“No,” said Lew, “here. Tie this on—it’s a Deep Sparkle Pupa, size twelve.” She handed him a small brown trout fly and turned to Osborne. “Doc, here’s a Deep Sparkle for you. This one is green.
“Now, Bruce, I want you to cast that fly out and let it sink to the bottom, then draw it in slowly, very slowly.” She stood on the bank of the small stream to watch Bruce.
Osborne was still busy tying on his fly when Lew gave a loud yelp. “Bruce, what in God’s name are you doing?”
Bruce stopped. “I’m double-hauling, why?”
“That’s not double-hauling. You look like you’ve got some kind of neuromuscular disorder. Come on, Bruce, we went over this last time we fished.”
Crestfallen, Bruce lowered his fly rod. “I thought I was doing it right. What am I doing wrong?”
“Up, up, and out of the stream,” said Lew. “See that grassy area over there? Get over there. I’ll go through this again. Double-haul, my eye.”
“But this is how you taught me last year.”
“No, it is not. Now, watch me. We’re going to go over this again.”
Osborne, amused, leaned back against a large boulder to watch. Lew’s black curls shone in the evening sun, her eyes soft shadows. When casting a fly rod, she moved with a grace that he never tired of watching.
“I want you to limit your power snap to a short arc, like this.” Using Bruce’s fly rod, Lew demonstrated what she meant. “Then on the back cast your line hand pulls the line in on the power snap . . . but gives it back while the line unrolls behind you.”
She handed the fly rod back to Bruce and stood aside to watch him. “Good, that’s a start. Now on the forward cast, your line hand should pull the line in on the power snap and give it back as the line rolls forward.” Twice Bruce tried . . . and failed.
“You’re getting there, but give me your rod.” He handed it over. “Again,” said Lew, “watch me.”
Twice Lew executed the double-haul.
“I think I got it,” said Bruce reaching for his fly rod to give the cast another try.
“Whoops, don’t stiffen that hauling arm,” said Lew. “Keep it flexed . . . okay, hold on. Try this, Bruce: think of the movement of your line hand being a recoil . . . Yes, better, much better.
“Okay, Bruce, you’re getting there but stop thinking of all the mechanics and just let it happen. Trust your rod and line: Let yourself dance. That’s what fly-casting is all about.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Bruce in a low grumble. He cast, trying hard, but his fly line collapsed in a heap.
“That’s okay, Bruce. Don’t give up. You will catch fish. I promise.”
While Bruce struggled and Lew counseled, Osborne had stepped into the water and started to wade upstream where the evening sun was turning riffles into cascades of diamonds. With a roll cast he sent his trout fly into one of the scarlet pools beneath an overhang of tag alder. Once he lost sight and sound of Lew and Bruce, he could hear the rustle of trees preparing for the moon’s arrival.
“Sorry, Chief, I need a rest.”
The voice from downstream interrupted his reverie. Turning around, Osborne saw Bruce and Lew step up onto the stream bank, lay down their fly rods, and find places to sit among the boulders and swamp grass. Lew pulled a familiar-looking Ziploc from the front pocket of her waders: homemade gingersnaps.
“Save some for me,” called Osborne as he waded in their direction.
“Well, what do you think, Chief?” asked Bruce. “That five-million-dollar life insurance policy makes it tough not to suspect the widow, doesn’t it?” He was on his fourth cookie, which made Osborne happy he had arrived in time to grab three for himself.
Taking a bite of a gingersnap, Lew reflected on his comment. “Yeah, murder for hire is easier than you might think,” she said.
“I’ll never forget this man I knew years ago, a good friend of my grandfather’s and someone who knew me when I was a kid. When he heard that my soon-to-be-ex-husband had belted me one, he offered to break both his legs. And he wasn’t kidding. Took me awhile to calm him down.”
