“Where did we go wrong, then?” Wells said.
“What if the terrain is really no obstacle? What would happen then?”
“You can’t have it both ways. Either it stops him or it doesn’t.”
“Drag that light over here.” Wells brought a gooseneck lamp to the center of the table. “Look at the map again,” Carlyle said.
Wells put his finger on the Hudson at Blue Ledges. He could see the Huntley Point Trail dropping down from the north-east, then the canyon walls enveloping the river. “There’s no way for him to get in there.”
“Really? Look farther east.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve got a four-mile wall of rock, six or seven hundred feet high on both sides. And nothing but wilderness behind it.”
“Keep going.”
Wells slowly traced the Hudson from the Narrows to the Boreas. “The freight line to the mine at Tahawus crosses the Hudson just below Harris. Why didn’t we see it?”
“Because it’s been abandoned for over two decades and we just assumed the trestle was impassable. That’s why we figured the gorge was invulnerable.”
“That means we could get hit on either side of Harris.”
“Right. He could hide his vehicle and be in and out in two hours and change. Or he may have a place to hide until we’ve given up looking for him.”
“What makes you so sure Harris is his next target?” Wells said.
“He keeps moving downstream ahead of us. This is the first place east of the gorge where he can come and go whenever he wants.”
“Are you saying we should bushwhack into the trestle?”
Carlyle got up and walked to a picture window overlooking the valley. “We have to find out if he can use it to attack us on both sides of the gorge. And he must have been planning something when those two guys spotted him.”
Carlyle turned and faced Wells. “We may have overlooked something else. It’s three miles from the trestle to the take-out at North River. There’s plenty of unobstructed shoreline on both sides of the river. He could be planning almost anything along this stretch.”
Carlyle drove slowly across the one-lane bridge spanning the Boreas, pulled his truck off the road to the right, and killed the engine.
Wells said, “You sure you don’t want to let the state police know what we’re doing?”
Carlyle opened up a thermos and handed Wells some coffee. “They’d only bring a SWAT team in an armored vehicle. He’d hear them coming a mile away and we’d never get near him.”
“What happens if we do run into him?”
Carlyle looked through the windshield as a rabbit ran across the road. “We calmly explain that we’re there to carry out a citizen’s arrest. If he doesn’t surrender, we run like hell.”
“Be serious,” Wells said. “I may get my ass shot off because of you.”
Carlyle got out of the truck. “I promise to find a pretty young doctor to sew it back on.”
After pulling on their backpacks, they began walking along the abandoned rail line, now almost completely overgrown by vines and thick bushes, that would take them to the gorge.
As soon as Carlyle entered the woods, the only sound he could hear was his feet striking the limestone chips between wooden ties. He felt hemmed in, cut off from the outside world. The tall pines and the granite cliff to his right blocked sunlight from reaching the valley floor. Ignoring the possibility that he and Wells were putting themselves in danger, Carlyle concentrated on moving south toward the river. Up ahead, the track snaked along the base of an escarpment, increasing his sense of isolation.
After a quarter mile, they stopped to look at the narrow, seething river on their left. The Boreas, boulder-strewn and only thirty yards wide, had carved a trench in the landscape from its source in a mountain lake twenty miles to the north. Once the snowmelt disappeared, it would again be a bone-dry ravine, though one day of heavy rain would convert the Boreas into a raging torrent again.
Wells said, “You mind telling me what our plan is today?”
“Every attack has been different. All we know so far is that he’s patient and deliberate. That’s not the portrait of a crazy person. I’m hoping that if we keep analyzing his methods, the puzzle will begin to make sense.”
“If we don’t stop him,” Wells said, “could this crusade of his turn into a killing spree?”
“Every time we fail to stop him, he becomes more reckless.”
“So how do we find out what’s going on in his mind?”
Carlyle pushed a thick vine out of their way. “That Sherlock Holmes stuff, thinking like your enemy? It doesn’t work. We can’t anticipate what he’s going to do because he probably has no idea himself. My guess is we’ll catch him during one of his stunts. His need to get back at Marshall may push him over the edge, and if his rage overwhelms his caution, he may make a fatal error.”
After another twenty minutes, they were again enveloped by the forest’s semidarkness. Carlyle could see nothing but the serried ranks of Scotch pine and spruce to his right and the dull gleam of the rails stretching ahead of him. They had two miles to go before they would see the Hudson.
A mile and a half later, the track veered away from the river and through a stand of white birch, slender trees bent by age and wind, whose pale bark was peeling off like discarded snakeskin.
Just before noon, Carlyle heard the Hudson just ahead. Pushing aside a wall of vines, he broke free of the undergrowth. A single-span bridge supported by rough wooden girders and cross-ties embedded in eight huge concrete footings spanned the gorge. The Hudson, still swollen by the spring rains, piled up against the footings. Carlyle and Wells were standing on the edge of a steep embankment that plunged straight down to the river.
“Jesus,” Wells said. “How far down do you think it is?”
“Fifty, sixty feet maybe.”
The trestle was two hundred yards long and no more than eight feet wide. The rails, mounted on weather-resistant ties, were six feet apart. No more than eight inches lay between those rails and the edge of the bridge.
