“Now the right one. That’s it. When I say so, shift your weight toward me and, one step at a time, move back slowly.”
Within seconds, both men were eight feet away from the table.
Betts leaned against the wall. Sweat dripped from his chin. He was breathing heavily, his face white, eyes unfocused. “Christ. We did it.”
Carlyle picked up his gear and exhaled loudly. “Okay, let’s get the hell out of here.” He paused for a final look around and saw another note taped to the back of the front door.
Next time, you won’t be warned. Stay away from this place. And leave the gorge for good.
Carlyle and Betts walked through the door and down the steps. When he was ten yards away from the cabin, Betts stepped over to a tree and vomited.
Carlyle said, “The bastard’s had his fun, but I still think there’s a camp somewhere around here.”
“Will you stop this bullshit?” Marshall said. “Let’s go.”
“He can’t pull this stuff without having a place to hide.”
Marshall stepped close to Carlyle. “The only thing we’re going to find is another booby trap and really get our asses handed to us.”
Carlyle shook his head. “We can’t stop looking now.”
“No? I say we cut the crap and get back to Warrensburg.”
“Boss,” Nash said. “We’ve gone this far.”
“One hour,” Marshall said. “Then I’m taking my boat out of here.”
“We should move another thousand yards into the woods,” Carlyle said. “I’ll take the right flank again. Our guy feels at home here. Look for any place he could construct a shelter.”
The four men began hiking slowly away from the cabin.
Carlyle, never moving on until he was certain that he had covered an area completely, was staring at the base of a granite cliff face ten minutes later when he saw an irregular opening in the rock, screened from view by a stand of black maple. He blew his whistle three times and the others came running up.
“I think this may be it.”
Nash said, “You’re not going in there, are you?”
“Not any farther than I have to.” Carlyle bent down and crawled toward the open space in the rock. The site was little more than a bed of pine needles with a half-dozen small, granite boulders surrounding a fire pit filled with gray ash. But, as a place to remain concealed, it was almost perfect. He crawled to the back of the cave, turned around, and faced the others. Sitting in near darkness he said, “You’d never just stumble across this in a dozen years.”
Betts stuck his head in. “He could get caught out in a snowstorm and survive for a week in there.”
Carlyle marveled at the camp’s placement. The sound of the Hudson crashing downstream would muffle footsteps. The sun, even if directly overhead, would hardly be visible.
He crawled out of the cave and walked slowly around the site, moving his eyes back and forth between the granite overhang and the river. “He must know every foot of this gorge.”
“That’s all we’ve got from this expedition of yours?” Marshall said.
“I’ve learned something else about him.”
“What’s that?”
“The person we’re looking for just doesn’t let himself get sidetracked.”
“So, we’re finally done here?” Betts said.
Carlyle picked up his backpack. “There’s one more thing we’ve got to do.”
“Christ,” Betts said. “What now?”
“We’ve got to find that log. It may tell us how he killed Blake.”
“You’re nuts,” Betts said. “There’s only one way to get rid of something that weighs several hundred pounds.”
“I know that.” Carlyle dragged a map of the Hudson from his pack. “The snowmelt probably flushed it through the gorge. What if it got hung up somewhere?” Carlyle pointed to a spot on the map as the others looked over his shoulder. “The logging industry used the spring flood to bring timber down to Glens Falls. But just downstream from here, the Hudson makes two S-turns in a quarter mile. If it’s anywhere, it’s there, stuck in a strainer.”
“Even if we find it,” Marshall said, “what would that prove? We already know this guy’s a psychopath.”
“We can’t be sure about anything yet. That’s why we need all the evidence we can get our hands on.”
“So, what do we do now?” Betts said.
“Retrace our steps to the river, examine that strainer, then get back to the lodge.”
“It’s about time,” Marshall said.
Carlyle said, “You all go ahead. I want to take another quick look around.”
Twenty minutes later, as he neared the Hudson, he heard Betts yell, “Fuck! Can you believe this?”
Running through ankle-deep snow, Carlyle found Betts, Nash, and Marshall standing around the raft. “What’s going on?”
Marshall’s raft had been dragged from the river and tied to a tree. The side tubes and thwarts had been sliced clean through. It lay there, gray and immobile, like a decaying elephant carcass.
“How could he have gotten here without us seeing him?” Nash said.
“He must have come by in a kayak or canoe while we were at the cabin,” Carlyle said. “Or maybe he’s been hiding out overnight. Who knows?”
Nash said, “Why destroy the raft, then?”
“To teach us a lesson,” Carlyle said.
“About what?”
“I’m guessing he’s telling us that we’re trespassing on his territory.”
“How can you be so sure?” Marshall said. “And why do you keep staring at my boat?”
Carlyle put down his pack. “This stunt’s more proof we’re not dealing with a maniac. He doesn’t blow people up or commit horrific acts. That would only make the cops furious. I’m more certain than ever that he’s got a plan for what he wants to achieve and he’s not going to let us sidetrack him.”
“That’s terrific,” Betts said. “But we’re forgetting one thing.”
“What’s that?” Marshall said.
“How the hell do we get out of here?”
Monday afternoon
As soon as Karen Raines had finished reading Carlyle’s twelve-page report on the deaths of Sanders and Blake, she reached for her phone. “Have Elliot call me,” she told his secretary. “No, Marcy, not when he’s available, the minute he’s back from lunch.”
Raines walked toward a row of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Albany and the Hudson.
