Two weeks ago, Adrian Long had failed his PhD qualifying examinations in criminal justice for the second—and final—time. A four-person dissertation committee, anxious to weed out students who might tarnish the reputation of the department, had decided that Long would have to leave the program at the end of the current semester. Although Carlyle knew his student would take this news badly, he had to give him notice in person.
Carlyle watched snow blanket the trees outside his office window. The sun had not appeared for more than an hour or two since early November. It began snowing just after Thanksgiving. At first it was just a couple of inches every few days. Then, in late December, major storms began arriving, nor’easters that brought six or seven inches every two weeks or so. By late January, the days began growing longer, but fierce Canadian winds, dubbed Alberta Clippers by some wise guy on a Montreal radio station, brought afternoons when the temperature struggled to reach ten degrees. The misery had continued until early April. Then, as if some weary meteorologist had finally had enough and had thrown a magic switch, the thermometer started climbing.
Carlyle looked around his office. Bookshelves and filing cabinets lined two walls. Law reports were stacked two-feet deep on the floor. His computer contained the final draft of a manuscript that he hoped would get him lifetime employment and financial security. He’d spent six years on the project, reading legal cases and scholarly studies, interviewing judges, lawyers, and prison officials, but the book was still years from completion. His department chair, Jason Pawa, kept reminding Carlyle that he had been hired to churn out academic papers describing the complex motives driving people to commit homicide, reports that would bring huge grants to the university. The Dean said, “No one gets tenure without a well-reviewed book,” but it was, as Carlyle knew, the way things worked in his department.
Carlyle’s next-door colleague, Bill Majors, described what would happen if Carlyle’s publishing career stalled. “Pawa will come into your office acting all apologetic of course. ‘Ric,’ he’ll say, ‘we know how hard you’ve worked. The teaching’s been great and those two small grants helped, but the Committee on Tenure and Promotion has said that without that book contract, we can’t offer you continuing employment.’ Then he’ll saunter back to his office and flush your career down the toilet.”
Five minutes after Carlyle sat down there was a knock at the door. Before he could get up, Adrian Long walked into the office. Long had served two tours with the Marines in Iraq before doing a ten-year stretch with the state police. He still looked like a grunt: a jarhead scalp, thick biceps, and stiff demeanor that could turn mean in a heartbeat.
“Doc, I got your message,” Long said. “What’s up?”
“Adrian, we have to talk about your exams.”
“I failed again, didn’t I?”
“Three out of four parts.”
“Your questions, too?” Long was no longer smiling, but still oblivious to what was about to happen.
“Mine, too. I’m sorry.” This was not the first time Carlyle had washed someone out of the program. A few students, unwilling to let two or three years of tuition and sweat go down the toilet, pleaded for a second chance. Most left silently, however, dragging behind them bitterness that they would never wash from their souls.
“Where do I go from here?” Long said.
“I don’t follow you.”
“How do I prepare now? Make sure I don’t fail again.”
“Adrian, this isn’t like the state police. Even if you pass next time, you’ll still have to do a year’s worth of calculus and statistics, then take a twelve-hour written exam and a two-hour oral.”
“I’ll bust my butt, you know that.”
“Do you really want to spend the rest of your life writing academic articles and teaching indifferent undergraduates?”
Despite his request that students turn off their cell phones, stop text messaging, and keep the whispering down to a dull roar, Carlyle could no longer control his two-hundred-seat undergrad lecture class. One student, a tall blond woman, came late to class every morning, never took notes, and didn’t hide her boredom. A mediocre student, she seemed to take pleasure in her ability to distract Carlyle by picking at the tangled strands of her long hair.
“I’d really like another chance,” Long said.
“The Committee won’t go for it.”
“What are my options, then?”
Carlyle stared at the late winter clouds massing in the distance. “You haven’t read the graduate student guidelines, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“A student has only two chances to take the qualifying exams.”
“Who do I write, then?”
“Write?”
“To petition for another opportunity.”
“We almost never grant waivers.”
“That’s it? I’m out?” Long looked incredulous.
“You may have a better shot with another department. Sociology might really want someone with your background.” No other unit would take Long once he’d failed his exams twice. He would probably end up with the state police again or as a military recruiter. Even though he’d put three years into the program, his academic career was probably over.
Carlyle heard a door open and close down the hall and hoped that someone headed to his office would interrupt this conversation.
“You’re really telling me I’m finished?”
“Adrian, maybe this career wasn’t a good fit. You’re a talented guy. There must be plenty of jobs you qualify for now that you’ve got additional training.”
Long picked up his briefcase. “The state police do this differently. They don’t just wash you out. Everybody leaves the barracks proud.”
“Adrian, stay in touch. I’d like to hear how things turn out.” Embarrassed that he had to force a deserving student from the program, Carlyle secretly hoped he’d never have to face Long again.
“Stay in touch. Sure. Let’s do that.” Long got up, stared at his professor for a moment, then walked out into the hallway.
