SWAINS LOCK (The River Trilogy, book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Edward A. Stabler
Tags: Mystery, Gold, possession, 1920s, heroin, curse, Silver, potomac river, flood, moonshine, gravesite, chesapeake and ohio canal, mule, whiskey, great falls
the cement-floored laundry and storage area and
saw nylon ski bags leaning against the far wall. Beside them on the
floor sat two pairs of snowshoes they’d bought last year in Maine.
He smiled as he remembered snowshoeing through the woods with Nicky
near his parents’ house over Christmas, then wondered wistfully if
it made sense to own skis or snowshoes in Washington, D.C.
Next to the snowshoes was a stack of boxes
with a rope ladder heaped on top. He’d acquired it a few weeks ago
when he came home from biking to discover he had locked himself out
of the house. So he’d biked five miles to a cluttered hardware
store in Potomac and found the ladder. He hooked it to the deck and
climbed up, re-entering the house through the glass doors to the
living room. For a while he left the ladder in place, but when the
novelty wore off he’d resorted to leaving the lower-level sliding
door unlocked when he went running or biking.
His folding sawhorses were nearby and he
moved them to the foot of the stairs. A plastic crate held his
power drill, socket wrenches, screwdrivers. He pawed through a
shoebox of screws and bolts but wasn’t satisfied with what he
found. I need to go to the hardware store anyway, he thought, for
wire.
He drove to the intersection of River and
Falls, where two strip malls comprised the heart of downtown
Potomac. The narrow-aisled hardware store had an unpredictable
inventory of products piled on shelves to the ceiling, but he’d
come to appreciate it over the course of several visits. Finding
the rope ladder on his first visit had been serendipitous. This
time he only needed standard items: picture-hanging wire, a wooden
dowel, glue, bolts, and eyelet-screws. He paid for them and drove
home, then carried his tools and sawhorses out to the driveway.
When he examined his purchases, he realized he’d forgotten
something.
“Damn. I need a work surface.” Plywood or
planks or something. He had no desire to drive in search of boards
he only needed for an hour or two, so he shuffled back downstairs
to the storage area. Nothing. The house looked like it had been
built in the early 1970s; it didn’t have old cellar doors or a
plank fence he could scavenge. He circled the exterior of the house
just in case, knowing already that he wouldn’t find anything.
Looking out over the back lawn he remembered the abandoned shed on
the wooded hillside below. That might work.
He retrieved a hammer and a small crowbar
from his tool crate and set off across the lawn toward the woods.
Halfway down the hill, the brown sides of the wooden shed took
shape through the trees. He angled toward it.
It was larger than he expected, maybe eight
by ten feet, with thick clapboard siding and an overhanging
shingled roof. The front door faced downhill and was flanked by a
pair of small windows. It was tightly closed and fitted with a
swing latch but no padlock.
He climbed two worn-out steps, flipped back
the latch, and pulled the door open. It groaned away from the jamb.
Looking in he saw floating dust in the light from the windows. The
shed’s interior felt dry and the air smelled generations old,
devoid of life. He stepped inside and the floorboards creaked as
his eyes adjusted to the light. Directly before him was an old
wooden workbench built into the back wall. He ran his fingers
through the dust on its pockmarked surface and felt the random
grooves and drill holes left by unknown hands. Someone worked long
hours here, he thought, wondering if he would trade the logical
tools on his own desk for the physical tools that once rested here.
A narrow shelf above the bench sagged forward but held only dust.
He gripped the front edge of the workbench with both hands and
pulled up. It was solidly attached to the wall, so he studied the
remainder of the shed.
To his right the ruins of three wooden
chairs were propped against the wall. In the back left corner
stacks of wooden shingles were devolving into a shapeless pile. The
center
saw nylon ski bags leaning against the far wall. Beside them on the
floor sat two pairs of snowshoes they’d bought last year in Maine.
He smiled as he remembered snowshoeing through the woods with Nicky
near his parents’ house over Christmas, then wondered wistfully if
it made sense to own skis or snowshoes in Washington, D.C.
Next to the snowshoes was a stack of boxes
with a rope ladder heaped on top. He’d acquired it a few weeks ago
when he came home from biking to discover he had locked himself out
of the house. So he’d biked five miles to a cluttered hardware
store in Potomac and found the ladder. He hooked it to the deck and
climbed up, re-entering the house through the glass doors to the
living room. For a while he left the ladder in place, but when the
novelty wore off he’d resorted to leaving the lower-level sliding
door unlocked when he went running or biking.
His folding sawhorses were nearby and he
moved them to the foot of the stairs. A plastic crate held his
power drill, socket wrenches, screwdrivers. He pawed through a
shoebox of screws and bolts but wasn’t satisfied with what he
found. I need to go to the hardware store anyway, he thought, for
wire.
He drove to the intersection of River and
Falls, where two strip malls comprised the heart of downtown
Potomac. The narrow-aisled hardware store had an unpredictable
inventory of products piled on shelves to the ceiling, but he’d
come to appreciate it over the course of several visits. Finding
the rope ladder on his first visit had been serendipitous. This
time he only needed standard items: picture-hanging wire, a wooden
dowel, glue, bolts, and eyelet-screws. He paid for them and drove
home, then carried his tools and sawhorses out to the driveway.
When he examined his purchases, he realized he’d forgotten
something.
“Damn. I need a work surface.” Plywood or
planks or something. He had no desire to drive in search of boards
he only needed for an hour or two, so he shuffled back downstairs
to the storage area. Nothing. The house looked like it had been
built in the early 1970s; it didn’t have old cellar doors or a
plank fence he could scavenge. He circled the exterior of the house
just in case, knowing already that he wouldn’t find anything.
Looking out over the back lawn he remembered the abandoned shed on
the wooded hillside below. That might work.
He retrieved a hammer and a small crowbar
from his tool crate and set off across the lawn toward the woods.
Halfway down the hill, the brown sides of the wooden shed took
shape through the trees. He angled toward it.
It was larger than he expected, maybe eight
by ten feet, with thick clapboard siding and an overhanging
shingled roof. The front door faced downhill and was flanked by a
pair of small windows. It was tightly closed and fitted with a
swing latch but no padlock.
He climbed two worn-out steps, flipped back
the latch, and pulled the door open. It groaned away from the jamb.
Looking in he saw floating dust in the light from the windows. The
shed’s interior felt dry and the air smelled generations old,
devoid of life. He stepped inside and the floorboards creaked as
his eyes adjusted to the light. Directly before him was an old
wooden workbench built into the back wall. He ran his fingers
through the dust on its pockmarked surface and felt the random
grooves and drill holes left by unknown hands. Someone worked long
hours here, he thought, wondering if he would trade the logical
tools on his own desk for the physical tools that once rested here.
A narrow shelf above the bench sagged forward but held only dust.
He gripped the front edge of the workbench with both hands and
pulled up. It was solidly attached to the wall, so he studied the
remainder of the shed.
To his right the ruins of three wooden
chairs were propped against the wall. In the back left corner
stacks of wooden shingles were devolving into a shapeless pile. The
center