Dead Water

by Victoria Houston

  Get hooked on the Loon Lake mysteries

  from Victoria Houston …

  Dead Water

  “[Victoria Houston] puts me right there in the Wisconsin heat and cold, lets me know what the fish are biting on, lets me spy on the interesting characters of Loon Lake, and, most of all, spins an intelligent and captivating tale. I look forward to more and more."

  —T. Jefferson Parker,

  author of Silent Joe

  “Victoria Houston’s love for her Wisconsin setting—and her wonderful characters—is evident on every page of her fine series. Loon Lake is a great get-away, even if it does keep me up at nights."

  —Laura Lippman

  Dead Creek

  “Fans of a well-drawn regional police procedural will want to read this novel. All the subplots smoothly return to the main theme and there are plenty of suspects to keep the audience guessing about what is going on and who is the mastermind behind the mysterious events. With this fine novel, Victoria Houston will hook readers and make them seek her previous stories."

  —Painted Rock Reviews

  “What a great story! A book that fishermen of all ages (and species) are sure to enjoy.”

  —Tony Rizzo, legendary Northwoods fishing guide and author of Secrets of a Muskie Guide

  “Murder mystery muskies! The X-Files comes to Packer Land."

  —John Krga, dedicated Northwoods

  “catch-and-release” muskie fisherman

  Dead Angler

  “Who would have thought that fly-fishing could be such fun? Victoria Houston makes you want to dash for rod and reel. [She] cleverly blends the love of the outdoors with the thrill of catching a serial killer.”

  —The Orlando Sentinel

  “As exciting as fishing a tournament—and you don’t know the result until the end.”

  —Norb Wallock, North American Walleye Anglers’ 1997 Angler of the Year

  “Houston introduces us to a cast of characters with whom we quickly bond—as fly-fishers and as good citizens—in the first of what I hope will be a long series.”

  —Joan Wulff, world-class fly caster, and cofounder of the Wulff School of Fly-Fishing

  “A compelling thriller … populated with three-dimensional characters who reveal some of their secrets of trout fishing the dark waters of the northern forests.”

  —Tom Wiench, dedicated fly-fisherman and member of Trout Unlimited

  “Should net lots of fans … a good catch.”

  —The Star Press

  Dead

  Water

  VICTORIA HOUSTON

  For Judith Cooke,

  the kindest and dearest of friends

  one

  “The true trout fisherman is like a drug addict; he dwells in a tight little dream world all his own….”

  Robert Traver

  Lost Lake. June 15, a Tuesday. Eight-twenty A.M.

  The sky was peach that day. Peach scudded with wisps of periwinkle blue. An innocent sky. A sky that assured Paul Osborne nothing was wrong in the world. You dummkopf he would find himself saying before eleven that morning, never trust a sky.

  The sea kayak was taking some getting used to, and he wasn’t sure yet that he liked it. Of course he could never tell his daughters that. They must have shelled out a thousand bucks or more for the boat, a Father’s Day gift handmade of red cedar and trucked to the backwoods of northern Wisconsin from Swan Lake, Montana. Osborne knew he was lucky: No one in Loon Lake had ever seen such an elegant two-cockpit seventeen-footer.

  Still, he felt awkward: waist-deep in water but wearing a skirt, not waders, legs immobilized with only his upper body free to move, hands occupied but no fishing rod, not even his five-weight fly rod. Nothing about the damn thing felt natural.

  Maybe it was being imprisoned below water level that bothered him. Maybe it was knowing the kayak was allowing him to cruise into wilderness where even canoes couldn’t go that made him feel he was violating nature. Or maybe it was instinct. Whatever it was, he felt uneasy. Uneasy yet compelled to keep pushing deeper and deeper into the swamp guarding the lakeshore.

  “Ease up, bud, this is what a kayak is meant to do,” Osborne told himself, thrusting aside the sense that he was disturbing something he shouldn’t.

  Dipping one end of his paddle and ignoring the rustled warnings of the weed bed underneath the calm surface, he slid the kayak over menacing shadows of submerged boulders. His eyes scanned the dense underbrush. What made the bog impervious to any other boat also made it a safe haven for nesting loons and the blue heron. A sighting of either would make his morning.

