“I got fed up hauling idiots through the gorge.” Wells was now head of Search and Rescue in the northern district, an occupation that fulfilled his depression-driven need to flirt with death.
“Your shoulder any better?”
Wells had ripped his arm from the socket while pulling a teenager off a cliff face. “It only took two operations and six months of rehab.”
The waitress came over to their table. “Leo. What’ll it be?”
“We’ll both have Greek salads. But don’t tell Gus that we didn’t order lamb.”
“Boss!” she yelled. “Leo and his girlfriend want the Special. Better put in extra olives.”
After the laughter died down, Wells said, “How’s that cop thing going? You sure the kid’s death wasn’t accidental?”
“No question about it.”
“Marshall’s father must be livid.”
“He thinks all this bad publicity will ruin his Johnston Mountain project.”
“I have a hunch his kid is blaming you for what went wrong.”
“He thinks I could have saved Sanders.”
“He’s never been a fan of yours.”
Despite Carlyle’s spotless safety record, Marshall and his guides had never stopped treating him like a middle-aged professor masquerading as an experienced guide. During his training a decade ago, Betts had told Carlyle, “We want to see if you crack under pressure. So you won’t do it with people in your boat.”
The harassment never stopped. One Saturday morning in early May several years ago, Carlyle had let his boat stray too near a massive hydraulic. When they got back to the inn that afternoon, Marshall had screamed, “One more mistake and you’re gone!”
“Now they’re all depending on you to save their jobs.”
“The only thing I care about is finding this maniac.”
When the waitress passed their table, Wells pointed to his coffee cup. After she left, he said, “What’s next, then?”
“We start by looking for people with a history of petty crimes.”
“This isn’t suburbia. That shit’s pretty common around here.”
“Not if it leads us to a person who’s starting to come apart.”
“You mind explaining just what that means?”
“When someone has a run-in with the law or a violent argument with his wife or girlfriend, it may predict more serious trouble down the road.”
“You think he’s really angry enough to kill a couple of guides?”
“It’s way beyond anger now. He may have started off with a chip on his shoulder, but, for whatever reason, his grievances have mushroomed.”
“What are we talking about?”
Carlyle said, “If whatever has been gnawing at him is still there, he could eventually erupt. And if he’s really been screwed over and can’t forget or forgive whatever’s happened to him….”
“What do you do then?”
“If this guy’s rage becomes uncontrollable, he may not stop with Marshall.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll need an army to get him.”
“Why don’t you leave it to professionals? They’ll bring in dogs and trackers.”
“This guy’s like Rambo. He’ll ambush any cop we send in there, and then we’ll have a massacre on our hands.”
Wells sipped his coffee and watched Carlyle silently for a minute. “You mind my asking what’s got you so lit up about this case?”
“I’ve spent my entire career trying to explain why people commit violent crimes. This is my chance to prove I haven’t wasted my time.”
“This is more than just some academic exercise, isn’t it?”
“I feel responsible for finding out who did this. That doesn’t change anything.”
“Like hell it doesn’t. You’re personally involved in this case and you’ll take more risks than you should.”
“I won’t do anything stupid.”
Wells laughed. “With a sliced and diced raft? You already have.”
“If he never intended those two deaths, we may be able to negotiate with him.”
“What if he catches you alone and doesn’t want to negotiate?”
“I won’t be alone. You’re coming with me.”
Wells shook his head. “I saved your ass once in Mile-Long. Now you’re asking me to do it again?”
“Okay, I’ll get Pierce to help me. He’d love telling everyone he was protecting a hotshot professor.”
Wells’s pager went off. “I’ve got an emergency on Santanoni Peak. Gotta go.” He paid the check, pinched the waitress on his way out, and drove out of the parking lot.
Theodorakis walked over to Carlyle’s table. “What’s the matter with Leo? He doesn’t like my food?”
Later that afternoon, the heavy oak barn door slid open, and Beth, Carlyle’s wife, stepped in. He was standing over a workbench. His waterproof dry suit, thick neoprene boots, plastic helmet, and heavy guide paddle sat in a pile in front of him. All of his rescue equipment—prussic loops, high-tensile rope, throw bags, strobe lights, tow lines, and Z-drag kit—were neatly arranged on a pegboard to his right. Although he had lit a tall white propane stove an hour ago, it was still bitterly cold in the barn.
“Why are you working on this stuff now?” Beth said.
“I’m hiking into the canyon tomorrow morning.”
Carlyle had told her about the investigation, but not that the authorities had asked him to assist them in the search for the person responsible for the murders.
“Shouldn’t you let the police handle it?”
“I’ll have a cop with me,” Carlyle said. “We’ll be fine.”
“Why do you have to get involved in this?”
“I was right there when they died. Marshall and the other guides are expecting me to help them through this.”
“You had your first accident on the Indian, didn’t you?”
One September morning nine years ago, when he had just started his career on the Hudson, Carlyle allowed his raft to drift into a boulder garden. The river was bone dry, a minefield of rocks strewn across the current. As his boat rushed downstream, the sun disappeared behind a layer of gray clouds. Two minutes later, the raft plunged over a steep ledge and the stern heaved upward and to the left. Unprepared for the backlash, Carlyle flew across the back tube and into the river.
“This is completely different. Someone sabotaged Sanders’s raft. I was just green and unlucky back then.”
“But your accident was near where that boy died.”
“I was in the water for less than a minute. It was my first day as a guide. Everyone pulls a dumb stunt once.”
“But you came out of your boat, too,
