To their right, Carlyle could see the lake that, for a few months a year, turned the Indian into a navigable river. Just below the dam, he watched torrents of water plunging down Beaver Creek.
“Last month,” Pierce said, “two teenagers tried to run the creek in inner tubes. Search and Rescue found their bodies a week later underneath a pile of logs and brush a half-mile downstream.”
“What happened to the warning sign at the dam?”
“Someone tore it out.”
“You think our guy was responsible?” Carlyle said.
“Probably not. The coroner said those kids had been drinking. But now, I’m not so sure.”
Two minutes later, they came to a truck sitting just off the road. The door panel read Town of Indian Lake Water Department.
“I’m going to ask the guy if he’s seen anything unusual,” Carlyle said.
“Him? He won’t talk to outsiders.”
“Can’t hurt to try.”
“Go ahead. I can’t wait to see what happens.”
Carlyle walked up to the gray Ford F150 and knocked on the window. A rack of blue and white emergency lights ran along the top of the cab. A half-dozen orange traffic cones and a load of wood sat in back of the truck. Its occupant rolled down his window part way. “We’re hiking out to the Confluence,” Carlyle said. “Mind if we leave our vehicle here?”
“Suit yourself.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Have you seen much foot traffic on this road?”
Cigarette smoke drifted out of the cab. “Like what?”
“People you didn’t recognize.”
“Other than yourself? No, sir.”
“No strangers at all?”
“Flatlanders have bought up land on both sides of the river. Locals hardly ever come by here now.”
“What about when those two guides died?”
“I was out hunting rabbits.”
“So you’ve seen nothing unusual.”
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“Thanks for your time.”
The truck’s occupant simply nodded and rolled up the window.
Carlyle walked back to where the Deputy was standing. “Okay, you were right.”
Pierce laughed. “I take it you’ve never seen Deliverance?”
“Come on, Caleb. People around here aren’t idiots.”
“No? You just wait and see.”
They continued moving toward the Confluence, mud and wet snow sucking at their boots.
“Let me ask you something,” Pierce said. “Most people can’t wait to get away from this place. Why the hell did you come back?”
“It’s pretty easy to get hooked on this work when you’ve spent nearly ten years running boats through the gorge.”
Carlyle would never forget the first time he’d driven clients through the Narrows. The power and velocity of the Hudson as it spilled downhill out of the mountains astonished him. Afraid of making a rookie mistake, he’d willed his crew to punch through those six huge waves that threatened to capsize their raft. He’d never lost his respect for the river, but he’d gradually realized that if he could overcome that anxiety, nothing else would ever terrify him again.
A half-mile beyond the dam, Carlyle stopped and pulled a pair of thick green mittens and a down sweater from his pack. “You think that accident at Givenny’s last April could be something he was responsible for?” Carlyle said.
Twelve months ago, a sixty-five-year-old insurance agent from Chicago, trying to throw himself a birthday party he would never forget, had a fatal heart attack after somersaulting through Soup Strainer.
“You mean the dude who got tossed from his raft? The asshole should never have been out there in the first place. It’s a shame everyone had to watch the paramedics doing chest compressions on him, but it was his own damn fault.”
“I didn’t know the incident touched you so deeply,” Carlyle said. “Sorry I brought it up.”
An hour after leaving the basin, they came to a barrier mounted on iron poles: Private Property Ahead. Trespassers will be prosecuted to the Full Extent of the Law. Pierce walked around the sign. “I guess I’m the law, right?”
“Does anyone ever go back in here?” Carlyle said.
“You saw that sign. Who’d risk it?”
“Then we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
“You better hope so,” Pierce said.
Carlyle stared up at the jack pine, their rough bark glowing red in the morning light. His thermometer said it was forty-four degrees. Wind lashed his face. Knowing they had to get back to the main road before sunset, he pushed on toward the Confluence.
After another mile, the trail, which had paralleled a thirty-foot cliff face, began to drop toward the valley floor. Carlyle could hear the Indian rushing through a series of granite boulder gardens off to his right.
As they rounded a bend in the trail, a rust-red retriever and a large brown mutt with a metal-studded choke collar broke from the woods and, barking furiously, rushed toward them.
A couple trailed after the animals. The woman, trying to conceal a limp, was about five-three, maybe maybe a hundred and forty pounds. She wore a brown coat with ragged sleeves, a thin wool hat, and ankle-high boots despite the deep, wet snow. When she reached the growling dogs, now standing still, she grabbed the retriever by its collar. “Quiet. Don’t you move now.”
The man, a shade under six feet and lean, was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and wore a thick denim jacket and underneath it a tee-shirt that read, Watch Your Damn Head. NYS Logging Association. His red beard was untrimmed, his wrists and face sunburned, the knuckles of both hands raw. A green bandana encircled his head. “These animals scare you?”
Carlyle said, “No. I’m fine with dogs. Thanks for asking.”
“I guess some people must hate them.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We had one mutt shot recently.”
“Where was that?”
“Near the main road. He ran off, chasing a rabbit I suspect. We found him in the woods next day. Dead, of course.”
“You ever learn who did it?” Carlyle said.
“No. But if I catch the bastard, he won’t shoot no more dogs.” He glanced at the shotgun on Pierce’s arm. “You out here on official business?”
“You could say that,” Pierce said.
The woman, eyes red as if from crying, edged closer to her husband. Her right arm dangled at her side, the hand clenched as if in a permanent spasm. She held a
