Down River (2 page)

He stooped and squinted down toward the river. The drop-off over the ridge was fairly open. Surely she knew to turn right toward the lake, not left. Had she fallen toward the river? Dear God, please don’t let her have fallen
in
the river!

“Lisa! Lisa!” he shouted, but he knew the roar of the river would cover his voice if she wasn’t nearby. She was physically fit, an outdoors girl, but the kind who loved sunny skies and sand. Beach volleyball, at which she excelled, was her sport of choice.

“Lisa? Liiiisaa!”

Holding on to a couple of spruce saplings, Mitch went down the steep bank to the river. He gasped when he saw her in the foaming water, about ten yards away, clinging to a rock on the far side. He never would have spotted her, except she wore an orange PFD that showed up like a beacon in the
rapids. If she let go, she’d be a goner, because not far beyond was a narrow gorge with a hairpin turn of boiling white water, and later, a series of small falls that didn’t stop the salmon coming up but could kill her going down. Worse, exposed to water this cold, she’d go numb and hypothermic in twenty minutes, then die. His uncle had told him that feeling in the limbs went after about seven minutes, consciousness in the next seven, and life itself in the following seven or so. And a South Florida girl was hardly prepared for a snowmelt swim.

He waved his arms and shouted again but she was facing downriver and didn’t see him. She was hanging on for dear life—literally.

He half climbed, half crawled back up the bank. A kayak! He needed the kayak that was on the other side of the ridge. There was no time to get help. No one at the lodge would hear him above the water if he shouted, nor could they see him from here. How long could she hold on?

He’d have to get her in the kayak without tipping it, shoot the next eddies, humps and holes to get them to a landing spot before the gorge where he could tend to her. But there was no easy way to return. They’d have to either hike back on the other side of the river or portage the kayak around the falls and ride the rapids all the way out of these mountains.

He yanked himself up from Sitka spruce sapling to sapling, digging his nails into the green moss and orange lichens. He scrabbled past where she’d
dropped the cooler, over the ridge, then raced down the path to the red, two-person kayak sitting by the serene lake awaiting their easy trip across to one of his favorite picnic spots. Damn, why hadn’t she fallen down this side of the ridge?

His heart pounded; adrenaline stoked his strength. Kayaks weren’t overly heavy, but he had to get it up the path, then over the ridge to launch it without splitting the quarter-inch plastic. Yes, two paddles in it. Two PFDs, too. He glanced once across the lake to see if his friends Ginger or Spike might be somewhere in sight, but saw no one. Ginger’s little motor boat was pulled up on the shore near the lodge, but she was nowhere around.

“No one but me,” he grunted as he shoved the kayak before him up the path.
Please Lord,
he prayed,
let her hang on to that rock.

Panting, his heart pounding and muscles screaming, he got the kayak up and over the ridge, now trying to keep it from crashing down into the river and taking off without him. Sweat burned his eyes as he squinted to see if Lisa was still hanging on. Yes!

He cursed the time it took him to get the spray skirt out of the fore dry storage well and tight around him while he hung on to a sapling so the kayak didn’t take off from under him. Otherwise, if too much water got in, he could go hypothermic himself, or capsize. He fought the violent pull of the water—nothing like surfing offshore in South Florida.

Mitch realized he still wore his backpack when it
bumped against the kayak. He yanked it off and exchanged it for one of the PFDs in the front seat. He jammed the backpack into the well. He needed the neoprene wet suit he saw there, but no time, no time. He realized he had no helmet—hadn’t put one in for a simple paddle across the lake. He was breaking the rules he’d laid out for safety, but this was life and death—Lisa’s, and maybe his, too. “Be stupid and a kayak can be your coffin,” he’d told more than one group of guests.

He felt a jab of anger at Lisa for being in the river, for getting them into this nightmare, when he’d thought things in his life were going so well. So well, that is, except that for the week he had to be near the woman who loved her career and her sunny spot on the planet more than she had loved him.

He shoved off, stabbing the river with deep strokes, fighting for control and balance so he wouldn’t shoot past her. He prayed he could get over to her and somehow get her on board without rolling them both under. “Don’t let go! Don’t let go!” he shouted, though he figured the roar of the water would keep her from hearing him.