“You might be right, Chief,” said Bruce through his munching. “A buddy of mine who’s a criminal defense lawyer in Wausau told me that when he did a stint in a DA’s office while he was in law school, he couldn’t get over the number of files on people who got caught trying to hire someone to do in their favorite person: their spouse in most cases.
“Problem is they hire someone who looks like they might want the business and that someone turns out to be undercover. He said you wouldn’t believe how often that happens.”
“Well, you two, I disagree with your theory on Karen Wright,” said Osborne. “I’ve known Karen since she was a kid and I can tell you she is not that kind of person. She is a sweet, goodhearted individual. Always has been.”
A fish jumped, relishing a caddisfly dessert. The three fishermen watched the rippling circles left behind.
“Whatever you say, Doc,” said Bruce, “but personally I subscribe to the theory that people are not always who they appear to be.”
“Based on forensic science?” teased Lew.
“Based on experience.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mason looked up at the wall clock in her grandfather’s kitchen. It was only seven P.M. and she didn’t have to be at Ray’s until eight thirty to help unload the fishing gear. Cool. Plenty of time to try out that kayak, maybe even meet Buster.
Being very careful, she lifted her grandfather’s muskie rod and reel from the rack in his den. She wrapped the surface mudpuppy lure in paper towel so it wouldn’t snag on anything and slipped it into her backpack.
The evening was so warm she hadn’t bothered to change out of her shorts and T-shirt before running across the backyard, through the trees, and down the dirt lane to Ray’s trailer. Just to be sure, she peered through the screen door into Ray’s living room.
“Hey, Ray, it’s me? Can I take the kayak out?” No answer. Oh well, he said he wouldn’t mind.
She sat down at the picnic table to take off her sneakers and pull on her water shoes before hopping down to the dock where the little boat was tied along one side with bungee cords. After freeing the kayak, she held it with one hand while she waded into the water.
She slipped the muskie rod into the elastic holders that Ray had rigged to one side. Next she pushed her backpack down under the front of the boat where she would be able to reach it easily. She considered borrowing one of Ray’s big fishing nets but she couldn’t figure out how to attach the huge thing to the slender kayak; plus she figured if she got lucky—a big if, she knew—she could take a picture of her prize with her phone and then release it.
At the last minute, just as she was straddling the kayak and ready to plop down into the seat, Mason remembered the paddle. Oh my gosh that would have been a mistake. She giggled to herself as she grabbed the paddle off the dock.
Once in the boat and comfortable, she dipped the paddle into the stillness surrounding her. The afternoon breezes had died and the lake was placid, the only ripples coming from fish snacking on insects.
The kayak slipped through the water as silently as a mother duck. While she had fantasized calling out after Buster, she decided to wait on that. She pushed the kayak into the reeds until it became difficult to paddle. Mason set the paddle across the boat in front of her and reached down the side of the kayak to free the muskie rod. She attached the big yellow lure with all its hooks.
Just then a movement in the water off to the left of the front of the kayak caught her eye. Her heart stopped as the back of a creature as long as the kayak and spotted like a leopard surfaced less than two feet away only to disappear in an instant.
Had she seen that? Really? Or just imagined it? The water where the thing had disappeared held not even a ripple. She must have imagined it . . . no, she didn’t. Maybe this was Buster? Ray had said the monster muskie guarded the weed bed.
Nah, had to be a big turtle. That�
��s all. A big dumb turtle. She’d seen turtles that big at Brownie camp. Turtles are everywhere. But still . . .
Mason gritted her teeth and raised the heavy muskie rod up and back. The lure flew through the air, not very far, and landed with a loud plop. Better not let Ryan and Jake see that. They’ll hoot. Gramps was right: she needed to practice. This wasn’t easy.
She reeled in but when it was time to do the figure eight, she couldn’t manage the move without getting up on her knees. The kayak wobbled beneath her. I wonder how deep it is here, thought Mason. Jeez, it would be easy to fall in.
