Cold Crossover

by T. R. Kelly

  “No. Ernie Creekmore. Real estate agent. North Fork, Washington. Let me tell you what I yanked out of one of Linn’s sneakers at Dolan’s.”

  “Now, that’s exactly what I’m talking about! What the hell did you take?”

  “Didn’t take anything!” I said. “I was looking over one of his high-tops in the closet. Same shoe he wore as a Crab. Found some loose change and a note with Holly, 9, Bremerton written on it.

  “Well, there you go, amigo. Just as I thought. Our boy’s got a new flame, and she’s a babe from Bremerton. Probably zipped sleeping bags together last night and fell asleep at her daddy’s fishing cabin out on the Hood Canal.”

  “Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “Then why didn’t Linn drive off the ferry?”

  “Maybe he was so hot to see her, he forgot all about the station wagon and walked off into her arms,” Harvey said. “Linn’s car could have broken down or been borrowed or stolen. I’ve asked the state patrol to run the license plate again and have a local mechanic look at the car.”

  “What about the blood on the gym towel?” I said.

  “Slow down, Mr. Sleuth,” Harvey said. “Could have been anybody’s. Maybe he sopped up a teammate’s gash. If the car was jacked, maybe the guy was bleeding and desperate. We just don’t know. A couple of my cops just got back from lunch at Tony’s, and neither of the Berrettonis has heard a thing about anybody borrowing cars or blasting out of town. And those guys know everything.”

  “I was down there today, too. Thought it was too early to be asking around about Linn, especially to that crowd. Didn’t want to start a ruckus. But I’ll try and get a hold of Barbara today just to help ease my mind.”

  Harvey sat up and held up a finger, signaling an idea. “Her mother asked me to make a crime-scene presentation to her elementary school class, so maybe I’ll stop by the house when school gets out. Anyway, I’ve got a four-thirty up in Burlington and I’ll hit the Sylanski place on the way. I’ll tell Barbara you’re looking for her, if I see her.”

  I’d also planned to reach out to my contacts at Washington State Ferries, state patrol, and the newspapers. You get to know some people after coaching kids for nineteen years. Turns out some of today’s important guys in the area once played for me; others were the kind you simply couldn’t find when you needed to. Like Linn Oliver.

  “And, Ernie,” Harvey said. “The next time we talk, have your calendar ready. The kids gave me a new carbon rod for Christmas, and it’s been sitting in the closet. Thing was made for the Skagit and the North Fork of the Stilly.”

  Chapter Eight

  6 a.m., Saturday, July 7, 1877

  The blisters on Henry Oliver’s heels bled through his heavy wool socks. At daybreak, when he waded into the chilly Skagit River, the torn skin waved in the current like circular white caps covering bright red jam. His broad shoulders burned from the sweat-soaked strap of the dusty bag that held all his possessions.

  Henry had run as fast and far as he could from the ugly scene at Ruby River, but the unbalanced load soon ruined his rhythm, drained his energy, and kept him from covering more ground on the flat plateau. When he reached the steep cliff trail, the loose gravel beneath his oversized boots slid on every step, taxing his ankles. He sunk to his knees often, feeling with his hands in the dark for the path’s next switchback. The gruesome night was finally behind him.

  “Pretty early to be goin’ for a swim, ain’t it, son?”

  The rangy rider stood atop an outcropping above the bank. His white hair fell to his shoulders. All else was black and proper—hat, shirt, vested suit with string necktie, shiny boots. His snorting black horse bobbed and glistened in the sun. He dismounted and held its reins as he walked it to a nearby pool. “Looks like you’re about done, and the sun’s just said hello.”

  Henry turned and began tiptoeing out of the water, his arms stretched bird-like as he balanced his cautious steps over the slippery stones.

  “Came down out of that canyon last night, sir,” Henry said, unrolling his damp pantlegs. “Planned to have something to eat and make my way down to the trading post. Then, don’t know. Maybe Seattle.”

  The stranger bent down and scooped his hand into the water, lifted it to his lips, then shook away the remaining drops. “Looks like you’re travelin’ light. Did you already make your fortune and just leavin’ the rest for others?

