by Debby Giusti
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Deadly River Pursuit
by Heather Woodhaven
ONE
The Killer was just around the bend.
Categorized as Class III rapids, The Killer attracted whitewater enthusiasts to the Sauvage River. To the best of Nora Radley’s knowledge, no one had ever actually been killed by the rapids, though the name served as a warning to those who didn’t have the knowledge or experience to stay away.
Her torso twisted ever so slightly from the waist as she cut the paddle through the calm portion of the crystal-clear spring waters. The blue kayak responded immediately to her movement and changed course. The heavy snowmelt added several feet of water, which could produce newfound dangers before the official rafting season started.
This year’s examination of the river held extra importance. As acting manager of The Sauvage Run Rafting Company, Nora’s marketing efforts had been unsuccessful until Wonder Travel Magazine announced they were sending a journalist to Idaho to experience the early season’s opening weekend run. The publicity might be her only shot at getting her aunt’s business back to profitable.
She rested the paddle on top of the kayak and savored the floating sensation. The moment she was back on the river, it was like returning home, or at least what she imagined the feeling of home to be like. Her heart flooded with excitement as she rounded the bend. The roar reached her ears before she spotted the giant waves, still a good hundred yards or so in the distance.
To her left, Sandy Cape’s beach didn’t jut into the river as far as last year. Concerning but still workable. The beach served as the first stop for guests to eat lunch and marvel at the wild rapids before they ventured forth. She fought against a disappointed groan, anxious to keep going, but she had a job to do.
She maneuvered her paddle and aimed for land. A raft, on the opposite end of the beach, poked out from between two boulders. The Sauvage Run was printed in dark blue on the side. She clenched her jaw. None of the employees was supposed to take out a raft without her knowledge.
Nora gave the paddle an extra shove on the right and ramped up onto the sand.
“It’s pretty simple. All of the cash at the—”
The waves sloshed against the back end of her kayak so she couldn’t hear the rest. The voice had to belong to Dexter Miller, the sharp-edged tone a dead giveaway. She already regretted hiring him. If it turned out he was soliciting money under the table for private rafting trips when he should be in training, Nora’s patience would reach its end, even if her aunt had pushed for the hire.
She stepped out of the kayak and dragged it the rest of the way onto the sand. Just past the firepit and picnic tables, she spotted Dexter among the trees, still talking with his trademark arrogance, but she couldn’t see the other person.
“The ball’s in your court, but if I go missing then you don’t get your stuff,” Dexter said, his chin jutting upward.
What kind of racket was Dexter trying to pull? The defiance and lack of respect seemed woven in the fiber of his bones. Most of the guides were young and Nora expected a certain amount of immaturity, but Dexter was in his forties. “I have a good guess how much it’s worth,” Dexter continued. “I guarantee you won’t be able to find—”
“You got to say your piece,” a man remarked, his voice low and monotone. “Now, it’s my turn. See that over there?”
Nora squinted, trying to get a glimpse of the other man. She had a feeling she knew that voice but couldn’t place it. She continued forward, the downward pull of the sand impeding her progress. Another step allowed her to see the back of the other man through the branches. Black jacket, brown hair, average height, but nothing indicated his identity yet. Interrupting their conversation wasn’t her first choice, but she also wanted to make her presence known lest they assume she was intentionally eavesdropping.
The man lifted a gun while Dexter looked at something to the southeast. A shot rang out.
Her chest seized in a gasp. The greeting she’d been about to holler caught in the back of her throat. Dexter crumpled to the ground. The man spun, pulling up a gray camouflage mask as he turned. The sun reflected off something in his hand, probably the gun, and the blue lenses of the dark sunglasses covered the rest of his face. He raised his arm.
Nora ducked instinctively. A bullet hit a rock a foot from where she was standing. She sprinted across the shore, pumping her arms as hard as possible, despite the restrictive nature of the wet suit. Going back to her kayak, which was sitting out in the open on the sandy beach, wasn’t an option. Another shot rang out, producing an explosion of sand against her shins.
