The waitress came over to their table. “Leo. What’ll it be?”
“We’ll both have Greek salads. But don’t tell Gus that we didn’t order lamb.”
“Boss!” she yelled. “Leo and his girlfriend want the Special. Better put in extra olives.”
After the laughter died down, Wells said, “How’s that cop thing going? You sure the kid’s death wasn’t accidental?”
“No question about it.”
“Marshall’s father must be livid.”
“He thinks all this bad publicity will ruin his Johnston Mountain project.”
“I have a hunch his kid is blaming you for what went wrong.”
“He thinks I could have saved Sanders.”
“He’s never been a fan of yours.”
Despite Carlyle’s spotless safety record, Marshall and his guides had never stopped treating him like a middle-aged professor masquerading as an experienced guide. During his training a decade ago, Betts had told Carlyle, “We want to see if you crack under pressure. So you won’t do it with people in your boat.”
The harassment never stopped. One Saturday morning in early May several years ago, Carlyle had let his boat stray too near a massive hydraulic. When they got back to the inn that afternoon, Marshall had screamed, “One more mistake and you’re gone!”
“Now they’re all depending on you to save their jobs.”
“The only thing I care about is finding this maniac.”
When the waitress passed their table, Wells pointed to his coffee cup. After she left, he said, “What’s next, then?”
“We start by looking for people with a history of petty crimes.”
“This isn’t suburbia. That shit’s pretty common around here.”
“Not if it leads us to a person who’s starting to come apart.”
“You mind explaining just what that means?”
“When someone has a run-in with the law or a violent argument with his wife or girlfriend, it may predict more serious trouble down the road.”
“You think he’s really angry enough to kill a couple of guides?”
“It’s way beyond anger now. He may have started off with a chip on his shoulder, but, for whatever reason, his grievances have mushroomed.”
“What are we talking about?”
Carlyle said, “If whatever has been gnawing at him is still there, he could eventually erupt. And if he’s really been screwed over and can’t forget or forgive whatever’s happened to him….”
“What do you do then?”
“If this guy’s rage becomes uncontrollable, he may not stop with Marshall.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll need an army to get him.”
“Why don’t you leave it to professionals? They’ll bring in dogs and trackers.”
“This guy’s like Rambo. He’ll ambush any cop we send in there, and then we’ll have a massacre on our hands.”
Wells sipped his coffee and watched Carlyle silently for a minute. “You mind my asking what’s got you so lit up about this case?”
“I’ve spent my entire career trying to explain why people commit violent crimes. This is my chance to prove I haven’t wasted my time.”
“This is more than just some academic exercise, isn’t it?”
“I feel responsible for finding out who did this. That doesn’t change anything.”
“Like hell it doesn’t. You’re personally involved in this case and you’ll take more risks than you should.”
“I won’t do anything stupid.”
Wells laughed. “With a sliced and diced raft? You already have.”
“If he never intended those two deaths, we may be able to negotiate with him.”
“What if he catches you alone and doesn’t want to negotiate?”
“I won’t be alone. You’re coming with me.”
Wells shook his head. “I saved your ass once in Mile-Long. Now you’re asking me to do it again?”
“Okay, I’ll get Pierce to help me. He’d love telling everyone he was protecting a hotshot professor.”
Wells’s pager went off. “I’ve got an emergency on Santanoni Peak. Gotta go.” He paid the check, pinched the waitress on his way out, and drove out of the parking lot.
Theodorakis walked over to Carlyle’s table. “What’s the matter with Leo? He doesn’t like my food?”
Later that afternoon, the heavy oak barn door slid open, and Beth, Carlyle’s wife, stepped in. He was standing over a workbench. His waterproof dry suit, thick neoprene boots, plastic helmet, and heavy guide paddle sat in a pile in front of him. All of his rescue equipment—prussic loops, high-tensile rope, throw bags, strobe lights, tow lines, and Z-drag kit—were neatly arranged on a pegboard to his right. Although he had lit a tall white propane stove an hour ago, it was still bitterly cold in the barn.
“Why are you working on this stuff now?” Beth said.
“I’m hiking into the canyon tomorrow morning.”
Carlyle had told her about the investigation, but not that the authorities had asked him to assist them in the search for the person responsible for the murders.
“Shouldn’t you let the police handle it?”
“I’ll have a cop with me,” Carlyle said. “We’ll be fine.”
“Why do you have to get involved in this?”
“I was right there when they died. Marshall and the other guides are expecting me to help them through this.”
“You had your first accident on the Indian, didn’t you?”
One September morning nine years ago, when he had just started his career on the Hudson, Carlyle allowed his raft to drift into a boulder garden. The river was bone dry, a minefield of rocks strewn across the current. As his boat rushed downstream, the sun disappeared behind a layer of gray clouds. Two minutes later, the raft plunged over a steep ledge and the stern heaved upward and to the left. Unprepared for the backlash, Carlyle flew across the back tube and into the river.
“This is completely different. Someone sabotaged Sanders’s raft. I was just green and unlucky back then.”
“But your accident was near where that boy died.”
“I was in the water for less than a minute. It was my first day as a guide. Everyone pulls a dumb stunt once.”
