The Gorge

by Ronald M. Berger

  “Grace,” Carlyle said, “sit down a minute, will you?”

  She sat next to Carlyle, as far from Pierce as she could get.

  “Did you know Dave Sutcliffe was Sam Pasco’s grandson?”

  She dropped her backpack on the table. “Are you shitting me?”

  Morris was twisting the thick gold ring on his right hand. “Who’s Sam Pasco and how is he connected to these crimes?”

  “Every criminologist in New York State has studied the Pasco case,” Carlyle said. He explained that Alvin (Sam) Pasco was born in Stony Creek in 1897, just ten miles from here. “Pasco and his brother-in-law, Joseph Woods, the trigger man, murdered his father, Leander, one night as the old man was coming home from a bar in Thurman.”

  “What happened to them?” Morris said.

  “A jury found Woods guilty of murder. He was the first man from Warren County to die in the electric chair.”

  “And Pasco?” Bognor said.

  “He served eleven years and was freed in 1926.”

  Pierce sat back down. “How in hell can you connect our case to something that took place eighty years ago?”

  Carlyle looked down at his notes. “When Sam Pasco got out of prison, he came back here and married Alice Roberts. In 1929, they had a girl they named after her mother. Thirty years later, she married Robert Sutcliffe, a local farmer. Robert is David Sutcliffe’s father.”

  Bognor looked at Carlyle sharply. “Robert Sutcliffe? Are you sure?”

  “Sheriff,” Grace said, “There isn’t much to do around here but drink and nurse grievances. It’s him.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Grace, tell them the rest of the story,” Carlyle said.

  “Alice and Robert Sutcliffe held a series of dead-end jobs. They were considered trash by people around here. But forty or so years ago, they bought a beat-up old cabin and six rocky acres on Johnston Mountain.”

  “You can guess what happened next,” Carlyle said. “When Phillip Marshall and his partners bought up all that property on the mountain, they discovered that the Sutcliffe tract was right where they planned to put their base lodge. That’s when their lawyers started pressuring David’s parents to sell.”

  “It was brutal,” Grace said. “They tried to hold on, but their neighbors, dreaming of what a buyout would bring, harassed them night and day for months.”

  “Dave’s parents finally gave in, didn’t they?” Carlyle said.

  “Gave up is more like it,” she said. “Losing their land broke them. Alice passed away in an asylum in Glens Falls. Her husband died of a heart attack in 2003. You wonder why people around here hate developers. Just get them talking about the Marshalls.”

  Morris pushed back his chair. “How can you be sure there’s a connection between Sam Pasco and this current rampage?”

  “It’s all about the power of memory and revenge,” Carlyle said. “After his time in prison, Sam Pasco became an outlaw. He poached his neighbors’ trees, burned down their barns, killed their cattle, and destroyed their fences and phone lines.”

  “I hope they caught the bastard,” Pierce said.

  “It ended badly, all right. In 1934, he was convicted of stealing lumber and served time near the Canadian border. Then, in 1940, after a property dispute, he murdered his cousin, Orlie Eldridge, and ran off into the woods.”

  Carlyle turned in his chair to face Morris. “Pasco went on the run, living in caves and abandoned camps on Johnston Mountain and in the gorge. They finally traced him to a hideout just two miles from here. After Pasco ignored an order to surrender, a state trooper shot him.”

  Morris said, “So you think the grandson’s been using the old man’s death to strike back at the Marshalls.”

  “Subconsciously or not, Dave Sutcliffe may be relying on his grandfather’s reputation to fuel his crusade against the company responsible for his parents’ suffering.”

  “They’re both nothing but murderers,” Pierce said.

  “I’m not supporting what Dave did,” Grace said, “but folks who have nothing would rather die than lose their land.”

  “Give me a break,” Pierce said. “David Sutcliffe couldn’t even have known his grandfather.”

