The Gorge

by Ronald M. Berger

  Carlyle turned his back on the cave and, following a switchback in the cliff face, scrambled up toward the road. After several minutes of pushing through thorn bushes, he was able to make his way to level ground.

  “I nearly got blown up because of you,” Pierce said, “and we still don’t know shit about this guy.”

  “We know he’s some kind of history buff—”

  “History freak is more like it. Can’t you give me something more specific to go on, for Christ’s sake?”

  “—and probably a local with longtime ties to the region. We have the names, prison records, and life histories of everyone in this county who’s committed a felony going back a hundred years. If criminal behavior runs in families, we may be able to narrow down our list of suspects.”

  “That’s it?”

  Carlyle shouldered his pack. “Our best bet is to keep exploring his vendetta against the Marshalls.”

  “We’re still at square one. Any idea what our next step is?”

  “These woods are his territory, a place he knows and feels safe. We have to figure out some way to lure him out of here.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Use bait he won’t be able to resist,” Carlyle said.

  Ten minutes later, the two men walked up to Carlyle’s truck. A second note lay on top of the one Carlyle had left. He brushed off the snow and read it.

  “It’s from Bognor. He says DEC has given Marshall permission to take clients back to the Hudson.”

  “When’s this supposed to happen?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You going with them?”

  “I have to,” Carlyle said. “My name’s on the permit.”

  Eleven

  At 5:00 a.m. on Thursday, an hour before sunrise, he wrestled the canoe into the bone-chilling water. The sky was black, the trees mere stick figures, the river deafening. He could not risk buying the Grumman from someone local, so he’d taken the ferry to Vermont yesterday and hauled the boat back after dark. He might die if he made a mistake out here today, but vengeance has its costs. People might call him a madman, but privately they would be amazed by his audacity.

  The heavy canoe moved sluggishly in the current. The headlamp strapped to his helmet washed over the boulders lining his path. He’d never felt such cold. Although wrapped in thick gloves, his hands were already numb, his fingers inflexible.

  Moving slowly through mist blanketing the Indian, he picked his way downstream. Working almost sightless, he was seconds from disaster.

  Forty-five minutes later, just as the sun broke over the horizon, he slithered down the left side of Cedar Ledges and straight into Entrance, where he simply abandoned himself to the boulder-strewn rapid.

  Knowing he could not do the next stretch in semidarkness, he lined the boat down along the shore through the Narrows. Too exhausted to think straight, he trusted his instincts and experience to get him through Mile-Long. Having forgotten what warmth felt like, it took him another hour to reach his target at the bottom of Harris.

  He wished he could see their faces when they realized he’d run the gorge in the dark. At first they’d simply deny that anyone could pull off such a stunt. He had accomplices, they would say, or he’d brought the boat in overland. Anything to deny him credit for daring and perseverance.

  Bognor and the others might discover who he was and why he was doing this, but he would never give up, never disappoint his grandfather, never let Marshall’s old man get his way with the property on Johnston Mountain.

  In Harris, the pain was beyond words. He had to stand in the freezing current, his feet and legs turning to stone, aware that he could be swept downstream any second. It took him nearly thirty minutes to find a place to put the boat and to secure the bow and stern with lashing straps.

  By the time his work was done, ice hung from his helmet and he could feel nothing from the waist down. His left arm, the one he had broken two years ago, hung limp at his side. The skin on his face and hands felt as fragile as ancient parchment.

  When he was sure the canoe wouldn’t be discovered until it was too late, he dragged himself from the water, hid his gear under thick brush, and turned his back on the river. Following the route he had marked two days ago, he scrambled up the embankment, made his way across the iron and oak trestle, and disappeared into the woods.

  Carlyle awoke just after dawn. Beth was already sitting in a chair underneath the window.

  “What are you doing today?” he said.

  “I was planning to work on the garden.”

  He put his right hand on her shoulder. “I’ll help when I get back this afternoon.”

