Sendoff for a Snitch by KM Rockwood Page A

I could stretch a line from the side of the street to the SUV.
    Stuffing the other clotheslines into my jacket’s voluminous patch pockets, I tied one of the clotheslines to the trunk of a sturdy tree by the side of the road, using a clove hitch, and tugged on it. The knot held, but the rope didn’t feel very sturdy at all.
    Tying two others around the trunk of the tree, I backed away, braiding as I went.
    It was only a couple of hundred feet from the sidewalk to the SUV, but it felt like a mile.
    As I worked on the rope, the man put his cell phone in his pocket and stepped into the swirling water.
    He stumbled, arms flailing, and almost went down. Stepping back up on the curb, he shrugged and shook his head. Then he looked toward me and the rope.
    Another car pulled up. A big BMW, a luxury car. The window rolled down. “Shall I call 9-1-1?” a shrill female voice called.
    “If you can get through,” the man shouted back.
    She busied herself with her cell phone. “I’m getting a busy signal!”
    The bystander nodded.
    I’d backed to the edge of the water, holding my line tight as I braided it. I turned around and glanced at the woman and her children on top of the SUV. She sat on the roof, watching me intently as she clutched her toddler close to her with one hand and gripped the car seat with the other.
    I reached the end of the first set of clotheslines and pulled the second three out of my jacket pocket. I tried to tie one of the new lengths onto the old one, but the rope slackened and my fingers slipped on the wet plastic.
    The man stepped to the curb, but didn’t step off again. “Can I do anything to help?” he shouted.
    Taking a few steps back toward the edge of the road and handing him the braided rope, I yelled, “Hold this taut so I can try to tie the ends.”
    He took the rope, but looked at me doubtfully. “Will the knots hold?” he asked.
    “I hope so.”
    Skipper had taught me different kinds of knots, including the grapevine bend, which should work here. I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer to Skipper, if such an appeal could be called a prayer. I practically heard him saying, “You want to be real careful with your knots. If you tie them right, any weight you put on the whole thing will tighten them. But if you get them wrong, they can slip. You don’t want a knot to slip when you’re halfway down a wall or something.”
    I didn’t want a knot that would slip now, either.
    The man watched as my frozen fingers worked on the slippery ends. I could hardly feel the stiff plastic, but I forced my numb fingers to maneuver the ends into the correct formation.
    When I’d gotten all three new ropes tied to the old ones, I pulled the whole thing as tight as I could, praying that this slippery line would hold.
    It did.
    The man raised his eyebrows. “That’s good,” he shouted. “Where’d you learn to tie knots like that. Boy Scout camp?”
    In spite of the situation, I had to grin at the contrast of a Boy Scout camp vs. the prison cell where I had really learned to tie knots. I shook my head and yelled, “Nope,” as I gave the whole assembly a final hard tug.
    “Then you must have been a sailor,” the man persisted.
    Ever since Skipper, that idea had appealed to me. But the fact that I was facing close to another twenty years on parole, when I wasn’t supposed to leave the state, might put a crimp in any plans for that career.
    I just shook my head and kept backing into the water, manipulating the clotheslines.
    The water rose over my knees. If I’d thought I couldn’t get any wetter, I was wrong.
    “Take off your jacket and boots,” the man called. “They’ll weigh you down. And if you fall…” He didn’t complete that uncomfortable thought.
    He was right.
    But I couldn’t see walking out there without the protection the boots gave my feet. I stripped off the jacket and tossed it over to him.
    He put it on the bench with the rest of my stuff.
    I backed toward the SUV. After