Hook, Line, and Homicide

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Ian slipped on the deck and landed on his butt on top of a small heap of rods and reels that Jeff had been sorting.

  One of the rods began to tumble off the boat. Turner snatched at it just before it dropped into the water. He began slipping, caught himself on the railing, steadied himself, then turned to Ian. He held up the rod. “This is a specially designed St. Croix Legend Tournament Spinning Rod.”

  Ian tried to right himself by leaning his weight on one hand. He slipped again. Ian huffed, snorted, then grumbled, “So what?”

  “It costs at least half your monthly salary. If it lands in the lake next time, you might want to follow it into the water. Try not to come back without it.” Turner placed the rod back in the pile then grinned at Ian and offered him a hand.

  Ian grabbed Paul’s hand and pulled himself up. Ian said, “Thank you. Once what little dignity I have returns, I shall be most careful.” He glared at the dawn light, the lake, the boat, shook himself, then turned to his friend. “Is there a god at this hour of the morning?”

  “You don’t believe in any kind of god or religion,” Turner said.

  “Can you blame me?”

  “Are you going to get dressed?” Turner asked.

  “Will the fish care?” Ian asked.

  “Some of the muskies tend to be sensitive.”

  “Is there coffee? There can’t be enough coffee.” He peered at Turner’s large mug. “You have coffee. If I leave with you all, am I going to be stuck on this godforsaken thing all day?”

  “You could swim back to shore anytime you like.”

  Ian glowered at the receding shoreline. “Big damn lake.” He turned and scowled at the currently placid water. “There’s mist,” he announced.

  “Yes, I know,” Paul said.

  “Is it safe to be out in this?”

  “Safe compared to what?” Turner asked.

  Ian gazed some more at sky, water, mist, boat, and his friend. “I’m complaining too much.”

  “Yes.”

  “You aren’t going to get lost in this? How do you know where you are?”

  “Global Positioning radar.”

  “They have that?”

  Turner pointed. Ian looked. Turner said, “This one has chips that plot rock outcroppings and sandbars.” He pointed at the little black lines that showed where they were going. There was a tiny triangle that followed the line. If the triangle moved off the line, you were off course.

  “And you trust this?” Ian asked.

  “And we have a guide.”

  “That kid knows what he’s doing?”

  “That kid knows more about fishing than most of the guides in Canada.”

  Off the starboard side of the boat, they passed a large rock protruding ten feet above the surface of the lake.

  Ian asked, “Are we going to hit any rocks?”

  Turner said, “The lake is up this year. There’s been a lot of rain. There are marker buoys, but you always have to be careful. A rock that used to be above water could now be concealed. You have to know the lake or at least the parts of it where you are going fishing. If you don’t know the waters, you go very carefully.”

  Ian said, “I think I’m going to die.”

  Turner said, “Can you do that with less complaining?”

  “If I’m going to go, it’s going to be noisy.” Ian stumbled back inside the houseboat. Turner heard cursing and grumbling for about five minutes.

  He did indeed wonder why his friend had decided to come along on the trip.

  Kevin came up to him and nodded toward the sound of grumbling. “Do you want me to help him?”

  “He’s fine,” Turner said. “Thanks for offering.” Kevin never made comments about Turner being gay. Or about Ben, and now, not about Ian.

  Half an hour later, Ian was huddled on a chair next to Paul. By the light from the early-morning fog he was reading. In one hand he had the Ontario Provincial Police Marine Safety and Cottage Security Awareness Handbook. In the other he had a large mug of very hot, extra-strength coffee. Paul checked the buoy markers for rocks as they trolled by. On this first day he would be concentrating on making sure he spotted them. While your regular car insurance would cover any collision, he wasn’t eager to rip a hole in the bottom of the boat.

  They were heading for a new place that Kevin had found for them. On their first day of fishing every year, they followed Kevin’s itinerary of new places to fish, listened to him discourse on new techniques and other tips he might have. They would return to the dock that night. Then for the next few days they would be off by themselves much of the time. Turner had learned more from the seventeen-year-old than from any other guide. After anchoring the houseboat, Turner and Fenwick would fish together for several hours. They used a small motorboat, which had been towed along behind.

