Every Second

43

Deer Kill River, New York

“What the f- Watch where you’re going, jerk!”

Bruce Grover battled to control his Jeep Wrangler after a white SUV barreling around a blind turn had forced him off the dirt road.

The Jeep bucked, gravel peppered the undercarriage and broiling dust clouds swirled as Grover slid to a stop on the shoulder. His blood thumping, he looked hard in his rearview mirror until the clouds dissipated and the SUV was long gone.

Where did that idiot come from? Nobody ever uses this road.

He let out a long breath, shoving the incident out of his mind and his Jeep into gear, as he continued. Although wary, he strained to reclaim the serenity he had been enjoying before his encounter with stupidity.

After all, this was his vacation, his first real break in two years since he took over as editor-in-chief of the Weekly Highlands Sun-Bulletin.

Running a small paper had taken over his life. It meant that every complaint like, “My paper was left in the rain again, I’m going to cancel.”

“Your website sucks. It freezes my computer.”

“You’re obviously on the payroll of corporations.”

“Why are you covering up what’s really going on at that military base?”

“I want you to write about my neighbor’s barking dog”-came to him 24/7.

Still, Bruce loved it because he was also part owner of a paper that, surprisingly, even in these dismal times for the industry, was turning a profit. And he loved it because he was a news junkie who craved panning every call for the gold that would lead to a real story.

He’d gotten that from sixteen years as a reporter, then editor, at the New York Post. His appetite for news was impossible to satisfy. It’s why the whole time he was on the Thruway he’d followed radio news reports of that bank robbery in Queens.

Manager takes a quarter million from his own bank. Bombs strapped to him and his own family, and maybe a mob tie? It’s one helluva story. Wish I was on it.

But he’d made a promise to his wife when he’d kissed her goodbye this morning-he would turn off the news, forget about the business and go fishing. It was just what the doctor ordered, and she never failed to remind him of that.

“Don’t forget what the doctor said about your blood pressure, Bruce.”

So he’d shut off the radio when he’d left the freeway and took in the scenery instead, embracing memories of the “Nick Adams, Big Two-Hearted River” period of his life when he’d come up here alone to fish. Over the years he’d still driven through the area to keep a vigil on all the secret places he knew.

Like this one.

The jagged rock formation jutted from the forest up ahead.

The dense growth hid the entrance he knew was there and he slowly guided his Jeep on to the rugged path. As he tottered along the earthen trail, branches smacked and scraped at the Wrangler, as if he was driving through a woodland car wash.

Bruce loved how the light had dimmed, slivers of sunshine piercing the forest canopy in brilliant shafts as if through the stained-glass windows of a great cathedral.

His fishing tackle and camping gear rattled in the back. The Deer Kill River was a mile ahead. It was one of the best regions in the country for brook and brown trout and this long-forgotten logger’s trail led to pockets of deep pools and frigid springs that were heaven for fly-fishing.

Then Bruce’s reverie was suddenly interrupted by a flash of chrome.

So much for my undiscovered trail, he thought with disappointment.

As he reached a clearing he saw the trespasser’s car. A little ticked, though admittedly selfish, Grover stopped beside it to make an assessment of the interloper. No one else was around, but the green Chevy had a New York plate.

Hope I don’t see you upstream.

Bruce tightened his grip on the gearshift to move on when a twinge of concern stopped him. From his vantage on the car’s right side, he noticed something odd.

The keys were still in the ignition.

Who does that?

He looked around again. No one in sight.

Hold on. That’s a green Chevy Impala-a late model green Chevy Impala! Damn, that’s-that could be the one from the robbery!

He seized his phone and took several pictures. Checking his bars, he saw cell phone service here was spotty.

Sorry, honey, he thought, knowing his relaxing fishing weekend just got canceled.

The Wrangler’s motor roared as he wheeled back down the pathway to the road and the New York Thruway where he could call police.