  “But his father must have talked about him,” Carlyle said. “People were afraid of Pasco, but they admired his refusal to buckle under to outsiders. Add to that the injustices suffered by his parents, and it’s more than enough to drive him over the edge.”

  Morris stood up and put his notes in a briefcase. “It’s time to end this discussion. My Special Operations Response Team is primed and ready. I’m turning this manhunt over to them.”

  “Not so fast,” Bognor said. “My office still has jurisdiction in this county.”

  “You think you and Pierce can handle Sutcliffe?”

  “All right, then, suppose you tell us what your plan is for capturing him.”

  “We’ll establish a Command and Control center here at the lodge,” Morris said. “Once we locate Sutcliffe, I’ll have two teams dropped into the target area.”

  Bognor shifted in his chair, “Ric, you want to show the Lieutenant the flaw in his line of reasoning?”

  Carlyle leaned forward. “Nobody knows this terrain like Sutcliffe does. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the locals keep him informed about your plans.”

  “If my men don’t take him down immediately, then they’ll flush him out of wherever he’s hiding.”

  “He could be on the run for months,” Carlyle said. “Are you prepared to wait until he attacks someone else?”

  “Carlyle,” Pierce said. “We’re not dealing with textbooks here. It’s a firepower problem now. Let the pros deal with it.”

  “Listen to me for a minute,” Carlyle said as he walked to the map tacked to the wall. “Almost everyone around here lives in one of three valleys. This means we can concentrate our search in a few crucial areas.”

  Carlyle explained that primary and secondary roads further divided the region into quadrangles, each approximately four miles long. “I assume your men are already guarding the bridges spanning the Hudson at the Glen, Riparius, and North Creek.”

  Morris nodded.

  “Then Sutcliffe will be forced to stay on this side of the river.”

  “Terrain is irrelevant under modern combat conditions,” Morris said. “We put men and assets where we need them.”

  Carlyle looked over at Grace. “You want to show the lieutenant the problem his men are going to have on Johnston Mountain?”

  “If we had the Israelis working for us,” she said, “I’d say go for it. Seeing it’s state troopers, my gut tells me someone on our side is going to get killed if they take on Sutcliffe straight up.”

  “That’s enough” Morris said. “Will someone please get her—”

  “Wait a second,” Bognor said. “Grace, why are you so sure we’re in for trouble?”

  “David’s momma was a frightened little thing. Your fancy doctors would probably call her paranoid. She made sure her husband built their place in such a way that they wouldn’t have any trespassers.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” Morris said.

  Grace pointed to the map on the wall. “You’ve got a three-quarter-mile hike in from the road. The spruce is thick as grass in there. You really think Sutcliffe will let you waltz in and shoot him like a dog?”

  “If he’s booby-trapped the trail,” Bognor said, “You’ll have to sweep every foot of ground between the road and the house.”

  “You don’t think we’ve thought of that?” Morris said.

  “The last bit,” Grace said, “is real steep. Then, just before you see their place, the trail ends in a large meadow. When they cross that, your men will be out in the open.”

  “What about the house?” Carlyle said.

  “It sits on a small rise at the far side of that field, right up against a cliff face. You can’t be sneaking up behind him.”

  “If Sutcliffe decides to take a stand,”
Bognor said, “he could hold out for hours, maybe days.”

  Morris said, “I’ve got two airborne assault teams and twenty troopers sitting at a command post just down the road. Some of these men have been battle-tested in Iraq or Afghanistan. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “You’re forgetting something,” Carlyle said. Surrender wasn’t an option for Sam Pasco and it won’t be for his grandson. Do you really want some Rambo conducting guerrilla warfare for months on end in these hills? I think there’s another way to handle this.”

  “You’ve got one minute.”

  “I’ll try to talk him down off that mountain.”

  “That’s insane,” Morris said. “They’ll have my scalp if I put a civilian in harm’s way.”

  “Lieutenant,” Bognor said, “Carlyle has spent the past month studying the way Sutcliffe thinks and behaves.”

  “Sutcliffe’s a psychopath. You can’t negotiate with that type.”

