Figure Eight

by Jeff Nania

  The boat was loaded, and much to my happiness, the motor fired up on the first pull. While it warmed up, I filled the container bucket with water and put the other part of the minnow bucket in it, depositing them on a flat spot on the deck. I grabbed the box of jigs, and soon my little boat and I were skipping across the water. Another day in paradise with a little breeze, clear skies, and the air temperature already in the 60s.

  There were a few other boats on the water, today being Saturday and all, but it was not what you would call crowded. Water skiing, tube riding, and other tow-behind activities were limited to the hours of 11:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. The set times let the fishermen fish and the skiers ski during peak times.

  I was across from a place called Bear Paw when I cut in toward the boys camp. There were two boats anchored off the point within a few feet of each other, and I figured they too were looking for a walleye dinner. I shut down to idle and came up to a spot near the other boats, but not so close that they would think I was encroaching on them. I quietly lowered the anchor, which took a fair amount of rope with it, and I judged the depth to be about 25 feet. As I was getting my gear operational, the question about the other boats’ presence was answered when one of the guys set the hook and soon brought a beautiful walleye to his net.

  Ever the trained investigator, I noted that the tail on the jig he was using was a very bright chartreuse. Chartreuse was indeed one of the color choices Bud had included.

  I hooked the minnow up and dropped it over the side of the boat allowing it to free fall with an open bail. When the line went slack, I knew I had hit bottom. I closed the bail and reeled up two turns. Then I began the jigging motion of pulling up on the line and letting it settle back down, repeating the rhythmic motion, hoping to entice a fish into biting. I noticed the guy in the other boat was jigging very slowly, rod tip up, rod tip down, and I tried to copy his technique.

  Sitting there fishing, I couldn’t help but think of my uncle. I wished that I had spent more time with him in his later years. Being back here, I realized all that he had taught me—his kindness and sharing his love of the outdoors. I could not change what had happened no matter how much I wanted to. I could do one thing though. I could bring his killer to justice, and that is just what I intended to do. Whatever it took, Uncle Nick would have justice.

  Wham! All of a sudden, my rod tip bent, and I realized my bait had just been attacked. More out of reflex than planning, I set the hook and could feel the unmistakable jiggling pulling of a fish on the line. I reeled up and with my hand net scooped a two-pound walleye into the boat. Its golden green sides shimmered in the light as it flopped around. I carefully hooked it to my stringer, avoiding the sharp little teeth. The stringer was attached to the boat, and I dropped it, fish and all, into the water, keeping the fish alive and fresh, as nothing is better than fresh fish for dinner.

  From then on, the action intensified. The dinner bell must have wrung because my boat and the other two seemed to have fish on the line more often than not. The small ones went back, and within two hours I had four fish the perfect size for eating, the biggest I would guess weighed about 3½ pounds.

  The other boats around me had done at least as well, and anchors were coming up. I pulled in my stringer and lay the fish in the bottom of the boat. The motor popped right off, and I took off back to the cabin.

  This time I landed with a far lighter crash than last. Once the boat was secured, I tied my stringer full of fish off the dock.

  As I started to walk up to the shop to get the fish-cleaning supplies, I felt the weight of the Walther in my right cargo pocket. It felt both strange and familiar. There had been a time in my life when I would go nowhere without a gun. It became part of getting dressed. But since I had left the department, and even though I had a retirement ID and could carry, I had not carried. Memories of the past still plagued me often at night. I would see the shell casings for my gun eject and tumble slow motion to the ground. The shots and screams pierced my sleeping ears. Angelina Gonzalez’s face smiled at me. These memories would always be a part of me. I felt I deserved them.

  I didn’t stop carrying a gun because I thought the gun was evil, even though that seems to be the common sentiment among those more enlightened folks. I just no longer had it in my heart to be the hand that guided the gun. I had destroyed enough. Any more destruction caused by me was certain to kill me. I am not a mean person, a fighter yeah, but I don’t have a black heart. Some may disagree. But I had picked up the Walther without thought and had put it in my pocket, where it would stay for now. There was just too much trouble in the air to ignore it.

