“Which one?” Red asks .
“New York. It’s the only one, as far as I’m concerned.”
Red grins, and Olivia realizes she’s been had.
“Oh, you…you’re just teasing me, aren’t you?” Her face reddens in embarrassment.
“Kinda,” says Red. “But, I’m serious about the ride. If I can get you someplace safe, at least I’ll feel better; knowing you’re okay. How ‘bout it; want a lift?”
“Sure,” replies Olivia. “I was kind of hoping to get to Roscoe. Actually, I thought that that was where the guy in the truck was taking me.”
“What happened?” asks Red, a look of concern on his face. “Did he try something?”
“No, no,” replies Olivia, shaking her head. “Honest. It’s just that he took a detour, and I think I got a little scared. That’s what he said, anyway. It was my idea to get off here.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah; I’m sure. I know he would have taken me to Roscoe. I made him let me off. Besides, I wanted something to eat.”
“Well, okay. If you say so. Anyway, why don’t you hop in, and I’ll run you over the mountain and into Roscoe.
Olivia breathes a sigh of relief, opens the big passenger door, and climbs inside. “Thanks, mister…I mean, Officer. I really appreciate the ride.”
“Not a problem. Buckle up, and we’ll have you in Roscoe in no time at all.”
Thirty seconds later, the big, black and white police cruiser leaps out of the parking lot, and heads off down the road in a cloud of dust.
Chapter 30
I’m in a blinding snowstorm. The wiper blades can barely keep up with the falling snow, and I creep along in my Jeep, front hubs locked, all four wheels pulling me securely along Bear Spring Mountain Road. Up ahead are flashing lights: red, blue, and yellow, all blinking in a different cadence. There are EMS, police, and other assorted vehicles blocking the snow-covered road.
As I approach the scene of the accident (what else can it be?), I slow down, and then come to a stop, when Bob Walker appears in front of the Jeep, motioning me to halt. I roll down the window, and peer out through the falling snow at his face, which is unsmiling.
“What’s happened, Bob?”
Bob shakes his head back and forth, indicating that something tragic has occurred.
“What is it? A car wreck?”
“Worse than that,” says another voice. It’s Rick Dawley, and he is barely making eye contact. The two officers look at one another, and then smile.
“What’s so funny?”
“Park that piece of crap, and we’ll show you,” says Bob, who, by now, is actually giggling.
“This better be good,” I say, following the two of them into an opening in the woods. Oddly, the path leading through the foliage is clean and dry, and seems to be made of yellow bricks. That’s odd, I think.
After a few minutes, we arrive at a small stream; EMS personnel are walking toward us, carrying what appears to be a body bag. Instead of the usual white, the plastic is a bright pink.
Bob and Rick grab hold of me and push me toward the bag, which is now open. They are giggling like schoolgirls.
“What?
“Take a look,” says Bob.
I see that the bag is open. Suddenly, I don’t want to look. “Who is it?” I ask, turning to face Rick. Instead, I am greeted by the smiling face of Red Buckner. His mouth is opened wide, exposing rows of rotten, black teeth. Several large garlic cloves are hanging out the sides of his mouth.
“Fooled you, didn’t I?” he laughs. “Come on, Chief; come take a look.”
“No!” Suddenly, I am very afraid.
“Look, look!” shout Rick and Bob. “Look at what we did.”
More voices join the chorus. I spin around and see Bryce Wilson with two teenaged girls, one on each arm. He is laughing, too. “We fooled you, didn’t we?”
I’m confused, and look around for someone to help me. “Nancy! Help me! What’s happened?”
“Don’t you know?” she replies. Her arms are full of flowers. “You’re the big New York City detective. You’ve got all the answers. It was all over the radio. Bryce announced it on his show.”
“That’s right, Chief. It was in all the papers.”
“That’s right. That’s right. You should know. You should know.” The voices are joined in a chorus.
“Okay, boys, let’s let old Matt in on the secret,” says Red.