He squinted through sun and spray to locate her by her orange PFD again, and, in that instant, saw her swept away, flailing in the foam.

L
isa tried to cling to the next rock she saw, even claw her way atop it, but the water pinned her against it. She couldn’t breathe. Should she let go? Try to find a flatter rock to hold?

But the choice was not hers, caught in the cold current, being twisted and turned. Her shins scraped boulders on the riverbed; she pulled her legs up and arms in for warmth, for safety, but found neither. She saw bloodred salmon streak past her in the foam, going the other way. How could they fight this water? she wondered. It might be easier going deep down.

Deep down, deeper…Mommy and Jani had gone deeper, so deep. The wet, white arms of water and death had taken them away. It would be easier that way, to let it all go, let everything go.

Lisa tried to swim for the riverbank, but each time she neared a handhold, the river snatched her away. She knew enough to try to point her feet downstream, but she couldn’t control that. When her numb legs
bobbed up, she saw the water had ripped off her shoes.

She was doomed. Dead. Smashed by violent fists of water…her lungs burning to get a breath. Icy water surged up her nose into her sinuses. Get your head up! Take another breath! Hold the air in!

How had she fallen in? The water had looked so beautiful, even alluring. Did something trip her? Surely no one had pushed her. Had Mother and Jani pulled her in to be with them at last? Was this just her memories turning to a drowning, screaming nightmare again?

No, this was not some awful dream where she could will herself to wake up. She had to fight. To live.
Dear Lord, help me. Help me be safe and warm.

But the force was brutal, banging her through waves like giant fists, slamming into rocks. Like a leaf going down a storm sewer…lost at sea. Her mother had lost her mind, Grandma said, postpartum depression or some sort of mental aberration made her kill herself. Daddy’s desertion of the family might have caused it, too. That’s what a psychiatrist had told her once.

Mother, I didn’t know. I was only a child. I knew you were sad, but if I had known you were desperate, I could have helped you. At least I could have saved Jani for Grandma to raise along with me…. Someone once said you loved me, so you wanted to take me with you. But it’s wrong to kill someone who hasn’t had a chance to live….

But should she have drowned, too? Why had Lisa lived when Mother and Jani died? She was haunted by a thought she’d told no one, not even her psychiatrist. When she’d yanked back so hard from her mother’s grasp, did that send her over? If she had not pulled back, maybe there was a split second where her mother would have changed her mind. In that last moment, had she sent them into the wild, white water?

So confused, so dizzy, so caught in a spin of water, of fears…

Whispers, loud ones, roared all around her, wet and cold in her ears. Stop it! Stop the memories! This was real. She had to find a place to get out. If only she’d told Mitch she was sorry. Not sorry she didn’t go with him, but that she still cared, still wanted him in some sort of angry way, but now all she wanted was out of this forceful, freezing water. Fingers going numb, so cold. Keep your head. Keep your courage. Don’t let go! She heard a voice in her head and heart shouting, “Don’t let go!”

Mitch was getting panicky. Because Lisa was in the river and his kayak was on top of it, she was moving away from him faster and faster. And she had a head start.

At times he lost sight of the flash of orange that was his best chance of tracking her in the foaming rapids. On river right, he passed a big boulder, fighting hard not to be smashed into it. Unfortunately, he
was in a wide, flat-water kayak best used on the lake, not the narrower white-water craft designed for mobility. It took much more strength and skill to maneuver this craft in white water. Yet, heedless of humps and holes and the danger of submerged rocks, he dug his paddle in faster, faster, trying to catch up.

Trying to catch up—the story of his life. He’d been raised in the shadow of an older brother who was brilliant, Superman, his parents’ all in all. There was no mountain too high, no challenge too big for Brad Braxton. Eagle Scout. High school student body president. University of Miami Gators swim team, All-American. Couldn’t try out for the Olympics because he was a Rhodes Scholar. Now a thoracic surgeon in Miami, with a gorgeous wife and two kids. Unreal expectations to keep up with…keep up with…

This was unreal. Could not be happening. How in hell had Lisa fallen in? No way to call for help. Cell phones didn’t work in the Talkeetnas, and he needed both hands on the paddle. The snowmelt had the river up to at least a Category III with four-foot waves and a rocking roll with worse ahead in the tight turns of Hairpin Gorge. His friend Spike had told him that the old prospectors had called that part of the Wild River the Turn Back Gorge, but there was no way he could turn back now, even if he lost her.