  “Job didn’t work out, sir,” Henry said. He eased his bottom on to a large boulder, drew his left foot into his hands, and cringed at the open sores. “Looks like I came a long way for nothing.” He reached into his pack for salve, dipped a slippery glob on his index finger and wiped the wounds. The harsh-smelling liniment quickly brought water to his eyes.

  The man placed a boot in a stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. “Tell you what. If you’re not set on pannin’ or diggin’, there’s a mill that’s hirin’ a ways downriver from Goodman’s. The boat captain’ll know the place. Ask for MacTavish. Wallace MacTavish. Call him ‘sir.’ He’ll like that. Man’s got big plans.”

  Henry stood, relieved and surprised. He rolled up a sleeve and rubbed the remaining ointment on his forearm, keeping his eyes a safe distance away. The possibility of more suitable employment quickened his movement. “I will do that, sir. Thank you. I know a bit more about cutting trees than I do looking for gold. Speaking of gold, I see you’re not packing a shovel or pickaxe. They seem to be the only thing people do up here.”

  The rider moved up the hill and now spoke over his shoulder. “Not in my blood, son. Just don’t see spendin’ a lot of time on a gamble. No, I just come around now and then, makin’ sure a guy’s diggin’ on land that’s his. Some claims in these hills were staked years ago and some folks don’t care about who owns what. Take whatever they want to take.”

  The man in black was nearly out of earshot. “Sir!” Henry shouted. “Who should I say sent me to the mill? To Mr. MacTavish . .?”

  “Sylvester. Just tell him Sylvester O’Leary.”

  **

  Henry trudged along the river to Goodman’s Trading Post and gave most of his remaining money to the steamboat captain for passage to the sawmill, where he caught on as an office assistant. He worked long hours, offered creative suggestions, and displayed a personality that impressed his superiors. Especially its owner, Wallace MacTavish.

  The Scottish entrepreneur had formed his own company to operate another mill and mercantile on a bustling waterfront near the mouth of the Skagit. After two months, MacTavish recognized that Henry clearly understood the needs, habits, and language of the miners and panners, and hired Henry to help manage the retail outlet. The store could not stock enough shovels, axes, manila rope, gunpowder, salt, flour, dried pork, smoked salmon, and lard for the increasing prospector population—let alone the needs of the fishermen who worked the rivers and salt waters of Puget Sound. An increasing number of hunters and trappers began to traipse the Cascade foothills east of North Fork for deer, black bear, and beaver.

  The following summer, MacTavish rewarded Henry’s energy and contributions by making him a partner in the growing operation. Henry grew the business and became popular with customers for establishing short-term credit accounts. Only one account, “Tyler,” continued an outstanding balance.

  Chapter Nine

  3 p.m., Thursday, February 3, 1982

  Harvey excused himself for an impromptu conference with the district attorney, so I waited in his outer office. While thumbing through an old edition of Field & Stream, I found a map of western Washington rivers highlighted by an inset of the Stillaguamish. Plopping the magazine in my lap, I recalled some of the exceptional people and extraordinary fish that flowed through different phases of my life. I had worked nearly every pool of the Stilly with my father and planned to do so with my own son. That wasn’t to be.

  I was fortunate, however, to try a few spots with Linn Oliver.

  One memorable day he selected a copper-hued nymph fly and started down through the brush to the river, circ
ling the east end of a wide pool. I recalled the first time I slogged away in heavy waders from my father, choosing for myself the place to firmly plant my feet in the hypnotizing current.

  Linn turned suddenly and called out, his right hand on his hip, his left pointing the rod toward two o’clock. “You know what I loved, Coach? I loved sophomore year. That was somethin’ else. Nobody expected us to do much, and we just rolled into districts. All the laughin’ in the locker room after winning the league title. That’s what I remember most.”

  “Special days,” I yelled. “With special players.”

  Head down, he returned to his tromping, pushing aside replanted seedlings above a tiny peninsula where swift swirling water rested into a quiet pool. I gazed at the pool with a mix of excitement and gratitude, knowing Linn was alone in the sun, standing in a spot that held the best opportunity for a steelhead in the entire river. I stayed above the pond and worked a tiny rapid, partially guarded from Linn’s view by a peeling birch.

