“Good. This will help keep your permit valid. You better use it before Raines decides she’s had enough of you. Got a crew ready to go?”
“Betts, Nash, and two guys I borrowed from Burton. He says you still can’t interview them.”
“I won’t even ask them what time it is.” Carlyle hesitated for several seconds. “Either of them from that short list I gave you?”
“Both. Who are they anyway?”
“Guys I’ve heard are decent guides.”
“I’ve got five boats and all the equipment sitting on the trailer outside my front door right now. But I can’t do this without you. DEC and the state police say you’re the reason I’m still in business.”
“I’ll be there at seven tomorrow morning.” Marshall hung up. Carlyle stared at the woods surrounding his house.
Carlyle got a pot of coffee ready for the morning, shut off the lights, and wrote a note for Beth. He reminded himself to move those books down to the basement when he got home tomorrow.
Fifteen
Monday
Because traffic was backed up on the Northway, Carlyle drove straight to the put-in. He got out of his truck, pulled on his dry suit, grabbed his gear, and found Marshall at the top of the slope overlooking the basin. “Where’s everyone?”
“Nash is down below, getting our crews prepped. Betts is taking a piss, and we’re waiting on two more guides.”
A rusted-out ’73 jeep, with a busted headlight and Bondo on both side panels, slid into a parking space. Two men Carlyle didn’t recognize threw their rafting gear out the back hatch.
“These our other two guides?” Carlyle said.
“On the left, Al Sayers. The other’s Dave Sutcliffe.”
“You know anything about these two?”
“They’re breathing and they come cheap.”
“What else?”
“The tall dude, Sayers, works at the ski mountain. He’s a gofer on the equipment crew. Sutcliffe’s been around boats forever. But don’t expect him to say much.”
Betts appeared out of the woods wearing a new dry suit and a high-float life vest instead of his ragged squirt boat PFD.
Marshall punched Betts’s life vest. “You expecting to swim today?”
“Don’t give me that. The gauge climbed to nine feet last night. Another hour from now, it’ll hit flood stage. You sure you want to go through with this?”
“If you want to back out,” Marshall said, “do it now.”
“Have you looked at the river? It’s fucking insane.”
“When did you turn pussy?”
Betts looked over at Sutcliffe. “Hey, you think we should take these people through the gorge today?”
Sutcliffe shrugged. “These idiots pay good money to get scared shitless. Who am I to ruin their fun?”
“The Gorge is going to look like a washing machine,” Betts said. “How are inexperienced people supposed to handle something like that?”
“You want to run back to mommy,” Marshall said, “just let me know.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Marshall handed each guide a list of the people in their boats. “Listen up. I’m leading us through the gorge. Alex will be right behind me. Sutcliffe and Sayers follow him. Nash runs sweep, as usual.”
Sayers stared at the meadow. “Where are the other outfitters?”
“It’s Monday,” Marshall said. “We’re the only company that does weekdays.”
“You’re going out there with no backup?” Sayers said.
“You want police protection or something?”
“I was hoping you’d pay us before we took off. Your safety record’s in the toilet right now.”
“Do your job and you’ll get paid, same as everyone.” He looked over at Carlyle. “Who do you want to ride with?”
“Surprise me.”
“You better go with me, then,” Marshall said.
“Boss?” Sutcliffe said. “I’m a person short. He can come in my boat.”
“Fine,” Marshall said. “I’m sick of being spied on.”
Carlyle and Sutcliffe grabbed their paddles and personal gear and began picking their way down the path toward the basin. “You sure you don’t mind me looking over your shoulder?” Carlyle said.
“I did you a favor,” Sutcliffe said. “You don’t want to be trailblazing through these rapids today.”
When they reached the basin, Sutcliffe marched up to a couple of burly guys sitting on his raft. “You two, up front. The rest of you, three on each side.” He gave his clients the standard safety speech. “Any questions? Nobody’s going to ask me anything? It’s your funeral, then. Let’s take off.”
After each guide took his crew for a spin around the basin, Marshall raised his right arm, the signal that they were ready to go.
Sutcliffe yelled, “Forward one stroke!” The boat edged away from the trees surrounding the basin. “Stop. I’ll take it now.”
Current pouring through the wide-open sluice gate at the dam caught the raft and pushed it toward the Indian. They were twenty yards behind Marshall, but catching up fast.
The sun slipped behind a layer of gray clouds, turning the water a nasty shade of green. Carlyle looked to his left, toward the woods and the darkness beyond. The river, near flood stage for the first time this spring, hissed and groaned as it churned toward the Confluence.
“You’re that professor I’ve been hearing about,” Sutcliffe said. “The one out to catch our river ghost.”
“That’s me. Not that I’ve had any luck so far.”
The Indian was supposed to be a warm-up for what lay ahead in the gorge, but juiced by the enormous spring snowmelt, today it was almost unrecognizable. Huge waves and boat-gulping hydraulics filled the river as it plowed through the canyon. A fierce wind whipped the current into a white froth that needled Carlyle’s face with cold spray. Driven downstream by the dam release from Indian Lake, the convoy of five rafts took only thirty minutes to reach their usual rest stop halfway to the Confluence.