Anxious to drive the discussion with Long out of his mind, Carlyle began to read an essay claiming that while the country was at war, evidence gathered from torture would be upheld by the Supreme Court. He then sent an email to the Dean of the College saying that although he had been forced to terminate Adrian Long’s graduate scholarship, “Something tells me he is one of those students who will not go quietly.”
At 6:00 p.m., Carlyle called his wife. He told her he was stuck in his office but promised to be home in an hour.
To prepare for the investigation that would take place tomorrow in Warrensburg, he retrieved several books from the bookshelves lining the walls of his office, brought them to his desk, and began poring through them.
At 7:30 p.m., he walked down a dimly lit hallway and out into what he hoped was the last winter storm of the year.
His wife, Beth, was waiting for him when he got home thirty minutes later. She’d heard about the deaths of the two guides who worked for Marshall. Carlyle now told her he was almost certain they’d been murdered.
She picked up one of the books he’d brought home with him, a study of psychopaths. “Does this mean you’ve got a madman on the loose up there?”
“Too early to say. But possibly.”
“He must be insane.
“Psychopaths are impulsive. They commit crimes because it gives them pleasure and they don’t care about the impact on other people.”
“My god. So he is a psychopath.”
“Not necessarily. The person we’re after, from what I’ve seen so far, is disciplined and deliberate. Maybe he just has a grievance against Ryan.”
Beth picked up the other book Carlyle had brought home. “What’s this got to do with the investigation?”
Carlyle said, “It’s about the fanatic who detonated a bomb in downtown Atlanta during the Summer Olympics in 1996. He spent five years on the run in the mountains of western North Carolina before finally be
ing captured. Our guy’s a lot like him. He hits us when we’re vulnerable and then, using techniques they teach in the military, disappears into the wilderness surrounding the gorge.”
Beth stared at her husband. “Are you telling me you’re going to be involved in a manhunt for a maniac?”
“The police might ask me for some help. It should be over in a week. Two at most.”
“What about your job?”
“I have a hunch the university’s going to love the fact that one of their faculty is helping the cops chase down a killer. It can’t hurt my tenure chances.”
Six
The parking lot of the lodge was nearly deserted when Carlyle drove in at eight thirty on Sunday morning. He shut off the engine, finished his coffee, and cracked the window. The sun wouldn’t appear over the ridge to his left for another hour. He could hear the Hudson tearing at the ice down the slope in the valley. In a week, the thermometer would top fifty degrees, the spring rafting season would begin in earnest and the area would be filled with people anxious to challenge the river.
Carlyle turned off the radio and rested his head against the back of the seat. Two guides had died in the past eight days. Reporters from all over upstate were now on the story. They had camped out in Warrensburg and were spending their time pulling rumors from every local willing to face a microphone or a camera.
He glanced over at the lodge. Nine years ago, when he first began work here, it had been just a five-room, single-story clapboard house with a living room, kitchen, office, and three tiny bedrooms in back. The first time he broke his arm in the gorge, he’d slept on a couch after returning from the emergency room in Glens Falls. A fractured eye socket, sprained knee, and three broken ribs later, Carlyle decided he’d had enough. It was time to finish his PhD and get a real job, one with a steady paycheck and benefits, minus the overnight hospital trips.
Marshall walked down the hill from his house, stopped next to Carlyle’s truck, and rapped his knuckles on the door. “You going to sit there all day? I thought you were here to examine the way I run my business.”
“Have your guides showed up yet?”
Marshall counted the vehicles in his lot. “Looks like they’re inside. The Sheriff said he’d be here any minute. You absolutely sure we’ve got to do this?”
“DEC heard rumors that you had two clients injured last season. They’re thinking that it might be connected to what happened to Sanders and Blake.”
“My guys don’t like the idea of defending themselves like this. What am I supposed to tell them?”
“The truth. This isn’t a trial. We’re just trying to understand why Sanders and Blake died and keep anything like it from happening again.”
Marshall kicked mud from his boots. “You think being honest will make my employees feel better?”
“What other choice do you have?”
“I see. We do it your way or my business closes. Let’s get this over with then.”
Betts, Nash, and Hernandez sat around the conference table in the lodge, drinking coffee, staring at their hands, saying little. Bob Ashcroft, the part-time guide who was involved in an accident last October, sat by himself along the back wall of the room. Bognor and Pierce came in a minute later and sat down at the far end of the table.
“Let’s get started.” Carlyle gestured toward an empty seat near him. “Bob, nobody’s on trial here. Join us.”
Pierce pulled a small wireless tape recorder and a note pad from his briefcase.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to record this inquisition,” Betts said.
“This conversation’s off the record,” Pierce said, “but a transcript might be of some use in the future.”
“Bullshit,” Betts said. “Is this a legal thing or not?”
Bognor held out his hands in a calming gesture. “We’re not the enemy, Alex. Let’s just hear everyone’s testimony and determine if it helps our investigation.”
