“Loosen the drag.” For no reason, Brenda felt a great rush, a wish. She reached over Heather’s arms, loosened the reel’s drag and stepped back. Something like this you hoped could actually mean something. Actually be a statement. She laughed and watched, rooting for Heather. Little Miss Muffet, sat on her tushy, peeing in the lake. Along came a fish.
“Please, Brenda… Take it, I can’t hold it.”
“Not a chance, that’s your fish. Reel it in.” She looked to the front and saw the landing net tucked under the cowling.
“I’m reeling, nothing’s happening—Oh God, there it goes…”
“No, that’s what the drag’s for, Charlie showed us. That fish is working hard… Stay with it, the fish will tire. You’re doing everything right.” The line raked the water’s surface. If she didn’t lose it, they would need the net.
“Don’t leave me!”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh God, Brenda—” Gripping the rod above the reel, cranking and crying now, Heather sat heavily. She missed the gunwale and went down. The line sawed the boat’s motor housing.
“Get up, you’ll tangle it, get up!”
Brenda came with the net and grabbed Heather’s sweatshirt. “Come on, up. Stand.” She pulled and Heather scrambled to her feet, the rod bent low to the water. But still she was holding on, crying and laughing both now, and holding on.
Grouped throughout the lake were small, forested islands like the ones outside Sullivan Bay. Some had beaches, others were rocky, with cliffs. The channel markers zigzagged through them. On one island they had spotted campers, a couple with a sky-blue tent and a red canoe. The couple had waved from a rocky slab, in shorts on a blanket. Aside from them and one party of fishermen, they had seen no one.
Then, perhaps a mile past the campers, half hidden on the north shore by the cove’s land spit, Lomak spotted the white, humpbacked upper deck of the houseboat. When he pointed, Rohmer raised his binoculars, and Lomak cut back the throttle. He let Rohmer take the wheel, and as the boat slowed to a crawl, Lomak used the glasses. Once he figured out how to focus, he saw someone topside, in a hot tub. Someone else was sitting on the stern.
“I see two,” he said. “Land this fucker, I can’t draw a bead.”
“It’s them, no question.”
Rohmer worked them toward the nearest island. He cut back the engine and they slowed. Again Jerry scanned the boat’s upper deck, the bright disk clear but impossible to hold steady. Whoever it was now got up, wearing a cap. She had on a one-piece suit and climbed out of the hot tub. Now she had a towel. As she dried herself, from her general shape and movement he was sure it was Marion Ross.
He lowered the glasses and saw Rohmer was aiming for a stretch of beach. “I saw her.”
“How many others?”
“Just her and one on the back.” The Stratos slipped into the shadow of shore trees. Rohmer cut the engine and raised the motor. When the hull scraped bottom, he moved forward, jumped out and pulled the bow rope.
“We’ll be able to check them without being seen,” he said. “Bring the binoculars.”
Lomak jumped to shore. “We should have a rifle. There’s bears and snakes.” He eyed the island’s interior, then looked down at the beach. “What’s those tracks?”
“Don’t worry, nothing’s here.” Rohmer tossed the rope into the boat and took the lead, up the slope and into the trees. Lomak followed. The lake blinked and glinted; birds flew through slanting light. Something fell with a thud.
“What the fuck was that?”
“A rotten tree limb. Relax.”
Rohmer swept through dried vines and scrub, the ground matted with pine needles. Nervous about snakes, Lomak kept his eyes on the ground. Now Rohmer stopped and looked out between trees. “Okay, this is directly opposite. Let me have the glasses.” Lomak handed them over. Rohmer raised and adjusted them. After several seconds, he nodded. “You were right. Marion is topside. She’s just going down now. The woman on the stern is in a wheelchair.”
“Give ‘em to me.”
Rohmer handed them back. The bright lens swept over the foreshortened chop of dazzled water. Lomak adjusted—and there they were. Using the towel on her hair, Ross was now on the lower deck, talking to the one in the wheelchair. The houseboat was in shadows, sun still glinting in the cove.
“Look to the right,” Rohmer said. “Beyond the point.”
He leaned against the nearest tree and tracked the lens along the shoreline. Beyond the point, it grew dark. He traced the rocky shore, went back and now saw the runabout.