“Ta da!” they all say in unison.
With that, the bright pink body bag is unzipped, and someone pushes me toward it. I look down to see what’s inside and gasp.
“Val?” I say, quietly. “Is that you?”
The bag begins to recede, and I have to bend down even farther. “Val? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she answers.
I strain my eyes to make out her face, but all I can see is blackness inside the pink bag.
“Val? Val? VAL!!!”
“Matt, is that you?”
“What?”
“Matt?”
“Val, where are you?”
“I’m right here, Matt. It’s okay, honey. I’m right here.”
I open my eyes and see Val leaning over me. “Are you okay, honey?” she says, softly.
“Wha—”
“I think you were having a nightmare,” says Val.
My undershirt is soaked with perspiration. I open my eyes wide, and sit up, looking around the room. “But, you were—”
“I’m right here. It was just a dream,” she assures me.
But, I’m still confused. “Red was there, and so were Bob, and Rick.”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” says Val. “There’s nobody here but you and me. You’re fine. And, I’m certainly fine.” She rubs my back gently, cradling me in her arms. “It’s that damned case,” she says, softly. “I think it’s finally getting to you.”
I nod ever so slowly, feeling the weight of the nightmare easing from my mind. “I think you’re right,” I sigh. “I never expected this.”
“I know,” says Val, rubbing my back even harder. “Neither of us did.”
I sit up, and swing my legs off the edge of the bed. “I just feel so helpless,” I say. “Everything we do comes up short. There’s not a damn thing to go on.”
“Sometimes, it’s just like that.
“But, why? Why can’t I make it work?”
“Because, that’s life,” answers Val. “Things just don’t always work out the way we want them to. You’ve tried, Matt. Honest, you have. Hell, you’re a good cop – and you know it.”
“Not good enough, I’m afraid.”
“You’re the best damn cop this town ever had,” she says. “If you ask me, they don’t deserve you.”
“Oh, Val, come on. They didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Well, maybe not. But, I still think they don’t deserve you.” She starts to smile, and then breaks out into a giggle.
“And, just who does deserve me?”
“I do!” she answers. “And, we deserve a Sunday breakfast at the Roscoe Diner. My treat!”
“Okay, but only if we can go fishing afterwards.”
Fifteen minutes later, we hop into the Jeep, and head into town. By the time we reach the diner, the dream is only a distant memory, and my stomach is beginning to growl.
The diner parking lot is jammed with lots of trucks and SUVs, all belonging to late-season fishermen, no doubt. A few sedans and mini-vans are scattered amongst them, but I only take notice of one in particular. It is the bright red VW Jetta belonging to Bryce Wilson. Just the thought of the grungy radio personality causes me to tense up, and Val can’t help but notice.
“What’s the matter?” she says.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I reply. “Do you see that red Jetta over there?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Look at the license plate.”
Val leans over the dashboard, reads the
plate, and bursts into laughter. “Oh, Matt, for Christ’s sake. What’s the big deal?”
“Guy gives me the creeps. Have you ever met him?”
“Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure,” says Val. “Listened to him, though; plenty of times. Actually plays a pretty good mix of music. Smooth talker, too.”
“Yeah, real smooth – especially if you’re a fifteen or sixteen-year-old girl. One of these days, he’s going to screw up, and I’m going to nail him good.”
Val opens the passenger-side door, and climbs out, slamming it behind her. “Can we just eat breakfast, please,” she says over her shoulder, “and, let Bryce at Night alone, just for today?”
Sliding out of the Jeep, I reply, “Sure. Sorry, honey. I promise not to make a scene.”
As we enter the diner, Bryce is coming out. Lucky for him, he’s alone.
“Chief,” he says.
“Bryce.”
End of conversation.