  Osborne inhaled deeply. The air, fragrant with pine and spring grass, made him feel alive, alert, and exquisitely tuned to the signs and murmurs around him. He spotted a break in the wall of brush off to his right and let the kayak drift toward it. The water deepened as protective branches of tamarack fell away to expose a creek of good width. Something familiar in the pattern of trees and rocks tugged at the back of his mind. When had he fished here?

  Suddenly he swung back on his paddle, pulling the kayak hard to the right, nose pointing north. Seeing the shore from that angle jarred loose the memory. That massive boulder to the east of the opening—he knew that rock, even though it had to be over twenty years since he had accidentally drifted into this watery trail. Suddenly, as if it were just yesterday, he remembered boosting his two young daughters out of the old wooden canoe so the three of them could sit on the big rock and eat bologna sandwiches, the sun easy on their cheeks and foreheads.

  Maneuvering the kayak so he could see upstream, he studied the opening. The cedar and spruce hiding the entrance had grown and changed, but the same gap in the marshy border exposed the same creek, the same heartbreaking beauty of a path that shimmered as it twined north between spires of tamarack and skeletal fingers of dead pine. That year, he and the girls had canoed north to where the stream ended in a spring-fed pool tucked so deep into the tamarack forest that Erin, his youngest, had named it Lost Lake. Hard to believe she was over thirty now with children of her own.

  Only an exceptionally high water level from the spring runoff of a heavy snow that year had made it possible for the three of them to reach the tiny circle of perfect water. Osborne edged the kayak upstream. Was Lost Lake still there? Or had beavers reworked nature? Erin would be tickled to death if he could bring her and the kids back in here. Osborne felt a grin spread across his face.

  A flash over his left shoulder caught his eye and he ducked, rocking the kayak. But it was only a great blue heron not expecting visitors. As he watched, the gaunt, gangling bird unfolded like a giant origami sculpture coming undone. Then, tucking in its loopy neck, the great blue circled up and over to disappear behind the tamarack tips just as Osborne realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled. Fifty years of fishing the Northwoods, and that was as close as he had ever gotten to one of the prehistoric-looking birds. Jeez, he thought, maybe this kayak wasn’t such a bad idea.

  He glided forward, feeling at one with the boat for the first time that morning. The solitude was bordered with a soft trill of birdcalls and a burbling of water. Fishing had addicted him to this kind of peace, a peace he was learning to substitute for the seduction of single-malt scotch, a peace he could find only near water. It restored his spirit when he felt the clutch of loneliness.

  Sunlight and shadows drew him deeper, and the kayak slid through the rusted arch of an old culvert. Osborne ducked to avoid wolf spiders nesting in the dark recesses overhead. Nearing the end of the tunnel, he could see, less than a hundred yards upstream, the rusting girders of an abandoned railroad trestle that marked the entrance to Lost Lake.

  As the kayak emerged into a patch of sun, dragonfly wings caught the light bouncing off the water. Hol
d on there. Was that a green stone fly hatch? Tiny helicopters with double sets of wings whirred overhead. No … maybe little yellow sallies? Osborne peered up intently, regretting again the lack of a fly rod, not to mention his polarized sunglasses. He looked down but all he could see were a few dead mayflies drifting on the surface. If the bug life was tantalizing any trout, the water, dark from the tannin of pine needles, was hiding its treasures. He’d have to come back with his waders to be sure.

  What a shame, he thought, but he grinned, marveling for the umpteenth time at how his belated return to fly-fishing was changing his life.

  Raising his paddle to let the kayak drift, he studied the insects. He was determined to learn the Latin names of the damn things. First, of course, he had to learn to recognize them in plain English. One, then another fish slurped. One splashed behind him. He spun around. A trout? A brown? Or a brookie? He sat rock still, not even breathing, hoping it would jump again. His eyes raked the surface for a betraying dimple. The water ranged from one to three feet deep here. That splash was loud. Could a young muskie be feeding in such cold water?