Carlyle retied his bootlaces and pulled a pair of binoculars from his backpack. He stood up, zipped his jacket, and stepped onto the first crosstie. The wood was weathered and cracked. Six inches of open space lay between the crossties. Below him, white-tipped wave trains battered the ancient steel supports of the span. With no handrails to grab hold of, he spread his arms wide to maintain his balance. “I’ll be right back.”
“What the hell you doing?”
“This may be our only chance to find out where we’re vulnerable here.” Carlyle took ten steps out over the gorge. “I can see all the way back to the top of Harris, and the shoreline on both sides. It’s amazing.”
“Be careful. One gust of wind could send you down on those rocks.”
“I’ve got plenty of water underneath me.”
“Does your wife know she married a madman?”
“You should come out here.”
“Not on your life. I wear a harness bolted to rock when I do stuff like that.”
Carlyle moved out and across the span. When he was thirty yards away from Wells, with nothing below him but the churning, boulder-filled Hudson, he paused.
Harris Rift, a half-mile set of continuous staircase rapids, each ledge leading to a set of white-tipped hydraulics, was to his right. Unable to stop himself, his feet inching across the wooden ties, Carlyle took another twenty steps farther out onto the trestle.
Balsam fir, hemlock, red spruce, and white cedar marched up the hillsides on both sides of the river. A thick line of gray and white clouds filled the sky to Carlyle’s left.
Dozens of nearly inaccessible mountain lakes and trout-filled streams lay north and west of here, but only a single track led into the backcountry. South of the Hudson, the nearest trail out of the wilderness was four miles away.
Carlyle looked to his left. Two hundred yards downstream, the Hudson, wide and turbulent, disappeared into a gap b
etween the cliffs. When he was a rookie, after he’d spent three or four hours fighting off the rapids, he could not wait to reach this bridge. On mornings when he was cold, bone-tired, and afraid of making a serious mistake, reaching the bottom of Harris Rift meant that he had finished brawling with rapids for the day, that he had proven his tenacity and skill on one of the toughest rivers in the country.
Carlyle was sure that his next meeting with Marshall’s adversary would be near this bridge. Harris provided everything he needed: abundant tree cover, accessibility from both sides of the river, and, with the abandoned rail track, the perfect escape route.
With wind gusts rushing south through the valley, Carlyle turned around and made his way back to Wells. The two men moved back into the woods, sat on a large flat rock, and began to eat lunch.
“Okay, Spidey,” Wells said. “You proved you’ve got cojones. What did you learn from that stunt?”
“This place is perfect. He’ll show up here.”
Facing the river, Carlyle saw a flash of red in the trees on the far side of the gorge. He brought the binoculars to his eyes and rotated the glasses slowly toward a stand of white pine a hundred yards to their right. “Pack up your lunch. We’re moving out.”
“I’ve just started. Give me a minute, will you?”
“Do it now.” Carlyle stood up and, turning sideways to prevent himself from slipping on the loose gravel, made his way down the slope to the Hudson, where he began bushwhacking through the woods. After several minutes, he stopped, stepped out into the open, raised the binoculars again and scanned the hillside across the way. “Got glasses in your pack? Take a look right across from us. See the trees at one o’clock? Just to the left of that bare space in the woods, ten or fifteen feet up from the river.”
Carlyle rested his elbows on a boulder and exhaled in order to steady the image. As he turned the binoculars’ focus wheel, the pines faded into the background and a form emerged.
Someone was standing inside the tree line, just far enough from the river to conceal himself, a tall figure wearing a top hat and a calf-length coat. He had on a plaid shirt, gloves, and a black scarf knotted around his neck. Carlyle could also make out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a long black beard. “Can you see what’s in his right hand?”
“Holy shit. A peavey. You think he wants us to see him?”
Carlyle didn’t take his eyes off their target. “I think he’s sending us a message: You idiots will never catch me.”
“What’s with the goddamn costume?”
“It’s not a costume, it’s a mask, a way for him to assume a different identity, someone with skills he doesn’t have.”
“But why that particular get-up?”
“It’s what loggers wore a hundred years ago. They told people they were dressed like aristocrats because they were doing a job no one else could do. Those men survived unimaginable conditions. He may be saying he’s just as tough as they were.” Carlyle stared at the figure on the far side of the valley. “This is worse than I thought.”
“We’ve got a maniac standing a hundred yards across from us. How could it be worse?”
“The disguise intensifies his self-delusion. He may be switching personalities and losing contact with reality.”
Suddenly, the figure across the way stepped into the sunlight and stared at them.
Wells said, “What’s he doing?”
“Maybe daring us to stop him.”
“How do we know he won’t attack us?”
“Everything he’s done so far suggests he’s only after the Marshalls.”
“You sure he’s not going to come charging across that trestle and cut our throats with that thing?”
“He likes the game he’s playing.
“So why’s he tormenting us?”
“To show us who’s in control.”
When Carlyle looked across the gorge again, the figure had disappeared into the trees.
“He must have a place near here. We won’t find him unless he wants us to.”
“So how do we draw him out?”
