There’s a question on the tip of my tongue, and I know I’m not going to be able to fall asleep tonight unless I learn the answer. After a silence falls over the group again, I say, “But Kellen was just one guy. So … how did he manage to stab everybody?”
Josh fixes me with a serious look. “Oh,” he says. “That’s the scariest part.”
“All river guides should carry a knife suitable for cutting rope, webbing, or tangled lines in emergency situations. A blade of three to four inches is recommended.”
—The River Guide’s Almanac
6
After that cliffhanger, nobody moves. It’s like we’re holding our collective breath. The fire spits smoke into our faces, and the river rushes behind us, but all I can hear is the hush that settles over the group. We wait for Josh to keep going, but he just sits there, eyes fixed on the flames.
Suddenly, he’s unfolding from his lotus pose and turning to Bryan, who has paused in drying the clean dishes to wipe his brow on his swim shirt. “Hey, Flip-Flop, why don’t you tell them this part, since you’ve got a show-and-tell?”
Bryan drops his dishcloth, startled. His perpetually red, round cheeks quiver above his beard, like he doesn’t know whether to smile or scowl. “What? Me? I don’t have anything to show them.”
I catch Pam’s eye, and she furrows her sculpted brows. The new-guy hazing was light-hearted at first, but now Josh seems genuinely pissed. From the way he’s glaring at Bryan, it’s almost like the rest of us have disappeared.
“I’m going to get ready for bed,” I say loudly, sort of wishing I’d turned in for the night when Macy and Gracie did.
But it’s like no one’s heard me. Josh keeps going even when I stand to leave. “Then why did you bring that knifewith you?” he asks Bryan. The hush is replaced with gasps from several women.
Bryan drops a dish into the bin, where it clatters. “Because we’re—all the guides are supposed to have a pocket knife, it’s on the packing list,” he says miserably.
“Just a pocket knife, huh? Here’s mine.” Josh reaches for the green fanny pack strapped across his bare chest and pulls out a standard-issue red Swiss Army pocket knife. “Now show them yours,” he demands, shooting a look at Allie.
Bryan mutters something under his breath that sounds like “dick,” but to my surprise, he obediently produces an object from the zip pocket of his swimming trunks.
I can’t see much in the dark, just the glint of metal and the shifting shadows. I should go to my tent, but my feet stay planted in the dirt, curiosity getting the better of me. I lean forward, neck stretched, trying to catch a better look.
“Bring it into the firelight,” Josh insists, motioning the other guide forward.
Bryan makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and trudges over, bleached hair flopping as he ambles, holding the object out for everyone to see.
It doesn’t look like much to me, but it’s larger than the typical pocket knife—as big as a hunting knife. The hilt is camouflage-patterned, with three inlaid pearl crosses that glimmer in the flames.
Allie stands from her chair and crouches closer. She gasps. “Holy shit. That’stheknife.”
“It’s nottheknife,” Bryan argues, his pitted cheeks flaming. He shoves the knife back into his shorts pocket and crosses his arms over his chest. “I got this at REI, four weeks ago. How the hell was I supposed to know it looks like Kellen Stroop’s? Besides, from what I’ve heard, most of the rafters didn’t die from stabbing anyway.” He glares at Joshwith a look of pure hatred, then stomps back to the dish station.
“Can we get back to the story?” Deborah urges. “HowdidKellen manage to stab all those people with a knife like that?”
“Nobody knows,” Bryan calls over his shoulder as he retreats. He resumes toweling off the rinsed dishes, then roughly slamming them back into the bin.
Reluctantly, I sit back down in my chair. For a women’s retreat, there’s sure a lot of male energy taking center stage. But as long as the chest-beating is done and over with, I’m all ears.
“What do you think happened?” I ask Allie, making a point of avoiding eye contact with Josh.
“There are a lot of theories,” Allie offers, surveying Josh warily as if waiting to get cut off. But he just shakes his head and closes his eyes, downshifting from outburst back to lotus pose, all in a matter of seconds.
Allie, gaining confidence, goes on. “People argue about this stuff on my Reddit boards all the time, but the general consensus is that only the first victims were stabbed to death. Stroop first attacked one of the female guides in the middle of the night. Her screams woke everybody up, but by the time people rushed to her tent, it was too late.”
Before I can wrap my head around this, she continues without missing a beat. “It was total chaos at first. Nobody knew who’d killed the guide. Everyone was wandering around in the pitch dark.”
Allie pauses for dramatic effect. “And then, suddenly, Stroop jumped out from behind a boulder, holding his knife.” She points at Bryan, even though he’s already put his knife back into his pocket. “Can you even imagine? From all accounts, Stroop was an incredible river guide. But something in his brain must’ve just snapped.”
I try to picture it: the dark, the confusion, everyone stumbling out of sleep straight into panic. A blitz of terror and adrenaline. No time to think, just the river roaring and the rafts bobbing in the blackness. Nowhere to go but the cold, black water.
I shiver hard, even though the fire is blazing so brightly that my shins are hot to the touch.
