Dead Frenzy (20 page)

“I like a popper,” she said as she reached for a lure designed to look like a jumping insect on the surface of the water. Osborne was pleased; he always used a popper himself. “And a longer pole like this gives me more whip.”

She stepped over to the edge of the pontoon and cast in the direction of the rock bar. “Hayden, watch this now,” said Ray. “See how that popper kind of gurgles on the surface … watch the water…. ” The surface was perfectly still.

Edith cast again. On the third cast—boom! The lake exploded.

Osborne’s heart leapt with the fish: a perfect smallmouth moment. These few seconds always made him wonder why he didn’t fish smallmouth every time.

“Hey!” shouted Ray, maneuvering the pontoon as the line went taut. Edith stood feet apart as instinct took over.

She set the hook. “Holy cow, Edith,” said Ray, “you play that fish like
you
should be in the tournament.”

“You got ten-pound mono on this, right?” she called to Osborne. “‘Cause this is one nice fish. Y’know, I forgot how much fun this is!” Forget the tournament—from the look on her face, one smallmouth was prize enough.

The water boiled again, then exploded as the bass caught air. Edith’s hands started to shake. “He’s running, he’s running into the rocks.” Her hands shook harder. Suddenly the fish was heading toward the boat. Edith played the line, reeling in, letting it run, then in again.

“You got it,” said Osborne, sensing the fish had tired. “Easy, easy.” He bent over the side of the pontoon, net at the ready. One scoop and he was in.

“Jeez, Edith, you got a beauty. Four pounds easy. Excuse me, Doc.” Ray had stepped on Osborne’s foot as he leaned back to get a good angle with the disposable camera. “Photo op.”

It was a new Edith smiling wide for the camera as she held the bass by its lower lip. Ray slipped the smallmouth back into the water. “See you again, big boy.”

But by the time Ray stood up and reached to give Edith a big squeeze around the shoulders, her self-deprecating demeanor had returned. She shrugged off his congratulations. “I shouldn’t have taken so long.”

“Why did your hands shake so much? That’s weird,” said Hayden as Ray gunned the pontoon toward shore. She hadn’t budged from her seat during all the excitement.

“Hey, babe,” said Ray, “we’re all like that when we hook a good one. The day your hands stop shaking is the day you put the rod down.”

 • • •

As they neared the dock, Osborne checked his watch. Ray had kept his word. Plenty of time to make the motorcycle class.

“Hayden,” said Ray as he unloaded their gear from the boat, “would you like to take a walk over to Greystone while I do this?”

“No.” Her answer was so curt, it put an end to all conversation for a moment. Finally, she offered to help Edith carry some of the video equipment up to their car.

When they were out of earshot, Ray said in a low voice, “I thought it might be interesting to push a few buttons.”

“You’re likely to end up short a paycheck, bud.”

“I don’t think so. Parker writes the checks. From where she’s had me take her in the last couple days, I think she knows more about this area than she admits to, Doc.”

“She went to camp up in Eagle River.”

“No, I don’t think so. I asked about that and she can’t even remember the name of it. Think how many campers come back here for reunions. They don’t forget the name of the place where they had the best summers of their childhood. But she sure recognized Greystone. In fact, I never even had to give her directions to my place. When I said Loon Lake Road, she knew right where to go.”

Forty minutes later, Osborne walked into the motorcycle class. Each time he practiced on the small bike, he concentrated on keeping his wrist high. By the time the class ended at five-thirty, he was feeling confident enough to tackle the big Harley. He called Lew to see if she would have the time to stand by in case he needed help.

“Of course, Doc. I’ll meet you at UPS. Any reaction from your girlfriend on those opened boxes?”

Osborne ignored her teasing. “Didn’t you get my message?”

“Doc, I just walked in. I’ve been dealing with mischief all day. Had a bar fight over in Tomahawk—two jabones from the St. Croix Loons biker club decided to take on a history professor and a plastic surgeon who rode up from Oshkosh.”

“Who won?”

