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