“We’re still at square one. Any idea what our next step is?”
“These woods are his territory, a place he knows and feels safe. We have to figure out some way to lure him out of here.”
“How do you do that?”
“Use bait he won’t be able to resist,” Carlyle said.
Ten minutes later, the two men walked up to Carlyle’s truck. A second note lay on top of the one Carlyle had left. He brushed off the snow and read it.
“It’s from Bognor. He says DEC has given Marshall permission to take clients back to the Hudson.”
“When’s this supposed to happen?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You going with them?”
“I have to,” Carlyle said. “My name’s on the permit.”
Eleven
At 5:00 a.m. on Thursday, an hour before sunrise, he wrestled the canoe into the bone-chilling water. The sky was black, the trees mere stick figures, the river deafening. He could not risk buying the Grumman from someone local, so he’d taken the ferry to Vermont yesterday and hauled the boat back after dark. He might die if he made a mistake out here today, but vengeance has its costs. People might call him a madman, but privately they would be amazed by his audacity.
The heavy canoe moved sluggishly in the current. The headlamp strapped to his helmet washed over the boulders lining his path. He’d never felt such cold. Although wrapped in thick gloves, his hands were already numb, his fingers inflexible.
Moving slowly through mist blanketing the Indian, he picked his way downstream. Working almost sightless, he was seconds from disaster.
Forty-five minutes later, just as the sun broke over the horizon, he slithered down the left side of Cedar Ledges and straight into Entrance, where he simply abandoned himself to the boulder-strewn rapid.
Knowing he could not do the next stretch in semidarkness, he lined the boat down along the shore through the Narrows. Too exhausted to think straight, he trusted his instincts and experience to get him through Mile-Long. Having forgotten what warmth felt like, it took him another hour to reach his target at the bottom of Harris.
He wished he could see their faces when they realized he’d run the gorge in the dark. At first they’d simply deny that anyone could pull off such a stunt. He had accomplices, they would say, or he’d brought the boat in overland. Anything to deny him credit for daring and perseverance.
Bognor and the others might discover who he was and why he was doing this, but he would never give up, never disappoint his grandfather, never let Marshall’s old man get his way with the property on Johnston Mountain.
In Harris, the pain was beyond words. He had to stand in the freezing current, his feet and legs turning to stone, aware that he could be swept downstream any second. It took him nearly thirty minutes to find a place to put the boat and to secure the bow and stern with lashing straps.
By the time his work was done, ice hung from his helmet and he could feel nothing from the waist down. His left arm, the one he had broken two years ago, hung limp at his side. The skin on his face and hands felt as fragile as ancient parchment.
When he was sure the canoe wouldn’t be discovered until it was too late, he dragged himself from the water, hid his gear under thick brush, and turned his back on the river. Following the route he had marked two days ago, he scrambled up the embankment, made his way across the iron and oak trestle, and disappeared into the woods.
Carlyle awoke just after dawn. Beth was already sitting in a chair underneath the window.
“What are you doing today?” he said.
“I was planning to work on the garden.”
He put his right hand on her shoulder. “I’ll help when I get back this afternoon.”
“If you’re here before dark, sure. I’d like that.”
Carlyle went downstairs and made coffee. Fog shrouded the pond, and gray clouds enveloped the escarpment as he drove away from the house. Taking narrow, meandering back roads east to the Hudson, he turned left onto the highway that bordered the river, and, avoiding the city, headed north.
Elevated highway ramps carved their way through the industrial landscape. Plastic bags and refuse littered the roadside. It took Carlyle half an hour to put the junkyards, tank farms, derelict piers, cement plants, railroad sidings, and abandoned factories behind him.
At 7:00 a.m., thirty minutes before the other guides arrived, Carlyle found Grace Irwin on her hands and knees in the living room of the lodge, surrounded by crushed beer cans, crumpled pizza boxes, and overflowing ashtrays.
“You would think,” she said, “that grown men wouldn’t leave their shit around where other people, namely me, would have to pick it up.”
Carlyle bent down and began helping her corral the garbage. “Grace, how’s my favorite goat farmer?”
“Sherlock. You near to catching that madman yet?”
“We’ve got half the state police out looking for him.”
“How many cops does it take to find one dumb schmuck?”
“If your neighbors would help us, it might be over sooner.”
“People around here are of two minds,” she said. “They hate what that killer’s doing, but they can’t stand Marshall’s father.”
A black pickup turned into the parking lot. “Well, well,” Grace said. “Tarzan’s here.”
“Betts?”
“Who else would drive a gas guzzler like that?”
Ten minutes later, after Carlyle had inspected the rafts they’d be using today, he found Hernandez, Nash, and Betts standing quietly around the coffee pot. “What’s going on?” Carlyle said.
“Burton had two boats flip in the Narrows yesterday,” Hernandez said. “He had people and equipment scattered all up and down the river.”
“It wasn’t our guy,” Carlyle said, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“How can you be so sure?” Nash said.
“He’s only after Marshall.”
“It’s true,” Hernandez said. “When they picked up the crew and their clients downstream from Osprey, his guides apologized for making a dumb mistake.”
Nash finished his coffee and put the cup into the sink. “Why hasn’t Marshall’s father taken care of this mess yet?”
“Apparently, there are
