Marshall stood up and began shoving the raft close to the shed. Carlyle pulled him away. “Don’t touch it; it’s a crucial piece of evidence.”
“What do we do now?”
“We call Bognor and Raines. They’ll contact the state police.”
“If news gets around that my two guides were murdered, I won’t have another booking for years.”
Carlyle stuffed his cold hands into his jacket. “This isn’t just some business deal gone bad. Someone may be trying to kill you.”
“Me? Are you crazy?”
“Do you have another explanation?”
Marshall took two steps away from the shed. “What are we going to do now?”
“I’ll drive over to Gus Burton’s place first thing tomorrow.”
“Why Burton?
“He’s the biggest outfitter around here. Maybe he knows something that can help us.”
“Burton’s got no reason to help me out.”
“He’ll talk once he figures out his empire will fall apart if DEC shuts down this river.”
He had concealed himself on the north side of the Hudson directly across from the lodge in a grove of ice-covered pine trees. From where he stood, he could see Marshall and Carlyle move toward the shed and begin examining the remains of Sanders’s raft.
If the two men discovered the strap had been slit, they’d immediately understand why Sanders had fallen out of his boat. Carlyle would then notify the sheriff, the state police, and lab technicians. Within hours, the region would be crawling with cops. As Carlyle turned over the raft, it was clear why the authorities had brought in a former guide to help them figure out what had caused these two fatal accidents.
The sun dropped behind Crane Mountain and dark shadows began to creep across the valley. When Marshall and Carlyle went back inside the lodge, he hiked up the hill to his truck and drove off. He didn’t need anyone wandering down this road and wondering what he was doing out here at this time of day. Besides, there was still some daylight and he had more work to do.
Five
Saturday
When Carlyle drove up to Warrensburg the next morning, he found Burton smoking a cigar on the second-story balcony of the house he’d just had built.
“You ever think of calling first?” Burton said.
A decade ago, after a trip down the Colorado, Carlyle realized that driving a raft had to be better than spending the rest of his life teaching college students how to do regression analysis. When he got back to Albany, he’d called Burton. “How about letting me train as a guide?”
“I tried a professor once,” Burton had said. “He wasn’t worth shit.”
Marshall, who’d just opened his business and was looking for cheap help, had agreed to hire Carlyle, but Burton never stopped referring to him as “that professor.”
“Since when did you start requiring invitations?” Carlyle said.
“Since your storm troopers started crawling all over this goddamn valley. What the hell do you want now?”
“Ten minutes of your precious time.”
“The front door is unlocked. Don’t forget to wipe your feet.”
Carlyle walked into the kitchen, where three books sat on the counter: The Flame Thrower in World War I, The World’s Most Dangerous Snakes, and History of the Guillotine. “That’s quite some library you’ve got.”
“Bedtime reading.” Burton was forty-nine years old and still hadn’t an ounce of belly fat.
“You look in great shape.”
“Don’t ever listen to doctors. Human growth hormone works just fine.”
Carlyle wandered over to a huge picture window looking out over the Screaming Eagle Ski Resort and, in the distance, the Mackenzie Range. “Jesus, this is some place.”
“It took me three years to buy the hundred-and-fifty acres. The house is four-thousand square feet, with three bedrooms, one for each of my failed marriages. There’s a large bunkroom for my kids, who never show up, a sauna, and weight room. You should see the garage.”
“Why’s that?”
“You ever see a Ducati motorcycle, a ‘56 lime green Fairlane, a brand-new Range Rover, and a Toyota Land Cruiser all lined up?” Burton glanced down at his watch. “But you didn’t come this far to admire the architecture.”
“I want to talk to you about what’s happened to Marshall.”
“The answer’s no.”
“How do you know what I’m going to ask?”
“A fat guy with a badge on his chest stopped by last night. He said you wanted my cooperation. I told him no, too, goddammit.”
Carlyle decided to remain calm. He enjoyed watching an uncontrolled eruption now and then, as long as he wasn’t its target. “You don’t even know what this is about.”
“Let me guess. You want me to let cops ride in my boats.”
“No.”
“Encourage my guides to snitch?”
“Sorry, no.”
“You want me to tell you why someone would be attacking Marshall.”
“Not that either.”
“Then why the hell are you wasting my time?”
Carlyle told Burton about the foot strap that had been sliced. “I want you to help me find out who killed those kids.”
“You’re completely nuts. If it was murder—and, by the way, I think your evidence stinks—I want this person hung in chains as much as you do. But the answer is still no.”
“You mind telling me why?”
“Sure, if it’ll get you out of here. First, it’s none of my business why someone’s taking out his rage on Marshall. And second, I don’t want my people involved in a witch hunt in this valley. It can only hurt my business.” Burton stood up, picked up a fly swatter, and slammed it against the picture window.
“I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“Bullshit. You’ll ask my employees who hates Marshall and they’ll say that some competitor was behind it, meaning me.”
“Don’t be silly. They’re too afraid of you to say that.”
“Okay, then, how’s this? You’re not a cop or a lawyer. How am I going to sue your ass off when you drive all my clients away?”
“You still haven’t heard what I’m asking for.”
Burton glanced at his watch. “You’ve got ten minutes left.”
“I want some background on the people who work for you. Guides, kitchen crew, bus drivers, maids, and cooks.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then let us put a park ranger, incognito of course, in one of your boats.”
“Never. It would make me a target for
