He glanced over at the lodge. Nine years ago, when he first began work here, it had been just a five-room, single-story clapboard house with a living room, kitchen, office, and three tiny bedrooms in back. The first time he broke his arm in the gorge, he’d slept on a couch after returning from the emergency room in Glens Falls. A fractured eye socket, sprained knee, and three broken ribs later, Carlyle decided he’d had enough. It was time to finish his PhD and get a real job, one with a steady paycheck and benefits, minus the overnight hospital trips.
Marshall walked down the hill from his house, stopped next to Carlyle’s truck, and rapped his knuckles on the door. “You going to sit there all day? I thought you were here to examine the way I run my business.”
“Have your guides showed up yet?”
Marshall counted the vehicles in his lot. “Looks like they’re inside. The Sheriff said he’d be here any minute. You absolutely sure we’ve got to do this?”
“DEC heard rumors that you had two clients injured last season. They’re thinking that it might be connected to what happened to Sanders and Blake.”
“My guys don’t like the idea of defending themselves like this. What am I supposed to tell them?”
“The truth. This isn’t a trial. We’re just trying to understand why Sanders and Blake died and keep anything like it from happening again.”
Marshall kicked mud from his boots. “You think being honest will make my employees feel better?”
“What other choice do you have?”
“I see. We do it your way or my business closes. Let’s get this over with then.”
Betts, Nash, and Hernandez sat around the conference table in the lodge, drinking coffee, staring at their hands, saying little. Bob Ashcroft, the part-time guide who was involved in an accident last October, sat by himself along the back wall of the room. Bognor and Pierce came in a minute later and sat down at the far end of the table.
“Let’s get started.” Carlyle gestured toward an empty seat near him. “Bob, nobody’s on trial here. Join us.”
Pierce pulled a small wireless tape recorder and a note pad from his briefcase.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to record this inquisition,” Betts said.
“This conversation’s off the record,” Pierce said, “but a transcript might be of some use in the future.”
“Bullshit,” Betts said. “Is this a legal thing or not?”
Bognor held out his hands in a calming gesture. “We’re not the enemy, Alex. Let’s just hear everyone’s testimony and determine if it helps our investigation.”
“Why don’t you first tell us why we’re here,” Hernandez said.
Carlyle said, “We want to see if what happened to Ashcroft can be connected to the deaths of Sanders and Blake.”
“A dozen things can go wrong on these trips,” Betts said. “How the hell are we supposed to know if they’re sabotage or not?”
“Just answer a few questions. We’ll decide what might be relevant.” Carlyle pulled a small, red, spiral-bound notebook from his briefcase. “Ryan, I’d like to get some background first.”
“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
“Have you fired anyone in the last couple of years?”
“No, but I should have.”
“Have you added anyone to your crew lately who you hadn’t checked out fully?”
“Are you serious?”
“I meant anyone inexperienced.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“Understood. Had any quarrels with an employee over pay?”
“No.”
Betts laughed and gave Marshall the finger.
“Have you had any arguments with other outfitters?”
“Other than Burton? No.”
“What about the time that idiot working for Eastern Rivers collided with one of our boats?” Nash said.
“He apologized,” Marshall said. “End of story.”
Carlyle wrote “collision” in his notepad. “Any trespassers on your property lately? Hunters or snowmobilers who ignored your posted signs?”
“My father’s got someone patrolling the grounds. No one goes near this place who doesn’t have a reason to be here.”
“What about contractors? Someone annoyed because they weren’t paid for work on the lodge?”
“I never see those bills. They go directly to Philip Marshall’s accountants.”
“Your guides ever get into bar fights?”
“Not recently.”
“Sleep with someone else’s wife?”
Betts said, “You counting one-night stands?”
“He’s talking about human females, Betts,” Nash said.
“That’s enough. Let’s move on. Ryan, what about that accident one of your clients had last season?”
“We thought it was just bad luck at the time.”
“We need to hear what happened. Everything you can remember.”
Ashcroft looked up. “The kid was in my boat and I made a mistake in Cedar.”
“I warned you about getting careless,” Betts said. “If someone falls out of your boat, you’ve got real trouble.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Ashcroft said. “I know that.”
“You think I’m being too tough on you?” Betts said. “Just wait till some lawyer hits you with a wrongful-death suit.”
“You don’t have to give me shit in front of everyone when I screw up.”
Carlyle rapped the table with his right hand. “Stuff happens out there all the time. Why was this incident so unusual?”
Betts shook his head. “Just wait till you hear what happened.”
“I was running third that morning,” Ashcroft said. “Every seat in my boat was filled.” At fifty-two, Ashcroft was the oldest guide on the river and, by his own admission, no longer able to simply muscle a raft out of trouble. A guy with scrawny arms and a comb-over, Carlyle wondered why Marshall had hired him in the first place.
“You remember much about your crew?”
Ashcroft stared at his former employer. “Marshall dumped a bunch of teenage boys on me. The little bastards goofed around during my safety talk, jumping up and down on the boat, and never shut up.”
Pierce said, “Why didn’t you come down hard on them right then and there?”
“I laid into them and didn’t hold back, dammit.”
Pierce shook his head. “Telling kids to behave is like asking crows to