She sat back down and raised the rod again. This time the lure flew higher, further. The rod bent with a tug so hard Mason had to grip the long rod handle with all her strength. She was holding on tight when she remembered Ray’s instructions on reeling but as she started to do so, the tension in the fishing line eased.
Okay. Mason realized she’d been holding her breath and exhaled. Guess that’s over. She was about to reel in more line when a creature that looked like a shark she had seen on TV flew into the air ten feet away, head shaking, water flying. Then it was gone and her line was running.
Oh boy. Would it charge the boat like Ray said?
Mason felt less terrified than determined not to do anything that could cause the fish to spit out the lure. She heard a rush of water and the rod tip danced as the fish surged, whipping its head in the air.
Two times she saw broad shoulders break the surface then disappear. She forgot to reel. All she could do was hold on. Do wolves swim? Do they live underwater? Maybe this wasn’t a fish she had hooked after all. Maybe it was one of those weird creatures whose skeletons, picked clean by eagles, ended up on shore—smelly and frightening. The big boys in her neighborhood liked to tell scary stories about monsters living at the bottom of the lakes.
Refusing to panic, she remembered Ray’s instruction to the boys if they were lucky enough to raise a big muskie: “If you don’t put enough pressure on the line by pressing it with your index finger against the rod, you’ll lose it but if you put too much pressure on, you might pop the leader or cause your rod sections to come apart. And remember, with a muskie, always expect the unexpected . . .”
Again the fish leapt into the air only to hit the water with a loud splash. Then the fish was gone, the line on the reel unspooling. She’s at the bottom of the lake, thought Mason as she clung tight to the rod. This time the reel kept unspooling as the fish torpedoed its way through the reeds.
When all the line was out, Mason still held on.
Only then did she realize she was out of the reeds. The kayak was moving with the fish. Past a small bay and a scattering of cottages, the little boat slipped soundlessly across the water.
Staying deep now, the fish turned north, pulling Mason and the kayak up, up, up a channel that narrowed to a stream edged with cattails and tall grass. A rusted culvert loomed ahead. No way, thought Mason, no way me, the kayak, and the fish can make it through there together.
She had to decide: Ray’s kayak or her grandfather’s muskie rod?
If she lost the rod, it might be pulled along by the fish and never found. The kayak would land on shore somewhere. For sure someone would see it. Or she could get another job and buy Ray a new one. And she couldn’t cut the line—she had no knife.
Pulling one strap of her backpack over her left shoulder and wobbling up onto her knees, Mason held the rod tight with both hands and tipped the kayak sideways until she could slip into the water. Rod out in front, she was drifting through the culvert when something felt wrong. Everything went slack. She had the rod but no fish.
On the far side of the long culvert, she struggled to find footing in the deep muck sucking at her feet. Struggling, she grabbed at tall grasses and pushed forward until she reached a muddy bank and could pull herself up. The area was dense with evergreens, their height eclipsing what sunlight remained.
Gosh, thought Mason. If it’s this dark, it must be after nine. I’m really, really late. I need to call Ray. She reached into her backpack for her phone and clicked it on: No Service.
• • •
Osborne’s cell phone rang just as he and Lew dropped Bruce off at the motel. Reaching for his phone in the top pocket of his shirt, Osborne slid sideways on the seat.
The three of them riding in the front seat in Lew’s fishing truck had made him feel trapped between elbows. He needed air. Relieved, he answered the phone without checking to see who was calling.
“Doc, do you know where Mason is?” asked Ray in a worried voice.
“She’s not with you?”
“No. She should have been here an hour ago. My fishing kayak is missing, too.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Lew shot Osborne a questioning look.
“Now, don’t worry, but you should know the boys and I just took a quick spin around the lake and no sign of her or the kayak.”
“It’s a big lake,” said Osborne, knowing even as he spoke that the lake is not that big.
“I’ll try her cell phone. Call you right back.”
Mason’s phone rang and rang and rang. Then her cheery voice: “Can’t talk right now. Please leave a message.”