Carlyle stood up and began walking up the hill toward the trestle. “The same way we did it before. With bait he absolutely can’t resist.”
At 3:00 p.m., Carlyle and Wells were back at the main road. Wells said, “Look to your left.”
Two state troopers were moving toward them, both in combat fatigues and black boots. The one in front had on a lieutenant’s bar with a nametag, “Morris.” His backup, carrying a twelve gauge and a Glock, never took his eyes off the track and the surrounding woods.
Morris said, “We knew you’d pull another stunt like this.”
The backup said, “Sir, I’d prefer we step away from the road. It would be safer if we moved out of the sun.”
“How did you find out we were here?” Carlyle said.
“Abel Elliot told us to keep an eye on you. One of my men saw you leave Indian Lake this morning.”
Wells glanced at the guy with the Glock and the shotgun. “What’s with the armor?”
“You don’t enter a virtual war zone without protection. I came to say you can stop this wild-goose chase of yours.”
“Why’s that?” Carlyle said.
“One of my men discovered fresh footprints and a spool of fishing line on the Indian where Sanders died.”
“What makes you so sure it’s fresh evidence?”
“A forensics team said the tracks were a day old.”
“Where exactly did you find this stuff?”
“Just upstream of Guide’s Hole. Right where Sanders went in.”
“How does this affect your plans?”
“We’re moving all personnel back there. If I know Elliot, he’ll want you to move your operation upstream also.”
Wells turned to Carlyle. “You want to tell him or should I?”
“Tell me what?” Morris said.
“We just spotted our guy near the trestle.” Carlyle described their hike into the gorge and the person who emerged from the woods across from them.
Morris scowled. “What in hell makes you so certain I should reposition my men down to this sector?”
“This guy’s still on the loose because he keeps moving to new territory. Trust me, Harris is his next target.”
Morris dug a furrow in the ground with the heel of his boot. “Give me some solid evidence. Something I can take to my superiors.”
“Tell him about the costumes,” Wells said.
“He doesn’t appear now without wearing a disguise,” Carlyle said. “I think it’s a sign that he’s undergone a major psychotic break. And that may cause him to become reckless.”
“You’re goddamn lucky he didn’t come across the bridge after you,” Morris said.
“He wants to drive people away from the gorge, not bring them into it.”
“Let’s suppose for a second that you’re right. That he’s planning another attack. What would you do if you were in my place?”
“I’d have two crews, one at a staging area in North River and another in Riparius in case he eludes us. And a chopper ready to fly into the meadow just south of Harris.”
“Are you sure of this?”
“I’ve been studying people like him for a decade and watching this guy night and day for over two weeks. I’m pretty certain that I’ve got a plan that will draw him into a trap.”
When Carlyle got back to the house two hours later, he and Beth had dinner. “How did your work go today?” he said.
“It never gets any easier. You start the morning hoping to create something entirely wonderful. Then, after a half-dozen false starts, all your energy and optimism are gone.” There was blue paint on her hair and glasses, tobacco stains on the fingers of her right hand.
Carlyle had watched her fall into a depression before. “How long before I can see what you’ve been working on?” he said.
“Not for another month. Maybe longer if it doesn’t get any better.”
Carlyle finished his
coffee and cleared the table.
“When this business in Warrensburg is finished, we can get back to a normal life. Spend all day on the escarpment, have a picnic, just wander around.” They had hiked or skied up there every week for the past three years, never growing tired of the trails that wound through the woods. In autumn, when yellow and red maple leaves lay thick under their boots, they walked for hours, saying little, content to simply be together.
Beth did the dishes. “Did you find your letter?”
Carlyle stared at his hands. “I saw it on the table in the hall when I came in.”
Beth shut off the water. “What did they say?”
He pulled the letter from his pocket and read it again. “Just what you expect. The Provost thanks me for my service to my students and the university, but after reviewing my tenure application, he’s decided not to renew my contract.”
She sat down next to him and put her hand on his arm. “How can they do that?”
“I gave them no choice.”
“You did everything they asked for, served on every committee they asked you to, and churned out papers like a madman.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but those people don’t give a rat’s ass about the faculty.”
“What will we do now?”
“I’ve got a year to find another job. Don’t worry; a criminologist can always get work in a town run by corrupt politicians.”
Beth looked around the kitchen. “Will we have to leave this house?”
He took her hand. “Not unless you want to.”
After Beth retreated upstairs to her studio, Carlyle finished cleaning the kitchen. He snuffed out the candles in the dining room and walked out to the front yard. As he approached the barn, a dark four-door sedan cruised slowly past their driveway.
Inside the barn, he threw his rafting gear, helmet, dry suit, pile jacket, two pair of socks, and river boots into a mesh bag. A Spyderco knife, throw bag, protein bar, and Blast whistle got tucked into a small waterproof satchel.
Outside the barn, he checked the gas gauge in his truck, entered the house, and locked the front door behind him.
The phone rang just as he turned out the lights in the kitchen. “Carlyle? It’s Ryan Marshall. Listen to this. I managed to line up a group to run the gorge tomorrow. Forty-eight people.”
The Gorge Page 17