  “He may be delusional, but I may be able to break through to him if you give me some time, Carlyle said.”

  Morris shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  Bognor said, “If you go in there without Carlyle, you’re risking a major bloodbath. Are you willing to take responsibility for that?”

  Morris began tapping his finger on the desk. “If I agree to allow Carlyle to negotiate with him, will you accept my conditions?”

  “Let’s hear them.”

  “My men will cordon off the mountain and surround the cabin. Carlyle will have three minutes to lure Sutcliffe out of that cabin. But if he gives any sign of resistance, we will take him down. Is that clear?”

  Grace picked up her backpack and stood up. “It may be too late for negotiations.”

  “What do you mean?” Morris said.

  “Just before I walked in here, I told Betts I saw Sutcliffe’s van parked outside of Giuseppe’s Pizza.”

  “I thought you said Alex was in the gear shed,” Bognor said.

  “Not anymore. Twenty minutes ago, he drove out of the parking lot like his hair was on fire.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Pierce said. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “You jumped all over me when I walked in here. What the hell was I supposed to do, talk reason to you?”

  Seventeen

  Betts was lying on his side in the van, his hands and ankles bound with nylon cord. His head rested on a pile of oil-soaked rags. Every time Sutcliffe’s vehicle hit a crack in the pavement, the business end of a lug wrench ground into his ribs. “God damn it, where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Sutcliffe said. “But if you don’t shut up and lay still, I’m going to tape your fucking mouth. And forget about kicking out a window; that would really piss me off.”

  “Any chance you can loosen these ropes? My shoulders are killing me.”

  Sutcliffe laughed. “If you hadn’t tried to stop me in town, you wouldn’t be hog-tied now.”

  A siren, like the cry of a stranded gull, echoed through the valley.

  “The cops will find you,” Betts said.

  “For your sake, they better not.” Sutcliffe’s van turned onto a narrow unpaved Forest Service road and stopped. “You and me are going for a little hike. If you try to get away, this peavey will be the last thing you ever see.”

  “I’m trussed up like a pig. How the hell am I supposed to escape?”

  Sutcliffe wrenched open the side door of the van, dragged Betts out, and dropped a rope over his head.

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Be quiet. Your job is to do what I tell you. Now get moving.” Sutcliffe pulled the peavey and a shotgun from the front seat and slipped his arms into a large army-issue rucksack.

  “What have you got in that thing?” Betts said.

  “None of your damn business.”

  With Betts in front and Sutcliffe watching him from behind, the two men marched along a plank boardwalk that meandered through a stagnant bog at the foot of Johnston Mountain.

  White cedar surrounded the marsh. Fern, cattail, and water plantain carpeted the damp ground. Pickerel weed floated in the murky water. The smell of rotting vegetation, a mixture of dead leaves and decaying logs, filled the air.

  “Fantastic, huh?” Sutcliffe said.

  “You out of your fucking mind?”

  “This is a special place. I used to hunt this swamp as a kid.”

  “You really expect me to say I’m having a lovely time?”

  “Another comment like that and you’ll be fish food.”

  Betts kept his eyes fixed on the boardwalk. “You mind telling me why you killed Sanders and Blake?”

  “They weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

  “Then who were you gunning for?”

  “Marshall.”

  “Why are you so pissed at him?”

  “You don’t remember what happened last April when I flipped a boat in the Narrows, do you?”

  “For Christ’s sake, that was a year ago.”

  Sutcliffe hesitated a moment. “When we got back to the lodge, Marshall told everyone—you, Nash, Blake, Sanders, and a Forest Service ranger—to meet him in the gear shed.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Marshall picked up a guide paddle and said to me, ‘Have you completely forgotten how to use one of these things? I don’t know how Burton puts up with you.’ He said he couldn’t believe why he’d ever hired me. I had to stand there like some stupid, snot-nosed kid and take it from that spoiled little bastard.”

  “It’s coming back now.”

