The Gorge

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Jim Castle walked a quarter of a mile along the riverbank, occasionally getting his feet wet, sometimes climbing along the mossy and root-rich lips of soil where the river had carved its path. The Rook hadn’t invaded his thoughts since he’d encountered the couple on the shore, and Castle believed himself cured of whatever temporary syndrome had afflicted him.

You mean, “ Short-term post-traumatic stress disorder.”

The Rook was back and better than ever.

“No, I mean, I can’t decide whether you’re dead or I’m crazy.”

Go for both. It’s the most reasonable explanation.

“Since when have you ever been reasonable?”

Look, you’re the one thinking all this up.

“Except you make me think things I don’t understand.”

Join the club. It’s a big one, and at last count included six and a half billion other bald monkeys. Plus those things. You know…

“Flying, man-eating creatures that don’t exist. Yeah, I know.”

Castle concentrated on his respiration, the roar in his ears mirroring the rush of white water. Sympatico with the river, both of them heading downhill toward the lowest common denominator, the final crush of time and tide.

Deeeeeep, partner. Like the river. Extended metaphors. Not the kind of thing you expect from a crew-cut type.

“Don’t look now, but we’ve got company.”

Company?

Maybe when you were dead, or just the figment of some cracked cop’s imagination, you couldn’t see the two inflated rafts bobbing on the river, rows of white helmets glinting in the afternoon light. They bounced over a series of whitecaps and reached an eddy that pulled both rafts in a slow circle. There were three people in each raft, all wearing life vests. One, a muscular man in a tank top with dark, curly hair, shook a triumphant fist at Castle, who waved back. He fought an urge to lift one thumb in the universal sign of the hitchhiker.

Instead, Castle waved his badge and gun. The nearest raft headed toward shore, two of the occupants paddling while the one in front slumped as if deciding whether to make a dash downstream, away from the threat of the gun. As if Castle would actually use the weapon, as if they could outrun his bullets if he did.

“Hey,” Castle shouted, as the raft scooted ashore and grounded on the muddy, debris-wracked shore. The man in the middle looked pale and ill, eyes focused miles downstream. The man in front, in some type of wet suit, appeared to be the leader. At least, he stuck his chin out in a defiant gesture.

Castle felt stupid holding the badge out for the man’s inspection. Protocol was protocol, though.

By the book, right, partner? Straight down the line, all the way.

“All the way?” Castle answered aloud.

“What did you say?” the man in the raft said.

“Nothing.”

Tell them it’s the only way to fly.

“It’s the only way to fly,” Castle said.

The three men in the raft stared at him as if he’d just dropped from the sky.