  The weather report had been for patchy fog in the morning, then hot and humid with the possibility of showers later that evening. Turner planned to be back at the pier long before any rough weather could overtake them. He’d been on the lake in a violent thunderstorm. He wasn’t worried about it happening, but he was not eager to repeat the ordeal.

  Turner said to Ian, “You need to put on your life jacket.”

  Ian looked up from his reading. “Is there a difference between a personal flotation device and a life jacket?”

  Jeff grabbed a life jacket, thumped its orange exterior, and handed it to Ian. Jeff said, “These come in only three colors, red, yellow, or orange, and they’re more likely to keep you upright if you wind up in the water.”

  “Why would I be unconscious in the water?” Ian asked.

  Turner said, “Depends on which one of us pushed you in, what we hit you with before pushing you, or what you hit on the way into the water.”

  Jeff said, “The PFD comes in lots of colors.”

  Ian said, “I’ll put on the life jacket if there’s a problem. Do adults really wear them? Kids should, but don’t adults know better?”

  Jeff said, “I have to wear one because I’ve got this whole wheelchair problem. Even the wheelchair’s got this special float and ballast.”

  Turner had insisted that every safety precaution had to be taken for Jeff. Before permitting him on the lake, he’d insisted on a specially designed wheelchair equipped with enough flotation devices to raise the Titanic. Paul wasn’t taking any chances that his son could be pitched into the lake and drown because some precaution hadn’t been taken.

  Turner said, “Grabbing for a life jacket when there’s danger would be like someone who decides to put on his seat belt when he realizes he’s going to have a car accident. Little late by then.”

  “That’s what they say in this booklet. You memorize the booklet?”

  “Most of the stuff is common sense.”

  “But it says you only have to have enough of the life jackets on the boat for each person to have one, but you don’t have to be wearing them.”

  Paul said, “We all wear them. Usually. You don’t have to. You can swim?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  Ian asked, “Why is there a Jet Ski on the back of the houseboat?”

  Brian said from inside, “It’s a sop to teenagers who might get bored. I get to zoom around later.”

  Ian said, “The phantom speaks.” He stuck his nose back in his book. Turner followed the Global Positioning radar.

  They occasionally heard other boats. Turner wasn’t happy about the fog, but it was early and it should burn off. The Fenwicks’ boat stayed near them.

  After five minutes of silence, Ian asked, “Am I going to get seasick?”

  “If you want,” Paul said.

  Brian and Kevin joined them on deck. Normally, they would have been listening to iPods or MP3 players and getting ready to go fishing. Paul preferred to think that’s what they were doing and not indulging in any romantic diversions.

  Lying. That was the problem.

  Kevin handed Ian a can of Bug-Be-Gone. “Spray this on,�
�� the teenager said. “The flies up here are as big as B-29s. Some people refer to them as the national bird of Canada. Trust me, you want this on.”

  Ian reached for the can. “I almost got eaten alive last night.”

  Turner said, “The three essentials of North Woods camping.” Ben, Brian, Jeff, and Kevin joined Turner in the chorus. “Suntan oil, bug spray, beer.”

  “Nothing about fishing poles?” Ian asked.

  “You don’t have one of those,” Jeff said.

  “Do I put all of them on simultaneously or do I layer it?”

  “Not the beer,” Brian said. “You drink that. Later in the day usually.”

  The fog kept all but the Fenwicks’ boat hidden. About an hour out, Paul heard a motor that was louder than usual. He didn’t like that. He looked to Jeff to make sure he was secure. He glanced at the Fenwicks’ boat. Buck was at the wheel. His partner shrugged from across the water. Ben came up next to Paul.

  “I can’t tell where that’s coming from,” Paul said.

  Ben peered with him into the mists.

  Kevin said, “He’s too close.”

  Paul agreed. Paul’s father and Kevin’s grandfather had been able to tell distance and direction of sounds on the lake with an uncanny accuracy. Kevin had displayed the same gift often in the past.

