"Pull up all the way!” shouted the lockmaster, waving the boats into the lock. The sudden surge of traffic appeared to make him a little nervous, his thin but sinewy arms flailing. An apparently high-strung, wiry individual with unsteady hands for whom this job was not a top choice and who experienced ennui, he was perhaps an intellectual elitist from Syracuse University with a chip on his shoulder. His odd, outdated clothing only helped confirm my suspicions.

 

“We’re locking through!” I announced to my son, who was sitting clutching our three small dogs and a few coloring books. I craned my neck, waved and pointed to the window so he could watch if he wanted.

 

“What?” he shouted to be heard over the loud sounds of boat engines, particularly the cigarette boat that was pulling up.

 

“The lock, remember?” I schooled him. “We read about it the other day. A section of canal or river closed off by gates to control the water level?” No reply. I continued, “It separates the falls. Locks allow boats…”

 

“I know, I know,” he said, either practicing a role in a play called “Annoying Teens” or wishing that I would stop so he could continue to color. “So that boats can be raised or lowered as they pass through it, to connect with the lower or higher waters on the other side,” he continued in a monotone enshrouding likely boredom.

 

“All righty then!” I laughed at what I prayed was his genius versus bad attitude and returned my attention to what I was doing. Perhaps I was a better “locker” than a mom. I chuckled. I could hear him mumble.

 

“What angel?”

 

He mumbled again, then shouted, “I said…most …locks…are…manned!” he belted painfully slowly and sarcastically. Teen play it is!

 

“Come on, come on, come on!” the lockmaster shouted impatiently, waving the boats along as if shooing flies. “Pull up!” he whined and rubbed his sunburned face, sweaty and stern. Didn’t he know piloting a boat takes skill and meticulous, deliberate movement? His attitude seemed odd.

 

I looked around. There were nine boats, just about the limit for Lock 23, Brewerton. If there are too many boats close together, managing rushing waters could be difficult. I could understand why the lockmaster would be tense, but he declined his option of limiting entrance. His inefficiency was surprising. I surmised that he was perhaps a novice, or maybe he wanted to take a snooze for a while and did not want to fuss with closing and reopening the lock twice in just a few minutes’ time.

 

Pull up we did, though reluctantly, as the more you have to move in a lock the less ideal it is; the more you move your boat, the more risk you will hit the wall or another boat. My husband snatched the first heavy rope and I the second, on the starboard, right side. The ropes on the lock walls are sturdy and heavy lines, and they can be slippery from the slimy, algae-filled canal waters. Heavy metal rings secure the tops of the ropes, and light blue and white oval plastic markers like those marking swimming pool lanes decorate the top. The bottom of the rope in this stretch of the canal is weighted down with a heavy metal slip, and it is tied at the bottom with a tight knot made even more rigid by constant water rushing.

 

Grabbing the rope is an art, though some might argue it is a science. I would agree that lock design is a science. I bet whomever invented this system never locked through, however. If they had, they would agree that locking is an art. I slipped on a leather construction glove, too large even for my long piano fingers, and used my boat hook, tugging hard at the rope once I had captured it in hand. You slide your hand up the rope as the waters rise and down if the lock is going downstream. I looked at my long piano fingers, now seeming even longer due to the glove size. Why hadn’t I mastered the piano? No opportunities or support as a child.

 

I was slapped back to reality by the loud clanging noise signaling that the lock might be closing. Finally! But then I realized no, it was just some other sound; the lock was still open.

 

I studied the concrete-and-steel-lined wall speckled with bright green algae; parked on it, spraying zebra mussels, slippery and damp and annoyed. Ducks laughed at us. And bright blue dragonflies, stuck together in pairs, mated playfully, carelessly, in midair, enjoying the warm July sun. I held my left hand against the wall to ensure we didn’t hit it or scrape our dinghy motor; though seconds ago it appeared we were so far away from the wall and I was afraid we’d hit the oncoming boats at port, the left side. Funny how quickly things change in the lock, I thought. I viewed my glove, beige and fluorescent chartreuse. I flicked my fingers, some shiny, gelatinous crap flipping away and down, of course right onto my new white t-shirt.

 

A rush of cold came over me. I suddenly felt extra concerned. I checked my son and dogs again, feeling like I was parodying someone with OCD. And they were still at their appointed “lock” positions, no one noticing me peer, except for cautious Charley, the Chinese Crested.

