Odd the couple was out walking on a weekday in such bitter weather. “You have any idea how far the Mt. Rushmore Club is?” Carlyle said.
“About two miles,” the man said. “But I’d pay attention to their no-trespassing sign if I was you. The people who stay in those big cabins don’t appreciate unannounced visitors.”
“We’ll stay off their property,” Carlyle said. “I hope you don’t mind my asking. Do you come down this road often?”
“Nearly every day for the past week now.”
“Every day?” Carlyle said. “It can’t be easy for you this time of year.”
“It’s hard on her, but we have to come see where our boy died.”
“Your son?”
“Chris Blake. Our only child.” The man turned around briefly to stare at the river. “He drowned out there a week ago this past Wednesday while working for one of the outfitters. We can only make it to the end of the trail, but the accident happened farther out, just east of where the Hudson comes in to meet the Indian.”
The woman, who had begun to weep, wiped her eyes and turned away from the men.
“There’s nothing I can say except we’re sorry for your loss.” Carlyle glanced at Pierce who stood, shotgun clutched to his chest, staring at the parents. Carlyle hoped Pierce wouldn’t tell the couple that Carlyle had been the one who had pulled their son’s body from the Hudson.
Blake’s father put his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “We appreciate your words. Sorry to have kept you.”
The dogs, desperate to run now that they were off a chain, began whimpering.
“My wife’s exhausted and cold,” the man said. “We best be going.”
The two grieving parents turned and walked down the trail, the woman first, dragging her right leg, the man two steps behind her. A minute later they were fifty yards away, haltingly mounting the next crest in the road.
Carlyle dropped his pack on the ground. “Jesus Christ.”
“Their kid was earning eighty bucks a day when he was murdered,” Pierce said. “And you wonder why the guides resent Marshall?” He leaned his shotgun on his shoulder and began walking. “Let’s get moving before we freeze to death.”
Somewhere to their right, down a steep embankment choked with dense undergrowth, thorn bushes, shrubs, and stunted pines, the Indian was gathering speed and power as it rushed through the valley.
After a mile of snow, stagnant water, and thick red mud, the trail began to rise. Five minutes later, Carlyle reached the crest of a hill and stared down at the river. Sunlight reflecting off a single, never-ending wave train flooded the air with blue-white brilliance. A long, pencil-thin island, little more than a collection of rocks and tangled vegetation, bisected the current.
Pierce spat toward the river. “So this is where he’s been operating.”
“A month from now,” Carlyle said, “once the snowpack melts and the current drops, he’ll be able to get at us from both sides of the gorge.” He stared at the forest encircling them. “When those trees leaf out, it’ll be almost dark at ground level and impossible to track him.”
“Don’t worry,” Pierce said. “We won’t have to go looking for him. He’ll find us.”
A half-hour later, they reached a wood-and-pipe barrier topped by a sign: Mt. Rushmore Club. Members Only.
Rather than face harassment by a six-man security staff that patrolled the property, they turned off the road and slogged through knee-deep snow, bushwhacking toward the Indian. Fallen trees, boulders, and rotting logs blocked the path. Plowing through snowdrifts and bending low to avoid overhanging branches, they continued to move north.
From the sound of it, the Indian was now no more than two-hundred and fifty yards away. Attempting to sidestep a boulder, Carlyle placed his right foot on rough ground, turned his ankle, and fell forward. Up to his elbows in snow, he hauled himself to his knees, then pushed himself into a standing position.
“You okay?” Pierce said.
“I fell just like that cross-country skiing eight years ago. Dislocated my left shoulder. Three snowmobilers found me and brought me back to the road. Had to wait an hour for an ambulance to arrive.” Despite two layers of protective gear, Carlyle’s hands had turned white with cold. Snow had invaded his boots. “You bring any coffee in that thermos?”
“I did.”
“I’ll have some of it when we reach the river.”
Pierce stared at the trees around them. “Finding our way back is going to be a bitch.”
“No it won’t. Just turn around. See your footsteps coming down from the escarpment? No matter where we go, we’ll know that the road’s right up there. If we head for that ridge, we can’t get lost. Meanwhile, keep your eyes open. This would be a great spot for a hideout with a view of the river.”
A twenty-mile-an-hour wind rushed through the narrow gorge and the temperature began to drop as they closed in on the Indian. Ten minutes later, shoving their way through waist-high thorn bushes, the two men reached the river.
“I know now why you people love this forest,” Pierce said.
“No one’s ever going to clear-cut these woods again, that’s for sure.”
Pierce pulled the thermos from his pack. When they’d finished the coffee and started walking again, he said, “I don’t understand how he gets in here without someone coming across him.”
“He stays off well-used trails during the day and hides out somewhere at night.”
“Why not bring in equipment to track the bastard?”
“Helicopters and heat-seeking radar don’t work in dense undergrowth. We have to understand his behavior, see if patterns emerge, and anticipate his next move. Then, if he makes just one dumb mistake, we can take him down.”
Pierce shook his head. “I bet you think all criminals are just misguided souls. They’re not. The majority are vicious assholes. Robbing and mayhem give them power or pleasure.”
“Then that shotgun of yours is useless. This person will never let himself get caught. But if we can figure out what he wants, we may be able to negotiate with him.”
Pierce, who never took his eyes
