by Alan Mulak
Mike sat with his mouth agape. Rob had grown a luxurious curly beard, and his wavy hair hung down well below his collar, and he most assuredly was thinner, damn near scarecrow-thin…but it was definitely him.
The butterflies in Mike’s stomach returned.
Rob loaded his truck with fishing gear, hopped in, and drove out to Colorado State Highway 145, and turned left, heading up the long hill towards the reservoir. Mike started his SUV and followed. Rob, who had always had a lead foot, was speeding east. Mike tried to catch up but his rental was under-powered, and by the time he crested the hill, Rob had disappeared. He pulled over. Route 145 heads straight and Route 84 splits off to the north. Rob could have gone either way.
Mike banged both hands on the steering wheel, shouting “SHIT!”
After a moment of fuming, he looked to the right, where a general store/gas station was tucked away. A large sign stood in front of the store advertising – along with gas, beer, snacks, tobacco, ammunition, hunting and fishing licenses - fishing supplies. Lacking any other bright ideas, Mike pulled up and parked in front of the store. As he approached the front door, he took note of a handwritten sign in the window which read:
Beware: all employees are armed! This is your only warning.
When Mike entered, a bell above the door jingled, announcing his arrival. A diminutive Asian man behind the counter was leaning on his elbows, reading a newspaper. He wore a holster with a handgun tucked therein. The man looked up and smiled, showing a mouthful of large yellow teeth. Through a thick accent, he said, "Hello."
Mike walked directly to him. "I'd like some information, please. About fishing.
The Asian man held up his hand. “I get you my mother.” Then, over his should shouted, “Candice!”
If the man behind the counter was diminutive, Candice was even smaller. She swept out from behind the curtain hanging in the doorway, moving much the way of a house cat: one soft, measured, silent step in front of the other. She had a riot of gray hair, most of it tangled and pulled back in some sort of a mass held by a red ribbon. Mike blinked and studied her. She wore an apron which was threadbare, and in which she dried her tiny boney hands. Her face was smooth and devoid of wrinkles, and her eyes were bright, but the man said something about his mother. How could this be?
“What can I do for you?” she squeaked in perfect English.
“Well,” Mike began, regaining his composure. “I’m in town for a couple of days and have my fly fishing gear with me, and was hoping you could point me to some place where I might give it a try.”
She shrugged. “The reservoir is just over there.” She pointed off to the left.
Mike held up his hand. “He prefers fishing streams and rivers.”
“He?”
“I mean me. I prefer streams and rivers.”
“Well,” She cocked her head to the side and gazed into Mike’s face. “There’s the Upper Dolores River back in town.”
Mike shook his head no. “How about coming out this way? Is there another place?”
"Well," she replied. "There's the Lower Dolores down in the canyon. They're releasing a good flow from the dam, and the fish are eating."
Mike sucked in his breath. “And how do I get there?”
She pointed in the other direction. “Dive that way until the stop sign, and then turn right. Go about ten miles ‘till you see the sign for Bradford Bridge, then turn right onto the dirt road and follow it down to the bridge. From there on up to the dam is the best fishing.”
“And where would fishermen park?”
“Anywhere along the road. The pull-offs are clearly marked.”
Mike nodded, butterflies returning.
“Right at the stop sign, right toward Bradford Bridge, and head upstream from there,” Mike repeated.
She continued to study Mike, a whisper of a smile on her face.
Mike started to leave and then stopped. “Thank you for the information.” Then he dashed from the store.
She turned to the man at the counter and said, “Seems like a nice young man. I hope he finds who he’s looking for.”
The directions from Candice were right on target, and although the distances were relatively minor – by Colorado standards where everything is far apart - to Mike, the ride took forever. His hands were sweating on the steering wheel, his mouth as dry as the gravel road, and his heart pounding as if he'd just run a sprint. On another day under different circumstances, the drive down to Bradford Bridge would have been worthy of above-the-mantelpiece photos with harvested wheat and alfalfa fields spreading from horizon to horizon. But Mike hardly noticed.
