I try to tread water, but my strength is gone. I can only lie back and float, nose and mouth above the surface, waiting for some sign that Stone survived. An image of his bullet-riddled body bobbing up beside me flits through my head, but I quickly banish it. My odds of surviving the night up here without him are very low.

Stone will come. If anything, the ex-FBI man is tougher than I. He is nearly seventy, yes. And he’s wounded. But it’s not as though physical prowess of any degree could affect one’s fate while passing through that cataract. Stone’s fate is in the lap of the gods.

“Swim, goddamn it.”

For a dazed moment I think I am talking to myself, but I’m not. Stone has kicked up beside me like a shipwrecked sailor, looking more dead than alive.

“Did they hit you again?”

His eyes are only half open. “Kick your feet, Cage. We’ve got another half mile to go.”

“Why not get out here?”

“Too close . . . kick, damn you.”

I start kicking, and soon enough the current is carrying us along as steadily as it did behind Stone’s cabin, though more slowly. The river has spread out here. Shrubs and boulders sail past us in the moonlight, while smaller rocks abrade our knees and elbows. Stone grips my windbreaker and speaks as we drift along.

“Crested Butte is three miles south. We can’t stay in the river without the boat . . . too cold. And I can’t run. I’m not dying, but I can’t run. There’s a campground up here. When we get close, you’re going to get out on the south bank. Right now they’re stuck north of the river. Follow the river south, running as fast as you can, hugging the bluff for cover. When you see the lights of town, circle to your right and come in from the south, in case they’re waiting for you.”

“I’m not leaving you here. You—”

“We haven’t got time for this! You want a bar called the Silver Bell. It’s just off the main street, Elk Avenue. The bartender is a mountain of a guy called Tiny McSwain. In my drinking days we got pretty tight. Tell Tiny to take you to an airport. Any airport but the one you flew into. Still got your wallet?”

I grab my hip pocket. “Still there.”

“Cash?”

I nod. I brought two thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills for just this reason, so I couldn’t be traced by credit card charges.

“You may have to hide out until you get a morning flight. Denver maybe. Do whatever you have to do, but stay out of sight.”

A yellow light appears from the darkness ahead, hovering in the air to my right, about fifty yards away.

“That’s the campground,” Stone says. “Come on.”