She slid as if going for home base until she was behind the largest boulder on the farthest side of the beach. Her insides vibrated and she struggled to focus on her options. One more step and she’d sink into the water, which had to be a good eight-feet deep. The current would drag her right into the rapids. She situated herself in a crouch. The wind gusted and a wave slapped her back and neck, the sudden chill hard to ignore.
If she tried to climb the rocks to get to the wooded area, her head would be exposed, but she couldn’t stay put. Should the gunman walk this way, she’d be an easy target. The raft Dexter had precariously parked on top of loose rock between two boulders sat a few feet away. His reckless, lazy choice might be her only chance at survival.
The only way off Sandy Cape was on the raft, through The Killer. She’d never be able to say the name of the rapids with a laugh again. Trying to stay crouched while crawling up the loose rock proved useless. Gravity pulled her back toward the water. Her outstretched fingers snagged the perimeter rope threaded through the D-rings on the outside of the raft. The boat skated down after her, taking a handful of rocks with it.
She managed to sidestep just enough to dive into the raft and hunker down on the floor. The current grabbed the boat instantly. It wasn’t the safest place to be as she approached the rapids, but it was safer than being hit by a bullet.
Nora propped up on her knees and clutched the handles of the two oars while trying to stay low. The rapids would be even harder to manage with only her weight in the raft, which was big enough for four people. She stole a glance at the beach. Was the gunman coming after her in the kayak she’d left behind? Or would he try to climb the rocks and shoot at her again?
A three-foot wave collapsed over the bow of the raft, flipping it over. Her fingers grazed the outside of the boat as it tipped over, catching the perimeter rope as water rushed over her head. She fought against the aerated water that wanted to toss her about under the surface. The moment her head broke free, she pulled in a breath and held tight to the taut rope. Almost on autopilot, she managed to flip the raft and hoist herself up and into it. That second-long glance at the beach had cost her.
She laid flat, sputtering, until she caught her breath. But there was no time to waste as the worst of the rapids was still to come. She pushed upright on one knee, twisted into a seated position at the back and grabbed the oars. Gunman or not, she would die if she didn’t focus on the turbulent waters.
The river had changed with the snowmelt and she needed to find a current to take to get out of the rapids as soon as possible. Interlocking ridges and valleys bordered the Sauvage River. If she waited even a half mile more downriver to get out, she would enter a canyon and, without other people to help her maneuver the large raft, there were would be no easy exit off the water for miles.
She needed to call for help but couldn’t afford to take a hand off an oar. The safest path to land would take her to the same side of the river as the gunman. Almost like a giant V in the river, another path presented itself, barely skirting a boulder poking out of the water. With four quick strokes, Nora maneuvered into the current and braced herself to stay on top of the roller coaster of waves. A minute later, instead of laughing—like all rafters after an exhilarating ride—she stumbled out of the raft onto
a north-side bank.
Pulling in giant breaths and spinning to look over her shoulder every few steps, she dragged the raft up behind her. Her chest heaved and her eyes burned, but she refused to stop and cry. She couldn’t. What if Dexter was still alive? She hadn’t actually seen him get shot, but she’d heard it, seen him fall. If there was a chance he could be saved, every second counted.
Her shaky hands unzipped the pocket on the side of her suit. The satellite phone didn’t always grab a signal near the high canyon walls and thick tree canopy. Please. She dialed and, mercifully, the county dispatcher answered.
Nora didn’t wait for questions. “A man shot one of my guides at Sandy Cape.” She stepped into the cover of the trees, watching the river for signs she’d been followed. “I don’t know if he’s still alive or not.” Her body started trembling, then her arms and legs began shaking more violently. Likely from the frigid water and the adrenaline. A natural reaction, she told herself. She tried inhaling and exhaling deeply to calm her mind so her body would relax, but it wasn’t working. Her teeth chattered. “The shooter might follow me. I left my kayak there. I had to.”