 

Glancing at the boater behind me the sun hit my eyes, blinding me momentarily despite my Ray Bans. He was a man in probably his late seventies, wearing a headset that matched that of his partner’s, I guessed, his son, a man about fifty. They reminded me of the singer Madonna, not because they wore pointed bras.

 

On the port side, a portly, pudgy party with two-day-old scraggly, scant stubble, tugged at his rope. His pretty wife, perky daughter and their yellow Lab dutifully looking at his parents, completed his team. He sighed and inquired of the boater behind him of his origin. “Canastota,” the man told him. The boat behind him was a long Scarab cigarette speedboat, which my husband calls “an asshole boat”, native to Oneida Lake. The captain, a man about forty with muscles, a beer belly in its infancy, his hair razor sharp like a Marine’s, and apparently a man who felt the need to own a machine to compensate for some of his physical failings, glanced at his first mate, a woman about fifty who, to me, sported an ignorance of lost youth: tan, bleached blonde hair freshly clipped, and a fairly toned body, but not quite like Madonna.

 

They both looked like personal trainers. I caught a glimpse of her right cheek and thought, oh, please, god no. This is the type of woman who makes me check the length of my pants and the plunge on my t-shirt, despite my baggy clothing. Her shorts were way too darned short. I recalled a similar looking woman in the Rideau Canal in Canada, who sunbathed topless as the lockmaster took his time opening the gates. Now that I thought of it, perhaps that is why he took his time. I pleaded with fate not to allow this to occur with Cheek Woman. I remembered that lockmaster. How did he manage to do his job while eyeing that woman, peering over his shades surreptitiously?

 

This woman’s tube top matched her black and floral skimpy bottom, both pieces perhaps purchased at a discount store; the bottom was probably worn through in places you don’t want shorts to wear. Please don’t … lean over, I thought, and without hesitation she did so. I looked away, at the dinghy motor, held firmly against the back, the stern’s starboard.

 

All I could think of now was the woman in There’s Something About Mary – the old woman, not Cameron Diaz. My Catholic upbringing again made me start to pray, please Jesus, pull up your tube top. And she did. I was sorry I stopped going to church so long ago, though the nuns always said prayers about silly things didn’t come true and that they only angered God. I proved them wrong that moment.

 

Meanwhile the portly Hefty Man called out to Personal Trainer Man. “Hey! Can you get me a bloody Mary while you’re sittin’ there doin’ nuh-in’?” His Syracuse accent was a clear giveaway as to the fact that he was indeed home. “Hah, hah, hah!” His broad but obnoxious din filled the lock.

 

Personal trainer man replied, “What makes you think I have that shit on board?” He laughed. “Beer! Hah hah!”

 

“Yeah, I guess you can’t afford anything but the gas for that boat!” Hefty Man snorted loudly.

 

“Come on! That’s enough!” my impatient husband cried. “That’s too many already,” he said, referring to the onslaught of boats filling the lock, some of them all too gingerly. But he also might have meant “enough poor jokes”!

 

Behind Headset Man’s Sea Ray was another trawler, like ours, but I could not see its passengers. And across from them and behind the Asshole Boat was one with a fly bridge, probably a live-aboard, with a Florida license. I could see the elderly tanned and gnarly hand from that boat gripping the rope for dear life. But the paradox was that he wore a Syracuse T-shirt. A transplant? Or perhaps a Syracuse wannabe, though I was unsure why anyone would want to be mistaken for a Syracusean.

 

Turning my gaze to Headset Man I could see his companion/son slipping on a single white leather glove. Oh, good. Michael Jackson’s traveling with Madonna, I thought. Maybe he was demonstrating that the glove didn’t fit. I laughed to myself. One day certainly I would be doing a standup routine to some unlucky and hopefully deaf audience.

 

Hefty Man’s voice echoed above the lock and surged out, I was sure, onto the wall in Brewerton and into Oneida Lake. I could see evidence of many years of McDonald’s super-size under his New York Yankees T-shirt.

 

And Cheek Woman tugged on her shorts as the gates shut and the water filled the lock, as though announcing for all to rise, much like a bailiff in court. We rose in a peaceful and quiet unison. Just the sound of the steel gates, a harsh metallic jolt to the eardrum, one final echoing “zoom”, followed by the swishing of the water and spitting of the zebra mussels. It was too peaceful, though, if there is such a thing. Too quiet. Like in those movies when it’s the calm before the storm.

 

The lockmaster strode from starboard to port examining sticker passes. Complete silence still, like everyone at the end of one of those competition TV shows, waiting for the announcement. Who won this week’s ten-thousand-dollar prize and the chance to move to the finals?

