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Rapid Descent
Gwen Hunter
The kayak trip was supposed to be a honeymoon. But when Nell and Joe Stevens are caught in a flash flood, Nell is swept under, trapped and loses consciousness. When she awakes, safe on shore, she finds a note from Joe, explaining that he has gone for help. He never returns. The search that follows raises more questions than it answers. About the family he never mentioned, who arrive in Nell's sleepy hometown. The enormous inheritance. And worse, the question whispered by the locals: is Nell responsible?Always hoping for Joe's return, Nell tries to put the rumors behind her. But as years slip past, Nell craves answers. She takes to the river again in search of the truth and finds that jealousy, desperation and deception can pull you under faster than churning water–and you may never resurface.
RAPID DESCENT
Gwen Hunter
Rapid Descent
Acknowledgments
My Thanks To:
Mike Kohlenberger—raft guide extraordinaire, teller of great stories, and the real Jedi Mike. A guide who would never ever toss a client into the drink on the Lost Guide, but who has the skill to do it if he wanted. You are the only person I ever based a character on. Thank you for all you taught me about rivers, the history of the Appalachian Mountains and their ecology. It is because of you that this book exists at all.
Dave Crawford, owner of Rapid Expeditions in the Smoky Mountains, who gave us kayak instruction, kept us safe, took us rafting and had great stories. Thank you for all you taught me about myself. Because of you, I fell in love with hardboats and rivers, and I learned to relax.
Dave Shook of Old Town Outfitters in Rock Hill, South Carolina, and his son Cameron Shook, who came up with gear information and…um…have I mentioned the great stories? River people have a lot of great stories!
Sarah Bell of Green Rivers Adventures for the great trip down the Upper Green River. Loved the IKs—single-man inflatable kayaks! Ashlyn and Emily, you were great guides!
Leah McDowell, for the lessons in kayak rolling at UNCA, University of North Carolina at Asheville, and for introductions to so many people.
Becka Crawford, who named Rocking River.
Ralph Altman for being a friend since high school, and for being so gracious as I tried to pick up kayaking skills.
Robbie and Donna Ashley for the use of their pool while Rod and I learned to Eskimo roll.
CeeCee Murphy for helping me work out the accident scene where Nell is injured. And who loves rivers with “nice drops” of twelve to twenty feet…
My mom, Joyce Wright, for being my first and best reader, first and best fan, and for catching things I missed in the manuscript.
Jeff Gerecke, my agent, who keeps the future in mind.
Miranda Indrigo, my editor. Gifted with the broad view, a gentle—though thorough—editorial hand and an innate kindness. You have always made my books better, stronger, tighter and faster than my own limited vision.
And last but never ever least, thanks to my husband, Rod, who has supported my careers, my dreams and my writing. And who was willing to take on a new sport, a new lifestyle (river rat) and a new way to travel (RVing). I’m the luckiest gal in the world.
In memory of Delta
Who gave us love, guarded the house
and was an adventurer at heart.
Contents
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
PART TWO
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
PART ONE
1
Six Years Ago
Nell woke slowly, her eyes slit, blinded by sunlight. She blinked to clear the gummy substance away. Licked dry, cracked lips. Trees took shape overhead, fall leaves turning gold and red. Blue sky peeked beyond them and puffy clouds floated between. She was lying down. Outside. Lifting a hand, she encountered slithery cloth and held it up. It was her sleeping bag.
She eased an arm out of the bag and braced her elbow on the ground, then pushed. Her arm quivered, so weak it barely lifted her. Slowly, she sat up. The world rocked and whirled, dipping like a class-V rapid. A mallet thumped rhythmically against the inside of her head.
Nausea doubled her over; Nell reeled, retched, grabbing her head. Her pulse pounded. She retched again and again, dry heaves slamming around the pain in her skull, a wrecking ball intent on pulping her brain into mush. Intense thirst ripped at her throat. Her eyes burned, tearless. Shivers caught her. She clutched her head with a hand and the pain over her temple doubled. A pulpy knot rested beneath her palm.
Dehydration. Shock? Yeah, shock. Bump on the head, likely concussion.
Big freaking help, figuring out a diagnosis, she thought. She eased back down and eventually the nausea dissipated. Trees overhead stopped dancing. A bird called. Whitewater roared nearby. The air was cold and damp, the sensory stimulation as familiar as her own skin, yet nothing looked familiar from where she lay.
Beneath the sleeping bag, she fingered polyester fleece, smooth against her hand. Under that, she felt the ultrafine knit of water-wicking synthetics—her cool-weather, stay-warm-even-if-you-get-wet long johns.
