Chapter 14
CRAIG approached the buildings cautiously. Apart from a central group of three larger buildings, the ranch consisted of some ten chalet-like structures along the riverbank. The large buildings were obviously the kitchens and lounges to accommodate the guests. Beyond them in a long meadow was the airstrip, its grass still lightly dusted with snow. The settlement had the atmosphere of a ghost town. Heavy shutters covered all the windows, and the only sound was the drip of water from the eaves as the snow melted in the heat of the sun. Still, there might be a caretaker left to protect the ranch during the winter. Until a few years ago that would not have been necessary, but with the growing popularity of the snowmobile, no area was too remote to remain safe. So it was possible that the ranch was not as empty as it looked. It was a ranch only in a limited sense of that word. It raised no livestock and had not for twenty years. Instead, the ranch catered to the wealthy who wished to combine the pleasures of the wilderness with the comforts of a Playboy club. The guests hunted, fished on the clear waters of the river, and went on carefully guided short trips into the hills.
When Craig reached the boathouse it looked impregnable. It was a sturdy wooden building on the bank of a deep pool with a concrete ramp sloping into the water. The windows had plates of sheet steel fixed over them, secured from the inside. The large doors that faced the river were closed with two large iron bars heavily padlocked. The green paint on the door showed no signs of recent scratches. Obviously no one had tried to force it. Perhaps he had been wrong as to Martin's intentions. It had been a shot in the dark. It was possible that he had arrived before Martin, but he did not think it likely. Martin would be moving fast. Maybe he intended to walk out along the river rather than obtain some boat. No. That did not make sense. If he came this way, he must have intended to steal a boat.
Craig sat on the concrete ramp, his back against the stout doors, absently regarding the river. It seemed to flow so surely, so unconcernedly sure of its path, certain of its destiny. Yet here am I, thought Craig, scurrying over the countryside, never quite sure of what I ought to be doing or where I'm going. A fish broke the surface briefly and was gone, leaving a small ring that moved slowly down with the current as it widened.
Had Martin known which of the three ranches to head for? Did one of them have a boathouse that could be easily entered? Craig could not make up his mind. If he could not find a boat, it would take him four days at least to walk out, and he would be hungry before he reached the end. In the canyon at the lower third of the river walking was difficult and dangerous. Craig had enjoyed making his way through it three summers before, but he had not been in a hurry then. If he could not make good time now, he might as well admit defeat and climb back over the ridge and down to his car at Atlanta. Anyway, the decision had to be made quickly. It was already eleven thirty, and Martin must by now be well on his way. Craig made his decision. He would inspect the other two ranches, and if he found nothing at either of them he would return up the river and abandon the pursuit.
He got to his feet and turned the corner of the boathouse. The building was built into the overhanging bank, the relic of the earlier course of the river. The side that now faced Craig was identical to the one at the other side, with the same heavy shutters. He left the boathouse and began to slant his way up through the birch trees to reach the ranch plateau. Suddenly he noticed that at this side the boathouse stopped short of the bank. From above he had not realized that, but now as he looked across it was plain. He crossed quickly to the back wall, and there in the shade of the sleep bank was a door. His heart pounded as he approached.
At first glance he could see no sign of entry. A large padlock was visible where the door met the wall. He almost turned away, disappointed. Then something about the way the gray steel padlock hung caught his eye. He stepped over to it. Hanging from its hasp, the padlock was shattered. The bar of the lock was now jagged metal, and behind the hasp the wood of the door was splintered. Martin had obviously found his pistol useful. Craig lifted the useless padlock from the hasp and pushed the door. It swung open, and he stepped into the boathouse.
For a second he could see nothing. Then, as his eyes accustomed themselves to the dark interior, he could make out several rowboats on the floor. One of them would have been the ideal craft to negotiate the river, but, regrettably, the door was too narrow to get a row- boat out. Craig prayed that he would find a canoe. He groped forward and to the left of the boats. Against the wall oars were stacked, and as his shoulder brushed against them, they toppled to the floor with a crash which made Craig jump. He pushed them back against the wall, and as he stood up, he saw that there was a rack of canoe paddles above the oars. So there must be canoes.
