“Shove off from the wall,” Bowie commanded. McKay dropped his paddle on the deck and pushed with his hands. Lane sat petrified, watching the white-tipped waves boiling over the rim of the boat. Bowie spied a crevice in the granite wall and wedged the tip of his paddle handle into the dark cleft. He used the paddle like a fulcrum, easing the boat downstream. His effort, combined with McKay’s, caused the boat to grate against the rough head wall, but it was moving. One more yank of the paddle and the Muskrat lurched free, still drifting sideways, half-submerged, but no longer being crushed between an insistent force and an unyielding mountain.
Bowie let out a whoop of exhilaration. The thrill may be gone, baby, but the juice is still pumping.
Then he remembered the trough that undoubtedly lay ahead, and knew they were in trouble after taking on so many gallons of water. Bowie drew little comfort knowing Raintree’s raft had made it past the treacherous channel. Raintree, with a keen sense of anticipation, had managed to direct his crew to keep right, skipping down a series of softer stairs to a gentle eddy a hundred yards downstream. Raintree, Dove, and Farrengalli pulled onto a sandbar and grounded out, waiting to see how the other raft fared.
“Hair ahead,” Bowie shouted, using the slang for a “hair-raising” or “hairy” stretch of water. He didn’t have time to instruct Travis Lane on negotiating the trough, but he hoped McKay had enough experience and tenacity to hold the rear. Bowie would have had little trouble negotiating the rapids in a solo kayak, complete with spray skirt and double-paddled oar, but in truth, the Muskrat didn’t handle all that well. While an improvement over other white-water rafts, in the end the shortcoming was that it required experienced crew members who knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Bowie hadn’t been given time to mold the two crews into smoothly functioning units.
The raft pulled to the left and Bowie jammed his paddle off starboard, braking by holding it still and letting the current push the end of the raft around. Too late, he noticed McKay was violently stroking on the port side, canceling out Bowie’s maneuver and sending the boat sideways again.
“Fuck,” Bowie said. Lane had dropped his paddle in the flooded bottom of the boat and held onto the grab loops on each side.
“Lean left, lean left,” Bowie said, hoping the combined weight of their upper bodies would help kill the spin. Bowie and McKay leaned until their shoulders touched the bow, but Lane sat upright, hunched and shivering. They hit the heart of the trough, rocks piling up on both sides of the boat.
“Look out,” McKay said, but Bowie wasn’t sure which hazard he meant. Several awaited them, and all were dangerous.
The raft banged sideways off a rounded gray rock, and Bowie noted a seam of crystal quartz scarring the length of the granite. The morning sun sparkled there like wet fire; then the raft was past the rock and riding a set of haystacks, water pushed over barely submerged rocks that created a deep sine wave of ripples. The raft leaped over the haystacks, briefly catching air despite the extra weight of the flooded deck. The raft set down each time with a shuddering splat before launching over the next stack.
“Hole,” Bowie shouted. “Big fucking hole.”
He glanced downstream, and saw Raintree watching with interest, Dove wading toward them-wading toward him — and Farrengalli standing on shore lighting a cigar.
Bowie knew this hole, but the current had changed since his last run here eleven years ago. He cursed himself for his overconfidence. Rule number one was “Know the river.” Rule number two was copped from Clint Eastwood: A man’s got to know his limitations.
Bowie had broken both rules. The hole lay at the bottom of a shelf of rock, but an eight-foot drop awaited first. The last haystack led to a short run of quiet but fast river as the current squirted them toward the waterfall. “Hold onto your asses, gentleman,” Bowie said, as calm as any Titanic officer.
“Only fucking natural,” McKay said in mockery of Farrengalli.
“Shit,” was all Lane said as the raft slid over the slick rock and dumped itself toward the hole. Bowie had released his paddle and Lane’s caught water, flipped up, and banged off Bowie’s helmet. He sucked in a moist piece of air and braced himself for impact. They were airborne for what seemed like full seconds, and the spray dancing in the sun was like a rain of soft jewels. Then all was tumble and roar as the bow met the spinning current below and pulled the craft and its occupants underwater.
Once submerged, Bowie let go of the grab loop. The cold punched him like a hundred fists of ice. Millions of years of erosion had cut a deep groove at the base of the waterfall, causing the current to swirl like a washing machine’s spin cycle. With luck, it would kick them all out to the quieter water, but it could just as easily suck them down and continue drumming thousands of gallons of water onto them.
Despite his PFD, Bowie felt as if were wearing cement clothes. He opened his eyes and saw the dim gleam of the sun on the surface of the river six feet above. Not much in a swimming pool, maybe, but the river was hungry today.
One foot touched bottom and he used the contact to push off, this time cupping his hands and stroking. Against the pressure of a river, a swimmer’s stroke was nearly useless. Bowie was determined not to go gentle into the river’s belly. But now he needed air. His lungs were hot bricks in the oven of his chest. The book on river suction was to relax your body and let the current push you to safety instead of trying to fight it. But instinct required a struggle.
Eyes closed, he touched something soft and yielding, realized it was the raft, and felt along the bow for the grab loop. He should have held onto the raft in the first place, but he hadn’t yet developed faith in the Muskrat. He doubted even Lane would bet his life on the latest ProVentures design if it came down to it.
Finally, his head broke surface and he drew in a breath that tasted of pine, fish, and mud. Farrengalli shouted something from the shore, but Bowie couldn’t make it out because of the foam crackling in his ears. He shook his wet hair from his eyes. Lane bobbed ten feet away, head hanging limply to one side. McKay was nowhere in sight.
Go down for McKay or check on Lane? Triage-who’s in the most immediate danger?
Though McKay was fit and had some white-water experience, he might have underestimated the suction of the hole.
No, YOU’RE the one that did the underestimating, asshole. Already trying to duck responsibility?
Raintree swam toward Lane, with Dove right behind him, so Bowie fought around the lip of the hole, where the current was less powerful, until he was upstream of the waterfall. Then he eased along the base of the rock shelf until he was under the wet sheet of water. The filtered light gave the cavelike space a gray, funereal quality.
McKay clung to the rock face, grinning. He shouted over the continuous liquid thunder. “Some ride, huh, Captain?”
“This isn’t a game. I thought you were under.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“You’ll probably get worse, before this one’s over.”
“I just thought I’d rest here a second. Too much peace and quiet will drive you batty.”
“Lane may be hurt.”
“Screw him. Leave him for the buzzards. What do you think of Dove Krueger? I think Farrengalli’s working her.”
“I hadn’t noticed. Come on. We’ve got to regroup.”
McKay smirked. “Aye, aye, Captain. It’s only fucking natural.”
“Look, you want to play kissy-face with death, go for it. Just don’t do it on my time.” Bowie hugged the base of the rock a moment, then dog-paddled along the edge of the current into the sunshine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
According to the maps that Jim Castle had recovered from The Rook’s backpack, only one major trail wound along the northern shore of the Unegama River. With daylight, he was better able to orient himself, and upon reaching the river’s edge he was faced with a decision. Ace Goodall and his companion either had forded the river to reach the trail system on the other side, or had followed the water downstream. If they had crossed, Castle would have little chance of finding them, because the trails branched off toward a number of peaks and scenic overlooks. The pair (and he now fully believed Ace had a partner, willing or not-after all, why else would he carry a condom?) could evade detection for days or weeks on the south side of the river.