“That’s it?” Carlyle said.
“End of story.”
“Let’s move on then. Did anything unusual occur between the time you shoved off and when you reached Cedar Ledges?”
Marshall said, “I’d heard that ice had formed on the Indian, but it didn’t hold us up yesterday.”
Marshall was underestimating the danger of pack ice. Eight years ago, an enormous ice jam had broken up in Cedar Ledges. When it collided with boulders, it sounded like a locomotive plowing through steel bridge girders. They had to work like galley slaves to reach the safety of slow-moving water below Elephant Rock.
“So the only problem was those drunks and the threat of ice?”
Nash cleared his throat. “One other thing. I had a woman turn hypothermic on me almost as soon as we left the basin.”
“How’d you handle it?” Carlyle said.
“I gave her dry clothing and hot soup, but she didn’t stop shaking until we got her on the bus at North River.”
“Okay, then.” Carlyle looked over the list of questions he’d made last night. “I think it’s time to talk about Blake. Is there anything in Chris’s background that we need to know about?”
Betts said, “There’s nothing much to say. He was just a great kid. End of story.”
“Come on,” Carlyle said. “Are you trying to tell us he never screwed up all the time he worked with you?”
Betts fiddled with a set of keys for a minute before answering Carlyle. “He forgot to bring the hypo bag in his boat one time last year. We didn’t discover it was missing until we got to the Boreas.”
Bognor raised his hand. “You folks mind telling me what a hypo bag is?”
Carlyle said, “A large waterproof container where we put spare clothing—jackets, sweaters, hats, gloves, everything you can imagine—in case someone gets cold.”
“We never let him forget it,” Betts said. “Jesse Simmons and I made him wear a stupid green and red wool hat, the kind with ear flaps, all spring.”
Carlyle, who was writing as Betts talked, looked up. “Jesse Simmons?”
“One of Burton’s regulars. He works for us occasionally.”
The brutal hazing rookie guides like Blake endured had a single purpose: to remind them that even minor errors could have significant consequences. “You think Blake learned his lesson?”
“He was totally mortified,” Betts said. “The kid apologized to all of us the next day at a guide’s meeting and swore he’d never do anything that dumb again.”
“But he didn’t walk away from the job.”
“Are you kidding? He grew up in a double-wide in the hills somewhere. This was the best gig he’d ever had.”
Bognor rocked back in his chair. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you all sound like he was some kind of angel.”
Betts and Marshall stared at each other for several seconds. Then Betts said, “Blake came to work here when he was seventeen. He had his issues.” Betts told them that Blake had dropped out of high school in eleventh grade and spent two years scrubbing pots in a diner in Warrensburg. Then, one January, after three beers, he wrapped his pickup around a telephone pole. “I told him, ‘Keep it up and you’re going to kill someone.’”
“He tell you to mind your own business?” Carlyle said.
“He admitted he was headed for jail or rehab.”
Bognor asked, “Did he stop drinking?”
Marshall nodded. “Absolutely. I offered him a Coors after he passed his written exam. He turned it down. Told me he was going to get a better job at the diner, propose to his girlfriend, and tell his parents that they could stop worrying about him.”
Carlyle put down his pen. “How did he do during his apprentice year?”
Betts said, “He watched river videos till his eyes turned red and passed his DEC test just fine.”
“Was there ever any sign that he would make a mistake like the one he made yesterday?”
“None at all.”
“Come on. He was nineteen.”
Betts sneered. “A college professor might not understand why working for eighty bucks a day could be so important to someone like him.”
Carlyle ignored the jab. “What about drugs?”
“Never.”
“You expect us to believe that?”
“He was a kid. More balls than brains at times, but he swore he didn’t do that shit.”
“I guess we’ll have to take your word for it.” Carlyle turned to Marshall. “Think, did anything happen just before the accident that could explain why he ran into that log?”
“You were there, for God’s sake. Why make me describe it again?”
“The sheriff and Raines aren’t familiar with what we’re trying to describe. They need to hear it from someone who was close to Blake.”
“I was right in front of him all morning,” Marshall said. “He seemed fine when we got to the Confluence.”
Carlyle looked down at his notes. “One thing is bothering me. How come you decided to run the chute yesterday?”
“What do you mean?”
“The gauntlet’s just fifteen feet wide and filled with boulders. Seems like a pretty risky choice.”
“Cedar is often iced over this time of year, but there’s always moving water on the right. You know that.”
“Are you trying to tell us you never once worried about going in there?” Carlyle said.
“I’ve spent a decade on that river. You think anything out there’s going to surprise me?”
“Let’s go back to my earlier question. You got through that chute. Blake didn’t. Can you give us any reason why he got hung up?”
Marshall thought for a moment “It was dark in there,” he said. “There were trees all around us, my boat was moving like crazy. When I saw the log hanging out over the water I shouted, ‘Watch your heads.’ I missed it by inches. When we got to the bottom of the chute I made a hard-left turn into the main current. It was all over in seconds.”
“There were no other obstacles in there?”
“Just that goddamn log.”
Carlyle checked off one line in his two-page list. “Why didn’t someone who’d run the chute earlier warn you?”
“We were the first outfit on the river yesterday. You know that.”
“How come you didn’t let Blake know about the log?”
“Are you completely nuts?