  “Good. Then maybe you also remember that he told me to pick up my gear, get in my van, and go home to think about the stupid mistake I’d made. When I drove out of the lot, you all were staring at me.”

  “You don’t go berserk because some moron hurts your feelings.”

  “No? I never even got a chance to say there was nothing I could do to prevent what happened.”

  Betts tried to loosen the rope around his neck. “Everyone hates it when Marshall pulls shit like that. No one takes it seriously. But because you couldn’t put that story out of your mind, two guys are dead. How fucked is that?”

  Without warning, Sutcliffe threw Betts on his side, pressed his head to the mud, and brought the peavey’s metal spike close to his ear. “I suggest you shut up.”

  Betts went limp. “I get it. Just let go. Just let go.”

  “Stand up and get moving.”

  Following a series of switchbacks, they hiked through thick stands of sugar maple and hemlock. A stream engorged with snowmelt poured down the side of the mountain. White birch, victims of the ’96 blow-down lay on the ground like abandoned elephant tusks.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Betts said.

  “You see those notches in the trees? Just follow them and stop asking questions.”

  At twenty-five hundred feet, now breathing heavily, they broke from the undergrowth. Red spruce, with needles so foul even deer won’t touch them, encircled the two men. Ahead stood a grove of paper birch, its outer layers peeling away like dead skin.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. “They’re headed our way,” Betts said.

  “Get your ass moving. It’ll be dark soon.”

  Twenty minutes later, they reached the summit of Johnston Mountain, a bare expanse of eroded granite boulders.

  “Look at that view,” Sutcliffe said. The streetlights of Warrensburg, like miniature paper lanterns, glowed in the distance. To the east and south, Lake George cut through the landscape like a thick scar. A helicopter, its powerful searchlight sweeping through the evening sky, moved back and forth over the mountain.

  “I don’t see anything but shitty little trees, tiny scrub bushes, and slimy green rocks.”

  “You’re an ignorant jerk. This is a special place.”

  “Maybe to you. For me, it’s just useless and ugly.”

  Sutcliffe glanced at his watch. “It�
��s 6:15.” We’ve only got another hour of daylight. Get going.” Turning south, he prodded Betts down a little-used trail that would take them off the summit. Twenty minutes later, Sutcliffe said, “We’re nearly there.”

  “Where?”

  “You have no idea, do you?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “We’re a quarter mile from where Marshall’s lodge is going up.”

  “Why drag me all the way up here?”

  “Stop right there and turn around.”

  Using the metal spike of the peavey like an axe, Sutcliffe lopped off the lower branches of a small pine.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Betts said.

  Sutcliffe pushed Betts against the tree and kicked his feet out from underneath him. When Betts was on the ground, Sutcliffe wrapped duct tape around his ankles and tied him to the trunk. Then he picked up his rucksack and turned toward the trail.

  “Where are you going?” Betts said.

  “I’ve got another job to do before this is all over.”

  “You can’t leave me like this.”

  “Stop your damn whining. I’ll make sure someone finds you before the bears do.”

  Betts struggled against the ropes. “You’re not going to escape this time. The cops will be crawling over this place any minute.”

  “Maybe so, but I’ll be done by then.”

  Ten minutes later, Sutcliffe rounded a bend in the trail and spotted a little boy walking toward him.

  He looked to be four years old. His hair was sun-bleached blond. He wore gray-striped bib overalls, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and tiny ankle-high work boots. A pinecone was nestled in his left hand. He stopped when he saw Sutcliffe.

  Sutcliffe laid his peavey and shotgun just off the trail and bent down on one knee. “Hi there.”

  The child stared at the ground and said nothing.

  “My name’s David. What’s yours?”

  “Adam.”

  “Why are you out here by yourself, Adam?”

  “We’re out looking for mushrooms and stuff.”

  Sutcliffe reached out and shook the boy’s hand. “Where are they? Your mom and dad?”

  “Right back there. They let me walk ahead because I’m grown up now.”