knocked. He would find Henry and Drew with their guns
drawn, and Henry would ask him to turn around and extend his hands
behind him. Henry would explain that the Montgomery County sheriff
had deputized us to escort him in for fingerprinting, and that any
resistance would lead to an arrest warrant. And I'd step forward to
apply the cuffs.

If Garrett refused to open the door, Henry
would still recite his message. Then we'd leave and report
Garrett's lack of cooperation to the sheriff.

In truth, the sheriff hadn't seemed
particularly interested in arresting Garrett based on the
unverifiable stories he'd heard a few days earlier from Henry and
Drew, but he'd agreed to fingerprint Garrett if they brought him
in. Fingerprinting kits were gaining currency in the years after
Jessie's death and the sheriff was learning how to use one. With
Garrett's prints as a reference, he could search for matching marks
on Jessie's locket, which he said he said he'd kept as evidence and
only handled by the cord. And the sheriff had assured them that if
Garrett refused their invitation, that refusal would be a red flag,
and he would issue a summons.

I don't think the sheriff ever formally
"deputized" Henry and Drew, or expected them to arm themselves for
their visit to Garrett's cabin. But the sheriff didn't know Gig
Garrett.