© 2020 Ronald M. Berger
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication in print or in electronic format may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Design and Distribution by Bublish, Inc.
Author photo by Lauren Thomas
ISBN: 978-1-64704-188-5 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-64704-189-2 (eBook)
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Acknowledgements
About the Author
This novel is dedicated
To My Grandson,
Leo Martin
One
Saturday, March 28
When his truck reached the meadow high above the river, Richard Carlyle quickly began wrapping himself in gear that was supposed to protect him from the bitter cold. The North Country had seen thirty-nine days of below-zero readings this winter and fifty-six days of snow in four months--a hundred twenty inches so far. It was thirty-eight degrees outside. Carlyle would be lucky if the thermometer hit fifty by the time his raft got to the gorge. The sun, when it bothered to appear at all this time of year, rose over the peaks lining the gorge at ten in the morning, and was gone by three.
Carlyle put on a light base layer, a thick pile jacket, and a one-piece dry suit whose waterproof ankle and neck gaskets were meant to keep him dry and reasonably warm. Then he pulled on wool socks, thick river boots, waterproof gloves, and a Kevlar-lined helmet, which guides, when they wanted to impress their girlfriends, called a brain bucket. He clipped an emergency whistle and a six-inch knife to his equipment belt. Once he got to the river, Carlyle would attach a mesh bag holding seventy-five yards of high-tensile rope and five lashing straps to a D-ring next to his seat on the raft.
Carlyle picked up his gear bag, walked over to the top of the path leading to the basin, and watched the river rush down the spillway and into the canyon. During the spring runoff, the Hudson Gorge trip was one of the toughest whitewater runs in the northeast, five hours from beginning to end, almost all of it at the bottom of a cavernous gorge. They would have to pick their way through six or seven difficult rock gardens and a half dozen dangerous rapids. Any two or three of them could kill, given the right combination of bad luck or stupidity.
Alex Betts, who’d worked with Caryle nine years ago when they were both rookies, walked up to him. “I don’t get it,” Betts said. “From what I hear, you’ve got a cushy teaching job now, a fat retirement package, and a nice chunk of land outside Albany. Why come up here and freeze your ass off every spring?”
“What can I tell you?” Carlyle said. “I just miss your lovely company.”
“Cut the bullshit, Ric. This is a young guy’s business. If I was in your boots, I wouldn’t be caught dead on the river this time of year.”
“Marshall gives me sixty bucks and a steak dinner at the end of the day. Who can resist an offer like that?”
“Well, you better get down there now before he starts bitching at you.” Carlyle made his way down an icy path toward the put-in, where he found his former boss, Ryan Marshall, leaning against his boat. “Where’s the rookie I’m supposed to check out?” Carlyle said.
Marshall pointed. “Art Sanders, next to the white pine, tall kid with the big grin. Best rookie I’ve had in years.”
“I’ll do my report and let DEC decide if it wants to give him a license.”
“Carlyle, don’t bust my balls.”
“Is this his final check run?”
“He starts his career on Wednesday. Once you’ve cleared him.”
“You sure you don’t me to wait till all this ice disappears from the river?”
“Nah. He’s good-to-go now.”
Carlyle walked over and introduced himself to Sanders. “You ready to become a licensed boatman?”
“Mr. Carlyle. Ryan told me all about you.”
“Don’t believe a word.”
“He said you swam an injured guy out of the gorge in ’94.”
“I was young and stupid. Wouldn’t even try it now.”
“Mind my asking why you left?”
“I got a gig with benefits. Examining rookies is just a sick hobby, I guess.”
“Marshall says you’re a professor.”
“Don’t tell anybody, for Christ’s sake. They’d never let me forget it.”
“What do you study?”
“Criminals and deviants. People like Betts.”
They walked toward six guys in their twenties standing around Sanders’s large green raft. “This the kind you’re talking about?” Sanders said.
“They’d qualify for a medium-security facility. Go do your talk. I’ll just stand here and watch.”
Sanders picked up his six-foot guide paddle and faced his crew of clients. “Settle down now. I’ve got safety information that’ll keep you alive today.”
“Sure, chief. Just fire away,” one of them said.
Sanders ignored the comment. “Rafting can be dangerous. That’s why my boss hires guides straight out of rehab. And in case you didn’t notice, winter’s still hanging around.”
It had been snowing since dawn. A dense coating of frost covered the rafts. The dirt surrounding Carlyle’s boots was a mixture of mud, stones, and freezing water. Clouds covered the sun, and a bitter wind promised no end of misery.
“Sit three on a side,” Sanders said, “feet tucked under those fat tubes in front of you. I need two big guys in front. People who won’t puke at the first rapid they see.”
“Come on, we’re not idiots,” the loudmouth said.
“You can prove it when we get to the gorge.”
Sanders was at least six-two and must have weighed something north of two thirty. In addition to the standard gear every guide carried—river knife, rope, and lashing straps—Sanders had brought two flares, four carabineers, three feet of climbers’ webbing, and one canister of yellow dye. He looked like a castle with arms.
“If you should fall out of the raft, I’ll throw you a rope. Grab it right away. We don’t want you in