After breakfast, Val and I decide to take a ride over to Kuttner’s place. I’m a little short on grasshoppers, and it’ll be good to see a face I actually like. Unlike the parking lot at the diner, the dirt area designated as such at Kuttner’s Fly Shop is deserted, all but for the rusty old Chevy pickup that Frank has had since the dawn of time. I park the Jeep out of the way on the small margin of grass in front of the house, just in case a customer or two should show up. The door to the little shop, out behind the house, is ajar, and Val and I enter quietly.
“Sorry. We’re all out of emergers,” says Frank. As usual, he is located behind the glass counter, seated at his fly-tying bench. His dime store magnifying glasses are perched precariously on the tip of his nose, and he smiles and looks up over them at me and Val. “Val,” he says, with an economical nod of his head.
“Frank,” replies Val, in similar fashion.
“Who’s your friend, Val?” asks Frank, with a wry smile.
“Picked him up at the diner. He said he was out of hoppers. Asked if I knew anyone who tied good flies.”
“And?”
“Since the Beaverkill Angler hadn’t opened up yet, I brought him here,” replies Val, with a wink.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” says Val.
Now, it’s my turn. “Well, do you?” I ask, looking at Frank.
“Do I what?” he replies.
“Do you have any hoppers?”
Without missing a beat, he gets up, walks over to a glass case in the corner, and says, “Yeah. They’re right here with my private stash of emergers.”
“Might be contaminated,” I answer.
“Might be,” says Frank. “You’ll just have to take that chance.”
I make a big show of making up my mind, desperately trying to keep up the whole charade, but finally give up. Reaching out my hand, I say, “How’re you doing, Frank?”
“Pretty good, Matt,” he says, taking it in his own and shaking it firmly. “What’s going on?”
“Well, believe it or not, I am actually looking for some hoppers. Thought Val and I might sneak over to the Beaverkill, and fish Wagon Tracks, along the banks on the far side. “If the city boys haven’t got the place all sewn up.”
Frank glances up at the large clock on the wall. “You might be too late. Why don’t you try over on the Willowemoc? Better chance of avoiding the crowds. And, you know the fishing’s better there anyway. I’ve been telling you that for years, but you never seem to learn.”
“Depends,” I say.
“On what?”
“On how many of those hoppers you’ve got for me.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
Frank walks back to where he’s been tying, and reaches down to the floor, next to his tying bench. When he straighten ups, he is holding a large, clear plastic, compartmented fly box. Reaching in, he extracts a half-dozen, chartreuse-colored grasshoppers, tied exactingly on size 8 hooks. Each has a tiny white post on top, wound with dry-fly hackle, parachute style. It’s one of the few concessions Frank has made to modern fly-tying techniques. He holds them out to me. “Here,” he says. “See if these work.”
“How much do I—”
“If they’re any good, I’ll tie up some more, and start selling them”
I don’t even try to take the discussion any further. There are some things that never change.
“I’ll let you know,” I say. “Course, with luck, most anything should work today.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Val,” he says, tipping two fingers to his brow.
“Frank,” she replies, with a fluttering wave of her hand.
“Thanks, Dr. Kuttner” I say, as Val grabs my arm, spinning me around, and aiming me at the door.
“Don’t mention it, Chief.”
Even with my back turned to him, I can almost see the smile in Frank’s voice.
Just as Frank knew I would, I fish Wagon Tracks, and not the Willowemoc. There’s just something about the Beaverkill that warms my soul. I always feel safe on it. Wagon Tracks is one of my favorite spots on the river. It lies just below Cairns Pool, whose tail waters empty into the head of Wagon Tracks, which is divided into two runs by a long, narrow island running down its center. Fishing is generally good on either side of the island, but the far run, away from the road, is bordered by a long meadow, making it just perfect for grasshoppers.
Val and I park the Jeep, and in just a few minutes, we’ve slipped on our waders. I don my fly vest, assemble my rod and reel, and carefully attach my wading staff to my belt. Val does likewise, and with measured steps, we move down the steep slope, away from the road and down to the river below. The water is low, as it usually is at this time of the year, and the wading is relatively easy. Still, we resist the temptation to rush, and slowly make our way across the river toward the island, relying upon our staffs for balance. Ignoring the nearer roadside run, we continue on to the head of the projection of land itself, stopping there to rest.