He crossed the bridge and paused. The roadside sign read McPhee Dam 11 miles. Putting the SUV back into gear, he rolled forward, the tires crunching the gravel.
The road traveled in a straight line up the canyon, while the river meandered back and forth like a liquid serpent. Every mile or two, when the river swung back to the road, there was a pull off. There was no way he could drive past Rob’s pickup truck.
At about the 6-mile point, there it was; Rob's truck.
Mike pulled in behind, turned off his rental, and sat in the car for several minutes. Suddenly, his knees were weak and armpits wet. The butterflies were in full flutter.
Exhaling, he got out and followed the worn path to the river. There was fresh evidence – weeds bent, scuffed dirt - of someone in boots walking on the path.
Rob.
Mike followed the trail as it wound through the Cottonwoods to the river. After a hundred yards or so, the trees gave way to waist high meadow grass, browning up due to the onset of late autumn weather and overnight frosts.
He paused on a slight rise which offered a panoramic view of the river. Upstream was a long pool of swiftly moving water with a smooth glassy surface. And in the middle of the river stood Rob Santos, casting and catching.
Mike sneaked to the edge of the river and peered in. The surface as covered with dime-sized cream colored mayflies and the trout were feeding with gusto. The entire smooth surface as far as he could see, upstream and down, was dimpled with rising trout.
Clearly, Rob had the right fly as he was connecting one after another.
Mike crept along the river bank, staying in the shadows, making no noise. A stone's throw from where Rob was fishing was a streamside thicket. The grass in the interior of the thicket was matted down; a sign that deer had bedded there overnight. Mike crouched and pushed his way into the deeply shaded interior, and peered out.
Thigh deep in the river, Rob made cast after cast. He was hooking up as well. Some of the trout were big enough to be ‘braggers.' He was clearly enjoying himself and in fact, having a ball. He was happy. And most importantly, he was okay.
After a few minutes, Mike turned and crawled back out of the thicket. Again, keeping to the shadows and making no noise, he headed back to his car. Tempting as it was to write ‘Mike was here’ in the dirt on the side of Rob’s truck, he did not. An hour later he checked out of the motel and headed for Albuquerque. At six P.M. he caught a standby flight back to Manchester, NH.
30
Snow, Heavy at Times
On the last day of November, two unrelated events took place: it snowed nearly two feet in Dolores, Colorado – much heavier in the mountains - and Jacques Tardiff succumbed to pancreatic cancer in Bordeaux, France.
Alex read about his passing on the Tardiff website blog. It had been expected, as the health of Mr. Jacques Tardiff, photographer and playwright, had been steadily declining since his departure from the Slater Ranch in July. Alex sent flowers, with the following, unsigned note: I am truly sorry for your pain.
Lucy's New Year's Eve party was just about over, but the second snowstorm of the winter was only beginning. The year was about three hours old, nearly all the guests were gone, and other than MacKenzie and Neil, who were passed out together on Lucy’s sofa, all that remained was the clean-up crew of Alex and Lucy. He followed her around her house, carrying the trash barrel
while she tossed in cups, plates, silly paper hats, noisemakers, and other jetsam from the evening’s festivities. Her fiancé, Nathan, was called back into work. Drunken party goers in Cortez had found their way into the emergency room. Nathan, the resident doctor on call, got the page at about two A.M. and departed in his four-wheel drive Bronco.
Lucy looked up. “I think that about does it. Time for you to go home and get some sleep.” She leaned across the trash can and kissed Alex. “Happy New Year, Neighbor. Now go.”
Alex located his coat, and while he was buttoning up, Lucy casually asked, “Have you heard anything from Anna?”
Alex stopped buttoning and hung his head.
Lucy said, “Oh shit.”
Alex peered out the window. The snow was piling up. “Her husband died at the end of November.”