 

Everyone had a lock pass, except, of course, Cheek Woman and Personal Trainer Man. They both fumbled, one hand on a rope, the other, bodies exposed further, seeking wallets. Cheek Woman found some cash, flinging it up to the lockmaster. Seemed to me the opposite was more typical in her case. He spun a pass down to her like tossing a frisbee. I thought for sure it would meet the water but it landed right on Cheek Woman’s palm.

 

That’s the last thing I remember seeing before it all started happening, so very quickly, as I told the police. Now that things have settled again for me and I’m in my comfortable living room at home, I realize just how much danger in which we really were, and it frightens me. I rub my cold arms though it’s finally 85 degrees outside. The cold feeling never went away. Never. It’s cold in the morning; it’s cold at night. It’s cold in the winter, fall, spring and summer. I sigh and shrug, trying to get on with my life yet knowing it will never, ever be the same again.

 

I heard a swooshing sound but quickly realized it was not water. Hefty Man’s wife screamed. I thought perhaps their Lab decided to take a swim in the lock. But I saw him panting on the bow, right by his owner’s side. I quickly looked inside our boat, and my son was gaping, clutching all our dogs, unsure who had screamed or why.

 

“What the heck was that?” my husband wondered.

 

“I don’t know!” I said. And just then, another scream, this one male and blood curdling. I could hear and almost feel scraping at our hull, the underside of the boat, and my too-warm body was suddenly clammy.

 

“Hey!” I heard Headset Man scream. “No!” he shouted as he looked behind him. “Where is he? Dave?!” He seemed to panic. After a pause he added, “C-can’t be. Can’t be gone,” he bellowed. I looked around in the water but did not see him. I only saw rising waters that I surmised had swallowed Gloved Michael.

 

I was never, ever more frightened before in my life.

 

“David!” Headset Man cried. “Dave! Dave!” His voice broken. He sobbed.

 

Just then it appeared Florida Fly Bridge Man dove in. “No!” shouted his travel mate, too late.

 

I guessed he was trying to save Dave.

 

            Headset Man tossed off his headset, and he sat down next to the lock rope, which he had secured to the bow, head in hands, weeping. “Noooo! What is happening? Where is he?” he screamed. Then he added, “S-something…something took him!”

 

“I … I …” I shouted to him. “Stay calm,” I told him foolishly, knowing full well if I were not calm, I should not expect him to be. I had a wild habit of hiding distress, ironic since I was anxious most of the time. “Just stay calm. We’ll find him. We’ll be …”

 

I saw what I thought at first was paint rising with them. It was blood, almost congealed in appearance like bad paint left out uncovered. At that moment, Dave and Fly Bridge Man floated to the top. I could see their arms and legs were missing. Their chests were cut open. The wounds were strange at second glance, like the bodies were sawed in half or gnawed by a bull shark deprived of nourishment for a year.

 

Headset Man shook his head violently. “Noooo! Davey!” he wept and turned away, vomiting. I followed in kind, wiping my mouth and trying not to let my son notice.

 

“I’m … sorry,” I said, hands shaking so badly I could no longer hold onto the rope. I wished I could jump over to his boat to console him. I was too confused and sick to consider what was going on. I quickly reached for the hook to retrieve the rope.

 

Hefty Man and his family cried. They held one another tightly, still clutching the ropes. “Hurry up!” Hefty Man’s voice cracked. “Open these gates! Get us the hell outa here!” He sounded as though he was using his final breath. He reached for his cell phone on his hip, but it slipped into the water. Their Lab howled as though hearing some sound inaudible to human ears. It was quiet, except for the repeated, strange howling.

 

“People are dying here!” shrieked a voice from behind Headset Man.

 

The relatively small area had quickly become a concrete and metal prison of doom. I could not see the other four boats but heard their passengers shout. I heard distress, blame, anger, and fear, but alas, no acceptance. Personal Trainer Man and Cheek Woman screamed, seeing Dave’s sawed torso hit their boat.

 

“Where the fuck is the lockmaster?” asked my husband. “What the hell is this?” he screeched.

 

The waters swelled until we nearly reached the top, but I could no longer see the lockmaster. I turned my head several times as though watching Roger Federer play tennis. But this was nothing to cheer about. I called in to Robbie, who was hiding his head in his thighs, legs pulled up to his face, the three dogs all surrounding him, trembling. Two of them began to howl as well “Mommy!” Robbie said when he saw me. And he was merely upset at the sounds; luckily, he was unable to see what I saw, what Personal Trainer Man, Hefty Man and all of us saw: Death and dread all around us. And the waters continued rising. There was no one there to stop the flow.