  Letting his breath out slowly, he lifted the paddle from the water. Tamarack crowded his peripheral vision, spilling their spring needles in frothy strands studded with cones. What a juicy moment: He could feel the dark water alive beneath him, charged with larva hatching and fish feasting. Overhead, the peach sky had morphed into a crisp new blue. White clouds scudded. Utter quiet prevailed.

  “Peace and solitude, bud, life don’t get no better than this,” whispered Osborne, relishing the bad grammar of his fisherman’s mantra as he let the kayak drift.

  A scream split the silence wide open. A full-throttle human scream.

  two

  “Only dead fish swim with the stream.”

  Anonymous

  Osborne froze, blood drumming in his ears.

  “Hel-l-o-o,” he hollered, once he recovered from the shock of the scream. Had someone fallen out of their boat? Who could possibly be back in here?

  No answer.

  “Hel-l-o-o-o,” he tried again, his voice booming into the silence of the woods around him. The scream still reverberated in his head. Whoever it was sounded terrified. But no one answered his calls.

  Just as Osborne thrust the kayak forward, a slash of orange rounded a curve beyond the trestle. Another instant and the slash became a kayak moving swiftly toward him. Above the cockpit, a woman’s face twisted with fear and exertion as she pushed over the still water. Mouth gaping, shoulders heaving, she looked like she was strangling on her own breath. Behind her sat a small child in a bright blue life jacket.

  As the kayak neared and slowed, Osborne recognized the strong-boned Swedish face under the short frizzy hair.

  “Marlene! What on earth—?” He pulled his kayak toward her.

  “Oh, Doctor … Dr. Osborne.” She slowed to a stop, heaving as she spoke. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “What is it, kiddo? Is someone hurt? How can I help?” Even as he offered assistance, Osborne felt inadequate, his legs locked in place in the damn kayak. He couldn’t jump out to help if he had to.

  Marlene Johnson was the same age as his oldest daughter, Mallory. She and her parents had been patients of his years ago, but the elder Johnsons were now dead a good ten years or more. Marlene had not lived in Loon Lake since her marriage to a man from Stevens Point. Osborne vaguely remembered Mallory saying she had seen Marlene, now divorced, at a recent high school reunion.

  “Oh my God, oh thank God,” Marlene gasped, looking back as if she were being chased. “Someone’s dead. Back there.” She pointed toward the trestle with her paddle. “We’ve got to get out of here. The face … it’s too awful … it’s …”

  “Marlene,” Osborne spoke sternly. The woman was on the verge of hysteria. “Settle down. Now take a deep breath.” At the look on her face, he repeated himself louder. “I mean it,” he said, “take … a deep … breath.”

  Osborne may have retired from his practice, but he hadn’t lost his skills. Years of dentistry had vested him with a tone of authority designed to stun frightened patients into stillness. Early on he had learned that adults calmed quickly when treated like a child.

  Marlene was no exception. She relaxed ever so slightly.

  “Okay,” said Osborne, as if rewarding her, “I will go back and see what the story is, but first I want you and your youngster here to take it easy. Can you do that?” His eyes fixed on hers for an answer. She nodded.

  “You’re safe, Marlene, nothing is going to happen. If you found a dead person, they’re dead. That means they’re not moving.” His tone softened.

  “You’re absolutely right, Dr. Osborne,” she said, smiling at his little joke and breathing easier as she wiped the wetness from her face. Then her eyes widened again. “But what if the killer saw me?”

  Osborne studied her, deciding not to express the opinion that someone had been watching too much TV. “Listen, kiddo.” The sternness crept back into his voice, “If you found a body back there, chances are it’s a hunting accident. You’re in Loon Lake, Marlene, not Milwaukee. Besides, you didn’t see anyone, did you?”

  “No … but that’s no hunting accident.”

  A little face leaned out from behind Marlene. He couldn’t have been more than five years old. “That dead lady lost her pants.”

  “I did not intend for my son to see what he saw,” said Marlene, switching from fear to anger. Her tone implied it might be Osborne’s fault that she had stumbled onto something ugly.