“Oh shit,” Lucy said again.
“My sentiments, exactly.”
“Want a cup of coffee?”
They sat at Lucy’s kitchen table, sipping coffee.
Alex said, “I considered jumping on an airplane and flying to France, but then, what would I do when I got there?” He opened his hands. “I’m really at a loss as to what to do.”
They sat in silence, staring out the kitchen window. The snow was being blown off the roof onto the back porch. The grill was just about covered.
After a quiet moment, Lucy asked, although it was more of a statement than a question, "It's way too soon. You know that, right?"
“I know.”
After a few silent beats, Lucy said, “You will never let her go, will you?”
“I don’t think I can.”
31
One – Catching a Big Fish
The Massachusetts United States Senator Shawn Mullen maintained a private office on Beacon Hill that he used for meetings away from the prying eyes of the press. Parking was behind the building, in a gated lot, and the entry was in the back. Comings and goings were unseen from the street.
At a few minutes before four P.M., Nicole Henderson-Santos, driving her new black Mercedes C-class sedan, was waved into the private lot by a security guard, parked, and was greeted at the back door by the Senator's staff assistant, who escorted her to the Nathanael Greene parlor. Clearly a meet and greet room, the 'parlor' featured a massive stone fireplace – yellow flames flickering from within – walls of books and portraits, and two opposing leather couches separated by a glass coffee table.
The staff assistant said, “The Senator will be right with you. Can I get you anything?”
Before Nicole could answer, Senator Mullen strode into the room. Handing his assistant a file folder, he said curtly, “Take care of these for me,” and she promptly departed. He glanced at his watch, and then turned to Nicole, extending his hand, “Shawn Mullen.”
They shook hands and took a seat on either side of the glass table. Nicole still wore her black, fur-trimmed, full-length winter coat, buttoned to her neck. She studied the man seated across from her. The senator, a former Boston College basketball star, wore a plaid sports shirt, open at the neck, crisply pressed chinos, and polished loafers. His short dark hair was perfect, but he was a few pounds heavier than he appeared to be on television. And his broad, toothy grin was not quite as engaging as in his campaign shots. In fact, when he glanced at Nicole, the smile did not make it all the way to his eyes. He smoothed his pants and began fidgeting with a Cross pen.
“Mrs. Santos…first and foremost…I want to thank you for your generous contribution to my Go-Green project last month. We are making great strides and although there’s much to be done, thanks to donations from concerned citizens such as you, we are making progress. I have to apologize to you. I’m afraid we need to keep our meeting brief, as shortly I’m on my way to Washington and need to catch a flight. So, what can I do for you today?”
“It’s Nicole, please, and I won’t take much of your time.” She crossed her legs, revealing a fair amount of tanned thigh…which did not escape the Senator’s eye.
Some weeks ago while massaging the Senator’s wife, William had been unusually clever, discovering her growing discontent with the Senator, their political lifestyle, and in general, everything. Couple that information with the fact that the Senator and his wife were rarely seen together anymore, and as Nicole put it: he was ripe for the plucking.
“And thank you for seeing me here, in your private parlor, instead of the JFK Government Center with all the reporters hovering on the sidewalk out front,” she said. “Due to some unfortunate business with my daughters, I believe it best that the press does not see me in your presence. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
The senator nodded and glanced at his watch.
"So, let's get right to the point," Nicole said. "After my husband died, I went into a deep depression and have been through some dark times, but now, I want to start again. As you know, my father was a strong supporter of the Democratic Party, a perennial political activist, especially for the underprivileged, and now, I want to follow in his footsteps. And like my dad, I'm willing to put…what's that expression…my money where my mouth is. In short senator, I want to be part of your team."
Mullen blinked a few times and stammered, “We can always use involved, intelligent, members…”
Nicole sat back, looked at the fire, and then back at the Senator. "Would you mind if I removed my coat? That lovely little fire is warming this room splendidly." She unbuttoned her winter coat and wiggled her arms out of the sleeves. She wore a royal blue dress with a deeply plunging neckline, and a simple string of black pearls. The senator stopped fidgeting with his pen.
