The Three Locks by Bonnie MacBird (books for 8th graders .TXT) 📗

Turning back, I saw that Holmes and the boy had disappeared. The water near where the boy had surfaced was roiling and a pair of white hands emerged and then went under.

And then, on the other side of the river, I saw something that made me freeze in terror. A figure swathed in a dark, shapeless coat and hood ran across the lock gates to the lock controls, seizing the crank handle and opening the sluice gates.

Lightning flashed and the top half of the face was revealed, eyes fierce and mad, but the lower half of the face was covered by a heavy scarf, even in this steamy, hot night.

There was the sound of a loud groan of machinery, and I could see the wall of the lock lifting at the far end. This put anyone in the lock in mortal danger from the severe and sudden undertow that opening the sluice gates would cause. Holmes and Buttons would be sucked into the slacker tunnel just as Dillie had been!

Both heads surfaced. Buttons panicked, clutching at Holmes, his hands raking my friend’s face, ripping at his hair.

‘Holmes, the lock!’ I shouted.

But Buttons continued thrashing about, his arms flailing, striking Holmes and dragging his would-be rescuer underwater again in a desperate dance of survival.

Holmes surfaced. ‘Wats—!’ he shouted, but was cut off when Buttons pulled them both under again. Both heads surfaced, gasping, then there was a loud whooshing sound as the lock gates fully opened, and both of them were abruptly sucked under as the rushing waters pulled them towards the dangerous tunnels.

‘Holmes!’ I cried. I raced off the bridge and towards the eastern side of the lock. I could see nothing in the black waters.

The Jesus Lock was efficient, and the water level had begun to drop visibly. I started across the bridge towards the lock controls. The mysterious figure had vanished. I had to stop the flow!

I reached the controls, but just then Holmes surfaced, treading water with mighty strokes as he fought not to go under. He looked wildly about for me.

‘Over here, Holmes! I’ll stop it!’

‘No, Watson! Hold off!’ he shouted. ‘Buttons is caught in the mechanism! I’m going down.’

Before I could respond, he disappeared below the surface. Closing the lock now could trap and crush the two men down there. I was unsure what to do.

A police van and a Black Maria pulled up to the side of the river. I ran to the edge, horrified. ‘Holmes!’ I cried. The water level in the lock had dropped precipitously. A minute had passed since he went under.

By now there were five or six policemen on the scene.

‘Two men in there!’ I shouted.

‘Close down the lock! They’ll be sucked under!’ cried an officer.

‘No! Don’t touch it! One of them is already caught in the mechanism,’ I yelled.

Two brave policemen tore off their boots and coats and dived in. ‘Which side? There are two tunnels!’

I pointed to the one on the south side. But was I sure?

Two minutes. How long had Holmes been under there?

Lightning flashed, and the thunder cracked again. The swimming policemen dived under and resurfaced once, then twice, each time empty handed. Was it the south tunnel? Or had I been mistaken …

Three minutes.

Then, suddenly, I saw them.

It was Holmes … with Buttons cradled in one arm. Struggling to keep the young man’s head above water, he managed – just barely – to keep them afloat with his other arm. But he was losing the battle, and despite my friend’s immense strength, they were slowly being drawn backward towards the drain.

But seeing the boy had been freed, I struggled with the lever to shut the lock. It was not designed to close midway and resisted. I looked up.

The two men in the water had joined Holmes, and all three now held the boy’s head out of the water, and their combined forces were able to withstand the current. A fourth policeman joined me at the controls, and together the two of us managed to close down the drain.

I ran to the bank just as the swimmers reached it. The two policemen lifted Buttons, and I reached down to grasp my friend’s arm as he approached the shore, pulling him to safety.

Holmes gasped and coughed up water. I sat him down on the rain-soaked grass, and kneeled next to him to assess his condition. The rain had stopped, and the eastern horizon was glimmering in light, slanting in through the clouds. The dim rays lit up his exhausted face. He gagged, then coughed up water, and I struck him twice on the back to help.

He held his hand up. ‘I am fine,’ he gasped. ‘See to the boy. May have been too late—’

Deacon Buttons was laid out on his stomach on the grass nearby. Two policemen were administering artificial respiration, with Buttons’ arms stretched above him. A bloodied wrist showed where he’d been caught in the lock mechanism.

I ran to help. It was light enough to see the deacon’s drowned face, young and innocent-looking in repose. And yet he was a murderer, I thought. The cut on his wrist was not deep, but he was not breathing. I instructed the two officers to sit him up and we began the arm lifts that sometimes worked when the prone position did not.

Still no breath.

‘On his stomach again,’ I ordered. Holmes was now standing above me.

‘Will he live?’ he asked.

I heard a voice in the distance: ‘Buttons! My God, Buttons!’

With the two policemen’s help, once again we turned the boy over, raised his arms and began another set of rhythmic manipulations hoping to restart his breathing. There was no response. And then, to my surprise, Buttons coughed once and vomited up water. We changed tactics and sat him up, leaning forward. He coughed, gagged, and inhaled at last.

Behind him, Father Lamb had arrived, his face contorted in grief and worry. He leaned in to take the young deacon’s arm. ‘Peregrine, my son,