  “If you’re here before dark, sure. I’d like that.”

  Carlyle went downstairs and made coffee. Fog shrouded the pond, and gray clouds enveloped the escarpment as he drove away from the house. Taking narrow, meandering back roads east to the Hudson, he turned left onto the highway that bordered the river, and, avoiding the city, headed north.

  Elevated highway ramps carved their way through the industrial landscape. Plastic bags and refuse littered the roadside. It took Carlyle half an hour to put the junkyards, tank farms, derelict piers, cement plants, railroad sidings, and abandoned factories behind him.

  At 7:00 a.m., thirty minutes before the other guides arrived, Carlyle found Grace Irwin on her hands and knees in the living room of the lodge, surrounded by crushed beer cans, crumpled pizza boxes, and overflowing ashtrays.

  “You would think,” she said, “that grown men wouldn’t leave their shit around where other people, namely me, would have to pick it up.”

  Carlyle bent down and began helping her corral the garbage. “Grace, how’s my favorite goat farmer?”

  “Sherlock. You near to catching that madman yet?”

  “We’ve got half the state police out looking for him.”

  “How many cops does it take to find one dumb schmuck?”

  “If your neighbors would help us, it might be over sooner.”

  “People around here are of two minds,” she said. “They hate what that killer’s doing, but they can’t stand Marshall’s father.”

  A black pickup turned into the parking lot. “Well, well,” Grace said. “Tarzan’s here.”

  “Betts?”

  “Who else would drive a gas guzzler like that?”

  Ten minutes later, after Carlyle had inspected the rafts they’d be using today, he found Hernandez, Nash, and Betts standing quietly around the coffee pot. “What’s going on?” Carlyle said.

  “Burton had two boats flip in the Narrows yesterday,” Hernandez said. “He had people and equipment scattered all up and down the river.”

  “It wasn’t our guy,” Carlyle said, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Nash said.

  “He’s only after Marshall.”

  “It’s true,” Hernandez said. “When they picked up the crew and their clients downstream from Osprey, his guides apologized for making a dumb mistake.”

  Nash finished his coffee and put the cup into the sink. “Why hasn’t Marshall’s father taken care of this mess yet?”

  “Apparently, there are limits,” Carlyle said, “even for millionaires.”

  Marshall stomped out of his office. “You see the damned weather report?”

  The snowmelt usually began pouring into the gorge in mid-April, but the jet stream parked itself over the Adirondacks at the beginning of the month and late afternoon thunderstorms had never let up.

  “The gauge is already up to 7.9,” Marshall said. “By the time we get there, the Narrows is going to be a bitch.” He looked at his clipboard. “You know the routine. I’ll run first. Betts and Hernandez follow me. Keith will be our sweep.”

  “Hold on a second,” Carlyle said. “You mind if I make a suggestion?”

  Marshall glared at him. “About what?”

  Carlyle pulled a small yellow card from his pocket and studied it. “Why don’t you have
Keith lead us through the gorge. Betts will follow him. Hernandez takes the three spot. You can run sweep.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marshall said.

  “If we run into trouble, we can count on you to pick up the pieces.”

  Marshall checked his watch. “You have any idea how long I’ve been running my operation this way?”

  “Why don’t you ask the others what they think?”

  Marshall turned to Nash. “Is this the first time you’ve heard of his plan?”

  “Of course.”

  “You agree with him?”

  “What can you lose?”

  Marshall put his clipboard down on the dining room table and stared at Carlyle. “You got any more advice for me this morning?”

  Carlyle checked his list. “We should leave twenty yards between boats, not ten.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’ll give us more time to react in case there’s an accident.”

  “And what makes you so sure he’ll hit us again?”

  “Until we know what this guy is after, another attack may be unavoidable.”

  “Is that it, then?” Marshall said.

  “One more thing. I want to choose the people who go in Keith’s boat.”