She cast a slow glance around the room. “I know we’re short of time, but I’m curious - what sort of business does a United States Senator conduct in this cozy room?” She uncrossed then re-crossed her legs, making no effort to tug the rising hemline down to her knees.
“Ah…I often meet with the opposition party here, out of sight of the pundits. Sometimes, there’s a need to be discrete.”
Nicole nodded. “Good word. For the time being, I’m afraid that’s how my involvement with you and your team will have to be…discreet. You don’t need the press hounding you about some dirt they’ve dug up on one of your staff. My daughters have gotten themselves into quite a pickle, but I’ll take care of it. It’s just a misunderstanding.”
The senator nodded appreciably and then snapped his fingers. "What's the matter with me? Can I offer you a drink?" He was not shooting glances at his watch anymore.
“Oh no, I’ve already taken up way too much of your time. But perhaps,” she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a card, “the next time you are in Boston, we could meet again. I’d like to discuss some ideas I have about green energy. Here’s my card, and if I could borrow your pen, I’ll write my private phone number on the back.” Nicole leaned over the table to jot down her number. She could feel the Senator’s eyes on her exposed cleavage, sensing the primordial heat rising in the man seated less than an arm’s reach away. "There," she said, returning the card and pen. She stood and pulled on her coat.
The senator jumped to his feet. “I believe I could catch a later flight if...”
“Nonsense,” Nicole said, extending her hand. When they shook, she held onto his hand a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and then smiled and departed.
32
I’ll Be Watching You
The gray skies over Lexington, Massachusetts were spitting snow and combined with the fresh northeast wind and thirty-degree temperatures, made for a hat, gloves, and turn-up-the-collar-day. Just after lunch, Nicole Henderson-Santos left the Lemon Grass Thai Restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue with her live-in lover William, kissed him good-bye, and then they went in different directions. William headed for the ‘Tres Elegant Spa and Massage Boutique' to meet a client, while Nicole, wrapped in full-length Armani alpaca-blend coat, departed for the nearby trendy shops to check out the latest styles.
She crossed Waltham Street and paused
to look into the window of the new dress shop. It was then she became aware of a man standing beside her. She checked the reflection in the window and the man, also staring into the reflection, smiled and held up his police badge.
“Remember me?”
Nicole pursed her lips, and shifted her gaze to her own face, pretending to be examining the bright red lipstick. After a beat or two, she indifferently said, “No.”
Brian Hurst smiled again. “There you go lying to me again. Last time we spoke, you looked me right in the eye and lied to my face, and here you go again.”
“Ah yes,” Nicole said, exhaling dramatically. “If it isn’t the famous Carlisle sleuth himself: Lieutenant Brian Hurst.”
“It’s Deputy Chief Hurst now. I got promoted last month.”
Nicole went back to examining her makeup. "That's surprising since you seem unable to process even the simplest of paperwork. Perhaps the Peter Principle is alive and well after all."
"You must be referring to the paperwork associated with the official Commonwealth of Massachusetts Statute 103.6.91a, that in circumstances where no corpse has been found in an apparently accidental death, declares death official after the passage of seven years. Is that the paperwork you’re referring to?”
“Perhaps you’re smarter than you look.”
“Looks can be deceiving. Take you for example...” Hurst buttoned his coat all the way up to his neck and hunched his shoulders against the cold.
“The last time we met, you put on the appearance of a grieving widow, complete with tears and runny nose. At the time, I almost bought the act. Almost. But then, I spoke to everyone you and your deceased husband knew, and surprise, surprise! You guys hated each other! Divorce was looming on the horizon. And that very night when your house exploded, spreading your husband’s parts over three square acres, you were shacked up with lover boy William. At least your worthless daughters were honest about their disdain for their father. You, you’re a liar.”