April 1
The room is pitch black, and the air has a fetid quality to it, warm and unmoving—like death. There are muffled female screams reverberating throughout the room, accompanied by sounds of someone struggling. My arms and legs are tied with women’s undergarments to the four opposing posts of a huge Victorian bed. Restrained as I am, I watch helplessly, as strobe-like images of a hand holding a knife appear, then disappear, then re-appear before my disbelieving eyes. The handle of the knife is mother-of-pearl, and the blade appears razor sharp, reflecting little pin points of light as it sweeps past my face. I strain mightily against the nylon and cotton manacles that bind me, but my efforts are of no use; I’m unable to move.
With each pass, the knife moves ever closer, and I’m reminded of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum.” As I toss my head from side to side, the surgical steel blade makes one more pass, and just catches a stray hair on the side of my neck. An even louder scream pierces the still night air, only this time the voice isn’t a woman’s voice at all. It has a much more guttural quality to it, deeper pitched, more masculine even. It sounds familiar, yet I can’t be sure who it belongs to. But wait; it’s coming to me. Now, at last, I recognize the voice; I should—it’s mine. And, I begin to struggle even more furiously, because I know what’s coming. And, with that recognition and the memory that accompanies it, I realize why I’m screaming; and I do the only thing I can to make it stop—I wake up.
Glancing over at the Little Ben alarm clock on my night table, I see that it’s nearly six a.m. I’m drenched in perspiration. Sitting up slowly, so I don’t wake Val, I slide my right hand automatically to the left side of my neck, running my fingers lightly over the scar that runs diagonally about four inches from the outside of my collarbone down toward my Adam’s apple. It’s not a particularly obtrusive scar, but the memory it evokes is overpowering.
It’s been nearly two years since that night, the night that changed my life forever. Although the dream doesn’t come as often now as it did in the beginning (nearly every night the first year), when it does come, the details are just as clear, and its impact just as devastating.
I’m Matt Davis, former NYPD homicide detective. In my “former life,” I worked out of the Tenth Precinct in the Chelsea District of Manhattan. Against the advice of my ex-partner, Chris Freitag, I had gone alone into an apartment building to check on a female member of our detective squad with whom we’d lost contact that evening. I had half expected to find her asleep in front of her television set, but instead I had surprised a serial killer doing his damnedest to add the lovely Rita Valdez to his growing list of victims. In the ensuing struggle, the “Chat Room Rapist,” as he later came to be known, had slashed me across the neck with a knife, partly severing my carotid artery in the process. My injury nearly killed me, and put me in a coma that lasted almost four days. Unlike a cat that has used up eight of its “nine lives,” but doesn’t know any better than to continue confronting fate, I considered the event as a kind of warning, and put in papers for early retirement as soon as I left the hospital.
Valdez, on the other hand, didn’t have my option of early retirement, and although she suffered numerous cuts and bruises, and a badly crushed windpipe (it kept her from speaking for almost a month), returned to active duty after a brief leave of absence. I wonder whether she, too, is haunted by dreams of her narrow escape. We were both lucky, and although our bodies have healed exceptionally well, the emotional wounds each of us suffered likely never will. But, we go on, each of in our own way; that’s what cops do.
I slide my feet into the new LL Bean, fleece-lined slippers that Val gave me for Christmas, and pad quietly over to the tarnished brass coat rack in the corner of the bedroom. After slipping on my bathrobe, I lightly touch Val’s cheek, and then exit from the bedroom, closing the door behind me.
The air in the small bungalow carries the faint odor of hickory that emanates from the Vermont Castings wood burning stove nestled in the corner of the modest living room. Its matte black surface is as cold as the slate upon which it rests, and I quickly assemble a small pyramid of Fatwood kindling within its interior, bringing it to life with a battery-powered starter (also from LL Bean). Adding one piece of hickory at a time to the firebox, I soon have a pretty good fire going.
Not only will the stove warm the room, but in rather short order, its surface will be hot enough to boil water. With that purpose in mind, I move to the kitchen, grab a copper kettle from the cupboard, and fill it with just enough water for my morning cup of hot chocolate. I start to put the whistle on the spout, but then picture Val, asleep in the other room and with a smile, remove it. The stove is already glowing, and I carefully place the kettle on its surface, then dump a couple of scoops of chocolate powder in a mug, and plop down in my armchair to wait.