Slowly, she turned her head and was rewarded with only a small increase in the rhythm of the hammer beating against her brain. The coals of a long-dead fire were close by. Four full water bottles.
Water. Nell slid an arm out and grabbed a bottle, pulled it back under the sleeping bag. With trembling fingers, she opened it. Managed to drink a few sips without losing much to the cloth of the sleeping bag. After a few minutes, her stomach settled and she drank half of the water. Her body sucked up the fluid, demanding more. But she waited, allowing her system to accept it. If she drank it too fast she might throw it up and lose all the benefit. She remembered that from wilderness first-aid class, or maybe it was the swift water–rescue course. She didn’t remember why she was on a riverbank, alone, but if she could remember that much, the rest would surely come back.
Gradually, sip by sip, Nell drank almost all of the twenty ounces and capped the bottle. Slowly she sat up again, holding her head to keep it together, sure it wanted to fly apart. She was lying on a flat space in a tiny clearing, not more than ten feet wide and maybe twelve feet long. A shelter had been built over her, thin boughs of fresh-cut tree branches resting over a single, larger branch. She held her hand over the stone-ringed fire pit. It was as cold as it looked. Deadwood was piled nearby, but hadn’t been used to feed the fire. Her kayak was overturned, hull up, resting atop her PFD, paddle, helmet, dry suit and kayak spray skirt. Her rescue rope had been used to secure the pine branches of her shelter in place. Her other rescue equipment, biners, pulleys, prusicks, were all piled together, half in, half out of the rescue-equipment bag. Near them was a cell phone, in pieces, turned on its side as if to dry out.
She reached an arm out of the bag and flipped the dry suit over. Each of the limbs had been sliced and the neck hole had been cut out, the gashes irregular, as if made by a rescue knife, slashing. The chest area was ripped and torn, punctured, as was the abdominal area. A sharp twig, dead pine needles still attached, was rolled into the neoprene fabric over the chest, which should have been protected by her flotation vest. It was twisted and snarled through several holes. A feeling of dread slid between her ribs with all the finesse of an assassin’s blade.
She pulled the neck of her fleece shirt out and looked at her chest. Across her neck, ribs, abdomen and along her sides were field dressings, mounds of gauze held in place with elastic cling wrapped around her. Blood had seeped out and dried in the dressing. Her ribs and chest throbbed with each breath, and she had a feeling that if she coughed, she was going to hurt. A lot. She was cold, shivering, the skin of her hands white and puckered.
Nell looked around. First rule of white water—never paddle alone. But she was alone, and had been for a while, it seemed. Second rule of white water—you can only depend on yourself. It looked like she would have to.
Moving like an eighty-year-old instead of with her usual vigor, Nell peeled out of the sleeping bag. First things first, and the most urgent was the call of nature. Too weak to bend properly, she held on to a branch to rearrange her clothes, using the moment to inspect herself more thoroughly. She was covered with lacerations, punctures and bruises, sure evidence of being caught in a strainer. The feeling of dread increased. Finished, Nell pulled her clothes back in place and caught sight of her left hand. The plain gold ring brought her up short. Memories flickered. The feeling of alarm increased.
Where was Joe? She looked around the clearing. Joe had been here. It was his phone in pieces. His way of stacking firewood, with a package of corn chips nearby. Joe would never have left her alone.
Nell hobbled to the stacked firewood and bark. Kneeling, working by instinct, she positioned the bark, leaves and fibers in a cone, placed the kindling over it and took two Fritos corn chips from the opened pack. With the lighter she found beneath the chip bag, she lit the corn chips and set them to either side of the cone. The oil in the chips burned a long time and was a time-honored way of getting and keeping a fire started. The leaves and bark ignited and Nell fed the small flame with kindling until it could support itself on the deadwood. The blaze felt unbearably hot on her face and hands, testament to hypothermia.
Joe would be impressed at her recall of medical terms. He used them fluently, while she more often stumbled over them. She held her hands over the fire, warming herself, rubbing them gently together. They were bruised and cut, nails broken with filth crusted beneath them. She leaned into the smoke, holding her breath, letting the warmth seep around her head, through her snarled hair. Her face was chapped and raw, and the warmth felt wonderful. Rocking back on her heels, she took in fresh air for several breaths, then bent back into the smoky heat. And again. And again. Thawing herself.
When she was warmer, Nell rolled to a sitting position and slid her feet into her lightweight, neoprene river shoes with tough rubber bottoms, constructed to be worn by paddlers in cold water, and stood. The shoes were dry and warmer than her feet. Joe had left them beside the sleeping bag, which, when she looked it over, was both bags, Joe’s and hers, one inside the other.