• • •
Mason stumbled along the bank to where a grassy area ran over the culvert. She hoped to find a road there but there was no sign of one. Looking up, she could see telephone lines but the grass growing over the culvert sure looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in ages. She was in the middle of nowhere.
Oh well, she thought, shouldering her backpack and holding the muskie rod with the handle out front and the rod pointed behind her in order to keep it from hitting branches, I better see if I can find a house or a road before it’s pitch black out here.
Looking down at the creek that she’d climbed out of, she knew better than to get back into that. For one thing, she couldn’t remember seeing any cabins or houses when she was being pulled along in the kayak. And there might be deep holes of muck in it, too.
Mason straightened her shoulders, looked up at the sky, and decided to walk what she figured had to be north. If west was the lake behind her and south was the other side of the creek, then north must lead back toward the road to cottages on Loon Lake. Into the woods she went.
She had been walking for a while when the forest gave way to what looked like a logging lane in the faint light of the rising moon. Okay, this has to go somewhere. At least the walking is easier. She could see ruts in the lane, which meant a four-wheeler or cart of some kind had been back here recently. She picked up her pace. If she was lucky she would find a house and they would have a regular phone.
Sure enough, she passed a log pile and just beyond it was a cabin. The windows were dark and there was no vehicle parked near it. Problem was it looked more like a hunting shack, one used only during deer season. Still, they might have a phone—her dad’s hunting shack did.
Mason knocked on the door and waited. She wasn’t surprised when there was no answer. She tried the doorknob. Locked. Mason set down her backpack and the fishing rod and walked around the small building. Peering through the windows she could see it was furnished and had a kitchen in one corner—oh, and a back door.
She ran around the building to the rear and moved two trashcans to one side of the door. She tried the knob. It turned but the door was stuck. She pushed hard and it opened. She peeked inside. A cardboard box had been shoved against the door. She pushed it away.
Safe! At least she wouldn’t have to sleep in the woods. She reached for a wall switch and an overhead kitchen light went on. She hurried into the front room and searched for any sign of a phone but there was none. After unlocking the front door, she grabbed her backpack and the fishing rod to bring them safely inside.
The place was small but neat with an old sofa and a rocking chair facing a small fireplace. She collapsed onto the sofa and tried her cell phone again: No Service.
She was so tired from fighting the fish, she decided to close he
r eyes for a few minutes before heading outside again. She had to reach Ray and her grandfather.
Ray would probably fire her after this. Her grandpa would be so disappointed. Mason started to cry. Then she wiped her face with the sleeve of the sweatshirt she’d brought along in the backpack and tucked it behind her head as she laid on one arm of the sofa.
She woke what must be hours later. Though the moon was partially hid by trees, she could tell it had moved quite a distance from where it had been when she found the cabin. The night air was chill and she was shivering.
She found a chain on a little lamp beside the sofa and pulled. The light came on and she noticed for the first time that there was a small bathroom right off the kitchen. She used it and walking out saw there was another room right next to it.
Opening the door cautiously, Mason could see it was a bedroom. She flicked a light switch on the wall. The bed was a bare mattress though there was blanket and a set of sheets neatly folded at the foot. Needing something to keep her warm, she reached for the blanket and turning to switch off the light, she spotted a cluster of pictures pinned to the wall near the door.
Curious, she leaned forward to see what they were. That was a mistake. Without taking her eyes off one of the photos, she stood very still, listening. The pictures were so disturbing she wondered if the person who owned them was here, had been waiting for her to see these. She waited, every muscle tense.
But there was no sound. Mason backed out of the room and closed the bedroom door behind her. She went to the kitchen and got the cardboard box that had been in front of the back door. She shoved the box up against the bedroom door so the awfulness inside couldn’t get out.
She tried to go back to sleep on the sofa. After a few minutes she knew that was hopeless. She shoved the sweatshirt into her backpack, stuck the phone in the back pocket of her shorts, grabbed the fishing rod and let herself out the front door of the cabin.
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