  The sudden change in Marlene’s attitude triggered an equally sudden and unpleasant memory of his late wife, who had a talent for placing blame elsewhere, elsewhere being him. Some folks learn to drive defensively; Osborne had spent thirty-odd years living on the defense.

  Enough of this, was his immediate thought. “I wouldn’t worry, Marlene.” He worked at keeping an edge out of his voice and resisted the urge to tell her the kid was in much better shape than she was.

  “Why don’t you and your son head for my place and call the police. The house is open. My dog is loose in the yard, but he’s friendly. The phone is in the kitchen, and I want you to see if you can reach Chief Ferris, okay? She knows exactly where I live. If you can’t reach her direct, let the switchboard know where you are and what’s going on. Then help yourselves to anything in the fridge—a pop or some iced tea. There’s hot coffee on the counter, too. I’m going upstream and take a quick look. Okay? Can you manage that, Marlene?”

  “I … how do I get out of here, Doctor? We came in from Shepard Lake, but I don’t know my way out this direction. Once I got past that body, I couldn’t bear to go back. And be very careful. Someone may be back there, y’know.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve done this before,” Osborne assured her. “The way back is easy. Just head straight downstream, bear right as you enter the bog, and that’ll take you to the channel between First and Second Lake. Take a right through the channel markers into Loon Lake, then a left down the west shoreline. My dock is the sixth one down, the one with two rocking chairs.”

  “Got it.” Marlene raised her paddle. Sitting up straight, the fear out of her eyes and the redness in her cheeks subsiding, Marlene took on an air of competency. Her son’s eyes were sparkling. Osborne could see this was all great fun for him, blood and guts included.

  Osborne pulled his kayak tight to the bank so she could glide past. Then he thrust his paddle deep into the water. He had forgotten to ask where the body was, but it wasn’t necessary.

  No sooner had he emerged from under the trestle than he heard, even before he saw, the cloud of flies to his immediate right—a distinctive sound he remembered well from his tour of duty as a forensic dentist during the Korean War. Twenty feet beyond the cloud, the stream widened to become Lost Lake, but he was no longer interested in the lake.

  Osborne pulled up to halt the kayak. He let it drift toward the bank. The air was pungent with death. But it was the sight
rather than the smell that pulled at his gut: Loon Lake was so small, the odds were great he was about to encounter someone he knew, someone who hadn’t expected to die and whose death would cause grief to others he knew. He just hoped he didn’t know them well.

  At first glance, the corpse appeared to be standing on its head, the face turned away from him toward Lost Lake. The lower torso, buttocks, and legs were naked and hung up on a tag alder bush. The upper back and shoulders still wore a woman’s halter top, and the head was tipped down onto the bank, almost but not quite touching the water. She couldn’t have been dead too long as the color was not bad. Certainly not black, thank goodness. The last two nights’ temperatures had dipped into the low forties, and the days had been cool. That would help, too.

  The limbs were splayed as if someone might have tossed the body through the air. He looked up. They had. She either fell or was dropped from the trestle. Could this be someone who was taking a walk along the old bridge only to be hit by a stray bullet from a hunter? Not with hunting season five months away. Osborne’s stomach tightened. Marlene’s theory was looking good.

  With a quick thrust, he drove the kayak onto the grassy bank, unsnapped the skirt from around his waist, and boosted himself up, out, and into the water. He decided to walk in the shallows as much as possible so as not to disturb any footprints or other sign that might be left near the body.

  Osborne crouched to study the corpse from the back. He thought he could detect an entry wound at the back of the head: a blackish red bubble of dried tissue that stood out against the light-colored short hair. He’d know for sure in a minute. That could rule out suicide. Tough to shoot yourself in the back of the head.

  He stood up, chagrined he did not have his tackle box. Too many years of people mistaking the Dr. in front of his name to mean doctor, not dentist, along with too many years of being asked to remove fishhooks from noses, ears, and eyes, had taught him to always approach water with a pair of latex surgical gloves in his tackle box. He sure could use those now. Osborne patted the back pocket of his fishing khakis, hoping against hope he had a pair tucked away. Nope.