Terry dumping his raft had given everyone a little excitement to start the day, that was for sure. Even good old Bob seemed to be a nicer person at lunch after his near-death experience.
Now I sat in what I called a beer-commercial moment. It just didn’t get any better than this. I sighed and leaned back, enjoying everything around me.
A fish rippled the smooth surface and swallows darted in low, swooping back and forth in their late afternoon routines. Not a breath of wind stirred the dry grass and brush of the lower mountain slopes. A perfect day.
Actually, it had been a perfect summer. I’d been on the river four different times between poker tournaments, once in the spring run-off before the World Series of Poker and three times after the World Series in the calmer, late-summer waters. No passengers seriously hurt, no trip washed out due to weather. Not even a single snakebite in any of my groups. And best of all, I hadn’t turned over one raft. It really didn’t get any better.
In a few days, I would be heading back to the casinos and poker tournaments, and this wonderful river would be behind me for another summer. I loved my dual life of playing professional poker and being a part-time rafting guide on the Salmon in the summer. When someone asked me what I did for a living, I usually just said, “I risk money in the winter, lives in the summer.”
A couple trips on the river, a week out here in the clear mountain air, and I always felt ready to get back to the poker tournaments. This time was no exception. And coming fresh off the river, I sometimes played my best cards.
Actually, the river often reminded me of the ebbs and flows of a poker tournament. The calm drifting was exactly like the early rounds in a big tournament, when I usually sat back, doing nothing, watching the flow of the tournament and studying the other players. Then, like rapids in the river, there would be hands where everything was often risked, my very survival in the tournament at risk. Those were usually followed by calm periods again.
Someone once described professional-level poker tournaments as hours of boredom punctuated by moments of terror.
That sounded like the River of No Return to me on a warm summer day.
I stared up at the towering mountains on both sides of us as the river lazily took us into sight of the night’s camp on a sandy beach just above MacKay Bar.
Finally, I pulled my attention from the towering mountains around us and glanced ahead. The camp crew worked as they always did to set things up for the night. But an extra person stood above them, near the cars.
My business partner and best friend since childhood, Fleetwood Korte, saw me and waved.
Not possible. I was seeing things.
Fleet moved away from what looked like his new Lexus SUV to stand on a slight rock ledge. My stomach twisted into a tight knot. Fleet never came into the wilderness like this.
Ever. But there he was, big as life.
Not a good sign at all.
CHAPTER THREE
River of No Return canyon, Central Idaho. August 18
THREE DAYS AGO was the last time I had talked to Fleet, and the biggest problem he’d had with our business was getting a local fund-raising group for breast cancer research to sign a non-disclosure agreement to keep secret who was giving them the money. On Fleet’s suggestion, we had decided to just put the donation under my mother’s name to skip the problems.
I stared at my friend, still stunned that I was seeing him there.
And scared to death at the same time.
At six-two, Fleet stood a couple inches taller than I did, and weighed a good fifty pounds more, all carried around his stomach. His hair had thinned since our college days, but he had made up for it with a long, handlebar moustache.
Fleet’s normal dress slacks, expensive black dress shoes, and silk shirt looked very out of place in the Idaho wilderness. He had taken off his jacket and actually loosened his tie, but that was all. This had to be the first time a shirt and tie had ever been seen this close to the Idaho primitive area.
I sat up straight, feet braced, hands on the oars, as if I were about to take the raft into a dangerous stretch of white water. “Hang on,” I warned my three passengers.
When they were set, I pulled hard twice on the oars, sending the raft pushing through the shallow water.
A catered dinner waited, along with sun-warmed showers and fresh clothes. The three-person ground crew from the company already had the campfires going. The smell of wood smoke filled the valley, greeting the rafters like a good host smiling at the door of a party.
Another hard pull on the two oars and the raft banged into smooth rocks on the bottom of the shallows. Two of the ground crew quickly waded into the water to help.
“Oars stored,” I said, repeating what I had said a dozen times over the past few days to make sure I didn’t bang someone. I quickly secured the oars, then said, “Everyone out. Let’s get the raft on shore and tied down.”
I hoped the urgency in my voice didn’t show too much.
Laughing and talking, clearly excited about the coming dinner and shower, the tourists splashed into the shallow water, going through the basic routine that made them feel like they were actually out there playing a part in their own survival on the dangerous River of No Return.
I made sure they were all ashore and the raft lashed down for the night. Then, with a glance back at the other three rafts moving slowly toward the bank, I turned and climbed up the rocky slope toward my best friend.
“Looks like fun,” Fleet said, trying to smile.
There was trouble. I could always read Fleet’s emotions like he had them printed on his forehead.
“Actually it is. You finally come to take me up on a ride? We only have one more day on this trip down to Riggins. I bet we can find a spot for you and come back for your car.”
“Oh, boy, do I wish.”
Big trouble. The kind that had my stomach twisting.