“Ma’am, where are you now?”
“Um—” Nora turned around “—the emergency take-out. Closest to Clair Creek.”
“Okay, can you make your way to the road? I have an officer en route to you.”
“Yes, but you also need to send someone to Sandy Cape—”
“Ma’am, Sandy Cape is only accessible by boat. I’ve got a call out to the forest service and the search and rescue team.”
Sandy Cape was on US Forest Service land, all south of the river. Nora took measured steps through the overgrown foliage, around slippery rocks and past crooked pine trees, until she spotted the thin dirt trail only used when a rafter had to finish early. She was currently north of the river, on Bureau of Land Management property. She trudged forward, the phone still against her ear. The search and rescue team was based in the small town of Sauvage, six miles north of her rafting company. They were well trained, but all volunteers with day jobs. “If you wait for search and rescue, that won’t be fast enough to save Dex—”
The line went dead. No signal.
The sound of a motor approached. No sirens.
She tensed, ready to run, and rounded the hill dotted with sage and patches of snow on the north side.
A tan pickup drove at full speed, dust and rocks spewing from the tires.
She dropped her head. No. Please not him. Anyone but him.
* * *
Henry McKnight pressed his lips together as he took the full impact of the dirt road’s bumps at high-speed. He’d been nearby investigating an illegal trash dump when he’d heard the call for assistance. A rafting guide in danger after witnessing a shooting.
He gripped the wheel tighter, unwilling to reduce his speed as he raced to the location Dispatch had described. Another rafting guide wasn’t going to be murdered on his watch. He felt the burden of the cold case all over again.
A rafting guide and friend, Tommy Sorenson, had been murdered ten years ago. In fact, Tommy’s death had been the very reason Henry had trained to become a law enforcement ranger for the Bureau of Land Management.
A flash of light reflected off the sheen of the raft a young lady carried over her head. His foot slipped off the gas pedal. His ex-fiancée, Nora? He blinked and pressed the gas pedal forward, though not at as high a speed. Her life jacket dangled from the crook in her arm. She walked at a slow pace in purple water shoes.
Had Dispatch been wrong? She didn’t act like a woman in danger. Perhaps he was in the wrong place.
As he grew closer, the strain in Nora’s posture became visible. She didn’t even offer a fake smile, which he’d come to expect on the rare occasion they’d bumped into each other.
He pulled to a stop, careful not to get close enough his truck would spray her with dust. He hopped out, his hand on his weapon. The dispatcher had said the shooter might still be after the guide. “Are you okay?” He knew his question sounded abrupt, and he regretted the tone of his voice the instant her eyes widened. But the thought of someone shooting at her felt like lava in the pit of his stomach.
“Not really,” she said, blinking rapidly. She pulled back her shoulders and nodded resolutely, as if flipping a switch to turn off her emotions. “Don’t worry about me. A man shot one of my guides, Dexter Miller, and you know how long search and rescue can take to deploy—”
“Get in.” Henry took the raft from her and secured it in the back of his pickup, moving as fast as his hands would allow. His fingers shook ever so slightly when he was this agitated, which wasn’t helpful in securing the tie-downs. He took a deep breath, but his eyes kept flashing to the trees. He felt the shortage of law enforcement daily. The entire region had less than a dozen officers, some part-time at that, working for the sheriff’s office. Given that the county was almost twice the size of the state of Rhode Island, both the Bureau of Land Management and the United States Forest Service had active law contracts with the department. They needed all the help they could get.
He joined Nora in the front and put the truck in Drive. “The dispatcher said Sandy Cape was where the shooting happened?” He spun the vehicle around, narrowly avoiding a fallen log. He placed a comforting hand on Nora’s arm out of habit. She glanced down at his hand, her frown deepening. He immediately pulled back. “You’re safe now,” he said stiffly, trying to cover over his faux pas.