 

“It’s okay, honey.” How I wished I could leave the blasted rope and go hug him and the pups.

 

I heard Hefty Man’s daughter screech. “Mommy! Daddy! Where’s Buddy?” No one noticed him disappear. It was though he dissipated in thin air.

 

We heard another swoosh, and soon after, I saw another body floating, so high that the body nearly ended up on our boat. It was intact but bloodied, much like Dave’s. I again peered inside our boat and saw a trembling child clutching three still shaky and now panting dogs. All three howled now, loudly.

 

“Look at that!” my husband noted, finally seeing some of the carnage. “What the hell is happening?”

 

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to make eye contact with poor Headset Man.

 

“The wrath of God is upon us!” I heard a voice shout.

 

Who said that? I wondered.

 

“Give me your phone!” Hefty Man shouted to his wife. “Or call nine one-one!” he added. “Now!” It was a wonder no one had thought about calling before, probably because everything happened fast; they wouldn’t get there quickly enough anyway.

 

Headset Man secured the bow rope to the lock line and jumped inside his boat to use his radio. I could hear squelching, but nothing else. His weak voice cried, “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” before finally ending in another desperate cry. He dropped his receiver. And suddenly the radio switched itself over to the NOAA, the national nautical weather service, and the mechanical but at least familiar voice of the weatherman was clear. “In Utica, it was partly cloudy. Six degrees.”

 

“Six?” I asked. Even in Celsius that did not make sense.

 

“In Albany, it was sunny, five degrees …” Forty degrees in July in this hemisphere?

 

And then like a record suddenly halting, the weatherman’s voice went on slow speed before dying completely.

 

I could see Headset Man, face in hands, head shaking uncontrollably. Just then I heard an eerie hiss emitting from his radio, and I saw smoke. The sound grew so loud that everyone covered their ears and screamed together, sounding like a horror movie church choir. Few people could still manage to hold onto the lock ropes, and just then, boats began careening into one another.

 

“Ah!” Headset Man screamed. “It’s fucking cold!” He dropped his radio. “The radio is frozen!” he shouted. He picked it up with his gloved hand and I could see it looked like an ice brick, the kind you use in your cooler.

 

Several people fell into the water but quickly found their way out and slipped into their dinghies or were pulled back on board. Some others were not so lucky. There was at least one casualty from most of the boats. I could see figures doing pirouettes beyond their control, all splashing down to their deaths.

 

Another spine chilling scream emitted from one of the other boats.

 

And suddenly, I again heard, “The wrath of God! The wrath of God! The day has come. Maketh the way for the Lord!” the voice commanded.

 

Why wasn’t this gate opening? What was wrong? It was all so surreal.

 

Suddenly I heard an extremely loud thud and bubbles rising to the surface. Where was Florida Fly Bridge boat?

 

“Oh my god! It sank! That boat just went down!” panicked Personal Trainer Man. Cheek Woman repeated his cries. “Oh my god, Larry!” She pushed back her bleached locks. “We’re going to die!” she sobbed. And the sudden realization caused my intestines to turn and coil like a snake. Cliché, but I thought about all the things I’d wanted to do with Robbie but had not had the time. Travel to Europe, watch him at school sports, learn to cook with me, run with me, climb an Adirondack high peak.

 

The boat behind Headset Man’s made a tremendously loud sound and it, too, met the same fate as Florida Fly Bridge’s.

 

“Nooo!” screamed Headset Man. “Why are we being sucked in like this? What’s wrong? Sweet Mother of Jesus!” he said. He appeared now to be angry. I was wondering if we would be in the lock long enough for me to witness his denial. “Something’s down there. Something’s coming up to get us! Why? Why?”

 

“Gotta get outa here!” suggested Hefty Man.

 

“No shit, Sherlock!” said Personal Trainer Man. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

 

“Oh, shut the fuck up!” Hefty Man retorted.

 

The group had begun to move from panic to fight. Flight was not an option. Not one of us could flee.

 

“We aren’t close enough to the top,” said his wife. “The water stopped rising.”

 

“Grab a rope,” said Hefty Man, before falling overboard. His fall was swift and sudden, and not like a fall he saw coming. It was surreal. I was close enough to his boat to notice in detail. Perhaps because he was so large, but when he fell, it was almost as though he were trying to do a gymnastics flip, which was, I was certain, uncharacteristic for him.

