Stitch's Arc

Chapter 2 of 6

Stitch stood on the boathouse dock at dawn. One word still missing. The killer's name. Two pages had sunk here the day before, swallowed by the brown current. He knew the river would eat the ink soon. He had one chance to pull them out before they turned to pulp. He had come ready. A long-handled net rested against the wall. He gripped the wooden shaft and swept the mesh through the water below the dock. Mud swirled up. He dragged the hoop back and forth, chasing shadows. On the fourth sweep the net snagged something heavy. His heart jumped. He lifted it, water pouring through the mesh. Only a tangle of weed and a rotted board. No pages. He swept again. Nothing. The current ran too deep. The pages had slid under the dock pilings, past the net's reach. Stitch set the net down and stared at the dark water. The net had failed. He needed to go under himself. A diving suit hung on a peg inside the boathouse, left by whoever once kept the boat. The surface was patched in a dozen places, the seams worn soft. Stitch checked the helmet glass and the gloves. The repairs held air. He climbed into the suit, sealed the helmet, and lowered himself off the dock. Cold pressed the patched panels against his skin. The water turned him blind. He felt along the muddy bottom with both gloved hands. His fingers found bottles, a sunken oar, slick stone. Then paper. Two curled sheets wedged against a piling. He closed his hand around them slowly and pushed up toward the light. He broke the surface and hauled himself onto the planks. He peeled the helmet off and gasped. In his glove lay the two pages, soaked and heavy but whole. The ink had smeared but not vanished. He could still see dark letters crowding the torn edge. Stitch carried them home with care. In his apartment he set the pages between the smooth boards of a paper press. His tortoiseshell cat watched from the sill. He turned the handle slow, squeezing the water out drop by drop. He waited. He did not breathe. When he lifted the top board, the pages lay flat and dry enough to read. He bent close over the smeared line. "The man who did this is—" The name followed. The letters had run together in the water. He could read the first part clearly. The rest had blurred into a gray smudge he could not make out. Stitch sat back. He had the pages. He had half a name. A first name, maybe. Not enough to point at one man. But enough to narrow the hunt. He pressed the smudge with his fingertip, as if he could rub the ink back into shape. The river had given up its secret and kept part of it. He would have to find the rest another way.