Sutcliffe passed Carlyle his water bottle. “You still hunting for that killer?”
“We’re hoping this case will be over soon.”
“Good luck with that.”
Carlyle wiped his glasses. “Mind if I ask why you’re out here today?”
“No one’s willing to work for Marshall. They think he’s jinxed.”
“So why’d you sign up?”
“I can always use the cash.”
Marshall soon took off, and Sutcliffe worked his boat into the current. Five minutes later, Marshall steered his raft into a slender chute on river right. Sutcliffe hesitated.
Carlyle eyed him. “We going to follow him?”
Sutcliffe never took his eyes off the river. “With the Indian like this? It’s insane. But he’s the boss.” He slipped into the chute behind Marshall. Betts and Nash also followed them. Sayers did not, but stayed outside the chute picking out a broader route.
Although they were twenty yards behind the lead boat, Carlyle never lost sight of Marshall sitting high up on his back tube, his bright blue and yellow dry suit outlined against a backdrop of Scotch pines. Thirty seconds later, halfway down the chute, Marshall was wrenched from his boat and, arms flailing, somersaulted backwards into the Indian.
Although battered by waves and subsurface rocks, Marshall was able to grab the chicken line with his left hand as he was dragged downstream like a cowboy lashed to a Brahma bull.
Sutcliffe pulled up alongside Marshall’s raft, and Carlyle yanked him from the river. Three minutes later, the convoy rafted up in calmer water fifty yards above Gooley Steps.
Carlyle eased Marshall into a sitting position. “What the hell happened?”
Marshall wrapped his right hand around a D-ring and gritted his teeth. “Didn’t you see it?”
“See what?”
“That fishing line strung across the channel. Almost took my head off.”
Carlyle turned around and stared at
the waves pouring out of the chute. What was the booby trap doing this far up the river? He was certain that if there had been an ambush today, it would have been in Harris.
Nash grabbed Marshall under the arms, laid him across a thwart and covered him with a thermal blanket. “Where’s it hurt?”
“My chest. It feels all busted up.”
“Can you breathe okay?”
Marshall closed his eyes and inhaled. “Shit, no.”
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
Nash put his right hand on Marshall’s side. “Take a deep one.”
Marshall, pale but sweating despite the chilled air, groaned.
Nash stood up. “He’s got two or three broken ribs.”
“We’ve got to get him back to the basin,” Betts said. “He needs a paramedic.”
“Are you nuts?” Nash said. “We can’t bushwhack two miles with him like this.”
“You got a better idea?”
“We strap him to a backboard at Virgin,” Nash said, “and I’ll float him out in my boat.”
Marshall attempted to sit up. “You can’t be serious. I can’t go through another three hours of this.”
“We’ll get you help as soon as we reach North River.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Betts said. “How do we get his people out of here?”
“In the other four boats,” Nash said.
Sutcliffe sat up higher and scanned the other rafts. “Where are you going to find eight empty spaces?”
Carlyle picked up his dry bag and stepped across to Marshall’s boat. “We don’t have time to argue. I’ll take over for him.”
“Are you serious?” Nash said. “With the river near flood stage?”
“How many times do I have to say this?” Carlyle slid his left foot under the restraining strap. “I’ve worked on the Hudson longer than any of you.”
Betts lowered his voice. “DEC will go crazy if we let an unlicensed guide haul people through the gorge.”
“We have no choice,” Nash said. “If we try to walk Marshall out of here, he might dislocate a rib.”
“Discussion over,” Carlyle said. “Every second we stay here makes us open to another attack.” He looked at the four guides standing around him, and then focused on Sayers. “Why didn’t you follow us down the chute?”
Sayers put his fists on his hips and met Carlyle’s gaze. “I’ve never gone that way before and it looked suicidal. What are you accusing me of?”
Carlyle looked at him a moment longer. “Just asking. Okay, here’s what I want. Nash moves from the four spot to the one and leads us through the gorge.”
Nash waved him off. “Are you forgetting what happened the last time you talked me into playing George Washington?”
Carlyle leaned back, testing the foot strap. “You’re right, that wasn’t fair. You take us down to Blue Ledges. I’ll take us through the gorge.”
“You’re not serious, are you?” Betts said.
“If you think I’m joking, just watch me.” Carlyle shoved Marshall’s boat into the Indian and the raft picked up speed. “The really tough stuff is ahead of us, he told the people in his boat. If you want to change seats, let me know right now.”
“Have you done this before?” the kid in the front seat said.
“Once or twice. You’ve got nothing to worry about except doing exactly what I tell you.” He gave his crew the standard, “I know you can do this” speech and then let the Indian drag his raft toward Gooley Steps.
A boat moves so fast when a river is near flood stage that Carlyle could only rely on his experience and a set of automatic moves buried deep in his subconscious. He would not be thinking his way down the Hudson; this was a read-and-react situation.
Because of the almost constant rain the mountains had received this week, the most treacherous ledges were submerged today. Only an idiot could have scraped rock on the Indian. But as the gradient increased and the river narrowed, Carlyle’s raft began to slide from wave to wave like a surfer coiled tightly inside a twenty-foot-high boil line.