He steered back onto the dirt road to the closest highway. Sandy Cape was technically on USFS land. Hopefully, Dispatch had already sent word to the Enforcement Investigations officer, Perry Fletcher. Then again, Perry might be in the middle of nowhere without so much as a satellite signal.
“What’d the shooter look like?” Henry asked Nora.
“I don’t know. His face was covered with a gray camouflage mask.” Nora fingered her pink tube scarf, now bunched at the base of her neck. The scarves, made of lightweight material, were favored by outdoor enthusiasts as they could be worn a myriad of ways. “He wore sunglasses, too. I didn’t get a good look at his face. Black jacket. Medium build, I think.”
He grabbed the radio with a side glance. “Anything else you can tell me?”
“He—” She placed a hand on her forehead and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. It happened so fast. I can’t stop thinking about Dexter.”
He clicked the radio on and informed the dispatcher that he was taking Nora to The Sauvage Run Rafting Company.
“No, please,” Nora said, a bite to her voice. “If you take me back, it’ll be a good hour before you get to Sandy Cape.”
“You need to get back first.”
She crossed her arms. “Please don’t make assumptions where I’m concerned.”
He fought against a cringe. He knew she was referring to the events leading to their breakup.
“Do you at least have river patrol ready to take you there?” Nora asked.
“No.” He knew but didn’t tell her that they weren’t hiring an intern until later in the year, if they even received a qualified application.
Nora folded her arms over her chest. “You need a river guide. I interned once for your boss. He left the door open for me to take a river patrol position anytime.”
“That was five years ago, Nora, and—”
“If you tell the deputies to meet us at the next creek, I can get you to Sandy Cape fast. The raft is big enough for four of us.” Her eyes softened. “If there’s any chance to save my guide...”
“Deputies, meet me at Petillant Creek,” he said into the radio with a sigh.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“I still don’t want you involved. If you loan us your raft, I can take it and one of the deputies can take you back to the lodge.”
“Who would guide?”
He hesitated. Technically, he pr
obably could, but it had been ten years since he’d run the river.
“It’s high water at its fiercest right now.” Nora reached over and flipped off the air vents, her lips tinged with blue. The March air was warmer than usual, but probably didn’t feel that way after a spill in the rapids. “I’ve been training all winter,” Nora continued. “All my safety certs are up to date. Besides, my kayak is still there. Hopefully. Henry, I know it’s not ideal, but if I’m Dexter’s best chance at getting help...”
“Fine. Only because it’s an emergency. You can guide us there for the sake of time, but you’ll have to stay with the boat while we investigate.” He’d let his swift-water rescue certifications fall on the back burner, and Nora knew his secret. Even though they’d met and fallen in love when they were both river guides in their college years, Henry had finished the summer by rafting right into a boulder. With his leg hanging on the outside of the raft, he’d snapped his tibia. The experience had gifted him with a newfound fear of whitewater rafting.
He’d been on the river since then but never as a guide. Most of the river management went to the forest service, except for the additional help BLM River Patrol offered in the summers, usually from an intern because they hadn’t found someone on staff willing to work long hours for three months of the year. Nora had once said she would love to do the job every summer when she transitioned to teaching. But as far as Henry knew, she’d never stopped working for her aunt.
“You can help today, but I’m not going to take your river patrol offer seriously. You are still working for your aunt?”
Nora sighed. “Yes. She’s in Alaska right now, taking care of her sick cousin and getting some time to herself.”
Henry had heard the rumors but didn’t comment. Most of the town knew about Nora’s uncle—well, ex-uncle now—and his philandering ways that had led to the divorce. Didn’t stop Frank Milner from getting re-elected as a county commissioner, though.
Henry found the creek entrance and made his way there. They kept busy pulling the boat out of the truck and outfitting it with his first-aid kit. Two deputies pulled up behind them in an SUV.