Nausea flirted with vertigo, and a cough threatened but held off. She crossed the clearing to the pile of supplies, strength returning more quickly now that she was moving, but pain bid for attention. Her head injury made the world sway drunkenly.
Beneath the cell-phone parts were two items—her rashguard shirt, which Joe had somehow pulled off her body, and the Ziploc baggies that Joe used to keep sensitive electronics dry. They looked as punctured as her chest. Inside was a piece of paper, a letter with her name at the top. A shiver trembled through her, teeth chattering.
Shaking, Nell opened the ruined bag and let the plastic fall to the ground as she read her husband’s neat, block writing.
Nellie baby,
Don’t know what you’ll remember about the accident. Water went up fast just before we reached the Double Falls. The class IIIs looked and sounded like class Vs. Big water. You were out of position river-left, and elected to take the cheat. I was too far right and had to take the crapid.
Nell smiled at the river runner’s term for a crappy rapid—a difficult and dangerous rapid, but one without a hoohaah component, without joy at the bottom. She touched the paper, her fingers sliding over the word.
I was scared shitless when you weren’t at the bottom, in the pool. The end of the cheat was blocked by a dead pine and you got caught in the strainer. Force of the water had lifted your boat up enough so you could breathe, but the tree was shifting, dragging you down. I did a hairy ferry and took to the rocks, climbed to get to you. By the time I did, you were bleeding pretty badly and starting to slip under.
Nell smoothed the paper. Badly…Joe with his perfect grammar…
She considered the description of the rapids. The double falls, the cheat—the easier drop taken by novices or wimps—the mention of a pool. She remembered the trip. Joe had planned it as a delayed honeymoon, kayaking on the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River. Not a bad run, but not easy, and not one they could paddle without a lot of rain. The South Fork had notoriously unpredictable water levels. Not a dam-fed river, rather, a rain-fed one, it was usually dry this time of year, but the remnants of a late hurricane had stalled over the Tennessee plateau and dumped a lot of rain. The South Fork had been running big water—nearly 2500 cubic feet per second, or CFS.
Her headache eased as she began to put it together, and as the water she had drunk entered her bloodstream.
I got you out of the boat but we had to swim the last of the cheat to the pool. The water took a squirrelly curl and it knocked you into a rock. You went out. Concussion. Shock. I’m so sorry, baby. I couldn’t hold you. I banged up my knee, getting you to shore.
Nell looked around. They were river-right. Joe had gotten them across the river in big water. Swimming. With a bad knee.
I got us up the shore to a flat spot and set up camp, made a fire, got you warm. I watched for other boaters, but the weather must have turned nasty upstream and no one was taking the river. It’s morning now, and you’re still out and I’m getting worried. The water is still too high to hike back, and my knee is swollen up like a grapefruit. I’d never be able to make it up the trail at the confluence and then the two miles to the nearest house. So I’m paddling to the takeout for help. I know—never boat alone. But I’ll be careful. And I’ll get back to you. I love you.
Monday, 0800, Oct. 22
Joe
Nell carefully folded the paper back into the uncertain protection of the ripped baggies. She glanced at her watch. It was 2:00 p.m.—fourteen hundred according to military time, Joe’s preference. The date displayed was 10–23.
Nell’s legs gave way as her puny strength leached out. She sat, landing hard, the baggies and her watch face all she could see. It had been over twenty-four hours. Joe had been gone more than a day. If she was where she thought, then his rescue trip should have taken half the previous morning. Help should have reached her this morning at the latest. It was now afternoon, and no help had arrived. She looked out at the water, still running high, perhaps 2000 CFS. There was a large X made of tree branches—an emergency signal to any passing boaters—only feet away on the shore. Joe’s handiwork.
Joe had gone out on the water alone.
Fear spiraled up, her heart beat at a painful, irregular pace.
Her short fall had dislodged something in her lungs and she started coughing, low, wet racking coughs that seared her chest. Nell clutched her torso with one hand, her head with the other. She had taken in water. Probably had pneumonia to go with the concussion. She stared into the tree trunks, oak, poplar and sycamore branches, wavering for a moment with thin tears. She was too dehydrated to truly cry. Not that she had cried in years. Not that she would cry now. She closed her eyes, the world swirling, sucking her down.
When Nell woke again, her skin was hot and she was shivering. Only half an hour had passed, but her lips felt like sandpaper and her body ached. When she could sit up again, Nell scanned the clearing and her equipment. She was sick. There was no way she should go on the water. But Joe was out there…He hadn’t come back. He was in trouble. Had to be.
