“Sanders didn’t have an accident. He was murdered.” Although he’d never been in real danger that morning a decade ago, Carlyle thought he understood what Sanders and Blake must have been thinking as they were pulled underwater by a river indifferent to their pleas for help.
“You’re ten years older now. Should you still be doing something like this?”
“Beth, I promise. I’ll be fine.”
She was right. It was the worst time of the season to be on that river. The snowmelt would let loose any day now. In a week or two, the Hudson would resemble a wall of liquid concrete rather than a mountain stream. A series of boat-eating hydraulics would litter the gorge all the way from Blue Ledges to the Boreas. What if the killer decided to go after Marshall and his clients again? Preoccupied with keeping their boats upright, guides would be defenseless, their clients confused and terrified. With roads nonexistent and communication with the outside impossible, any rescue would take hours.
Beth stared at him as he sorted through the equipment on the workbench. “How long will you be away this time?”
“The investigation’s just beginning. I don’t know where it’s headed, but I promise I’ll come home once we’ve arrested someone.”
“What about your work at the university? They can’t just cancel your classes.”
“I’ll get a teaching assistant to take over the undergrads for a week or two. Believe me, those kids will be delighted I won’t be around to give them more work at the end of the semester.”
“You’re not thinking about giving up your job in Albany, are you?”
“The endless committee meetings are driving me crazy. This investigation will give me a break from that.”
“Do the other guides know you’re a professor now?”
“They don’t care what I do. They’re just desperate for help.”
“I don’t understand why you’re risking your life again.”
“Karen Raines at DEC said I know the river as well as anyone and the guides trust me. I can’t just walk away.”
“What about your book? It’s almost done. You can’t abandon it now.”
Carlyle began packing up his gear. “I’ll get back to it this summer.”
“I won’t be able to stop you, will I?”
“Please don’t put it that way.”
“It’s freezing in here.” Beth zipped up her jacket and left the barn.
Just after dark, Carlyle loaded his pickup, moved his tractor into the barn, and walked toward the house. A heavy, wind-driven snow began to envelop the tulip beds Beth had put in last year. The branches of a newly planted white birch, unable to bear the storm’s weight, were bent near to the ground. Walking up the path, Carlyle slipped on a small patch of ice. Near the porch swing sat eight or nine large cardboard boxes tightly wrapped with packing tape.
Beth didn’t turn around when Carlyle entered the kitchen. Every square inch of the room was filled with pottery, pressed flowers, dried mushrooms, garlic stalks, tiny herb jars, bits of multi-colored tile, and plants in tan clay pots. A reproduction of Matisse’s Two Girls in a Yellow and Red Interior hung on the wall next to an eight-foot oak trestle dining table.
Beth put out barley soup, slices of dark bread, strong sheep cheese, and salad. Carlyle set the table and poured coffee.
Her sketchbook was on a side table. “What are you working on?” he asked.
“I spent all day waiting for the clouds to lift over the escarpment, but the sun never once broke through.” A series of landscapes begun months ago sat unfinished in her studio.
They’d met four years ago during a late afternoon reception at the Dean’s house. Beth appeared at the front door with a streak of light-gray paint on her forehead. Tall, thin, blond, and disheveled, she spent nearly an hour walking alone through the downstairs rooms of the ornate red brick Tudor mansion.
They met in front of a nineteenth-century portrait of a merchant’s family. She told him she was an artist, teaching part-time at the university. Her eyes were light blue and pale. They talked briefly, mostly about her career. She stared at her hands the entire time but smiled when he asked her out for dinner.
Six months later, after many afternoons hiking the hills surrounding Albany, they were married.
“I’m sorry your day was ruined,” Carlyle said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
It was dark now. Wind rattled the house and made the candles on the table flicker.
“What’s in the boxes out front?” Carlyle said as they began to eat.
“One of your students brought over some books. He said he didn’t need them any longer.”
Carlyle broke off a piece of bread and reached for the coffee. “What did he look like?”
“Tall, mid-twenties. A grad student, I think.”
“Big guy, shaved head?”
“Yes and very polite. He kept apologizing for disturbing me.”
“What time did he get here?”
“Around two, I think. His truck just appeared in the drive.”
“How did he find us?”
“I don’t know. He told me he wanted you to have his books.”
“Did he leave a message?”
“No. He just said to wish you well.”
“How long was he here?”
“A half-hour or so.”
Carlyle told her about his meeting with Long and that he had been asked to leave the program. “He knows he’s not supposed to come here without an invitation.”
“Ric, he didn’t cause me any problems.”
Carlyle began clearing the dishes. “I’ve got to put a stop to this. Call me if he shows up again.”
“Aren’t you exaggerating? What harm can he do?” Beth stood up and began to clear the table. “Will you at least let someone know where you’re going tomorrow?”
“I’ll leave a note on my truck to say what route we’re taking.”
“A note on your truck. How will that help if something happens to you?”
Ten
The Town of Indian Lake, never crowded since the logging industry packed up and left fifty years ago, was deserted at 4:00 a.m. on Wednesday morning. He drove down Main Street past the Central Mountain Bank, Dutcher’s Hardware, and Steve’s All Night Convenience Store. When he reached the lake, a half-mile west of town, he pulled off the road