  The fiberglass pole looked comfortable and light in his hand. Linn watched his line as the current drew it in and deftly angled the fly toward the active water. He repeated his casting routine. When the line hit the water, he allowed the current to carry it until the fly slid toward the lower end of the silent pond. The screaming of Linn’s reel began losing yards of line until magically pausing when a fish soared three feet out of the water, trying to shake the hook from its angry mouth. I caught a breath in deep pleasure.

  Could it be that big? That colorful?

  I stepped downriver to a cleared rocky section of bank. When the gorgeous creature splashed back into the river, the reel continued squealing, relinquishing foot after foot of line as the fish headed to the safety of a small rapid. The top half of Linn’s rod was a throbbing crescent, pointed downstream at a moving target that seemed to spend as much time out of the water as in it. While Linn reached for the reel’s tiny pearl handle, the fish suddenly leaped. Beneath the evergreens, the wet silver flash made a complete tailspin, throwing crystal drops in a wide arch.

  Linn raised the tip of his rod, enticing the fish toward him before it broke the surface again, diving toward the end of the pool. The black-speckled torpedo shot away again, the line carving a small semicircle on the surface of the glassy water. This time, the fish slowed. Linn lifted the rod high over his head. The steelhead moved on its side toward Linn’s boots in the ankle-deep water. He crossed the rod from his right hand to his left, then slid two fingers of his free hand into its pink gills and carried it up the bank. I couldn’t remember a time on the river when I was more delighted.

  “Now, that’s how you do it!” I roared. “What a fish!”

  I sloshed down the shallows in my waders. Linn’s smile said it all. The fish was a grand specimen, about twelve pounds, and fresh from the sea. A trace of crimson blood trickled from the hooked corner of its jaw. Its small head and wide, square tail were separated by a massive yet supple spine mixed with black, violet, and silver. Linn set a small piece of driftwood under its white-silver belly, raising its middle slightly higher than its head and tail, accentuating its girth. Thousands of black diamond dots appeared over its shiny body as if dusted by some heavenly ash.

  After removing the hook, he rearranged his backpack and cinched up his hip boots. Rod in one hand and prized catch hanging from the other, Linn began his triumphant march along the riverbank toward the Socrates Pool, where we would share a sandwich and discuss the details that led to his catch. I followed, shaking my head in amazement and gratitude.

  Along the shady path, I became aware that he’d experienced no such days with his father, the ever-scheduled physician ostensibly on call every weekend. I’d been his basketball coach but also his teacher of river etiquette. I’d taught him principles usually reserved for a father or grandfather, such as to never fiddle with his gear while another fisherman was upstream moving in his direction. I stressed that the first fisherman to the water had first shot at a specific pool, yet one pool did not stretch the entire length of the river. I reminded him to always maintain a reasonable distance between himself and the next fisherman downstream, and to never overstay his time. Work the bank in slow, steady strides. Just like basketball, he picked up suggestions instantly.

  A rowdy argument was developing on the far side of the river. Bart Knight, looking rough around the edges in torn bib overalls and no shirt, was in another man’s face about trespassing on his fishing territory.

  “Don’t you be fishing down through my water, fella,” roared Knight. “It ain’t your pool!”

  “You’re dead wrong, Bart. I was here first, upstream of you, and did not take five steps before ...”

  Knight looked up and locked a glare on Linn. Suddenly, any breach of protocol did not seem so important. The other fisherman simply shook his head, reeled in his line, and began making his way up river.

  “Is that Linn Oliver over there, taking a beautiful fish out of my river?” Knight said. “You gotta be shittin’ me. I wouldn’t think you could catch a cold.”

  “I can fish some.” Linn smiled and looked down at his catch. “It’s just been a while.”

  My mind raced back again, to the years when everyone in town cared what Linn did and where he was. On or off the court, he was front-page news. Boosters jockeyed to buy his lunch. People he didn’t know slipped him money in a sweaty handshake, hoping he would remember a particular college when it came time to choose his next stop.