  Marshall grabbed the list in Carlyle’s hand and tore it up. “You’ve certainly got some balls. But just remember this. Once we get back here, I’m taking over this outfit again.”

  “I’m not asking you to give up control of anything,” Carlyle said. “Let’s just try it my way this time. See how things turn out.”

  Marshall slammed down his coffee cup and walked into his office.

  Carlyle passed Grace on the way out of the lodge. She was selling use-it-and-toss-it rain gear and souvenir t-shirts to three women who’d just pulled into the parking lot. “Excuse me a moment, will you?” she said to her clients. “I’ve got to pick a fight with one of our guides.” She walked out from behind her desk and pulled Carlyle aside. “Sherlock. Hold on a minute.”

  Carlyle dropped his gear bag on the ground. “I’ve got a trip to run.”

  She grabbed the sleeve of his dry suit. “I just heard what went on in there. Are you serious? Talking to him like that?”

  “The storm will pass, don’t worry.”

  “When are you going to realize he doesn’t like getting sandbagged in front of his employees?”

  “He’s running out of options. What choice does he have?”

  She shook her head. “You’ve been reading too many of them schoolbooks, Carlyle. He’ll never forget this.”

  An hour later, while walking from their bus to the headwaters of the Indian, Betts spotted Pierce standing next to an unmarked patrol car. “What’s that asshole doing here?”

  Carlyle nodded to the Deputy but said nothing to him. “Pierce may not be the only cop on duty today.”

  “That’s just what we need right now, a shoot-out on the river.” Betts, who was carrying a large jug of water in his right hand, shifted it to his left. “By the way, you see these clients? A couple of them look like ads for human growth hormone.”

  “Don’t complain. We may just need all that muscle.”

  The light rain turned into a steady downpour as Carlyle and Betts slid down the muddy slope to the put-in. Hernandez, who looked relieved to have a strong crew for once, kept busy rearranging the equipment in his boat. Marshall, at the back of the line, sat tight-lipped, waiting for the trip to begin.

  “You better prepare yourself for one huge river today,” Betts said.

  “What are you talking about?” Carlyle said.

  “The guy at the sluice was told to keep the gate wide open all morning. The town’s worried about upstream flooding.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. It’ll add another foot to what we have already. By the time this is over, Marshall may wish for once that he’d cancelled a trip.”

  As they waited for the go-ahead signal from Nash, Betts gave his standard “paddle or die” speech to their crew. He sounded like one of those shipwrecked Arctic explorers, tight-lipped and grim in the face of an approaching calamity. After he’d finished putting the fear of God into them, he turned to Carlyle. “Now we’re supposed to just sit here and wait like fish in a barrel?”

  “Keep it down, will you? Let’s just follow Keith and stay out of trouble.”

  “Stay out of trouble?” Betts said. “Why the fuck didn’t I think of that?”

  Nash, with a crew working like galley slaves, led the four-boat convoy quickly through the first series of staircase rapids. They reached the eddy at the bottom of Gooley Steps in twenty minutes and pulled over for a quick break.

  Water poured off Betts’s helmet. “If this rain doesn’t let up soon, we could be in deep shit.”

  “You’ve seen it worse than this.” Carlyle knew, however, that they’d be trapped in the gorge between sheer granite walls for at least two hours. If this madman had figured out how to attack them in Mile-Long or Givenny’s, their boats would be scattered all up and down the river, like rabbits in a cornfield, ready to be picked off.

  Despite Carlyle’s concern about another attack, Marshall’s outfit made it from the Confluence to Blue Ledge Basin in one piece.

  After his crew went off to stretch their legs, Betts said, “What if I told you this might be my last season?” He was also eyeing the three men and three women in Nash’s raft who, instead of goofing around, as most clients did, were examining their gear and talking quietly.

  Carlyle pulled a small thermos of coffee from his dry bag. “You’re bailing out on us?”

  “You know what it’s like having a bull’s-eye on your back every time you get on this river?”