“But you came out of your boat, too, just like he did.”
“Sanders didn’t have an accident. He was murdered.” Although he’d never been in real danger that morning a decade ago, Carlyle thought he understood what Sanders and Blake must have been thinking as they were pulled underwater by a river indifferent to their pleas for help.
“You’re ten years older now. Should you still be doing something like this?”
“Beth, I promise. I’ll be fine.”
She was right. It was the worst time of the season to be on that river. The snowmelt would let loose any day now. In a week or two, the Hudson would resemble a wall of liquid concrete rather than a mountain stream. A series of boat-eating hydraulics would litter the gorge all the way from Blue Ledges to the Boreas. What if the killer decided to go after Marshall and his clients again? Preoccupied with keeping their boats upright, guides would be defenseless, their clients confused and terrified. With roads nonexistent and communication with the outside impossible, any rescue would take hours.
Beth stared at him as he sorted through the equipment on the workbench. “How long will you be away this time?”
“The investigation’s just beginning. I don’t know where it’s headed, but I promise I’ll come home once we’ve arrested someone.”
“What about your work at the university? They can’t just cancel your classes.”
“I’ll get a teaching assistant to take over the undergrads for a week or two. Believe me, those kids will be delighted I won’t be around to give them more work at the end of the semester.”
“You’re not thinking about giving up your job in Albany, are you?”
“The endless committee meetings are driving me crazy. This in
vestigation will give me a break from that.”
“Do the other guides know you’re a professor now?”
“They don’t care what I do. They’re just desperate for help.”
“I don’t understand why you’re risking your life again.”
“Karen Raines at DEC said I know the river as well as anyone and the guides trust me. I can’t just walk away.”
“What about your book? It’s almost done. You can’t abandon it now.”
Carlyle began packing up his gear. “I’ll get back to it this summer.”
“I won’t be able to stop you, will I?”
“Please don’t put it that way.”
“It’s freezing in here.” Beth zipped up her jacket and left the barn.
Just after dark, Carlyle loaded his pickup, moved his tractor into the barn, and walked toward the house. A heavy, wind-driven snow began to envelop the tulip beds Beth had put in last year. The branches of a newly planted white birch, unable to bear the storm’s weight, were bent near to the ground. Walking up the path, Carlyle slipped on a small patch of ice. Near the porch swing sat eight or nine large cardboard boxes tightly wrapped with packing tape.
Beth didn’t turn around when Carlyle entered the kitchen. Every square inch of the room was filled with pottery, pressed flowers, dried mushrooms, garlic stalks, tiny herb jars, bits of multi-colored tile, and plants in tan clay pots. A reproduction of Matisse’s Two Girls in a Yellow and Red Interior hung on the wall next to an eight-foot oak trestle dining table.
Beth put out barley soup, slices of dark bread, strong sheep cheese, and salad. Carlyle set the table and poured coffee.
Her sketchbook was on a side table. “What are you working on?” he asked.
“I spent all day waiting for the clouds to lift over the escarpment, but the sun never once broke through.” A series of landscapes begun months ago sat unfinished in her studio.
They’d met four years ago during a late afternoon reception at the Dean’s house. Beth appeared at the front door with a streak of light-gray paint on her forehead. Tall, thin, blond, and disheveled, she spent nearly an hour walking alone through the downstairs rooms of the ornate red brick Tudor mansion.
They met in front of a nineteenth-century portrait of a merchant’s family. She told him she was an artist, teaching part-time at the university. Her eyes were light blue and pale. They talked briefly, mostly about her career. She stared at her hands the entire time but smiled when he asked her out for dinner.
Six months later, after many afternoons hiking the hills surrounding Albany, they were married.
“I’m sorry your day was ruined,” Carlyle said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
It was dark now. Wind rattled the house and made the candles on the table flicker.
“What’s in the boxes out front?” Carlyle said as they began to eat.
“One of your students brought over some books. He said he didn’t need them any longer.”
Carlyle broke off a piece of bread and reached for the coffee. “What did he look like?”
“Tall, mid-twenties. A grad student, I think.”
“Big guy, shaved head?”
“Yes and very polite. He kept apologizing for disturbing me.”
“What time did he get here?”
“Around two, I think. His truck just appeared in the drive.”
“How did he find us?”
“I don’t know. He told me he wanted you to have his books.”
“Did he leave a message?”
“No. He just said to wish you well.”
“How long was he here?”
“A half-hour or so.”
Carlyle told her about his meeting with Long and that he had been asked to leave the program. “He knows he’s not supposed to come here without an invitation.”
“Ric, he didn’t cause me any problems.”
Carlyle began clearing the dishes. “I’ve got to put a stop to this. Call me if he shows up again.”
“Aren’t you exaggerating? What harm can he do?” Beth stood up and began to clear the table. “Will you at least let someone know where you’re going tomorrow?”
“I’ll leave a note on my truck to say what route we’re taking.”
“A note on your truck. How will that help if something happens to you?”