  “Yeah, well, I heard it’s been a while since you’ve done anything right,” said Knight, leaning against a riverfront alder. “Washed out in college, don’t wanna work the forests. So, you thought you might just come out here and take your dinner from my river.”

  “Well, if you think people are trespassing around here,” said Linn, “then spend some money and put up a few signs.”

  “What?” Knight said. “A wise guy to boot? You bet your sweet ass you’re on my property! And your family sure as hell tried to ruin it.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to relax the tension in my shoulders. I hadn’t realized how tightly I was gripping my pole. Bart Knight’s presence had a similar effect on me just about everywhere I went. When he attended basketball games, it was simply to yell at coaches and referees. He once built an ugly metal workshop just to block the mountain view of one of my customers. The woman, a retired second-grade teacher, enjoyed bird-watching, but Knight contended that she had been spying on him and examining his property with powerful binoculars.

  “Slow down, Bart,” I said, taking three steps closer to Linn. “He’s got as much right to fish this river as anybody.”

  “Well, now,” Knight said. “What do we have here? From Coach to Mister Real Estate Rip-Off. Once a loser, always a loser.”

  “Look, Knight,” I said. “I’ve fished this river for years, and you know it.” I set my gear on the bank and folded my arms, knowing if Linn hadn’t been there, my fists would have been slamming both sides of Knight’s face. “This is not private property, so just leave us be.”

  “Kiss my ass, Coach. Actually, I don’t even have to call you Coach anymore, do I? Thank gawd you’re no longer on that bench. Cost us a frickin’ state championship.”

  Knight locked his right hand on his hip and aimed his bloodshot eyes at Linn. “No wonder you had nothin’ left in that title game, kid. Coach stunk the place up.” Knight bent over and spit brown tobacco juice between his hip boots. “Know what? I think I can smell you both from here.”

  Linn dropped his fish, clenched his fists, and took two quick steps up the bank, searching for the quickest route across the river. I grabbed him by the back of the shirt. Linn’s muscles stood out through the sweat of the blue cotton.

  “Oh, so you want some, do ya, kid?” Knight said. “Well, bring it on, son.” He signaled the young man to come closer. “You punk, I’ll kick your ass from here to Arlington.”

  I blocked Linn’s charge and pushed him away, pointing him downriver. Linn quickly pivote
d and returned. I tried to restrain him with both arms, but he forearmed me aside, his entire weight behind the drive. He jogged through the shallow water and launched a huge right fist to Knight’s left cheek, propelling him backward to one knee. Water rushed in and over his pant leg.

  “You sonofabitch!” Knight barked. ‘Pullin’ some kind of sucker punch like that. You’re screwin’ with the wrong hillbilly!”

  “Just get back up, old man,” Linn sneered. “I got a lot more left for you right here, right now.”

  I dashed across the river as Knight wiped blood from his nose on an open hand. His uneven teeth were stained a light brown, and he reeked of alcohol. I tugged at Linn’s arm, twisting him away.

  “Let it go, Linn,” I yelled. “Now!”

  He turned and glared at Knight, still recovering from the power of the blow and the speed with which it was delivered.

  “You’re better than this,” I said. “It’s just talk. Some people like him never change.”

  We spun around, crossed the river, and headed up the bank.

  “You better watch your back, kid,” Knight called out. “My people ain’t good at forgettin’ shit like this.”

  As I swung the truck through the Stillaguamish Valley road, I welcomed the warmth of the afternoon sun on my face. Linn’s eyes were closed, opening only when his chin bobbed abruptly toward his chest. He held his breath and stretched long and hard, all limbs extended; his right arm fully outside the shotgun window, the left behind my headrest.

  “Talk about outfishin’ a guy in his own backyard,” I said. “That is some fish to be taking home. You have to be pleased.”

  “Thanks, Coach,” Linn said. “Truly enjoyed it, except for what Knight said about my family. I know the old loggers left a lot of stuff behind in the camps, but I never heard that they damaged any property.”

  “Gotta take everything with a grain of salt,” I said. “Especially when you’re talking about a guy like Bart Knight.”