  “We’re going to catch this guy.”

  “You think you’ll still be around to see that day?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Betts rose from his seat in the cockpit. “Marshall’s terminally pissed. You made him look like an idiot this morning with that boat-order stunt.”

  “He can’t get rid of me just yet.”

  “I wouldn’t turn my back on him.” Betts walked away from the raft. “I better get these schmucks back here. Nash looks like he’s getting ready to shove off.”

  Despite a current that had grown in size and velocity as they got closer to the gorge, Marshall’s four boats made it safely through the Narrows and Mile Long Rapid. Around 1:30, with Nash providing hand signals to warn them of obstacles, they picked their way through two rock-lined channels in Gunsight Rapids. When their boat made a hard-right-hand turn at the end of Gunsight, Carlyle could see the top end of Harris Rift and, in the distance, the derelict wood and steel trestle spanning the Hudson.

  Nash was fifty yards ahead of them when Carlyle leaned toward Betts. “Get going, will you. We need to stay close to him.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I told you all this morning. I want us within hailing distance. Just move the boat.”

  Betts stood up on the back tube of their raft. “He’s almost over the edge. We’ll never get near him now.”

  Avoiding a half-dozen recircs and hydraulics, Betts and Carlyle rushed down the right side of Harris. Four minutes later, they found Nash sitting in tall grass, holding a pressure bandage to his forehead. Blood ran down his face and hands. His life vest was gone and vomit was splattered across the front of his dry suit.

  Carlyle jumped from his raft and rushed over to him. “What the hell happened?” he said, kneeling down in front of Nash.

  “Everything was going fine, then just as I maneuvered us between those two boulders, we ran into something and, bam, we turned over. I got trapped under the boat, my right foot caught between the floor of the raft and the thwart.”

  While Nash described his ordeal, two people from his crew, standing in current up to their knees, hooked a line to a D-ring on his raft and pulled it from the water.

  Nash tried to stand up. “They’re not supposed to do that,” he said. “Get
them out of there, will you?”

  “I’ll take care of it in a second,” Carlyle said, “You have any idea how long you were under?”

  “Long enough to think about how Blake died.” Nash took a couple of deep breaths and winced.

  “How’d you get out?” Carlyle said.

  Nash pointed to one of the women wearing a green and blue wetsuit standing next to the Hudson. “She slipped into the current, fought her way down to me, and slit the thwart. That freed my foot.” He looked straight at Carlyle. “How the hell did she know to do that?”

  Carlyle turned and stared at the woman.

  Nash’s hands would not stop shaking. “You also mind telling me why she happens to be carrying a six-inch knife?”

  The woman who’d saved Nash was speaking quietly to the other members of her crew. The guy to her left began taking notes of their conversation.

  “What’s going on?” Nash said. “They look like commandos, for fuck’s sake.”

  “First tell me what you ran into down there,” Carlyle said.

  “Look for yourself.”

  Carlyle walked to the edge of the river. Looking down, he could see the shimmering outline of an aluminum canoe, like some huge silver marlin, wedged between two boulders.

  Hernandez and then Marshall pulled into an eddy five yards upstream and rushed over. “Why’d you stop?” Marshall yelled. “What’s going on?”

  “He did it again,” Carlyle said. “Laid a trap for us.”

  “Tell him about the woman,” Nash said. “The commando, or whatever the hell she is, who saved me.”

  “What about her?” Marshall said.

  “You’re not going to like this,” Carlyle said. “She’s a cop.”

  Marshall’s face turned red and he threw his guide paddle into the grass. “What’s a cop doing here?”

  “Calm down,” Carlyle said. “Once DEC approved this trip, I convinced the agency that we needed people who could handle an emergency. Then I made sure they were in the lead raft with Nash. The one that would get hit first.”

  “Are you telling me you knew about all this?”

  “We were pretty sure that if our guy heard you were going out today, he wouldn’t pass up the chance to attack again.”