 

He did not slip; it was more like he was taken. It was an odd sucking and almost seemed like an opposite drain. He was pulled down by what appeared to be a mini tsunami right in this little lock. Hefty Man resurfaced a couple of times quickly, his voice gurgling for help, and then he was gone. Something apparently dragged him under.

 

His wife and daughter cried hysterically. I was in complete shock and again checked on my family, poking my head into the cabin. “Are you okay, angel?” I asked my son finally. I had hesitated to ask for fear that he would honestly tell me he was terrified.

 

“I’m okay, Mama!” he said weakly with a tremble in his voice, which usually was very solid and strong. “I have the dogs,” he added. “They’re okay too.” He pet them all and gave them a common squeeze. Then he whimpered, which was very untypical. Tears welled up in my eyes as I envisioned the car he might never drive, the high school graduation he might never see, the grandkids I might not ever have.

 

I could not tell him we were fine. All the good memories we’d shared soared across my eyes. I vomited all over my flip-flops. I wiped my mouth and glanced over at Headset Man, who was frantically trying to use his cell phone, though it was apparent phones or radios would not work.

 

My husband tried one of our walkie-talkies. “Anybody hear me?” He tried several channels frantically before tossing it down, seeing that was a futile attempt.

 

Mrs. Hefty attempted to climb her rope but instead slipped and slammed back onto her boat on her back, creating a thud followed by a groan. Her daughter comforted her, still crying over Buddy and her Dad. “I can’t climb. It’s slippery, so slippery!” Mrs. H. bemoaned.

 

“The wrath is upon us!” the voice again boomed. It became stranger, more frightening, and almost too loud for just one person. The temperature in the lock seemed to drop by twenty degrees. Everyone began to comment about how cold they were and how it was suddenly freezing.

 

I noticed the voice was coming from the lockmaster. I saw him and felt an eerie chill down my spine. I looked at his face, removed my sunglasses, and could see his eyes, strangely enough, since he was at least 30 feet from me. I thought his eyes appeared red … not red from being bloodshot, but red. He didn’t have blue, green, or brown eyes. They were red – maroon, like the flames on Personal Trainer Man’s boat. At least that is what I thought I saw. And he was staring right at me. My entire body trembled, worse than I’d ever felt even on my hungriest or sickest day.

 

“In Mark eight thirty-nine to nine one, Jesus tells us, ‘Whosoever therefore shall be ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation; of him also shall the Son of man be ashamed, when he cometh in the glory of his Father with the holy angels. And he said unto them, Verily I say unto you, that there be some of them that stand here, which shall not taste of death, till they have seen the kingdom of God come with power.’” He spoke in the voice of a boastful preacher. I took a closer look at his apparel. It was very odd, not just out of fashion but extremely out of date, and nothing like I’d ever seen even in vintage catalogs or history books. Strange fabrics, and now he had tossed a sash over him like one would see in depictions of Jesus and his disciples.

 

“Hah-hah-ha-ha-hhha-----aaaa!” he laughed, his belly rising like Santa Claus’ buoyed by a chuckle. “Yes, you will all die, because the wrath is upon us. We ate, we spent, we cheated, we played, we gambled, we murdered, we offended. We offended God Almighty, and now we shall all die!” he shouted.

 

I heard sirens. That was the first sound I heard in what appeared to be two hours to me, except for the screams, crying, howling and the banging.

 

“Please!” I heard a loud female voice. “Talk to me, okay?” She tapped my face. “You’re fine, sweetie,” the motherly woman comforted. “You took a nasty fall and hit your head. But you’ll be fine.”

 

“What?” I asked. “What about the dead boaters and the howling dogs and the sunken boats?”

 

“You must have slipped. The lock was very full. You hit your head against the boat behind you. Someone pulled you out of the water.”

 

“No, there were dead people, evil shouting. I threw up.”

 

She wiped my mouth. “Yes, you vomited. You may have slipped on your vomit. But you’ll be fine.”

 

“No one’s dead, honey,” said the ambulance driver. “We’re all good.”

 

“You mean to tell me, I was dreaming or something?” I asked, relieved.

 

“Hallucinating perhaps,” said the paramedic. She rubbed my arm. “It’s okay, sweetie.”

 

“The wrath of God is certainly upon us!” shouted the ambulance driver. “Hah-hah-ha-ha-hahaaaaa!” he cried. The paramedic joined in the chorus of laughter.