Using the paddle, he braced himself away from another rock, then righted the kayak when it was yanked into a pivot point. Off to the races again,
squinting through the spume, hoping to see that slash of orange. She had to be here somewhere, unless she’d been trapped in a snag or sieve underwater.

In the first twist of Hairpin Gorge, narrow, gray haystacks of constricted water piled up into standing waves on both sides of the bow. He saw the path through it was chaos. Lisa would never survive.

The crash of the water almost deafened him. He pointed the kayak toward the chute and plunged into it. He glimpsed red king salmon struggling to go the other way. He fought a force he felt he’d never conquer, but sometimes a narrow ribbon of white water was faster than other places in the river. He was chilled and sopped down to where the spray skirt gripped his waist. He braced his knees against the inside of the craft, working the foot rudders, praying he wouldn’t capsize. When Uncle John had taught him kayaking years ago on his summer vacations, he’d joked it was really an underwater sport. He’d taught Mitch the Eskimo roll, but it would be a life-and-death combat roll if he flipped today.

Lisa knew she’d be dead already if she hadn’t been wearing her PFD. To keep her arms and legs from being banged by rocks both above and below the surface, again she fought to wrap herself into a ball, knees pulled up, arms around them. But when the water rolled her head under, she had to let go to right herself. She tried to kick and paddle but she still got tossed aside and around out of control.

She saw the taller walls of the gorge ahead. The first turn into it nearly finished her. She held her breath until she thought her lungs would burst. For one wild moment the sun was in her eyes. She tried to think of hot days on the beach, the South Florida sun beating down on her, not the weight of all this water. She might suffocate before she’d drown.

On the next turn, she knew she had to make one last grab for something along the bank or she’d black out. She had to drag herself out of this water, hang on. Back at the lodge, Mitch would miss her, maybe figure out what happened. But what had happened to get her in this killer river?

She tried to grab a rock and was shocked to realize both arms had gone numb. What was that called when you got so cold you fell into a fatal sleep…drifted into death? She couldn’t die of something she couldn’t recall the name of…Lawyers always had the right terminology, whether in English or Latin.
Qui bono,
who would profit from a crime? Lawyers knew all about plea bargains…the way out…but there was no way out here.

Though Mitch was in great physical shape, the muscles in his arms and back not only ached but burned. He had to find her now or it would cease to be a rescue and become a body recovery, if he could even manage that. But a whirlpool snagged him, and when he freed himself, he shot into another chute. It was fast, very fast, suddenly a smoother ride than any
of Spike’s musher sleds on sleek snow with his huskies barking. He imagined he heard them now, heard voices in the roar of the current, heard a woman’s screams, but it was all in his head.

After the second twist of the gorge, he saw her again, pinned against a busher—a fallen tree—caught like a salmon in a Yup’ik fish wheel. Danger! Bushers were deadly, because they could trap a kayak or smash its thin plastic hull to bits.

But he had to risk it and go after her. Maybe they could climb out onto the tree, make it to the rock ledge. Was she moving? She’d have to be hypothermic by now, but could it be even worse? The power of the water pinning her there must be brutal.

He tried to edge in next to her, but the kayak corkscrewed and the current capsized him. Praying he wouldn’t hit his head on the trunk or a submerged rock, he held his breath as he went under. The frigid slap of water shocked him, and made him fear for Lisa even more.

“Eskimo roll!” He heard his uncle’s voice, clear and crisp. “Paddle thrust, body twist! Up! Over and up!”

He fought to keep from panicking. His lack of helmet could kill him, too. Upside down, with his body submerged but buoyed by his PFD, he lifted his paddle above the water with both hands out, then swept his torso and paddle while he snapped his hips up. The rotation worked, though the thrust of the current slammed the kayak sideways against the tree
trunk again, jarring his teeth as he shook his head and upper body like a dog to get the water off. The entire craft shuddered.

He sucked in a huge breath. Despite the warmth of the air and sun, he felt as if he was rolling in snow. Five feet away from him, Lisa lay sprawled, unmoving, draped over the tree trunk like a drenched rag doll, apparently not breathing as the water crested in white plumes over and around her back. At least it had stopped her before the rest of the sharp turns and then the series of small falls a couple of miles beyond. And, thank God, she was upright with her shoulders and head out of the water.