He continued his progress toward the large door, his left hand outstretched to the wall. Just before the door he came upon a large wooden rack with spaces for four canoes. The rack held three, their aluminum hulls gleaming dully in the dim light. Craig drew one out. It slid easily and clanged onto the concrete floor. It was about twelve feet long. Craig would have preferred a shorter one, which would be easier to handle in the rapids. Still the canoe looked fast and fairly indestructible. He dragged it along the floor toward the door and then struggled with it through the narrow opening. For a moment he thought he would not manage to work it around the corner past the overhanging bank.
In the open again, his eyes half closed against the bright sun flashing against patches of melting snow, Craig pulled the canoe over the grass to the concrete ramp. Then returning to the back door, he groped his way in again and emerged with two of the long- handled canoe paddles. Craig replaced the lock as he had found it. It would at least prevent the winter snows from swirling inside.
He felt a distaste for his act. Not since childhood had he stolen anything—and that only a penny candy from a store. He remembered how his heart had thumped and how he had lived in terror for a week. While he had rejected his family's ethic of work, he received their honesty by osmosis. He smiled to himself. Honesty, indeed. Here he was, a collaborator in the extortion of a quarter of a million dollars, a fugitive from the police (though they probably were unaware of that), and now guilty of the theft of a fine aluminum Grumman canoe and two paddles. A fine example of the Protestant ethic. He rationalized the theft. as a mere borrowing. He would leave the canoe where it could be found at the foot of the river. The extortion he was trying to rectify, though only selfishly, he thought. There was no way he could return the money. Strangely, he felt greater uneasiness at the theft of the canoe. It was not the immorality of the other affair that distressed him; it was the perversion of his happiness.
He loaded his pack into the bow of the canoe, pushed one paddle under the center seat, and slid the canoe onto the pool. The water was cold, and he knew he would have to be careful on the river. A spill without a life preserver would mean rapid exhaustion and exposure. Craig remembered from his walk down the river that some formidable rapids existed on it, especially in the lower section. Martin had the advantage over him of being an expert canoeist and of having made one trip down the river previously. He would be moving fast, with at least a three-hour start. As Craig paddled, sitting back in the stern of the canoe, he thought about how he could seize the money. It would probably be best to get close to Martin's camp and creep in in the dark. If only he could get himself in a position where he could watch to see where Martin put the money before he fell asleep.
The river was flowing more swiftly now. Craig felt the canoe rise and fall more rapidly on the small waves, which signaled an uneven bottom. The banks were thickly wooded and the river was still narrow at this point. It wound its way through the forest, turning sharp corners every two or three hundred yards, so that it was impossible to predict what the river was doing.
Once Craig came around a bend to find himself at the head of a complex rapid. He had no opportunity to make for the shore and inspect the rapid. The water was flowing too quickly, swirling around boulders that stuck up in its
path and crashing about in the shallows. Craig straightened the canoe and began paddling backward to slow the canoe down. In a boat on a fast- flowing river it is important either to move faster or slower than the current in order to be able to steer. By moving slower than the flow one can gain time to make changes of direction. The rapid was complicated, demanding a sudden shift from the right to the left about halfway down. Craig strained at the paddle, forcing the boat to obey his wishes rather than the rivers'. It had been a mistake to load his sack up front. Water was continually slopping over the bow and landing on it as the canoe bobbed and danced its way down. As he neared the end of the rapid a cross current swept the bow around, and he broadsided for a moment. Craig paddled furiously, driving the canoe with all his strength for a gap between two large rounded rocks. If he fetched up against a boulder with the side of the canoe, that would be the end. The canoe would tip instantly, and he would probably be trapped against the rock by the force of the water. With a resounding clang the bow struck the nearest rock, almost upsetting him, and then, with a rapid stroke of the paddle, he was through, splashing into a standing wave where the river bottom dropped away.
As the canoe swept into the calmer water, Craig felt a queeziness in his stomach and a weakness that flowed over him. He had a lot to learn about canoeing. He had done some easy rivers around Seattle, and once Martin had given him some instruction on a very difficult river near Aspen in Colorado. He remembered how he had spent most of that day swimming his upturned boat to the shore and drying himself out. And then he had had a life preserver and the comfort of other canoeists with him. Now he was on his own and he would have to learn fast. There would be few second chances here with this crystal cold water. Craig made for the bank. He must eat something and would have to reposition the rucksack, fastening it and the spare paddle to the boat. Should he lose his food here, it would not be a pleasant death.