“Got it?”
“The other two. What the fuck they doing?”
“Let me see—”
Lomak pushed him away. Now he laughed, holding the glasses, braced against the tree. One of them was twisting around, as though dancing. It was dark, but he saw she was holding a rod. Had something on the line. The other—her butt was bare. She was holding a landing net, leaning over. Damn. Buns of steel. It excited him, the women with their goodies hanging out, not knowing he could see.
“Show time,” he said and laughed.
“What?”
He handed back the glasses. With the Stratos he wasn’t more than a couple minutes from shore. The channel markers would be easy to follow, and only Marion Ross knew who he was. He backed away from Rohmer. “I got Schmidt’s rifle sight in the boat. Back in a minute.”
Rohmer was now looking through the binoculars, smiling. “They’re trying to net it.”
Yeah, that’s what they were doing. Lomak turned and ran, retracing his movements, ducking under limbs. He saw himself moving at high speed in the boat, then slowing. The butt-naked one would see and put her pants on. Be flustered. He could tell from their clumsiness they would not know what to do with the fish. Hey ladies, what you got there?
“I can’t hold it anymore, my arms.”
“Yes you can, Heather. Can do. You’re doing great.”
Brenda had used every booster-club line she knew and was now down to self-help book titles. Again she readied the net. Twice she had reached down, but the fish, a long, snaky pike, had seen or sensed it and taken off.
“That’s it,” she said. “Keep the rod up…keep it taut.”
“Why won’t it just leave?” Forehead sweaty, Heather was still doing the right thing, holding the rod high. “I don’t want it… I want it to leave.”
“No, you don’t.”
Face flushed, Heather’s eyes were locked on the water swirl above the pike. When it had been inches from the surface, they could see it—then nothing but the line raking out and back. Twice the northern had seemed done, like dead weight, until it neared the boat and again took off. Now, though, it looked to be well and truly finished. Brenda leaned again with the net, bracing her thighs on the gunwale. Thirty inches or more, the pike was thick in the middle. Spent now, it lolled at the end of the line. The Rapala trailed from the lower jaw.
“When I use the net, don’t let go, keep the rod up. Ready?”
Heather nodded, breathing through her mouth. Brenda lowered the net in back of the pike. She held it with both hands, counted to three and swept up. The fish came to life. It thrashed above the water, the net handle jerking. It was heavy and violent, but she held it for several seconds. She motioned for Heather to step behind her, then brought the net over the boat and lowered it.
She stepped away as the fish battered the boat’s carpet flooring. It was green and speckled, the eye enormous, jaw cruel. The thing moved as though hinged, back and forth. The force of it shook her, the metal boat booming like a marimba under mallets.
“Your fish,” she said. “Congratulations.”
Heather had backed away. Still holding the rod high, she was smiling and scared, face shiny.
“Tell me that wasn’t a kick.”
“I can hardly stand.”
“Then sit. You’re shift is over.”
Heather eased herself against the transom. She dropped the rod and
hung her hands between her legs. “How long will it take to die? It’s big, it shouldn’t die. I don’t want it to.”
“It’s your fish,” Brenda said. “It’s up to you. Catch-and-release is considered very sporting, but if it were mine? First time out? I’d have it mounted. Stick it right up in the breakfast nook for the two Brians to see in the morning, when they have their Wheaties.”
“What’s catch-and-release?”
“Just what it says. If you’re fishing just for sport, you get them in the boat to prove you can, then throw them back.”
“Okay, that’s what I want.”
Heather nodded, arms heavy between her legs, staring at the northern. Brenda so wanted her to take it home. It mattered, it was her personal symbol, a memorial to an achievement rather than a trophy decoration. Her defense against garden gnomes. Heather raised the bottom of her World’s Greatest Mom sweatshirt and wiped her face. The fish had stopped moving but flopped again, twisting in the net. The Rapala’s treble hooks were now snagged in the netting.
She heard a boat and looked to the lake. It was coming from the western end of one of the small islands. During the struggle she had managed to pull on her panties. Now, she got her jeans and tugged them on. As the noise grew, it sounded like Charlie Schmidt’s speedboat, but there might be lots of boats like his. She couldn’t see the driver. The boat entered the channel, but only for a moment. Now it veered left and aimed for them.
