A stone’s throw from Manhattan, this rugged wilderness on the southeastern corner of New York State had become a refuge for weary New Yorkers and boasted some of the most famous trout streams in the United States. It was here, knee-deep in the Beaverkill River, that Simon had taught Dan the art of fly-fishing and made him forget, at least temporarily, that he had just lost his father. Pushing the memories aside, Dan followed Wally’s directions to Johnston Road until he reached the bend where Simon’s Jeep had gone off the road. After getting out of the car, he walked to the edge of the cliff, where a shiny ten-foot section of the guardrail had already been replaced. Rock and charred brush where the car had burned lined the valley floor, a stark reminder of the inferno that had taken place there. Stepping over the railing, Dan walked down a narrow path, covering the two-hundred-feet distance in a little over five minutes. Hands in his pockets, he walked around the crash site, searching for evidence he knew wouldn’t be there.
