Chapter 34 - The Submerged Chamber
The sirens wailed across the gorge for forty minutes before the downstream search units called in their first report over the tactical radio.
I was wrapped in a heavy wool emergency blanket on the hood of the State Police cruiser, a paper cup of black coffee trembling in my hands. Ellis sat beside me, his arm wrapped firmly around my shoulders, his head freshly bandaged by the county paramedics. Neither of us spoke. We just listened to the squawk of the dispatch channel.
"Command, this is Unit Four at the old spillway. We located the suspect’s trench coat and personal effects lodged in the iron grate of Sluice Three. Repeat, coat recovered. No sign of the subject. The current is running at twelve knots through the flume. Divers cannot enter the intake basin until the headgates are closed."
Special Agent Miller walked over to us, his boots crunching in the wet gravel. He held the walnut box in both hands. The corners were dented, and the wood was dark with river water, but the brass hinges Sanford had crafted were intact. The heavy padlock remained unbroken.
"One of my men managed to secure this with a retrieval hook before the southern span slipped into the river," Miller said quietly, setting it down gently on the hood between us. "Your grandfather built things to last, Mrs. Vance."
"Sanford knew this day would come," Ellis said, his voice husky. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the old county ledger he had carried through the fog. "Miller, you need to see this. When Raymond rammed my truck on Highway 31, I thought he was trying to run me off the road to get the original deed. But he wasn't looking for the deed. He was trying to destroy the water rights registry from 1954."
Miller frowned, leaning in under the vehicle’s spotlight. "Why would he care about water rights that expired fifty years ago?"
Ellis opened the heavy parchment ledger to page seventy-two. "Because they didn't expire. Sanford never surrendered the flume to the timber company. Look at the margin notes, right here in Sanford’s hand: *'The flume is not a channel for timber; it is the roof of the cellar.'*"
I looked up, my pulse quickening despite the cold. "The cellar?"
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"The old mill foundation," Ellis said, his eyes meeting mine with fierce clarity. "When the state built the new highway in 1978, Raymond told the county the mill cellar had been filled with concrete. He claimed the foundation was unstable and petitioned for an emergency land clearance. But Sanford never filled it. He diverted the secondary flume over the top of the subterranean floor to flood the entrance."
Miller stared at the faded ink, then keyed his radio mic. "Search command, hold the divers at Sluice Three. Divert the intake gates at the north weir immediately. We're draining the flume."