He resisted the temptation to start a fire and cook and instead munched some chocolate and nuts and some cheese. His pack had been thoroughly doused by the spray, but the contents had remained dry, except for where a few trickles had run onto his sleeping bag. Craig smoked a quick cigarette as he repacked the canoe and then pushed off onto the river again.
As he paddled, the sun dropped ahead of him in the sky. It glinted off the water, making Craig squint his eyes against it. At times his vision consisted wholly of little sparkles of dancing light, hypnotizing him with their motions. It was impossible to see more than fifty feet or so ahead, and he was constantly on edge in case he should run into Martin, perhaps stopped for a meal on the bank. Anyone downriver of him would, of course, have perfect warning of his approach. The silver-colored canoe would flash back the light of the sun.
Still Craig forged on, occasionally banging off rocks in his progress. The rapids were the greatest strain. He would come into them without warning, and his eyes would be assaulted more than ever with flashes of white. He learned to rely on his ears to tell him of the proximity of fast water, and he found his techniques improving. He could now place the canoe where he wanted most of the time, and none of the rapids were too difficult. However, he knew that he would have to improve greatly before he was competent enough for the heavy water in the bottom stretch of the river.
Already the flow was greater. Small streams appeared at frequent intervals, emerging mysteriously from the forest to slide into the main current.
The solitude pressed in on him and seemed to increase with every mile he covered. He had seen no living creature, not even a squirrel or chipmunk. On both sides the forest skirted the river, limiting the view, while ahead the steep slopes of the hills seemed almost unchanging. He had rarely felt so utterly alone and so dependent on his own resources. The sun, already beginning to dip toward the hills ahead, reddening with its descent, seemed to beckon him mockingly, while underneath the river gurgled and chuckled, hissing and grumbling in innumerable yet repetitive patterns of sound.
Craig wished that it were all over. He had committed himself, and there was no turning back. He knew what he had to do—but not how. Life is a succession of risks. Once we make a choice we have to accept the consequences in a sealed bag. He was convinced that what he had chosen to do was right, but when he tried to project himself into the future he could not. He felt that he could not return to Baxter College. The thought of that seemed ludicrous. In fact, the thought of anything beyond this river was too much for his brain to grapple with. Everything must focus on the successful destruction of the money. Somehow he could not think of the contents of the bag as money—money that might be translated into anything having meaning in his life. Sure, he would love to own a boat, one that could be sailed across oceans, but money acquired as he and Martin had acquired it could not be spent that way. To Craig the money was not a collection of one- and five-dollar bills but an indivisible object, a weight, an albatross.
As the sun slid below the hills ahead, spreading a red glow along the crest, the temperature of the air above the river dropped quickly. Craig shivered. He had been working hard all day, and his shoulders and back were damp with sweat. A few inches of water slopped noisily in the bottom of the canoe, and his feet were cold in his sodden boots. Soon he would have to slop. It would be impossible to continue after dark, and at this time of the month the moon was only a pale shadow.
There had been no sign of Martin; no discarded garbage or smoking remains of a campfire. A gray squirrel, the first creature he had seen, flashed from the bank into the wood. Craig let the canoe drift while he lit a cigarette, enjoying the quiet as the boat slid along with the stream. He leaned back, tired and muscle- weary, allowing the boat to turn now broadside, now bow first while he looked around him. He reached over and scooped some water to his dry lips. A light breeze drifted up the river. Everything was calm, and the river sounded benign. Above in the sky a few stars had begun to show. He would have to camp soon.
He tried to savor the experience, attempting to lose himself in the flow of the water and the trees as they moved past. But relaxation would not come. He could not forget Martin or his wild hate. He thought he had known Martin well. Of course there was his past, which he never talked about, but to Craig it appeared that strong bonds had been growing between them. Now they were two individuals both on the same river but as apart as strangers. More apart, he thought, since hatred rarely exists among strangers. And there was no going back. Nothing could wipe out their enmity and return them to happier days. Time could only heal so much. If Craig were successful in what he planned to do, Martin would hate him with an even deeper passion. If Martin were successful, he would never wish to meet Craig again. Their criminal operation had raised a mountain between them.
Craig dug the paddle into the stream and swung the canoe toward a sandpit. He had to eat and sleep. The hull crunched its way over the sand and came to rest. Behind him the river moved silently, inexorably running to its end in the sea.