Current pouring through the wide-open sluice gate at the dam caught the raft and pushed it toward the Indian. They were twenty yards behind Marshall, but catching up fast.
The sun slipped behind a layer of gray clouds, turning the water a nasty shade of green. Carlyle looked to his left, toward the woods and the darkness beyond. The river, near flood stage for the first time this spring, hissed and groaned as it churned toward the Confluence.
“You’re that professor I’ve been hearing about,” Sutcliffe said. “The one out to catch our river ghost.”
“That’s me. Not that I’ve had any luck so far.”
The Indian was supposed to be a warm-up for what lay ahead in the gorge, but juiced by the enormous spring snowmelt, today it was almost unrecognizable. Huge waves and boat-gulping hydraulics filled the river as it plowed through the canyon. A fierce wind whipped the current into a white froth that needled Carlyle’s face with cold spray. Driven downstream by the dam release from Indian Lake, the convoy of five rafts took only thirty minutes to reach their usual rest stop halfway to the Confluence.
Sutcliffe passed Carlyle his water bottle. “You still hunting for that killer?”
“We’re hoping this case will be over soon.”
“Good luck with that.”
Carlyle wiped his glasses. “Mind if I ask why you’re out here today?”
“No one’s willing to work for Marshall. They think he’s jinxed.”
“So why’d you sign up?”
“I can always use the cash.”
Marshall soon took off, and Sutcliffe worked his boat into the current. Five minutes later, Marshall steered his raft into a slender chute on river right. Sutcliffe hesitated.
Carlyle eyed him. “We going to follow him?”
Sutcliffe never took his eyes off the river. “With the Indian like this? It’s insane. But he’s the boss.” He slipped into the chute behind Marshall. Betts and Nash also followed them. Sayers did not, but stayed outside the chute picking out a broader route.
Although they were twenty yards behind the lead boat, Carlyle never lost sight of Marshall sitting high up on his back tube, his bright blue and yellow dry suit outlined against a backdrop of Scotch pines. Thirty seconds later, halfway down the chute, Marshall was wrenched from his boat and, arms flailing, somersaulted backwards into the Indian.
Although battered by waves and subsurface rocks, Marshall was able to grab the chicken line with his left hand as he was dragged downstream like a cowboy lashed to a Brahma bull.
Sutcliffe pulled up alongside Marshall’s raft, and Carlyle yanked him from the river. Three minutes later, the convoy rafted up in calmer water fifty yards above Gooley Steps.
Carlyle eased Marshall into a sitting position. “What the hell happened?”
Marshall wrapped his right hand around a D-ring and gritted his teeth. “Didn’t you see it?”
“See what?”
“That fishing line strung across the channel. Almost took my head off.”
Carlyle turned around and stared at the waves pouring out of the chute. What was the booby trap doing this far up the river? He was certain that if there had been an ambush today, it would have been in Harris.
Nash grabbed Marshall under the arms, laid him across a thwart and covered him with a thermal blanket. “Where’s it hurt?”
“My chest. It feels all busted up.”
“Can you breathe okay?”
Marshall closed his eyes and inhaled. “Shit, no.”
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
Nash put his right hand on Marshall’s side. “Take a deep one.”
Marshall, pale but sweating despite the chilled air, groaned.
Nash stood up. “He’s got two or three broken ribs.”
“We’ve got to get him back to the basin,” Betts said. “He needs a paramedic.”
“Are you nuts?” Nash said. “We can’t bushwhack two miles with him like this.”
“You got a better idea?”
“We strap him to a backboard at Virgin,” Nash said, “and I’ll float him out in my boat.”
Marshall attempted to sit up. “You can’t be serious. I can’t go through another three hours of this.”
“We’ll get you help as soon as we reach North River.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Betts said. “How do we get his people out of here?”
“In the other four boats,” Nash said.
Sutcliffe sat up higher and scanned the other rafts. “Where are you going to find eight empty spaces?”
Carlyle picked up his dry bag and stepped across to Marshall’s boat. “We don’t have time to argue. I’ll take over for him.”
“Are you serious?” Nash said. “With the river near flood stage?”
“How many times do I have to say this?” Carlyle slid his left foot under the restraining strap. “I’ve worked on the Hudson longer than any of you.”
Betts lowered his voice. “DEC will go crazy if we let an unlicensed guide haul people through the gorge.”
“We have no choice,” Nash said. “If we try to walk Marshall out of here, he might dislocate a rib.”
“Discussion over,” Carlyle said. “Every second we stay here makes us open to another attack.” He looked at the four guides standing around him, and then focused on Sayers. “Why didn’t you follow us down the chute?”
Sayers put his fists on his hips and met Carlyle’s gaze. “I’ve never gone that way before and it looked suicidal. What are you accusing me of?”
Carlyle looked at him a moment longer. “Just asking. Okay, here’s what I want. Nash moves from the four spot to the one and leads us through the gorge.”
Nash waved him off. “Are you forgetting what happened the last time you talked me into playing George Washington?”
Carlyle leaned back, testing the foot strap. “You’re right, that wasn’t fair. You take us down to Blue Ledges. I’ll take us through the gorge.”
“You’re not serious, are you?” Betts said.
“If you think I’m joking, just watch me.” Carlyle shoved Marshall’s boat into the Indian and the raft picked up speed. “The really tough stuff is ahead of us, he told the people in his boat. If you want to change seats, let me know right now.”
“Have you done this before?” the kid in the front seat said.
“Once or twice. You’ve got nothing to worry about except doing exactly what I tell you.” He gave his crew the standard,
