No Mark Upon Her

Kieran said into the radio. “Just unscrew the lock.”
    Scott fumbled, his mouth moving in a silent swear, handing the pink-bladed oar to Sarah. Then he had the shell right side up and was peering into the stern. “They’re open, the Velcro things.”
    “Okay, don’t touch anything else,” broke in Tavie. “Scott, you and Sarah will have to stay there and secure the scene for the police. I’ll have another team leapfrog you on that side, as chances are they’re not going to find anything upstream. Kieran and I will continue on to Hambleden Lock on this side.”
    Scott gave her a wave of acknowledgment, but Kieran was already turning away, sending Finn out with an arm signal and the Find command. Tosh shot out to join Finn, a black and tan streak momentarily merging with Finn’s black silhouette, then she moved away from the Labrador, settling into her own search pattern.
    Kieran heard Tavie on the radio, the words unintelligible, fading as they were caught by the wind, then the crunch of her booted feet on the gravel as she jogged to catch up with him.
    “If she kicked herself free, she could be caught somewhere, injured,” he said. “Or unconscious.” He scanned the opposite bank. There was no way to cross the river without going back to Henley or on to Hambleden Lock.
    “Kieran, even if she did kick free, she’s been in the water all night. You know how cold it is.” Tavie’s fingers brushed his arm, slowing him until he had to look at her. “You need to leave the search. Now.”
    He saw that she wasn’t angry at his insubordination, but afraid for him.
    Shaking his head, he said, “I can’t. I’ve got to see—she might be hurt . . .”
    The drone of the chopper grew louder. Looking up, Kieran saw it downriver, moving slowly, inexorably, towards them.
    Tavie raised her voice against the increasing noise. “They’re not picking up anything on the thermal imaging.” She was telling him that if Becca was there, she was cold. Too cold.
    “She could be hypothermic, under cover somewhere.” But they were passing the manicured grounds of the business college at Greenlands across the river now, and the meadow ran down to the path on their own side. There was no easy cover on either bank.
    This time Tavie didn’t contradict him, but settled in beside him at a steady trot. The dogs were working fast, but she didn’t slow them down, and he knew it was because she didn’t believe they would find anything here.
    The path turned and Hambleden Mill came into view across the river, its perfect mirror image below it in the water, like a painting on glass. Above it, dark clouds were building once more, a bruise against the sky.
    On the near side, the water was flowing faster, rushing towards the weir. It flowed between the stanchions of the footbridge in great molten sheets the color of peat, and poured over the terraced weir in foaming, plunging chaos. A piece of driftwood had hung on one of the terraces, a crabbed, dark shape, dividing the water like a body.
    A roaring filled Kieran’s ears. He couldn’t tell if the sound came from within his head or without.
    The dogs stayed on the footpath, their pattern tighter now, their tails moving with increased energy. Beyond the weir, the still-turbulent water swirled and eddied into a stand of partially submerged trees and the brush that had collected against them.
    Both dogs now homed in on the bank itself. Tosh sniffed the edge, then lowered herself until her muzzle was just level with the water’s surface. She looked as if she were lapping the water, delicately, like a dog at a tea party, but Kieran knew she was taking in scent molecules with her tongue. Finn whined and danced beside her.
    Tosh backed up and woofed, looking to Tavie for direction. Tavie knelt, a hand on the dog’s harness. The current was still strong—she wouldn’t want Tosh going in if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
    Tavie shielded her eyes from the glare on the water, leaning forward perilously as she peered into the nest of tree trunks and debris. When she stiffened, Kieran dropped to his knees beside her.
    Tavie turned to him, pushing him back as if she could keep him from seeing what she had seen. But it was too late.
    Beneath the surface, tendrils of dark hair moved like moss, and white fingers, slightly curled, drifted back and forth as if waving, signaling for help.
    “No,” said Kieran. “No.” And the roaring overtook him.

Chapter Four

Depending on the season,