Across the way, on the far bank, is a blue heron, perched, statue-like on one leg, no doubt surveying the water for its next meal. I have mixed feelings about these piscatorial predators. On one hand, I admire their unmatched fish-catching skill, but, on the other, I wish they would eat something other than adolescent trout. Almost defiantly, the bird suddenly drops its head, and thrusts its bill into the rushing water, coming up with a wriggling fish. In a single motion, it flips the little trout from a horizontal position to a vertical one, and swallows it whole. I think that if it could smile at me, it probably would.
Reaching behind me, I fasten my wading staff to a button Val has sewn to the upper right-hand corner of my vest. It’s an old trick that allows me to keep the staff out of the way while I’m casting. It was shown to me by Eddie Eckel, a former fishing buddy, who has since passed on. I pull a fly box from an inside pocket of my vest, and extract one of Frank’s special hoppers, carefully attaching it to the end of my leader with a Palomar knot. Normally, I would prospect the lower levels of the water with a streamer or nymph, but today I am only content with catching a trout on a grasshopper; nothing less will satisfy me.
Val does not fish, but, instead, prefers to just to keep me company; she always brings along a camera—just in case I “get lucky.” I enjoy having her along with me, and marvel at her ability to “just do nothing,” as she so aptly describes her inactivity. Just knowing she’s by my side buoys my confidence, and enriches my experience. She is the best friend I’ve ever had.
Moving slowly, I methodically cover the water adjacent to the bank with a series of short casts. Each time the fly lands on the surface, I permit it to float unencumbered for several feet, twitching it only once with the tip of my rod, as it nears the end of its drift. Generally, that is when a fish is most likely to strike. But, this morning, my offerings are untouched. Each cast is fished to conclusion without a response. It doesn’t matter. Just being here on the water is all I need to soothe my soul.
In a little over two hours, we have covered
perhaps two hundred yards of water. I have worked all the way down the far side of the island, and into the head of the pool below. Just as I contemplate reeling in, and calling it a day, I spot a subtle rise form, down and across the river, just above a large, submerged rock.
“Val,” I whisper. “Look.” I point my finger in the direction of the rise.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” she asks.
In silent response, I quickly strip out a measured amount of line, false cast once, and drop the hopper onto the water, about five feet above where I had seen the disturbance. Holding my breath, I watch as the fly passes over the spot. Nothing.
“Shit!” I wait until the fly is well past the fish’s lie, and then pull it under the water, before retrieving it silently in one long, backward sweep of the rod.
“Try again,” says Val.
Once more, I false cast to the side, to dry the hopper, and then, laying the line straight out behind me, I move the rod forward in a powerful motion, stopping the tip as it reaches a point aimed at an imaginary spot above the target. The line and leader move forward in a tight loop, straightening beautifully, and depositing the hopper gently on the water’s surface. The fly floats a foot or two, and then disappears. With practiced skill, I hesitate for just a second, before lifting the rod tip firmly to set the hook. For a second, nothing happens. Then, all hell breaks loose.
“Val! Get the camera ready. It’s a big one.”
Val fumbles in the pocket of her waders, and at last extracts her digital camera. “I’ve got it, Matt!”
The fish is a large brown trout, and unlike its acrobatic cousin, the rainbow, it does not jump. Instead, it shakes its head strongly, side to side, attempting to dislodge the unwanted hook. After several such efforts, it decides, instead, to run for cover. My little Orvis CFO, single-action reel screams in protest, as the fish pulls line from the spool. Across the river is a large willow, with roots that extend well into the water. It’s apparent that the trout has its sights set on the safety of the tree. Carefully, I palm the spool, trying to slow the fish without snapping the leader or causing the hook to pull out of its mouth. But, it’s no use. Within seconds, the trout has reached the submerged base of the willow, and wrapped line and leader around one of its roots.
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 12