  I unlocked the shop and, after a brief search, located a wooden block with cut slots filled with three different knives. I pulled out the first one, a fillet knife. It had a brown wooden handle and a long flexible curved steel blade, the edge razor sharp. My uncle had taught me the art of filleting fish years ago. His knives were always honed to perfection, as he maintained that “only dull wits use dull tools.” Tucked off to the side by the knives was a flat board with a clamp attached. The board bore the scars of countless knife cuts and was worn down in the middle where most of the action took place.

  I took it to the picnic table and set it on the end. The clamp slid under the edge of the table, and I screwed the tightening bolt in, and it clamped securely to the table.

  After doing a less than stellar job on the first fish, I really took my time with the others and ended up with eight fillets ready for the pan. I brought them into the house, half-filled a bowl with cold water, submerged the fillets, and put the bowl in the refrigerator. I went back out to the table and picked up the fish remains and threw them in a bucket. Then I worked my way along the shore to a little trail of rocks that led out into the water, terminating in a fairly large one with about five feet square of exposed surface, and there I spread the guts and skeletons. Back at the shop, a quick spray down with the garden hose cleaned up the cutting board, knife, and table. I was setting everything out to dry in the sun when I noticed something out of the ordinary.

  On Madison’s Lake Mendota it is not uncommon to see 25- to 50-foot cabin cruisers plying the waters with weekend captains cruising and partying on a boat that has all the comforts of home at a price that probably cost more than a lot of homes. On Spider Lake, at least from my memory and from what I had seen around, cabin cruisers such as those were not nearly so common. But here about 50 yards off my dock idling was a huge boat by Spider Lake standards: thirty feet if it was an inch, not a full cabin cruiser, but one with a low cabin that took up the front two-thirds of the boat. The sleek black hull and the throaty rumble from the inboard engines just said speed. The cockpit was open and occupied by a man and a woman. He was dressed in shorts and a polo shirt, she in a very small bikini bottom and t-shirt. The man was looking right at me, and as I stared back, he made no attempt to look away.

  I waved as is the courtesy. He did not wave back, but responded by hitting the throttle, and the boat virtually leapt out of the water and took off toward Big Spider, blasting wake against the shore, pounding my little Alumacraft. Another strange visitor, but to be expected in the land of strange visitors Musky Falls was turning out to be.

  Yup, for now the Walther would stay right where it was.

  Time on the water both refreshes you and wears you out. The events of the last few days had worn on me a little, and I decided to hop into the hammock, which I saw hanging between two huge red pine trees. I crawled in and stretched out in, oh-h-h ah-hhh, comfort. I listened to the distant sounds of boat motors and the noise of Spider Creek behind me. I don’t even remember falling asleep.

  The crunching of gravel and the noise of a truck engine brought me back to semi-consciousness. I opened one eye and looked in the direction of the sound. The familiar truck stopped, and the engine was turned off, and Bud and Julie jumped out.

  They walked over toward me.

  “Hey, John, did you get to go fishin’, or have you just been swingin’ in
that hammock all day?” asked Bud.

  I couldn’t help but smile and swung my legs out without rolling the whole works.

  “As a matter of fact, Bud, not only did I go fishing, but I also caught and cleaned enough fish for a delicious supper. I believe you said Julie was a master walleye chef given the raw materials, which are now in the fridge in a bowl of cold water. I am looking forward to dining.” My stomach was growling.

  Julie laughed that laugh and said, “Come on in, boys, and let’s see what we can cook up.”

  Once in the house, she pulled out the walleyes and looked them over. “Did you fillet these with a chainsaw?” she asked.

  “It’s just the first one. All the others are much better. I was kind of rusty,” I responded perhaps a bit too defensively.

