Carlyle grabbed his day pack from the truck and set it on the ground. “You really think that gun’s going to save us if we get in trouble?”
“What would you do, throw a book at him?”
The two men shouldered their packs and headed north-west along a path that would bring them to the Confluence.
To their right, Carlyle could see the lake that, for a few months a year, turned the Indian into a navigable river. Just below the dam, he watched torrents of water plunging down Beaver Creek.
“Last month,” Pierce said, “two teenagers tried to run the creek in inner tubes. Search and Rescue found their bodies a week later underneath a pile of logs and brush a half-mile downstream.”
“What happened to the warning sign at the dam?”
“Someone tore it out.”
“You think our guy was responsible?” Carlyle said.
“Probably not. The coroner said those kids had been drinking. But now, I’m not so sure.”
Two minutes later, they came to a truck sitting just off the road. The door panel read Town of Indian Lake Water Department.
“I’m going to ask the guy if he’s seen anything unusual,” Carlyle said.
“Him? He won’t talk to outsiders.”
“Can’t hurt to try.”
“Go ahead. I can’t wait to see what happens.”
Carlyle walked up to the gray Ford F150 and knocked on the window. A rack of blue and white emergency lights ran along the top of the cab. A half-dozen orange traffic cones and a load of wood sat in back of the truck. Its occupant rolled down his window part way. “We’re hiking out to the Confluence,” Carlyle said. “Mind if we leave our vehicle here?”
“Suit yourself.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Have you seen much foot traffic on this road?”
Cigarette smoke drifted out of the cab. “Like what?”
“People you didn’t recognize.”
“Other than yourself? No, sir.”
“No strangers at all?”
“Flatlanders have bought up land on both sides of the river. Locals hardly ever come by here now.”
“What about when those two guides died?”
“I was out hunting rabbits.”
“So you’ve seen nothing unusual.”
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“Thanks for your time.”
The truck’s occupant simply nodded and rolled up the window.
Carlyle walked back to where the Deputy was standing. “Okay, you were right.”
Pierce laughed. “I take it you’ve never seen Deliverance?”
“Come on, Caleb. People around here aren’t idiots.”
“No? You just wait and see.”
They continued moving toward the Confluence, mud and wet snow sucking at their boots.
“Let me ask you something,” Pierce said. “Most people can’t wait to get away from this place. Why the hell did you come back?”
“It’s pretty easy to get hooked on this work when you’ve spent nearly ten years running boats through the gorge.”
Carlyle would never forget the first time he’d driven clients through the Narrows. The power and velocity of the Hudson as it spilled downhill out of the mountains astonished him. Afraid of making a rookie mistake, he’d willed his crew to punch through those six huge waves that threatened to capsize their raft. He’d never lost his respect for the river, but he’d gradually realized that if he could overcome that anxiety, nothing else would ever terrify him again.
A half-mile beyond the dam, Carlyle stopped and pulled a pair of thick green mittens and a down sweater from his pack. “You think that accident at Givenny’s last April could be something he was responsible for?” Carlyle said.
Twelve months ago, a sixty-five-year-old insurance agent from Chicago, trying to throw himself a birthday party he would never forget, had a fatal heart attack after somersaulting through Soup Strainer.
“You mean the dude who got tossed from his raft? The asshole should never have been out there in the first place. It’s a shame everyone had to watch the paramedics doing chest compressions on him, but it was his own damn fault.”
“I didn’t know the incident touched you so deeply,” Carlyle said. “Sorry I brought it up.”
An hour after leaving the basin, they came to a barrier mounted on iron poles: Private Property Ahead. Trespassers will be prosecuted to the Full Extent of the Law. Pierce walked around the sign. “I guess I’m the law, right?”
“Does anyone ever go back in here?” Carlyle said.
“You saw that sign. Who’d risk it?”
“Then we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
“You better hope so,” Pierce said.
Carlyle stared up at the jack pine, their rough bark glowing red in the morning light. His thermometer said it was forty-four degrees. Wind lashed his face. Knowing they had to get back to the main road before sunset, he pushed on toward the Confluence.
After another mile, the trail, which had paralleled a thirty-foot cliff face, began to drop toward the valley floor. Carlyle could hear the Indian rushing through a series of granite boulder gardens off to his right.
As they rounded a bend in the trail, a rust-red retriever and a large brown mutt with a metal-studded choke collar broke from the woods and, barking furiously, rushed toward them.
A couple trailed after the animals. The woman, trying to conceal a limp, was about five-three, maybe maybe a hundred and forty pounds. She wore a brown coat with ragged sleeves, a thin wool hat, and ankle-high boots despite the deep, wet snow. When she reached the growling dogs, now standing still, she grabbed the retriever by its collar. “Quiet. Don’t you move now.”
The man, a shade under six feet and lean, was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and wore a thick denim jacket and underneath it a tee-shirt that read, Watch Your Damn Head. NYS Logging Association. His red beard was untrimmed, his wrists and face sunburned, the knuckles of both hands raw. A green bandana encircled his head. “These animals scare you?”
Carlyle said, “No. I’m fine with dogs. Thanks for asking.”