  An instant later a charcoal gray cigarette boat loomed off to the right of the Fenwicks’ houseboat. Turner heard Buck cursing. He saw the Fenwicks’ houseboat swerve away from theirs. The cigarette boat rushed past the Fenwicks’ and bore down on the Turners’. Paul envisioned a crash about amidships. He wrenched the wheel sharply to port. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ben grab onto the console. Ian flew out of his chair and hit the deck. His book flew into the water. Jeff, secured in his chair, swayed, but stayed put. Kevin and Brian hung on to the outside rail of the boat.

  The cigarette boat swerved at the last second and then turned into the mists. The sight and sound of it quickly faded.

  “Who was that asshole?” Ian asked.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Jeff said.

  “Idiot boaters,” Kevin said.

  “Did you recognize them?” Turner asked.

  Kevin shrugged. “I know a lot of boats on the lake. It’s too foggy. I didn’t get a good enough look at it.” No one else had been able to recognize them.

  Ben said, “Accidents happen on the lake especially in this fog. Reckless fools.”

  They slowed and eased close to the Fenwicks’ boat.

  “You okay?” Paul shouted.

  “Yeah,” Fenwick yelled back.

  Paul didn’t bring up his suspicion that they now had this attack to add to the parking lot incident and the break-in. The kids could hear, and it wasn’t the type of discussion he wanted to have shouting from boat to boat. This could also have been a random accident, but for the first time in all these years of trips north, he felt cold fingers of fear race up his spine. Vigilance, constant vigilance.

  Just after seven Brian and Jeff along with Kevin took the ten-foot motorboat the Fenwicks had been towing. The two boys always spent time together while they were fishing. Kevin would often join them. Jeff ’s floating wheelchair apparatus was secured to the spot where a comfy fisherman’s chair would have been in the middle of the boat. Paul trusted Brian or Kevin at the controls.

  They might be in danger. Should he forbid it? He scanned the horizon. The mists were maybe half of what they had been. He neither heard nor saw any sign of trouble. They would be fishing for northern pike this morning. They would be near shore, where shade, weed, and pad beds provided cover for these fish.

  “Be very careful,” he said to them just before they left the houseboat. They all nodded, eager to be away fishing.

  Turner said to Ian, “You are going to steer our boat.”

  “I am?”

  “You are. You’re going to carefully troll around this little cove and wait for us to come back.”

  “I can do this?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why don’t we just anchor the thing here?” Ian asked.

  “That would be good, too,” Paul said.

  Ben and Madge and the Fenwick girls would take one houseboat and motor in the shallows casting lines from the side. Fenwick and Turner would use the powerboat and fish deeper waters off rocky points of several small islands that Kevin had recommended. They were fishing for muskie. Being temperamental helped make them a tough fish to catch. This led to long periods of absolute boredom. Paul enjoyed those rare moments, especially because during them, Fenwick had the gift of silence.

  Turner stood near the prow of the boat. Fenwick sat on the swivel seat in the center. Turner’s rod was six feet long and thick. It didn’t bend much. Muskie could easily be fifty or sixty inches. Turner put his thumb on the spool, pushed the button with his other thumb, engaged the reel, brought the rod back, and then bombed a cast out. The Suick was heavy and landed at least 150 feet out. He started reeling in and giving pulls to the rod, reel again, pull, reel again. He did a figure eight with the line at the end of the retrieve.

  Over an hour passed with rare remarks added to the sound of fish surfacing, birds chirping, and waves softly lapping at the hull. Turner experimented with different-colored lures and stuck with baits in the six- to ten-inch size. They trolled at different speeds. The sun broke through the mists. Heat beat down on them and humidity rose from the water. Turner and Fenwick caught several fish but released them because they were too small. They’d just emerged from between two islands. Fenwick was steering. They could see far out over the lake. “Kind of dark along the horizon line,” Turner commented.

