Betts stood up. “Wait a minute. Who the hell made you the district attorney around here?”
“Alex, don’t take this personally. I’m just trying to assist this investigation.”
“Bullshit! You want to make this kid responsible for what happened yesterday.”
While Betts and Pierce continued yelling at each other, Carlyle began drawing a diagram of the chute where Blake died. He estimated that it was at least a hundred yards long, maybe fifteen wide. He put an X where Blake hit the log, a second X where he fell overboard, and another ten yards downstream where Nash found the body. Ignoring the sound of Betts’s voice, he stared at the page in front of him. When there was a break in the argument, Carlyle looked up. “Caleb, is there anything else in that file?”
Pierce looked through the papers in front of him. “Not much. Birth certificate, high school graduation records, application for the job here, and two letters of recommendation.”
“That’s it?”
“No, there’s one more thing. His DEC file with his test scores and a copy of his driver’s license.”
Carlyle leaned forward. “Anything unusual on the license?”
“Not that I can see. Home address, DOB, date issued, and expiration. It says he had brown eyes and was five foot nine.”
While Pierce was examining Blake’s permit, Carlyle reached into his back pocket and pulled his own license from his wallet. “Look all the way down on page one of the Xerox copy in front of you and tell us what’s there.”
“A letter—R.”
“And it says what?”
“See other side.”
“Now look at the next page, bottom right, under Restrictions.”
“Got it.” Pierce sat up straight. “Christ. You’re not going to believe this.”
“Read it.”
“Subject has no sight: right eye.”
Marshall stood up. “I told you Blake’s accident wasn’t our fault. Now let’s get out of here and back to work.”
When Carlyle left the lodge ten minutes later, he found Bognor leaning against his patrol car, a beat-up, metallic blue ‘97 Dodge Charger. “Is Pierce always so belligerent?”
“You have no idea. His first day at work, I told him he didn’t have to shave his scalp to show how tough he was, that people around here would respect the badge and the uniform. He said he’d been hired to arrest people, not make friends.”
Carlyle shoved his hands into his pockets. “I suppose he’s had his share of run-ins with guides.”
Bognor laughed. “Oh, my God, has he ever. Pierce once tried to evict Munck for failure to pay his back rent. When Munck refused to leave his cabin, Pierce pepper sprayed him and then threw him in the county jail overnight.”
“Apart from the strong-arm stuff, how’s he done his job?”
“In his first three months, he cited a local teacher for doing seven over the fifty-five limit and a widow on food stamps for driving with a busted headlamp. He’s harassed grieving families on their way to funerals, teenagers who park in the woods, and pensioners caught without fishing licenses.”
“You ever ask him to explain his storm trooper act?”
“I did say I got the feeling he didn’t especially like poor folk.”
Carlyle shuffled his feet to keep warm. “How did he take it?”
“He said he’d grown up on white bread and margarine sandwiches. His parents spent half their lives in court defending themselves against the charge of being unemployed. He wanted people around here to understand the legal system was stacked against them.”
“Any formal complaints against him?”
“I don’t think anyone would risk it.”
“He and Betts have a history?”
“Pierce has a thing about long-haired types. I’m surprised they haven’t come to blows.”
Carlyle opened his note pad. “What do you think about what happened in the lodge just now?”
“Blake’s death is a damn shame, but it isn’t a case for the authorities.” Carlyle said nothing. “You don’t see it that way?” Bognor asked.
“I think it may be too early to close the books on this one yet.”
“Are you serious? The kid was blind in one eye.”
“I’ve read all the accident statistics. There’s never been two fatalities a week apart on the same river.”
“What are you saying, Ric?”
“Marshall runs a professional operation. His people are well-trained. They go to rescue clinics and have a two-day refresher course every season.”
“They never make mistakes?”
“Hardly ever.”
“What about Sanders? That was pure bad luck?”
“Sanders didn’t screw up in Mixmaster. Some clients have no business on that river, but the guides know what they’re doing.” Carlyle shut his note pad. “And I don’t believe that what happened is just terrible luck.”
“Doesn’t it seem like Blake shouldn’t have been out there at all.”
“But he worked for almost two years without any trouble,” Carlyle said. “How did that log just happen to fall right where it was guaranteed to clobber someone? Are we missing some underlying pattern here?”
“Where are you going to start?” Bognor said.
Carlyle turned toward his truck. “I guess I’ll have to go back to the gorge. Where everything’s gone wrong so far.”
Four
An hour past dawn on Friday morning, needing time to decide how he would handle Gus Burton, the outfitter he was riding with today, Carlyle pulled off the road a dozen miles west of Warrensburg. He shut off the engine, left his truck, and crossed the road to an embankment overlooking the Hudson.
Although unleashed from the six-mile canyon, the Hudson was still an impressive river. Unable to contain all the rain and snowmelt that poured into its tributaries, the river crashed against mid-stream boulders and overflowed both banks. Blocks of snow and ice, leftovers from a five-month winter, were strewn haphazardly up and down the valley.
Just as he finished his coffee, Carlyle heard a car pull up behind him. A voice cut through the air. “Sir. Please go back to your vehicle.” Carlyle turned away from the embankment and spotted a sheriff’s green
