“That doesn’t answer the one question we’re all wondering about. Why was Blake the only person in his boat who got clobbered?”
Betts said, “You know the answer to that. A guide sits on the back tube, six to nine inches higher than his clients.”
“Let me rephrase my question. Why was he the only guide who got hit?”
Betts said, “How the hell would we know that?
Bognor, who’d been silent for several minutes, said, “Alex, could his crew have screwed up in some way?”
“They were knuckleheads, like I said, but from what I could see, once we got to the river they sobered up fast.”
“What happened when they realized he was gone?” Bognor said.
“They thought he was playing some kind of prank on them.”
“What did you think?”
Nash answered for Betts. “I knew right away something was wrong.”
“Why’s that?”
“Guides never leave their boats. It’s as simple as that.”
“Any idea why his body turned up so soon?” Bognor said.
Nash looked horrified. “Jesus, do I have to answer that?”
“I know how difficult this is Keith,” Carlyle said.
Nash shook his head. “I can’t explain it. Maybe a block of ice came through and shoved him to the surface.”
“We have any idea how long he was under?” Bognor said.
“It couldn’t have been more than eight or ten minutes.”
“Keith, I have to ask you this,” Bognor said. “Can you describe his body?”
Nash leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. “The right side of his face was smashed. His left arm was across his chest. His skin was pale. I remember, this is crazy, there was moss under the fingernails of his right hand.”
“You did CPR?” Bognor said.
“Of course. You know that extreme cold can prolong survival times.”
“But there was no reaction?”
“We must have been past the margin of error.”
Bognor turned to Marshall. “Has your dad heard about this yet?”
“He only reads the Philly papers. I’ll tell him when he gets back from St. Thomas.”
“Let’s take a break,” Carlyle said. “I’ll see you all back here in twenty minutes.”
When the others wandered off for coffee, Bognor came up to Carlyle. “You mind coming outside for a minute?”
The two men left the lodge and walked out to the bridge straddling the Hudson. Carlyle buttoned up his jacket and stared down at the river.
Bognor pulled a pack of unfiltered Camels from his shirt pocket. “Already had one vein in my leg replaced this year. I suppose this won’t help. Let me ask you something. You get the impression Marshall doesn’t seem all that fond of his father?”
Carlyle turned his face away from the wind. “The old man put Ryan in a military academy. From what I hear, they still don’t speak to each other very often.”
Bognor leaned against the bridge railing. “You been doing this job long, tracking down bad guys?”
Carlyle waited while an eighteen-wheel lumber truck downshifted off the mountain and roared past. “God, no. I study crimes, not solve them.”
“Then why did they put you on this case?”
“Probably to keep things semi-official and low-profile until DEC decides how they want to handle the two deaths.”
“You conducted yourself pretty well in that meeting. I’m told Betts can be hard to keep under control.”
“The man has been known to toss furniture when he gets pissed off.”
Bognor flipped his cigarette into the wind. “I suppose you understand that no matter what happens, some people will blame you for siding with the authorities.”
“I’m not anybody’s stalking horse John.”
“And I certainly didn’t sign up for homicide duty when I moved to a rural county.” Bognor straightened up and turned toward the lodge. “I’m just saying, you’d best take cover when the shit starts flying.”
Thirty minutes later, just as Carlyle began to wrap up his interrogation of Marshall and the other guides, Caleb Pierce, Bognor’s Deputy, walked through the door.
“Caleb, this is a DEC inquiry.” Bognor said. “You should be out on patrol.”
Pierce sat down and placed a thick file on the table. “Sheriff, this outfit has lost two guides in the past five days. Don’t you think we should know why?”
Pierce was five nine and weighed two hundred pounds, most of it muscle. He carried a Glock and a three-foot club on his hip belt.
Leo Wells stared at Pierce. “You heard the sheriff. This meeting is none of your business.”
“Leo, I don’t see how you can mind if I ask a few questions.” Although Pierce must have been on duty since early morning, his dark gray uniform was still laundry crisp.
“Make it quick then,” Wells said.
Pierce opened his file and began arranging the papers in front of him. “First, I’d like to know why someone didn’t remove that log before you all entered that particular section of the river.”
Wells said, “How the hell were they supposed to know it was there?”
Pierce stared at his short, thick fingers and immaculately trimmed nails. “Watch your language, please.”
Debbie, Marshall’s wife, opened the door. “The reporters want to know what the Deputy is doing here.”
Bognor said, “Tell them to hold on. I’ll be out shortly.”
When Debbie left, Pierce said, “I’ll accept that for the moment. My next question is this: What do we really know about this kid?”
Carlyle passed a folder over to Pierce. “We pulled Blake’s complete file from Fish and Game. There’s not much to go on.”
“Are you sure about that?” Pierce said. Everyone in the room turned toward him.
“If you’ve got some information,” Carlyle said, “Let’s have it.”
Pierce held up a file. “Let’s see now. This is a state police report. It says he flipped his truck last February 15. It was eight in the evening and snowing. Blake was driving too fast for conditions. No one got hurt, but it does seem kind of reckless, wouldn’t you say?”
“What does that prove?” Marshall said. “Everybody here has had an accident on these roads.”
“Hold on, I didn’t say I’d finished, did I?” He