“I guess some people must hate them.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We had one mutt shot recently.”
“Where was that?”
“Near the main road. He ran off, chasing a rabbit I suspect. We found him in the woods next day. Dead, of course.”
“You ever learn who did it?” Carlyle said.
“No. But if I catch the bastard, he won’t shoot no more dogs.” He glanced at the shotgun on Pierce’s arm. “You out here on official business?”
“You could say that,” Pierce said.
The woman, eyes red as if from crying, edged closer to her husband. Her right arm dangled at her side, the hand clenched as if in a permanent spasm. She held a handkerchief in her left hand.
Odd the couple was out walking on a weekday in such bitter weather. “You have any idea how far the Mt. Rushmore Club is?” Carlyle said.
“About two miles,” the man said. “But I’d pay attention to their no-trespassing sign if I was you. The people who stay in those big cabins don’t appreciate unannounced visitors.”
“We’ll stay off their property,” Carlyle said. “I hope you don’t mind my asking. Do you come down this road often?”
“Nearly every day for the past week now.”
“Every day?” Carlyle said. “It can’t be easy for you this time of year.”
“It’s hard on her, but we have to come see where our boy died.”
“Your son?”
“Chris Blake. Our only child.” The man turned around briefly to stare at the river. “He drowned out there a week ago this past Wednesday while working for one of the outfitters. We can only make it to the end of the trail, but the accident happened farther out, just east of where the Hudson comes in to meet the Indian.”
The woman, who had begun to weep, wiped her eyes
and turned away from the men.
“There’s nothing I can say except we’re sorry for your loss.” Carlyle glanced at Pierce who stood, shotgun clutched to his chest, staring at the parents. Carlyle hoped Pierce wouldn’t tell the couple that Carlyle had been the one who had pulled their son’s body from the Hudson.
Blake’s father put his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “We appreciate your words. Sorry to have kept you.”
The dogs, desperate to run now that they were off a chain, began whimpering.
“My wife’s exhausted and cold,” the man said. “We best be going.”
The two grieving parents turned and walked down the trail, the woman first, dragging her right leg, the man two steps behind her. A minute later they were fifty yards away, haltingly mounting the next crest in the road.
Carlyle dropped his pack on the ground. “Jesus Christ.”
“Their kid was earning eighty bucks a day when he was murdered,” Pierce said. “And you wonder why the guides resent Marshall?” He leaned his shotgun on his shoulder and began walking. “Let’s get moving before we freeze to death.”
Somewhere to their right, down a steep embankment choked with dense undergrowth, thorn bushes, shrubs, and stunted pines, the Indian was gathering speed and power as it rushed through the valley.
After a mile of snow, stagnant water, and thick red mud, the trail began to rise. Five minutes later, Carlyle reached the crest of a hill and stared down at the river. Sunlight reflecting off a single, never-ending wave train flooded the air with blue-white brilliance. A long, pencil-thin island, little more than a collection of rocks and tangled vegetation, bisected the current.
Pierce spat toward the river. “So this is where he’s been operating.”
“A month from now,” Carlyle said, “once the snowpack melts and the current drops, he’ll be able to get at us from both sides of the gorge.” He stared at the forest encircling them. “When those trees leaf out, it’ll be almost dark at ground level and impossible to track him.”
“Don’t worry,” Pierce said. “We won’t have to go looking for him. He’ll find us.”
A half-hour later, they reached a wood-and-pipe barrier topped by a sign: Mt. Rushmore Club. Members Only.
Rather than face harassment by a six-man security staff that patrolled the property, they turned off the road and slogged through knee-deep snow, bushwhacking toward the Indian. Fallen trees, boulders, and rotting logs blocked the path. Plowing through snowdrifts and bending low to avoid overhanging branches, they continued to move north.
From the sound of it, the Indian was now no more than two-hundred and fifty yards away. Attempting to sidestep a boulder, Carlyle placed his right foot on rough ground, turned his ankle, and fell forward. Up to his elbows in snow, he hauled himself to his knees, then pushed himself into a standing position.
“You okay?” Pierce said.
“I fell just like that cross-country skiing eight years ago. Dislocated my left shoulder. Three snowmobilers found me and brought me back to the road. Had to wait an hour for an ambulance to arrive.” Despite two layers of protective gear, Carlyle’s hands had turned white with cold. Snow had invaded his boots. “You bring any coffee in that thermos?”
“I did.”
“I’ll have some of it when we reach the river.”
Pierce stared at the trees around them. “Finding our way back is going to be a bitch.”
“No it won’t. Just turn around. See your footsteps coming down from the escarpment? No matter where we go, we’ll know that the road’s right up there. If we head for that ridge, we can’t get lost. Meanwhile, keep your eyes open. This would be a great spot for a hideout with a view of the river.”
A twenty-mile-an-hour wind rushed through the narrow gorge and the temperature began to drop as they closed in on the Indian. Ten minutes later, shoving their way through waist-high thorn bushes, the two men reached the river.
“I know now why you people love this forest,” Pierce said.
“No one’s ever going to clear-cut these woods again, that’s for sure.”
