Steamboat Dispatch
A Crime Serial
By Our Special Saranac Lake Correspondent
In Chapter Three of Steamboat Dispatch: A Crime Serial, Quinn, a mysterious and calculating observer, immerses himself in the strange happenings of Chateaugay Lake. As a skilled infiltrator, Quinn watches composer Charles Ives fall into a wild, frenzied performance inspired by the discordant music of the Steamboat Pirate Syndicate. However, Quinn is not drawn by curiosity—he is there to study and report back on the lake’s mystical forces. The next morning, Quinn hires Nat Collins, a perceptive local guide, to lead him to a secluded area near Mountain Pond. Nat, suspicious of Quinn’s true intentions, challenges him during their fishing trip, suggesting that Quinn is not here for the lake’s peace but for something far more dangerous. Quinn, unfazed, hints that his goal is to understand and harness the power lurking within the lake’s wildernes. As the day concludes, Quinn prepares for the next phase of his investigation. Unbeknownst to Nat, Quinn’s true purpose is to unlock the secrets of Chateaugay Lake—secrets that could prove as dangerous as they are alluring. The chapter ends with Quinn anticipating further strange events, knowing that the lake’s pull is far from ordinary.
Chapter Four: The Guide’s Eye
Nathaniel Collins had seen all kinds come through Merrill. Tourists in starched collars and wide skirts, city folk looking to escape the summer heat, hunters with eyes sharp as their rifles, and even the occasional poet or painter, always with a notebook or easel in hand, trying to capture the wild beauty of Chateaugay Lake. But this Quinn fellow, he was different.
Collins had spotted him the moment he stepped off the stagecoach, the dust from the road from Chateaugay still hanging in the air. There was something too clean about him, too careful in the way he moved, like a man who spent more time thinking about how he looked than about where he was going. And those eyes—cold, calculating, always watching. They weren’t the eyes of a man who came to Merrill for the fishing or the fresh air. No, this man was here for something else.
It wasn’t just Quinn that had the guide on edge. The whole town seemed to be changing, and not for the better. Merrill had always been a quiet place, nestled between the mountains and the lake, where a man could live off the land and not have to worry about the outside world. But now there was talk of new music, of artists and composers flocking to the area, drawn by the strange, wild sounds coming from the lake. The Steamboat Pirate Syndicate, they called themselves—an odd bunch with their loud gatherings, playing instruments that seemed to make more noise than music.
Collins had heard them once, while out on a late-night trek near Indian Point. The sounds echoed across the water, a mix of rhythms and wails that didn’t belong in these woods. It was like the music was trying to drag something up from the depths, something that should stay buried. He didn’t care much for it, didn’t care for the people it brought either. They were outsiders, here to gawk and pretend they understood the land and its ways.
He knew the stories, of course—everyone did. The Steamboat Pirates had a reputation that stretched all the way to the city. They were smugglers, some said, or maybe thieves, but Collins didn’t put much stock in the rumors. What he knew for sure was that they were up to something. He’d seen too many folks with strange looks in their eyes come and go, always leaving a little more uneasy than when they arrived.
And then there was Charles Ives, the young composer from Connecticut. Collins had guided him once, earlier that summer, a brief fishing trip out to Rocky Brook The boy had been full of energy, asking questions about the trees, the water, the way the wind moved through the pines. He was like a cooped-up dog let loose for the first time, running every which way and barking at shadows. But there was something else there too—an intensity, a hunger for something he couldn’t quite grasp.
When Collins had heard about the hootenanny aboard the steamboat Adirondack, he knew it would be trouble. Sure enough, the night had played out just as he expected, with Ives up on a table, possessed by some wild spirit, hollering and yelping like he’d lost his mind. The whole place was in a frenzy, clapping and shouting, feeding off the boy’s madness. It wasn’t right, not here, not in Merrill.
So when Quinn had come looking for a guide the morning after, Collins had been ready to say no. But something in the man’s manner gave him pause. This wasn’t just another tourist or artist. Quinn was watching, listening, just like Collins was. And Collins figured it was better to keep an eye on the man himself than to let him roam the woods alone.
They headed up the Coolaw Road, taking the long, winding path through the pines to Mountain Pond. The air was cool and crisp, the kind of morning that made you glad to be alive. But there was tension too, a feeling that hung in the air between the two men, unspoken but understood.
Collins kept to the usual guide talk, pointing out landmarks, telling a few stories about the old days, back when the lumber camps were still running and the lake was a quieter place. Quinn responded politely enough, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t care about the history or the landscape; he was looking for something deeper.
When they reached the pond, Collins watched as Quinn cast his line, his movements precise, methodical, like everything else about him. But he wasn’t really fishing. Collins could tell by the way Quinn’s eyes kept darting around, scanning the treeline, the water’s surface, as if expecting something to reveal itself.
They spent the day in near silence, the occasional splash of a fish breaking the stillness. Collins used the time to study Quinn, trying to piece together what the man was after. The way Quinn’s hand lingered on the worn handle of his fishing rod, the slight twitch in his jaw when the wind picked up and rustled the leaves—all small tells that betrayed the calm exterior.
As the day wore on and the shadows grew longer, Collins started to get the feeling that this wasn’t just a fishing trip. There was more at play here, something connected to the strange happenings around the lake, the music, and the people it attracted. Quinn was here for a reason, and it wasn’t to catch trout.
When they finally packed up and headed back down the Coolaw Road, Collins felt no closer to understanding Quinn’s purpose than he had that morning. But one thing was clear—this man was trouble. Whether it was for the Syndicate, for Ives, or for something else entirely, Collins didn’t know. But he’d be keeping an eye on Quinn, that much was certain.
Back at the Indian Point House, as he watched Quinn disappear into the fading light, Collins couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming, something bigger than the strange music or the odd visitors. The lake had a way of revealing secrets in its own time, and Collins had learned long ago to trust his instincts.
Whatever Quinn was after, it wouldn’t stay hidden for long. And when the time came, Collins would be ready.
To be continued in next week’s edition of the Steamboat Dispatch…
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?