“Why don’t you first tell us why we’re here,” Hernandez said.
Carlyle said, “We want to see if what happened to Ashcroft can be connected to the deaths of Sanders and Blake.”
“A dozen things can go wrong on these trips,” Betts said. “How the hell are we supposed to know if they’re sabotage or not?”
“Just answer a few questions. We’ll decide what might be relevant.” Carlyle pulled a small, red, spiral-bound notebook from his briefcase. “Ryan, I’d like to get some background first.”
“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
“Have you fired anyone in the last couple of years?”
“No, but I should have.”
“Have you added anyone to your crew lately who you hadn’t checked out fully?”
“Are you serious?”
“I meant anyone inexperienced.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“Understood. Had any quarrels with an employee over pay?”
“No.”
Betts laughed and gave Marshall the finger.
“Have you had any arguments with other outfitters?”
“Other than Burton? No.”
“What about the time that idiot working for Eastern Rivers collided with one of our boats?” Nash said.
“He apologized,” Marshall said. “End of story.”
Carlyle wrote “collision” in his notepad. “Any trespassers on your property lately? Hunters or snowmobilers who ignored your posted signs?”
“My father’s got someone patrolling the grounds. No one goes near this place who doesn’t have a reason to be here.”
“What about contractors? Someone annoyed because they weren’t paid for work on the lodge?”
“I never see those bills. They go directly to Philip Marshall’s accountants.”
“Your guides ever get into bar fights?”
“Not recently.”
“Sleep with someone else’s wife?”
Betts said, “You counting one-night stands?”
“He’s talking about human females, Betts,” Nash said.
“That’s enough. Let’s move on. Ryan, what about that accident one of your clients had last season?”
“We thought it was just bad luck at the time.”
“We need to hear what happened. Everything you can remember.”
Ashcroft looked up. “The kid was in my boat and I made a mistake in Cedar.”
“I warned you about getting careless,” Betts said. “If someone falls out of your boat, you’ve got real trouble.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Ashcroft said. “I know that.”
“You think I’m being too tough on you?” Betts said. “Just wait till some lawyer hits you with a wrongful-death suit.”
“You don’t have to give me shit in front of everyone when I screw up.”
Carlyle rapped the table with his right hand. “Stuff happens out there all the time. Why was this incident so unusual?”
Betts shook his head. “Just wait till you hear what happened.”
“I was running third that morning,” Ashcroft said. “Every seat in my boat was filled.” At fifty-two, Ashcroft was the oldest guide on the river and, by his own admission, no longer able to simply muscle a raft out of trouble. A guy with scrawny arms and a comb-over, Carlyle wondered why Marshall had hired him in the first place.
“You remember much about your crew?”
Ashcroft stared at his former employer. “Marshall dumped a bunch of teenage boys on me. The little bastards goofed around during my safety talk, jumping up and down on the boat, and never shut up.”
Pierce said, “Why didn’t you come down hard on them right then and there?”
“I laid into them and didn’t hold back, dammit.”
Pierce shook his head. “Telling kids to behave is like asking crows to stop shitting on your car. You’ve got to make people afraid of you.”
“Caleb,” Carlyle said, “why don’t you let me ask the questions?” He turned to Ashcroft. “You explained all about strain
ers and foot entrapment, right?”
“It’s the first thing we do every trip.”
“But it didn’t do any good. Then what did you say?”
“I told them that if we hit a boulder they had to jump to the high side or the raft would pin.”
“Go on.”
“They refused to pay attention to me, but I figured that by the time we reached the gorge, they would have wised up.”
Betts slapped his palms onto the table. “Just tell him what happened, for Christ’s sake.”
“Two hundred yards from the Basin, they started rocking the boat, smacking their paddles on the water, jumping up and down on the thwarts.”
“I was right behind him,” Betts said. “They staggered down the Indian like a blind man on roller skates, colliding with tree stumps and boulders. His boat was completely out of control.”
“It wasn’t like that at all,” Ashcroft said.
“Tell him about the kid,” Betts said. “See what he thinks then.”
“Jeff Katz, the one who got hurt, went kind of nuts. He began waving his paddle like a sword and yelling like a madman. That’s when we hit the rock and Katz did a backflip into the Indian.”
“Neil Armstrong could have seen that rock from the moon,” Betts said.
“It was below the surface. How was I supposed to know it was there?
“That wasn’t the end of your problems that morning was it?
“No. Just as I was about to warn Katz again, we hit a rock.
“How long was he under water?” Carlyle said.
“Three or four seconds. He came up right next to us, choking, with a terrified look on his face. I grabbed his vest and heaved him into the boat.”
“You read him the riot act finally?”
“I said the next time I might not be able to save him.”
“If you were having so much trouble with Katz, why didn’t you ask Betts to take him?”
“Ask Betts? Are you kidding? Look at him now. He’d just laugh at me. So would the others.”
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