  They both peered carefully in that direction. The lake could get very rough very quickly. Without pause or question Fenwick turned the boat around and headed back toward the houseboats. If it had been the two of them, they might have made a more leisurely return, occasionally casting for fish. With others to be concerned about, they didn’t hesitate. Still some distance from the Turners’ houseboat, Fenwick asked, “Is that thing riding low in the water?”

  Turner examined his houseboat critically. “I’m not sure. We can check it tonight when we get in to port.”

  As they hurried onto the deck, Ian looked up from his book. He’d replaced his earlier tome with Harvard’s Secret Court by William Wright.

  “Storm’s coming,” Paul said. “We need to get everyone back on board and get to a sheltered dock.”

  Ian scanned the horizon. “Where?” he asked.

  Turner pointed directly west. “There,” he said. Just over the trees on the island, they could see the tops of dark clouds.

  8

  They tied up the powerboat, weighed anchor, and headed for the scheduled rendezvous. As they rounded the island beyond which they assumed they’d find Jeff, Brian, and Kevin in the other motorboat, Turner thought he heard a nasty rumble. He looked to the west. While darker, the clouds were still miles away. Weren’t they too far to hear them?

  Once completely beyond the island, he realized the sound was from a large motor. It wasn’t from their boat. Their engine wasn’t that loud. Turner saw a charcoal gray cigarette boat bearing down on his sons and their guide. Brian and Kevin, backs to Turner, were standing in the motorboat, waving oars and shouting. Jeff was waving his fists in the air. Turner didn’t see the other houseboat with Ben, Madge, and the girls.

  The cigarette boat was nearly twice as big as the motorboat. Turner could see that the attacking boat could easily have been the one that passed so close to them earlier that morning. It seemed to be heading straight for his sons’ boat. Turner let out a shout and shoved the throttle of the houseboat on full. He had no thought of hidden rocks. He needed speed.

  The cigarette boat came within two feet of the smaller craft before veering away. Brian and Kevin clung to the sides. A sluice of water drenched them. The wake from the attacking boat nearly swamped them. Turner saw Brian checking Jeff ’s flotation devices and the connections of his safety seat. The cig
arette boat was making a circle. None of the boys showed signs they were aware of the arrival of Turner and Fenwick.

  The two cops were standing next to each other. Turner said, “I’m going to get between them.” It would take a great deal to swamp the houseboat. It could ride the waves from the cigarette boat. Turner would insert himself between his sons and danger. And then he’d be sure to catch the sons of bitches who were dangling death in front of his boys. Turner judged where his sons would be when the cigarette boat finished circling. He headed directly for that spot. He watched the driver and passengers in the attacker boat. He couldn’t make out faces. It was too far.

  Turner watched the cigarette boat turn then swerve in their direction.

  “They’ve seen us,” Fenwick said.

  “Good,” Turner said. He aimed their boat directly at the mad attackers.

  The wind whistled past them. He began blaring the horn of the houseboat. One, to tell his kids that help was at hand; two, to give fair warning to the attackers that the shit was about to hit the fan.

  “Get the motherfucker,” Fenwick said. They were both braced in the wheelhouse. The houseboat was solid, but a collision would certainly hurt it. Turner also knew that their large, clunky craft could sustain a hit and survive more probably than the more fragile cigarette boat. A crash might kill them. Of course, Turner would place himself between his sons and danger.

  Fenwick smiled at him. “They don’t know that even I would never play chicken with you.”

  Turner’s eyes were fixed on his opponents. They were less than a quarter mile away by now and hurtling toward them.

  “Who the hell are these people?” Ian asked.

  Paul had glimpsed several figures in the well of the other boat. All wore hooded sweatshirts. Two had on baseball caps.

  “He doesn’t want to hit us,” Paul said.

  Ian said, “Sure as hell looked like he did earlier.”

  “Wrecks his boat at least as much as ours,” Turner said.

  “We got guns?” Ian asked.

  “No,” Paul said. He turned their houseboat so it was aimed directly at the other. He pushed the throttle to full. The houseboat wouldn’t go as fast as the other, but it could work up a decent speed.