  “I guess they will do for our purposes.” She got to work and told us to get out of her way. We took the hint and grabbed a couple of cold beers and went out to sit on the porch.

  “How did everything go in town today?” I asked Bud. “Any Lawler sightings?”

  “Yeah, that jerk was around all day. I stuck pretty close to Julie’s school booth to make sure he didn’t bother anybody. He kept eyein’ me but stayed clear. Jeez, I don’t like that guy.”

  “You are a good judge of character, Bud.”

  We sat and talked about fishing and the lake and the land when Bud got a little distant. I could tell something was on his mind and outright asked him.

  “Oh it’s nothin’, John. Really, it’s nothin.’”

  “Does it have to do with me?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess it does.”

  “Then spit it out, Bud. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, Julie said I shouldn’t. She said that I should wait a while until you get settled. But I kind of have to know now.”

  “Bud, what’s up?”

  “Well I got a job offer to be the maintenance man at Lost Lake Lodge. It’s a really nice place and the new owners have got a lot of big plans. Anyway, they heard that I had lost my job here for your aunt and uncle and heard I was lookin.’ So they found me and asked.”

  “Sounds like a good opportunity. Good pay?”

  “Oh, yeah, good pay, health and dental insurance, and paid vacation every year. It’s a pretty good deal.”

  “So what do you need to ask me about?”

  “Well, I’ve been working here, and I was just wondering if I did lose my job, and you didn’t get around to telling me yet. I know you haven’t been here long and been real busy, but I just kinda gotta know, pretty soon or right now, if you know. If you don’t know I can wait, I’m not trying to push you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Julie is going to be so pissed at me.”

  “Slow down, Bud. Take a breath. I really never thought about it yet, but I can see why you would want to know. Have you been getting paid for the work you’ve been doing since my uncle died?”

  “Yeah, well, kinda. Derek Anderson writes me a check once a month. It’s about half of what I usually get, but he says that’s all that the estate allows for. I don’t argue with him. I don’t like even talking to him.”

  “Tell me what you are owed, and I will take care of it first thing on Monday, and Bud, I am very happy to do it.”

  “That’d be real good. I could use the money. What about me working here anymore? There is always a lot of stuff that needs doing. I mean I do the boats, the tractor, and fix what needs fixin’. I do the forest management plan. If you had to hire those things to be done it would cost more than I do. I can tell you that.”

  “The last person you have got to convince is me. I am going to see my old buddy Derek on Monday after my meeting with Ron Carver—”

  “You’re meetin’ up with Ron Carver!? That guy is a dandy. He and your uncle were best buds. Tell him I said hello.”

  “Anyway, I am meeting with him and Anderson. I plan to hash everything out then, so if you can wait until Monday afternoon for an answer, that will work. If not, and you take the other job, well, congratulations. They are lucky to have you.”

  “Nope, Monday’s good. That’ll work fine. Ah, don’t mention this to Julie, okay?”

  “No problem. My lips are sealed.”

  “You know, John, there is another storage building down at the end of that little sand road. That’s where the tractor is. There are also a couple of old trucks and a really cool jeep. I always helped him keep it all running. I just checked on everything about two weeks ago. Didn’t drive them, but everything started and ran. I think the old jeep may need a new battery ’cause I had to jump it. Everything else, a little choke, hit the key, and they started right up.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Oh, just down the trail, maybe 100 yards. You just can’t see it because it’s hidden by the trees.”

  “Let’s walk down there,” I suggested.

  “Sure,” Bud said. “You’re going to really like all that stuff.”

  We both got up and started heading down the trail when Julie came to the door and announced that dinner was ready. Two hungry men can do an amazingly fast about-face when tempted with food. Direction reversed, we walked into the house and were met not by smell but by aromas.

  Bud was almost drooling. Julie pointed to our places at the table, and we both sat. There in front of us was a pile of golden brown walleye fillets, breaded and pan fried. Next to that was a loaf of bread and a stick of butter. A large bowl contained a mixed salad of some kind. It all looked so damn good.

