Marshall stomped out of his office. “You see the damned weather report?”
The snowmelt usually began pouring into the gorge in mid-April, but the jet stream parked itself over the Adirondacks at the beginning of the month and late afternoon thunderstorms had never let up.
“The gauge is already up to 7.9,” Marshall said. “By the time we get there, the Narrows is going to be a bitch.” He looked at his clipboard. “You know the routine. I’ll run first. Betts and Hernandez follow me. Keith will be our sweep.”
“Hold on a second,” Carlyle said. “You mind if I make a suggestion?”
Marshall glared at him. “About what?”
Carlyle pulled a small yellow card from his pocket and studied it. “Why don’t you have Keith lead us through the gorge. Betts will follow him. Hernandez takes the three spot. You can run sweep.”
“What are you talking about?” Marshall said.
“If we run into trouble, we can count on you to pick up the pieces.”
Marshall checked his watch. “You have any idea how long I’ve been running my operation this way?”
“Why don’t you ask the others what they think?”
Marshall turned to Nash. “Is this the first time you’ve heard of his plan?”
“Of course.”
“You agree with him?”
“What can you lose?”
Marshall put his clipboard down on the dining room table and stared at Carlyle. “You got any more advice for me this morning?”
Carlyle checked his list. “We should leave twenty yards between boats, not ten.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’ll give us more time to react in case there’s an accident.”
“And what makes you so sure he’ll hit us again?”
“Until we know what this guy is after, another attack may be unavoidable.”
“Is that it, then?” Marshall said.
“One more thing. I want to choose the people who go in Keith’s boat.”
Marshall grabbed the list in Carlyle’s hand and tore it up. “You’ve certainly got some balls. But just remember this. Once we get back here, I’m taking over this outfit again.”
“I’m not asking you to give up control of anything,” Carlyle said. “Let’s just try it my way this time. See how things turn out.”
Marshall slammed down his coffee cup and walked into his office.
Carlyle passed Grace on the way out of the lodge. She was selling use-it-and-toss-it rain gear and souvenir t-shirts to three women who’d just pulled into the parking lot. “Excuse me a moment, will you?” she said to her clients. “I’ve got to pick a fight with one of our guides.” She walked out from behind her desk and pulled Carlyle aside. “Sherlock. Hold on a minute.”
Carlyle dropped his gear bag on the ground. “I’ve got a trip to run.”
She grabbed the sleeve of his dry suit. “I just heard what went on in there. Are you serious? Talking to him like that?”
“The storm will pass, don’t worry.”
“When are you going to realize he doesn’t like getting sandbagged in front of his employees?”
“He’s running out of options. What choice does he have?”
She shook her head. “You’ve been reading too many of them schoolbooks, Carlyle. He’ll never forget this.”
An hour later, while walking from their bus to the headwaters of the Indian, Betts spotted Pierce standing next to an unmarked patrol car. “What’s that asshole doing here?”
Carlyle nodded to the Deputy but said nothing to him. “Pierce may not be the only cop on duty today.”
“That’s just what we need right now, a shoot-out on the river.” Betts, who was carrying a large jug of water in his right hand, shifted it to his left. “By the way, you see these clients? A couple of them look like ads for human growth hormone.”
“Don’t complain. We may just need all that muscle.”
The light rain turned into a steady downpour as Carlyle and Betts slid down the muddy slope to the put-in. Hernandez, who looked relieved to have a strong crew for once, kept busy rearranging the equipment in his boat. Marshall, at the back of the line, sat tight-lipped, waiting for the trip to begin.
“You better prepare yourself for one huge river today,” Betts said.
“What are you talking about?” Carlyle said.
“The guy at the sluice was told to keep the gate wide open all morning. The town’s worried about upstream flooding.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. It’ll add another foot to what we have already. By the time this is over, Marshall may wish for once that he’d cancelled a trip.”
As they waited for the go-ahead signal from Nash, Betts gave his standard “paddle or die” speech to their crew. He sounded like one of those shipwrecked Arctic explorers, tight-lipped and grim in the face of an approaching calamity. After he’d finished putting the fear of God into them, he turned to Carlyle. “Now we’re supposed to just sit here and wait like fish in a barrel?”
“Keep it down, will you? Let’s just follow Keith and stay out of trouble.”
“Stay out of trouble?” Betts said. “Why the fuck didn’t I think of that?”
Nash, with a crew working like galley slaves, led the four-boat convoy quickly through the first series of staircase rapids. They reached the eddy at the bottom of Gooley Steps in twenty minutes and pulled over for a quick break.
Water poured off Betts’s helmet. “If this rain doesn’t let up soon, we could be in deep shit.”
“You’ve seen it worse than this.” Carlyle knew, however, that they’d be trapped in the gorge between sheer granite walls for at least two hours. If this madman had figured out how to attack them in Mile-Long or Givenny’s, their boats would be scattered all up and down the river, like rabbits in a cornfield, ready to be picked off.
Despite Carlyle’s concern about another attack, Marshall’s outfit made it from the Confluence to Blue Ledge Basin in one piece.
After his crew went off to stretch their legs, Betts said, “What if I told you this might be my last season?” He was also eyeing the three men and three women in Nash’s raft who, instead of goofing around, as most clients did, were examining their gear and talking quietly.
Carlyle pulled a small