Pierce pulled the thermos from his pack. When they’d finished the coffee and started walking again, he said, “I don’t understand how he gets in here without someone coming across him.”
“He stays off well-used trails during the day and hides out somewhere at night.”
“Why not bring in equipment to track the bastard?”
“Helicopters and heat-seeking radar don’t work in dense undergrowth. We have to understand his behavior, see if patterns emerge, and anticipate his next move. Then, if he makes just one dumb mistake, we can take him down.”
Pierce shook his head. “I bet you think all criminals are just misguided souls. They’re not. The majority are vicious assholes. Robbing and mayhem give them power or pleasure.”
“Then that shotgun of yours is useless. This person will never let himself get caught. But if we can figure out what he wants, we may be able to negotiate with him.”
Pierce, who never took his eyes off the woods, laughed. “Negotiate with this guy?”
“You don’t believe people can change?”
“I don’t have time for psychology; I’m too busy dealing with robbers and drunks. That’s why I carry this Glock and a shotgun, because the people I have to arrest think weapons will solve all their problems.”
Carlyle peeled back his sleeve and glanced at his watch. “It’s two. We better start back. It’ll take us almost three hours to get back to the truck.” When they’d reached the Indian, they’d moved right, to the north-west, to avoid a thick line of trees and bushes. Then they’d clambered over several rocks and crossed a large stretch of ice. The sun had been over their left shoulders when they started out; now it was high in the sky and to their right.
“This way.” Carlyle made a new set of postholes in the heavy fresh snow as he plodded up the hill, constantly scanning the terrain. He stopped for a second to catch his breath and pointed to a blank space in the cliff face above them. “See that?”
“What the hell are you looking at?”
Carlyle grabbed the branch of a yearling pine with his left hand and pointed with his right. “The boulder to our left. About one o’clock. It’s just above that. Let’s take a closer look.”
Carlyle bent down on all fours and crawled up through dense undergrowth. When he stopped, he saw a cave, larger than the one he and the other guides had come across in Cedar Ledges.
“Must be a bear,” Pierce said.
Carlyle dug a headlamp from his pack, switched it on, and began to crawl inside. “If it is a bear, now’s the time to put some shells in that shotgun.”
As his eyes adjusted to the cold white beam of his light, he could see a space six feet high by eight wide, the back wall hidden in shadows.
“What the hell is this?” Pierce said.
“The answer to our question.”
“Which one is that?”
“Where he hides out at night.”
Balsam fir shavings littered the cave floor. A rough plank bed covered by a gray woolen blanket sat against the left wall. Resting on the bed was a pair of wool gloves and hobnailed leather boots. A tin plate, knife and fork, and an earthen jug lay on a low shelf. A hiking stick and a cane pack basket with leather straps leaned against the right wall.
Pierce pointed to a tall wooden tool topped by a curved metal hook. “What’s that?”
Carlyle pulled it toward him. “I’ve seen pictures of this thing. It’s a pike pole.”
“What the hell’s it for?”
“When these woods were worked by hand, it was used to unpack logjams during spring river drives.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Seventy, eighty years.”
“You’re kidding me.”
Carlyle placed the pole on the ground and swept his light along the far wall. Four thin lines, each several inches high, had been carved into the rock with a blade. “Jesus Christ.”
�
�What are those?”
“He sabotaged Marshall’s crew twice last year and killed two guides this season. I think he’s keeping score.”
Pierce looked around the cave. “You only see these things in junk shops and flea markets. What the hell’s all of it doing out here?”
When Carlyle had begun working on the Hudson, he learned that he’d have to tell his clients stories about how explorers and guides took control of the backcountry. Haunting used bookstores and libraries, he’d studied histories of the region and collected old photographs and postcards. The second he crawled inside this cave, he remembered he’d seen something like it before.
“It’s a replica of the bunk room in a logging camp. Or the cabin of someone who spent his winters alone in the woods. A caretaker maybe, or just some poor unemployed bastard who had nowhere else to go.”
“Why would someone take the time to lug this stuff into the backcountry?”
“Good question,” Carlyle said. “But we’ve got one answer to our problem at least.”
“What’s that?”
“How he can move around undetected. You can’t see it from up above or from the river. He hikes in at night, holes up here till dawn, and lays a trap for us. Then he comes back and waits until our boats have passed.”
Carlyle took another look around the cave. “This changes everything. If he has this place, he’s got others. Each one gives him access to a different stretch of the river.”
Pierce bent down and began backing out of the cave. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s get out of here.”
Carlyle grabbed his shoulder. “Stop. Now move back slowly toward me.”
Pierce inched into the cave while Carlyle reached over him and lifted something from his pack. “Okay. Now stay low and crawl out.”
When both were back in sunlight, Pierce said, “What the hell were you doing?”
“You were caught on a thin wire.” Carlyle stood up and took a deep breath. “It wasn’t attached to a device, though.”
“That crazy bastard.”
“He just rigged it up to scare the hell out of anyone who found this place.”
“This guy is certifiable. We’ll need a hundred men to find him.”
“An army won’t help us out here,” Carlyle said. “He’s as good as Rambo. And you know what happened to the morons who tried to stop that lunatic.”
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