I made sure my footing was secure on the stones and stared into the dark eyes of my best friend, trying to get a read on him and the news he was carrying. “So what’s happened? Is Mom all right? Ace?”
“Both are fine.”
“Carrie? The boys?” Fleet was married to a real sweetheart of a woman and had two boys, ages four and six. “She finally come to her senses and kick you out into the street?”
“No. And they’re all fine as well.”
I relaxed a little. If my mother and grandfather and Fleet’s family were all fine, then this had to be a business problem. “So spit it out. You’re here for a reason and your tie is starting to scare the fish.”
Fleet didn’t even smile. “Your mom sent me up here to get you. Your dad was in a plane crash outside of Cascade.”
“Is he all right?”
“Killed instantly.”
It felt as if someone had kicked me squarely in the stomach.
My father couldn’t be dead.
Nothing could kill that son-of-a-bitch.
I forced myself to take a deep breath and look out over the calmness of the water, to the tree- and rock-covered valley wall on the far side.
I didn’t know what to think. How often as a kid had I wished my father would just die? Too many times to count.
Now Carson was actually dead.
Carson and I had been what some would call estranged, even though both of us were professional poker players. He mostly stayed in the big live-money games, I tended to stay in the tournaments.
Actually, estranged didn’t describe my relationship with my father. Cold, angry, and pissed-off fit it better, and that was just my side of things. I hadn’t said more than a dozen sentences to my father in twenty-seven years, even though we were often in the same casino. I had no idea how Carson had felt about me.
And didn’t much care.
He had left my mother while I was in the first grade. The selfish bastard had never come back, had seemed to make it a point to avoid me and Mom. As far as I was concerned, Carson had died a long time ago. My mother and Ace, my g
randfather, were now my concern. For some reason, they both still cared about Carson. Always had, no matter how much of an ass the man was to them.
“Does Ace know?”
Fleet shook his head. “That’s why I’m here. Your mom thinks it would be best if you told him. She’s pretty upset.”
“Someday, someone’s going to have to explain that to me.”
Fleet shrugged. “Yeah, me too. You’d think she’d have gotten over the jerk by now.”
Fleet and I had been friends since the first grade, the year my father had left. Sometimes, I wasn’t sure which one of us hated Carson more.
“Anything on the news yet?”
Fleet shook his head. “The Valley County sheriff promised me he won’t release Carson’s name until tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
So my father was dead.
I honestly didn’t much care, beyond not having someone to hate all the time. Actually, it surprised me that I had any reaction at all. If I were alone in life at this moment, I would just go on and finish the trip. But I had an obligation to my grandfather, the man who had become my father when Carson left. Mom had been right to send Fleet for me. It was better that I tell Ace the bad news.
“I appreciate you coming and getting me.”
“Wanted to give the new wheels a little spin. You need some time?”
“Five minutes. Let me tell my boss what’s happened, make sure he’s got someone to take the raft the rest of the way to Riggins, say goodbye to my passengers, and then we’ll head back.”
“Anything I can do?” Fleet asked.
“Try not to get your tie dirty.”
I turned and was halfway down the rock-covered slope, my wet tennis shoes squeaking in the dust, when one of the details Fleet had told me sank in. I stopped and faced my business partner.
“Plane crash outside of Cascade? Right?”
“Right. Carson was the only one on board. A small plane, registered to him, from what the sheriff told me.”
I nodded and kept on going toward where my boss stood beside one campfire.
Strange. I didn’t know much about my father, but I did know that Carson lived in a huge home in Las Vegas and believed that roughing it was taking a cab instead of a limo.
So what the hell was Carson Hill doing in a small plane by himself in the Idaho mountains?
CHAPTER FOUR
White House, Washington, D.C. August 18
PRESIDENT DOLAN CHASE took one longing glance at the pair of kings in his hand, then flipped the two cards facedown into the muck.
The game tonight was Texas Hold’em, as it usually was. He had raised with the kings before the flop and been called by both his wife, Penny, and the attorney general. After an ace hit the board, Penny had led out with a fifty dollar bet, and the attorney general had raised her another one hundred.
Dolan didn’t have to be a professional poker player to know those two bets made his pair of kings as worthless as an umbrella in a hurricane. Penny seldom played a hand without an ace in it, and the attorney general was known as El-Rock-O, for never playing anything but quality hands.
Still, laying down pocket kings was never easy. Dolan felt a little proud that he was able to do so and not waste any more money on them.
He glanced at his stack of chips. Down only two hundred for the evening. Not bad, actually. If he could get one good hand to hold up, he’d be ahead again.
He leaned back and watched the play, enjoying the peaceful moment. Penny had some jazz piece playing so softly he could barely hear it, and outside, the Washington, D.C., night was hot, humid, and unusually silent.
Somehow, even though Penny had left most of the furnishings in the residence like she had found them, she managed to make the place feel like a home to him. She had brought in their reading recliners from Seattle, and the custom-built poker table that converted to a regular table during the day. Unlike most presidents of the past, he didn’t mind hanging around the White House and had only been to Camp David once, just to see what the place looked like.