 

I shook my head violently. I felt dizzy and nauseous. I was alone on the stern. No paramedic. Had I just imagined someone assisting me?

 

Just then, the lock gate opened, and the three boats that remained, Personal Trainer Man’s, Headset Man’s, and ours, pulled out, pushing into the canal as though children running home after completing their after-school punishment, trying to avoid any carnage of the boats left behind. Our boat pulled into the openness of Oneida Lake, alongside Personal Trainer Man with Asshole Boat. My head still spun then suddenly I felt clear headed, perhaps a bit relieved.

 

Personal Trainer Man naturally sped ahead of us. Only this time, I didn’t blame the speed. Not one bit.

 

Still confused, I now recalled falling overboard. Yet I was still on the boat, and my hair and clothing was not wet. I hoped this was all just a nightmare, a hallucination, my mind reeling in and out of reality. But alas, it was not a hallucination, at least not the carnage. The siren I heard was real. The cops, ambulance and fire department all arrived. It was possible someone at the other side of the lock heard the screams and saw the blood, prompting them to call for help. I could not comprehend why I envisioned being in an ambulance however.

 

As I wondered this, I could hear screams. Where were they coming from? Then I heard what sounded like a car crash, and more screams. We were too far from the road, so how could I hear this so clearly? I could hear the voice of the ambulance driver in my vision, laughing heartily, then suddenly groaning a piercing, “I am too weak to run in this horror movie” scream ensued. I shivered and again grew light-headed.

 

“Let’s go home,” my husband sighed, breaking my paralysis, as he turned the boat around, tackling our own and Asshole Boat’s wakes. “I’m glad that guy helped you out of the water when you slipped,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it. I was stricken by my fear.”

 

“What?”

 

I remembered police interviewing us while we were still in the lock; seemed cruel, but perhaps they wanted to ensure they had our stories before we left. It seemed every one of us five surviving boaters had differing explanations, and we all talked at once. They didn’t interview us individually; it appeared they just wanted to close the case quickly and report a lunatic who they incidentally apprehended like diligent police officers. Perhaps it was one of the officers I recalled speaking to me and not a paramedic? I opted not to go to the hospital. I just wanted to go home. I got the impression we were not encouraged. That’s all that the town needed was to lose more tourists due to negative publicity.

 

In talking with the other three boaters, I discovered that the man who dove in to save Dave did not go in on his own accord, and I was not surprised after witnessing Hefty Man’s demise. I was uncertain what had happened to Mrs. Hefty and their daughter, but my husband told me they tried climbing up the rope together, slipped and fell to their deaths in the lock. Someone suggested a mini tornado hit the area, but it was not reported elsewhere in Brewerton.

 

Police forcibly removed the lockmaster in handcuffs, one of them tugging angrily at the sash before snatching it, its silky and lacy fabric tangling on her gun belt; she tossed it to the ground abruptly, almost comically. They shoved him into their car. Other than appearing to be very strange and menacing, he could not have caused that carnage and wreckage. Could he have? And what was all the screaming after the lock opened, after the policy arrived?

 

The report was that he was not really a lockmaster but an unknown man with no identification, probably a drifter. But from where had he drifted, just exactly? His clothing’s labels had been removed, thus making even his duds unidentifiable. The lock was opened by a true lockmaster and could not be re-opened when his stunt double took over. “He didn’t have lock operating skills,” one cop quipped. The lockmaster assigned to that lock was missing. Had he also disappeared?

 

The odd lockmaster was an imposter. But the deaths were real. I wonder if they will investigate them. I was unconvinced the fake lockmaster alone was able to cause the deaths. Perhaps he was just remarking that God had something to do with it. Had she?

 

Police said propellers were the perpetrators. We tried telling them no boats were running, but they affirm that engines were heard upon their arrival and they acted as though as victims, we possibly overlooked some information such as that.

 

 “If we go back, we have to go through the lock again.” I felt levelheaded again.

 

 “Unless you want to go south via New York City or east to Lake Champlain.”

 

“No, thanks. Let’s leave the boat and get a ride home,” I pleaded, rubbing my head and checking for any clue of wet clothing on my person. Nothing. And I could still see the red evil eyes even when I shut mine.

 

“And put an ad on Craigslist,” he added. He paused. “I think I’ve had enough fun … for two lifetimes.”

 

“I hear Mount Marcy is beautiful this time of year,” I indicated, waving a map of the Adirondack Mountains.

__________

 

Our ad appeared beneath one reading, “Scarab boat. Mint. White, maroon flames. $13,500 or best offer.”