“Who is it?” Heather shielded her eyes, hand shaking. “Is that Charlie?”
Maybe he had never gone home. Brenda shielded her own eyes. Maybe he’d stayed out here. To be sure they didn’t get lost.
“A little help right now wouldn’t hurt,” Brenda said.
The fish flopped again. She looked down, seeing the mouth working, the eye a mirror. It was beautiful, dappled. Something worthy and tenacious that had lived under how many winters of frozen ice, surviving to spring thaw, to summer sun and cold pools, marshy coves. No, Heather shouldn’t keep it. They were all tenderfoots, and not worthy of such a fish.
She looked again to the lake. The boat had neared and was slowing. Disappointed, she saw it was not Charlie Schmidt. Someone taller and younger stood behind the wheel. He wore sunglasses and was smiling, and as he neared, the motor’s pitch dropped. Close now, still smiling, he reversed the engine. Heavy wash bellied under the boat.
“How you ladies doing? Catch something there?”
“A northern,” Brenda called. “A good one. Beginner’s luck.”
The smile faded too quickly. “No shit.”
“We boated it, but we want to release it. The hook’s tangled.”
“Huh.” Floating close now, he raised up and looked down. “See what you mean.” He turned off the engine and looked at Brenda, then Heather. He smiled again. “Might as well, they’re slimy to clean. Full of bones.” Perhaps it was the sunglasses that made him seem funny to her. Too casual, too familiar. It had also to do with his hair, a strange, off-white blond color, something from pop art.
“We have pliers,” she said. “Maybe you could help get the lure out. I mean it when I say beginner’s luck. We haven’t a clue what we’re doing.”
“Yeah, I see that.”
He moved to the front of a boat that looked just like Charlie Schmidt’s, and threw them the bowline. Brenda caught it and pulled. He moved the sunglasses to the top of the weird hair. Hands on hips he stared at her, posing, letting her do the work of pulling them close. When the boats touched, he braced a hand, and vaulted. But something caught—he fell hard into the Lund.
“Son-of-a-bitch—”
His foot was still caught, twisting him at an odd angle. She saw his shoelace had snagged a cleat. She started for him. “Stay there—”
Pushing up on his free foot and hands, he yanked his leg. The lace broke. He stood now, angry, and saw his sunglasses on the boat’s carpet. He bent and retrieved them. “Gimme the pliers.”
She got Drew Ross’s tackle box, and undid the clasps. Under the top tray were lures, hooks and sinkers, a package of leaders. She found a pair of needle pliers and held them out.
Still angry, watching his feet this time, he came from the front and took them. He pocketed the sunglasses and looked down at the pike. “How long’s it been there?”
“A couple minutes.”
He toed it. The fish pounded the boat, rising up, tail twisted in the netting. “Lively sucker.” He knelt and hesitated.
“Can we help?”
He shook his head, put his left hand on the pike’s thick midsection and pushed hard. It flopped again but he held it, brought the needle pliers to the mouth, and clamped them to the treble hook. Twisting, pulling, he began to work it free.
“I can’t watch.” Heather faced away.
“Yeah, it’s in there good.” He leaned closer, working the needle pliers. Watching him, Brenda realized he had never done this before. “It’s the barbs in there.” The pliers slipped off. He re-gripped them, and yanked hard.
“Tell me when it’s over.” Heather leaned over the water, holding herself. “Is it out yet?”
“No it’s not out yet, lady.” He yanked again and tore the hook free with a piece of the pike’s lower jaw.
“Okay, good,” Brenda said. “Thanks, we’ll—”
He dropped the pliers and pinched the body of the lure to free it from the net.
“Look,” she said, “let’s just—”
Still holding down the fish, he fumbled with the lure. As he shook the Rapala to free it, a treble hook caught the back of his hand. Instinctively he released the fish to free the hook. The pike jumped. The head came down hard on his hand, and again.
“You motherfucker.”
He said it calmly, part of an act. When he took away his left hand, Brenda saw the hooks there, drawing blood on pale skin. He shoved the fish down, still flopping, and replaced the hand with his knee. Holding it there, right hand in the net, he looked on the floor, and grabbed the needle pliers with his free hand. He raised them, held them over the eye and stabbed.