He tried to brace himself with the paddle to get close enough to at least touch her, pull her down into the kayak or get them both out onto the tree. But when he took another stroke, the washing-machine effect of the churning river flipped him back under again.

Christine Tanaka occasionally glanced out the kitchen window of the lodge, but she kept cutting smoked salmon strips with her small, sharp
ula.
She was readying plates of appetizers for their guests from Mitch’s old law firm—his job in his past life, as he liked to put it.

“
Iah,
don’t say it that way!” she’d told him more than once. “It sounds like you’re a ghost come back from the dead!”

But really, Mitch could do no wrong in Christine’s
eyes, including the fact he mispronounced her name in her Yup’ik tribal language when he called her
Cu’paq.
It was a tough language for a
kass’aq,
with its clacking sounds deep in the throat. But it always sounded like Mitch was saying Cupid, that little winged spirit who zinged arrows into people to make them fall in love. She knew too much about that and how dangerous it could be. But the thing with Mitch was he honored her people and was trying hard to become an Alaskan. She loved him for that and for so much more.

She jumped at the deep voice behind her and turned off the Yup’ik radio broadcast she often listened to in the summer when she worked, just to hear the language of her kin. One long, beaded earring snagged in her thick, shoulder-length hair, and she tugged it free.

It was Jonas Grant, the tall, African-American lawyer here with the Bonners. He was one of the attorneys vying for the senior partner position that used to belong to Mitch.

“Mind if I come into your kitchen?” he asked, holding the swinging door ajar. “Tell you the truth, I’m starved, and Mitch told us to see you if that was the case. All this fresh air or my jet lag’s making me hungry.”

She was surprised she hadn’t heard him come in because she had sharp ears and usually sensed someone’s presence, but this man moved so quietly. Jonas had a shaved head, which wasn’t the wisest thing in
Alaska, but it probably worked well where it was hot and humid.

Mitch had joked, “I taught Jonas everything he knows, which means he’s pretty smart.” She thought the man’s wide, dark eyes under his sleekly arched brows backed that up. Jonas was always watching others—keeping his own counsel, as Mitch had put it when he’d given her a pre-arrival rundown on their guests. Yes, she could see that Jonas Grant was always calculating what to say and do. Truth be told, she was wary, too, so she’d recognized that in him right away. And she liked the color of his skin, a lot like the Alaskan sun-and wind-burnished complexions of her people—that is, her former people, before so many turned their backs on her for what she had done.

“Sure thing,” she told him with a nod. “I’m fixing salmon tenders with strawberry dip, moose enchiladas and squares of fresh-baked bread with black raspberry spread for appetizers. You want something to drink, too?”

“No, thanks—just hungry.”

As she fixed him a hearty plate, she glanced out the window to note no Mitch, but no kayak either. She squinted into the sun to see Ginger Jackson getting in her motorboat for the across-lake trek home. Ginger made all of the baked goods for the lodge and brought them each afternoon, especially the array of yummies for the breakfast buffet the next morning. How she managed to bake all that with a bum right
hand was beyond Christine. The only bad thing about Ginger’s baking was that she fed her brother Spike too much. In the summer, when he wasn’t running the dogs but was mostly taking tourists flightseeing, he put on weight around his middle.

Spike Jackson’s red seaplane sat at the far end of the lake since some guests had complained about the early-morning noise when he took off near the lodge. If guests didn’t want to drive or land at Talkeetna’s airport, he flew them in from Anchorage. He also took people on what was called flightseeing. Earlier today he’d flown Mrs. Bonner, who had her own private pilot’s license no less, to view the entire area from Talkeetna clear down to Wasilla. She’d said she wanted to see the little town where that spunky, ambitious Sarah Palin was from, who had come out of nowhere—though folks hereabouts didn’t think of big-boom Wasilla or the capital, Juneau, as nowhere—to run for vice president of the United States. Mitch had mentioned that Mrs. Bonner had a brother who was big in Florida politics and aiming higher, so no wonder Mrs. Bonner was interested in Alaska’s Governor Palin.