“Before I intervened, the professor and the surgeon had the advantage. One of the Loons had a broken nose. I cited every one of ‘em, including the crowd watching. Back to your friend, Doc. I have a stack of messages here…. ”

“I called in around ten this morning—Cheryl didn’t show up for class.”

“Ouch.”

Osborne
hurried into the UPS station, where Lucy was busy with one last-minute customer. She looked markedly happier than she had the day before.

“Easy night,” she said, glancing up as he walked in. “Not a single delivery for Webber Tackle. Nothing en route for next week either, not even ground. I checked the computer and Chicago double-checked for me. First time in months we haven’t had at least one shipment heading in their direction.”

“That’s pretty odd, isn’t it?”

“I think so. But I must say, I’m relieved.”

As she was speaking, Osborne heard the soft thunder of a motorcycle. He looked out the window to see Lew pulling into the parking lot on the white police bike. She headed for an open bay, eased the bike in, and parked it next to the big black-and-green Harley. While Osborne lowered the bay doors, she took off her helmet and leather jacket and hung them over the bike. She looked sunburned and tired.

“A little frisky out there, huh?” said Osborne as she walked up.

He had the urge to kiss her but he knew better. The working Lewellyn Ferris was very different from the one in or on water. She had said she was a “sometime” person and she meant it. At this point, he was just hoping that “sometime” came again someday—and he couldn’t be sure it would.

Lucy hung around until seven, completing paperwork. “No reason to keep the shop open,” she said finally. Osborne and Lew agreed.

Lew made one last call to check in with the switchboard. Things were quiet. “Friday night fish fry—they’re filling their faces,” she said. “They won’t start to party for another couple hours, then watch: All hell will break loose. The good news is Lincoln County sent over six officers to help out this weekend.”

“You mean with the motorcycle crowd over in Tomahawk?”

“I mean with everyone, Doc. The bass boys are holding their own, believe me. So let’s get you out on the road while it’s quiet.”

The big Harley was surprisingly stable. Two passes around the block and he felt more comfortable than he had all day on the much smaller Yamaha. Lew motioned to him to follow her out into the traffic along Loon Lake’s busiest street. Osborne gulped and followed. But the bike responded nicely, even through slow, short turns.

“You’re a natural, Doc,” said Lew with a satisfied smile at the gas station where they had stopped for her to fill up. His tank was full.

“Okay, let’s head out County C to Hagen Road. I want you to feel familiar with the territory. Then we’ll leave the bike at your place and I’ll give you a ride back here for your car.”

The ride on the highway was just what he needed. Before Osborne knew it, he had shifted up to fifth gear. He felt like he was flying but in control. It helped that Lew kept their speed at a very pleasant 55 mph.

He could do this! As his confidence soared, he relaxed into the ride. Lew’s left turn signal went on about a quarter mile before Hagen Road. He slowed and followed her onto a two-lane blacktop road that led back past several small houses. Then the blacktop gave way to gravel. Lew stopped where the gravel started and waved Osborne forward so they could talk. They turned off their ignitions.

“I checked the
Gazetteer
,” she said, “and you can get to Willow Creek on foot if you go about a quarter mile down this gravel road and go in off to the right. This is state land up to Patty Boy’s property line so you have every right to be here and in the creek bed.

“Thing is, though, I don’t want you riding on gravel, Doc. You’re doing fine right now but gravel is dangerous—so park here and walk the rest of the way.”

“Will they be aware of what I’m doing?”

“I seriously doubt it. That’s why you’re on a bike. When people come up for the Tomahawk Rally, they come because they love to ride the back roads like these. So you fit right in. Even if Patty Boy’s people are patrolling, they’ll be looking for cars—and cops.”

“Not old fogeys on way too expensive bikes getting lost on back roads.”

“You got it. All I want is for you to get a good look at what’s happening over there tomorrow morning. Since their cameras are aimed at the road and access to the house from the front and the sides, you’ll be out of range and not likely to be seen from inside the house. At least I hope not. And do not use binoculars; that would be a red flag.”

“So you want me to check out who’s there. Number of cars, motorcycles, that kind of thing.”