  Bud is not a shy eater and reached for the bread.

  “Bud, not yet,” Julie said, “First the prayer.”

  We bowed our heads.

  “Thanks, Lord for the gifts you have given us—the fish from the lake, the sun overhead and the clean sweet air we breathe. Thank you for our friends and family. Amen.”

  We dug into one of the best, most familiar fish dinners I had ever had.

  “Taste familiar?” asked Julie.

  “Yeah, it sure does.”

  “It’s your aunt Rose’s secret recipe. She taught me how to make it, and since then, I never make fish any other way.”

  What a perfect night it was. We had white wine from a local vineyard. Julie regaled us with stories of the kids and sweatshirt sales. I told them I had registered for the run, and I was surprised to find out she also had.

  “I run it every year. A bunch of my students run with me. They have a contest to see who can beat me by the most. I’m in pretty good shape, but youth will trump conditioning every time.”

  “Truth is, I’m no sprinter, but I will plod along behind you and the kids. Are you running, Bud?”

  “Nope. I save all my running for when something is chasing me.” He laughed heartily at his own joke, and so did we. “I am going to help set up barricades before the race and take ’em down before the parade. I think that will be enough exercise.”

  The night had flown and was coming to an end based on the sleepy eyes of my dinner partners. I said I’d better get going, and to my pleasant surprise, Julie asked Bud to clean up a little and offered to walk me out to the jeep.

  About halfway there she said, “A funny thing happened today. When we closed the booth, I added up all our sales and went over to Mystery Bay Graphics to pay our bill. When I tried, the owner told me our bill had already been paid in full. When I asked who paid it, he wouldn’t tell. His wife walked out of the back and I asked her. She said she didn’t know. I asked whether the person wrote a check or paid with a credit card so I could get the name and thank them. Turns out the person paid cash. It seems a small bit coincidental that when that creep Lawler knocked that big envelope out of your hands it was full of cash. Also, when you rode off with the chief, you were going toward Mystery Bay.”

  “You think I paid the bill!?” I asked, trying to sound incredulous.

  “The thought did cross my mind.”

  “Julie, thanks for thinking of me, but honestly I am just not that nice.”

  “I didn’t think
so.” She turned and headed back to the house and didn’t say another word.

  I drove off in the jeep toward town. A couple of miles from the city limits I had to slow for a squad car alongside the road with its lights flashing. Another car was pulled along the shoulder. I slowed as I passed, and bam! I heard a gunshot. I slammed on the brakes and got ready to move out when I looked at the deputy.

  He was standing there talking to someone like nothing had happened. Then I saw the deer on the side of the road.

  The driver had hit a deer, and the deputy had ended its suffering.

  I arrived back at the hotel and went straight to my room. The envelope with my uncle’s file stared up at me where I had put it on the desk. Not today, Uncle Nick, not tomorrow, but I think Monday I shall begin, and I won’t stop until I reach the natural end.

  16

  Cabrelli

  I was downtown by 7:30 in gym shorts, a ratty old t-shirt, and my running shoes. I had left the Walther in the glove box of the jeep, as concealing it in running shorts would be impossible. Already the crowd of runners, walkers, and well wishers had begun to fill the square. I stood in line at the table and checked in. The race volunteers gave me a water bottle, a number to pin on my shirt, and a race t-shirt. The shirt had a drawing of three cartoon muskies together, apparently line dancing. It was really clever. The back of the shirt listed all the local businesses that sponsored the race. I stepped off to the side and out in the street, barely missing colliding with two very fit pre-runners. You know, those guys who warm up for the race by actually running the race, in spandex pants, no shirts, no body fat, and fleeter of foot than I have ever been or shall ever be. Then I took off my ratty old t-shirt and put on my new race shirt. I looked at my old shirt and wondered what to do with it. A trash can a couple of feet from me solved the problem.