“Is it free yet?”
“Almost free now.”
He shoved with the pliers, impaling the fish until the narrow head was pierced. Soon, the flopping slowed, but didn’t stop. Knee still in place, he now worked to free the treble hook. At last it was out. He drew his hand from the net and stood holding it.
“See what that sucker did?” He was smiling at them, showing his wound, expecting them to admire it. “You can look now.”
Heather turned, holding herself. She saw his hand, then the fish.
“Too bad,” he said. “It happens. Want to keep it?”
She shook her head.
“We’re staying in a houseboat.” Brenda reached out and steadied his hand. She felt a grudging sense of obligation. “Follow us back, I’ll bandage that.”
“Nah, this is nothing. Little scratch helping the ladies. I’m late anyway.”
“Well, thanks.”
“Yeah. Just dump it for the coons and bears. Part of the big picture.”
He moved to the front of the Lund, tore off the broken shoelace and dropped it before climbing carefully into the other boat. He wiped the bleeding hand on his pants, smearing red across his thigh, then stepped to the controls. Brenda undid the bowline and threw it to him.
“Later.” He winked, got out his sunglasses and put them on, reached down and turned the key. Watching them, he threw the boat in reverse and backed away. The boat swung in a violent arc, and was soon moving out into the lake.
“Any luck?”
“Yes and no,” Brenda called as she guided the Lund toward the houseboat.
Tina closed her book and used the handrail to stand. Sonny began barking. He was onshore at the end of the inlet, thirty feet above the beach. Precarious-looking boulders rested there, on a flat outcropping. They looked intentionally placed, round and casting shadows. The whole arrangement of rocks, trees and barking dog formed a painting.
She c
orrected the boat a little, and cut the engine. Heather sat huddled in the passenger seat, any sense of triumph now gone from her face.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Tina called. “You caught something, or you didn’t.”
“Then the answer is yes. Heather did the deed.”
When the Lund reached the transom she grabbed hold, feeling the boat shift as Heather came forward. This sense of motion added in some way to her wish to redeem the moment. Heather stepped off with the bowline, and Brenda went to the stern. She knelt beside the mangled fish.
“It was awful,” Heather said, tying the rope.
“No, it wasn’t. Most of it wasn’t.”
Brenda reached down and pulled out the needle pliers, then began freeing the pike from the net. “It was great. Heather stuck with it, wait’ll you see.”
“I thought I was going to pass out.”
The fish was heavy, slimy. She had to grip it firmly to pull the damaged head free, then the tail. She turned it over. The left eye was glazed but unmarked. Maybe it could still be mounted. Once the nylon lacing was untangled, Brenda flopped the fish over. She scooped with both hands, rose with it and turned to show them, good eye up. The tail and head were draped at both ends, the belly slung between her hands. It was close to a yard long, as heavy as a well-fed beagle.
Tina whistled. “That’s what my husband would call a lunker.” She put out her hand.
Heather shook it and looked back at her fish. “Well, anyway, we did catch it.”
“Where’s Marion?”
“Marion! Out here!”
“We were just having a nice pee over the side when it hit,” Brenda said.
“You don’t have to tell that.” Heather folded her arms, eyes on the pike. But there was a hint of grin in her eyes.
“Well, it’s what happened. It’s part of the folk tale. We were just doing like the guys when this thing takes off with her Rapala. She grabs the rod and starts cranking. It’s all hers, I just watched.”
She hefted the fish higher, pleased to see Heather was now smiling. That’s what you can do, Brenda thought, arms growing weary. Something like this. Being bossy, getting people to do things. Elbowing your way into people’s business. Sometimes, it turned out well. In the moment, feeling proud of this thing that was true about herself, she also understood it would likely mean she would not live well with men. Not for long. There would be more David Santerros, men with phones clamped to their heads, who smiled her way between calls and planes and meetings. Or weak men, happy to have someone else lead. She would like them all well enough, and they would be glad to know her. But probably not for very long. It’s just that way, she decided, smelling the fish. Not a flaw or mistake, just the way things are.
Deep North (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 2) Page 10