Ever since I was a little kid, breakfast has always been my favorite meal. Ironically, as a New York City cop, that small pleasure was denied me for nearly twenty-five years, except on weekends—or special occasions, like today—and I reflect upon how much my life has changed in the two short years since I retired. For starters, I no longer live in Manhattan. I’m still a cop—sort of—but now I’m the Chief of Police of Roscoe, a small town in rural Upstate New York. My hours are regular, my salary sufficient, and my life expectancy a lot longer than when I worked on the other side of the Hudson River. Ironically, this was the place I always sought as a refuge from the pressures of life as a homicide detective. Like a pilgrim to Mecca, I came to fish the trout-filled waters and restore my soul whenever I could—which was never near enough.
Roscoe is a sleepy little hamlet, nestled in the Catskill Mountains, alongside route 17—or the “Quickway,” as it’s known locally—midway between New York City and Corning. At one time, during the ’20s and the ’30s, it was the regular weekend destination of affluent sportsmen and sportswomen, who came as much for the fresh air as the clean, spring fed waters. In those days, visitors arrived primarily by railroad coach, and the abandoned tracks alongside the Antrim Lodge serve as a reminder of that hotel’s prominence in the brief but memorable heyday of the town. Many years later, some clever-thinking fellow (probably a member of the Chamber of Commerce) dubbed Roscoe “Trout Town, USA,” thereby cementing its identity and no doubt prolonging its economic survival. By that time, Short Line Buses and cars had replaced the railroad as the primary method of transportation to this bucolic setting.
In reality, the entire river system that drains the western slope of the Catskills, including the Neversink, the Beaverkill, the Willowemoc, and to a lesser extent, the East and West Branches of the Delaware River make up what is considered by most experts as the birthplace of modern day fly-fishing in America.
Imagine my good fortune when Frank Kuttner, a Roscoe town council member—and good friend of mine—thought of me when the job of Police Chief became available. The quaint, but spacious bungalow that accompanied the position was all the inducement Valerie and I needed to make the switch from city dwellers to “country bumpkins.” The town council had dreamed up the idea of offering the cottage to the former chief’s replacement as a kind of “fringe benefit,” rather than pony up the money for health insurance. And, since it had been foreclosed for back taxes, it hadn’t cost them a dime. Val and I pay for renters insurance, as well as the cost of the utilities, but other than those minimal expenses, there’s no cost to us. All in all, it’s a pretty good deal all the way around. The fact that I receive lifetime health benefits from the NYPD actually helped me overcome one of the major obstacles Roscoe faced in filling its vacancy, its inability to offer healthcare. It was a “win, win” situation as they say. And, just like that, I became Chief of the Roscoe Police Department.
This morning marks the beginning of a special day for me. It just so happens that it’s a Saturday, and my one weekend day off. It’s also April 1, and the opening of trout season. That fact alone does not distinguish the occasion so much as the circumstances in which I find myself. For the first time, I will be participating in the event as a “local,” an actual resident of Roscoe—not as an “out-of-towner.”
In the past, I, along with countless other non-residents, have competed with one another for a spot along the perimeter of Junction Pool. Here, the Upper Beaverkill and Willowemoc Rivers merge, before continuing downstream as one body of water with a single name: the Beaverkill. The activities traditionally begin with the blowing of a whistle that signals the official start of the season, and quickly accelerate to fever pitch, as anglers cross lines (as well as tempers), in an effort to land the first “keeper” of the virgin season. Just as crazed are the reporters from area newspapers who furiously compete to interview the fisherman lucky enough to corral the first fish of the day. Traditionally, the next morning’s front pages feature identical photographs of the event, with accompanying stories that are suspiciously similar to those of previous years, with only the date and names having changed.
Today, however, will be different—at least for me. I have decided to forego the mob scene at Junction Pool and, instead, concentrate my efforts on a small stream several miles outside of town, off Bear Spring Mountain Road. Its waters may not harbor the stocked fish of its rivals, but the chances for a surprise are far greater. Little do I know what this day holds in store for me.