They played poker every week he was in town, and always on Sunday evening. He’d been an avid poker player before his long-ago first election to the Senate, and he still liked the game more than any other sport. It helped him stay balanced and relaxed, as much as the President of the United States could be relaxed.
The regular players were Penny, Attorney General Donald Pearce, and FBI Director Taylor Smith. Three or four others on his staff joined in, depending on who was available. Tonight it was the assistant attorney general and one of Dolan’s top speech writers. All were pretty good poker players; all were sworn to not tell anyone about the game.
Even though Truman had played poker with his press corps, Nixon had won the money for his first try at Congress by playing poker, and Clinton had a monthly card game with his old college buddies the entire time he was in office, there was just no point in letting the American public know its president played cards every week.
Dolan had no doubt most people wouldn’t give a damn, but what his enemies could do with the spin made him shudder. Better to just keep the game secret until after he got out of office.
As the attorney general flipped over his ace-queen to beat Penny’s ace-ten, there was a single knock on the door and Paul Hanson stepped into the room.
Paul always looked perfectly put together, no matter what time of the day or night, or what crisis was going on. His tie was never out of place, his dark hair always combed. In all the years that they had worked together, Paul had never changed what Dolan called his accountant look.
At six feet, Dolan was a giant compared to Paul’s five-foot-two. Even in the Oval Office, Dolan seldom wore ties and his suit coat unless required to by a meeting. Half the time Paul or a secretary had to chase him down the hall to remind him to even put on a coat. Tonight Dolan wore what he called his lucky poker clothes—a University of Washington sweatshirt and gray sweat pants over his slippers.
“Here comes bad news,” Penny said, smiling at him.
The smile didn’t reach the look of worry in her green eyes. Paul never interrupted the game unless there was a problem.
“Pull up a chair,” the attorney general said to Paul. “The picking is easy tonight.”
Penny just glared at the attorney general, but said nothing.
“Wish I could, sir,” Paul said, “but I’m just not up to your level.”
“Yeah, right,” the attorney general said, laughing. He was one of the few people who knew that Dolan and Paul had made some of their early business start-up money playing poker. In fact, that was how they had acquired the grocery chain, which ended up earning them millions and launching them into the Senate.
“Mr. President, can I talk with you for a moment?”
Dolan pushed his chair back and stood. “Save some of that money for me.”
“Oh,” Penny said, sitting forward, her small frame on the edge of her chair, “he won’t have it for long. Deal those cards.”
Dolan knew that look in his wife. Focused and a little angry. The attorney general was in trouble if she caught any cards at all.
Dolan turned his back on the table and moved with his chief of staff toward a private corner of the room. “What’s the problem?”
Paul glanced around to make sure that no one could hear. “Carson was killed in a plane crash. He was flying out of the Big Game, headed for Cascade, when his plane went down.”
Dolan forced himself to take a deep breath as his stomach twisted into a knot. He turned his back to the card game and lowered his voice. “Do they know what happened yet?”
“Too soon. Local police are at the scene, NTSB will be there tomorrow.”
Dolan made himself take another long, deep breath. Just the mention of Carson’s name brought back way too many memories he would rather just forget.
“What are we going to do?” Paul asked, the stress in his voice clear.
Dolan felt annoyed at his friend. “Hell, I don’
t know. Start by sending flowers. Some people are going to remember we were friends. Might as well not hide that fact.”
“I’ll do that, sir. From both you and Penny and me. Anything else?”
“I’ll think about it.” That was a key phrase they had set up long ago to stop discussion on a topic until later.
“Yes, Mr. President,” Paul said, and left.
Dolan stood there for a moment, listening to the banter among the players. Then he put on his best public face and went back to the game. But his mind just wasn’t on the cards. He ended up six hundred down for the night, his worst loss since he started the game the month after coming into office.
CHAPTER FIVE
Boise, Idaho. August 18
I CLICKED OFF Fleet’s cell phone and slipped it back into its hands-free slot on the dashboard. “Mom said Ace is at the Club. You got an extra tie I could wear with my tee shirt and cutoffs?”
Fleet laughed. “Actually, I might. But I’d be afraid to let you use it. You might start a new fashion trend.”
“Yeah, river formal.”
Fleet laughed. He had just turned off of Highway 55 and had the Lexus headed down State Street and into the downtown area of Boise. The roads were still busy with evening traffic.
I felt like I was in some weird Twilight Zone movie, with everything clear, yet feeling out of focus. Since waking up in a tent on the river at sunup, this had been a damned long day, and it didn’t look like it was going to end any time soon. It felt a lot later than only eight.
“God, I hate the Club,” Fleet said. “Too snooty for my blood.”
“No argument from me.”
Actually, I didn’t hate the Club as much as Fleet did. I just found it a little too highbrow.
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