For five or six minutes, Carlyle and his crew careened down through the Gooley Steps. If he allowed the boat to flip here, in a place where granite boulders plugged the current, someone might lose a couple of teeth—or worse—during a long, very cold swim.
When he finally reached the Confluence, Carlyle took several deep breaths. The experience of driving a raft through gut-churning rapids, where one was only seconds from a devastating accident, was almost hallucinogenic. Vital tasks, such as avoiding rocks that could rip the guts out of a boat, were all-consuming. The calculus of success here was simple. Either Carlyle made the right moves and his crew remained safe, or he let his attention wander and someone ended up in the river.
Just before they took off again, Nash said, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Listen, when you do this river over a hundred times, it’s in your DNA.”
“Wait a couple of hours before you decide to relax.”
Following Betts, Carlyle’s raft barreled across the current. Cedar Ledges was supposed to be a warm-up for what lay ahead, but it shocked Carlyle. There were truck-sized holes everywhere, thunderous recirc engines that would hold onto his boat till the next millennium if he screwed up. But because he remembered every foot of this river, Carlyle kept them far away from places where a boat could wrap around a boulder.
Halfway down Cedar, Sayers caught up to Carlyle’s raft. “Prettiest part of the trip, isn’t it?” Carlyle said.
“It’s all just lumber to me.”
“You ever hike around here?”
“Why come all this way? I got trees where I live.”
Twenty minutes later, Carlyle’s raft picked up speed as it got pushed through a sweeping right-hand turn. “Pay attention now!” he shouted. “Entrance is just ahead.”
As the Hudson churned south and east toward Blue Ledge basin, it crashed into a string of boulders and became a series of whitewater cauldrons, each one setting off a blast that reverberated through the canyon.
The river plummeted downhill. Surrounded by chest-high swells, they plowed past a series of white-tipped hydraulics. A line of boulders ahead turned the horizon into a ragged kaleidoscope of colors: deep green, white, and dark brown. Breathing deeply, Carlyle let himself slip into a rhythm, the reflexive process of threading a boat through a minefield. The procedure had an inexorable logic, a series of split-second calculations that got him through Entrance safely, but left him no time at all to be on the lookout for another surprise attack.
Just before noon, the convoy slid down into Blue Ledge Basin.
“We should take a break here,” Nash said.
“Keep moving,” Marshall said. “I’ve got to get off this river.”
Nash said, “Everyone’s exhausted. It’s our last chance to rest up before the Boreas.”
Marshall tried to sit up. “You heard what I said.” He turned to Sayers and Sutcliffe. “What about you two?”
“You bought me for the day,” Sayers said. “You call the shots.”
Sutcliffe said, “I say we get it over with.”
Nash turned to Betts. “You got an opinion?”
“Carlyle’s in charge. Let him handle it.”
“It’s been a tough morning,” Carlyle said. “No harm in stopping for a minute.”
After the guides beached their boats opposite the ice-covered cliffs, Carlyle handed out snacks to his crew and then walked over to Nash. “Marshall okay?”
“He’s got a chick stroking his forehead, probably wondering if he can get laid with broken ribs.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“What about?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“You’re welcome to him.” Nash headed toward the woods.
Marshall, eyes closed, was leaning against a thwart in Nash’s raft. “You going to make it?” Carlyle said.
“What choice do I have?”
“I need to t
alk to you.”
“Are you serious? I can hardly breathe.”
Carlyle leaned close to the injured guide. “If you don’t answer me, we may not make it out of here.”
Marshall coughed and, when his ribs flexed, groaned.
“I’ll make it quick,” Carlyle said. “Are you the only one who runs that chute on the Indian?”
“No one will go near it after what happened to Blake.”
“You ever have an employee who’s handy with a canoe?”
“What’s this all about?”
“Just answer me.”
“Good enough to run one through the gorge?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Betts is too big to. Nash’s specialty is kayaks. I’ve got no idea about Sutcliffe or Sayers.”
“Any of them fixated on the backcountry? You know, survivalist types?”
“You mean like living off berries and mushrooms?”
“Right.”
“They’re beer and brats people, for Christ’s sake.”
“You know where they all live?”
“I’m not the type you invite over for dinner, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Anybody drive a really old pickup?”
“Guides are generally poor as shit. Why do you think they do this kind of work?”
“Anyone good with a fly rod?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. That’s a rich man’s hobby.”
“Just answer me.”
“Betts uses dynamite to catch his dinner. No one has time to tie flies.”
“What about the two guides you hired today?”
“Sayers owns a few acres somewhere. Always short of money, like the rest of them.”
“Sutcliffe?”
“He’s local, too. Works part-time on the river. Keeps to himself. Will you stop asking me this shit?”
“That’s enough for now. We’ll get you out of here soon.”
Carlyle motioned Nash over. “We’re done.”
Nash stared at the blue-gray cliffs hovering over the river. “You’re doing great.”
“You’re not going to break my balls again?” Carlyle said. “What a surprise.”
The Gorge Page 18