Ten
The Town of Indian Lake, never crowded since the logging industry packed up and left fifty years ago, was deserted at 4:00 a.m. on Wednesday morning. He drove down Main Street past the Central Mountain Bank, Dutcher’s Hardware, and Steve’s All Night Convenience Store. When he reached the lake, a half-mile west of town, he pulled off the road next to Al’s Bait and Tackle and stopped. Caleb Pierce, known to lie in wait for speeders even at this hour, was nowhere to be seen. Circling back three minutes later, he turned right off the main east-west road onto Route 30, and parked behind the Upstate Garage.
He pulled a small ice axe from his truck and made his way through boot-high snow to the back of the Elijah J. Mayhew Local History Museum, a turreted two-story, yellow brick structure. Using the axe blade, he forced open the back door and entered the building. After switching on his headlamp, he walked down the main hall past rows of glass cages filled with the preserved remains of black bears, martens, badgers, wolves, beaver, and moose.
Halfway down the central corridor of the main hall, past rooms labeled Director, Administration, Taxidermy, Staff Lounge, and Friends of the Museum, he found the Archives.
He’d been here twenty years ago, on a high school field trip with his sophomore class. The room had changed little in two decades. To his right, just inside the unlocked door, was a small black safe. The desk of the sixty-two-year-old volunteer librarian, Mary Smith, sat to his left. Portraits of the Museum’s former trustees, logging barons and hotel developers who had made the wilderness safe for industry and tourism, were hanging behind the desk. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered both side walls. Two ten-foot-long oak tables ran down the center of the room. A row of ten gray filing cabinets sat against the far wall.
The archives had not a single piece of equipment found in up-to-date libraries—no Xerox or fax machines, no white cotton gloves or glassine envelopes for handling rare documents and photographs, no magnifying glasses, up-to-date reference works, microfilm readers, or Internet ports, and, most crucial, no guide to the holdings of the collection. He knew, however, where to find the one file drawer that contained something crucial—a piece of his past and a map that would keep him out of prison.
Careful not to touch any exposed surfaces, he walked down the center of the room toward the filing cabinets. Each one was devoted to a single decade, beginning in 1910 and ending in 1999. He pulled open the second drawer of the first cabinet. It took him only six minutes to find what he was looking for—a thick manila folder labelled Pasco.
He placed the packet of documents on the nearest table, removed its elastic strap, and rifled through its contents: photographs of the three towns where the tragic events took place; articles clipped from the Warrensburg Times from 1930 to 1934; a seventeen-page report from the state police, the agency that had coordinated the search for the fugitives; the yellowed telegraph message from Governor Herbert H. Lehman to Sheriff Thomas Davies, pledging his full support for the apprehension of the killers; copies of the four local and regional magazines that had covered the manhunt and trial; letters from relatives of victims and from defenders of the two accused men; a detailed summary of the autopsy conducted by Dr. Philander J. Adams at the Glens Falls Hospital; a bill for $17.50 for the services of two men and a trained bloodhound for two days; and a single sheet of paper entitled Catalogue of Evidence: The Pasco Affair.
He found what he had come for near the back of the folder: a rough, hand-drawn map of the gorge on a tissue-thin piece of eight-by-eleven paper that had been folded in half and placed in a plastic sleeve. Drawn in pencil, its edges in tatters, he could see by the slender but intense light of his headlamp seven tiny X’s and the fain
t corresponding lines between the interior and the river’s edge. There were two from the vicinity of the Gooley Steps, one each from the Confluence and Blue Ledges, and three between the Narrows and the Boreas, the far end of the gorge. After making a rough copy of the location of those trails, he slid the map back into its plastic sleeve, secured the folder, and returned it to the filing cabinet.
Twenty-four minutes after he’d entered the building, having wiped clean each flat surface and doorknob he might have touched, he exited the museum. Sweeping his tracks in the snow with a broom he’d taken from the hallway, he backed his truck onto the road and, keeping an eye out for Caleb Pierce, left town.
Just after nine thirty that morning, Carlyle turned off the two-lane road that paralleled the gorge and wrestled his truck down a dirt path. After a thousand yards, occasionally sinking axel-deep in mud, he and Pierce reached the Indian Lake dam.
Carlyle shut off the engine. “You ready?”
“Let’s go. I can’t be playing nursemaid for you every day, now, can I?”
Carlyle scrawled a note and dropped it on the dashboard.
Pierce picked it up. “What’s this for?”
“Backup. In case we get into trouble.”
“We’ll be frozen stiff by the time someone discovers that thing.” Pierce grabbed his twelve-gauge. “Here’s my backup.” He cracked his door open. “You sure we’re not going on some wild-goose chase?”
“We’ve got to find out where Marshall’s vulnerable. That means examining every foot of ground from the put-in to the Confluence.”
“You have no idea where this idiot’s going to attack next, do you?”
“I’m pretty sure he’ll come back to the west bank of the Indian.”
“How can you know that?”
“It’s the only place accessible by road.”
“Come on, admit it. You’re guessing.”
“Then tell me why he hasn’t moved to another spot on the river.”
Pierce ran a soft cloth along the barrel of his shotgun “What makes you sure he’ll attack again, anyway?”
“What makes you so sure he won’t?”
“I’m glad one of us had the good sense to carry a weapon today.”
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