“Right. Once we have an idea of how many people are involved, the DEA will take it from there. I hope anyway. As of this morning, they were still arguing with Customs over who’s in charge.”

“When do you want me to start?”

“Midmorning when the place is likely to be humming. If they’re expecting as many bikers as I think they are on Sunday, they should be setting up to do a lot of business. The most important thing I can say, Doc, is don’t take any chances. Busting these guys is not on the agenda.”

“Observe and leave.”

“Right.”

At Osborne’s garage, Lew helped him turn his bike around to face out so he could manage easily in the morning. Before they left the garage, he took her by the elbow and leaned down to brush her lips lightly. She took the kiss with a faint smile but he could see she was preoccupied.

“Rain check—for when this is all over and done?” she said, patting his arm. “I’m just, I’m too wired right now, Doc.”

“I know,” he said. “What about tomorrow night? Any chance you can make that dinner party at the Stead-mans’?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t give you an answer yet. I have to see how things go tomorrow. I promise to let you know as soon as I can.”

He finished the leftovers from Brenda’s lasagna, then sat out on his deck in the warm darkness, listening to the owl that owned his land. He’d had a phone message from Ray, his voice excited, saying that tomorrow’s party had grown to thirty people, including someone Osborne had a personal interest in.

“Bruce Duffy, Doc, old Bert and Harold’s boss. He’s ranked Number One right now. Maybe that’s why the boys picked up those leech traps. I left a message for Lew that she might want to have Roger on the lookout Saturday and Sunday. After that parade Sunday morning, somebody’s gonna need to find some big fish fast.”

Osborne had forgotten about the parade. Following the qualifying rounds, the parade was the big kickoff for the tournament. Boats, bands, and lots of people. Not like Lew needed more work.

He had one other message, this one from Erin. She was spending the weekend with the kids and Mark out at the hunting shack and would give him a call Sunday morning. She hadn’t forgotten he wanted to go along when they picked up Mark’s bike.

At least he had no chatty message from Brenda, thank the Lord.

Saturday morning Osborne was up early. He tried to reach Ray but no one answered. He tried Lew at her office, but she had just left for Tomahawk. He asked Marlene to be sure Lew got Ray’s message on Bert and Harold. Then he got organized.

He packed his boots, waders, and fly-fishing vest into the roomy Tour-Pak mounted on the back of the bike. The tube with his fly rod fit neatly into the holder that had been rigged up for it between the Tour-Pak and the seat. At the last minute he decided to add a water bottle and a peanut butter sandwich.

Donning his leathers, his helmet, and his courage, he turned the key in the bike’s ignition at ten o’clock sharp. It was less than ten minutes to the road near Patty Boy’s place. Anxious as he pulled out of his driveway, he felt a visceral sense of relief once he had cruised down Loon

Lake Road and turned left onto a back road that would take him up to the highway. Before he knew it, he had reached the gravel road.

Parking his bike, he pulled off the leathers and stashed everything but his helmet in the Tour-Pak. Then he pulled on his waders and fishing vest, assembled and threaded his fly rod, and set off down the gravel road.

Lew was right—a quarter mile down the road and he could hear the creek. He pushed his way through a dense growth of young aspen, then stepped down the bank and into the water.

Willow Creek was shallow enough that he was able to wade downstream toward Patty Boy’s with ease. A couple fallen logs made for detours up on the bank, but within twenty minutes he had the house and barn in sight. The creek widened as it neared the property but the brush along the banks was high enough that Osborne felt hidden as he neared. Someone would have to be right near the water in order to see him.

He sat down on a boulder to thread his fly rod. That’s when it occurred to him that anyone who was any good at trout fishing would know he shouldn’t be there. The creek was so shallow and the water so warm, no trout would be feeding this far downstream. He had to hope anyone spotting him would know nothing about fly-fishing.

For good luck, he tied on an Adams that Lew had given him. He stood and made a few short roll casts as he waded forward cautiously. The height of the brush and the narrowness of the creek made it impossible to backcast. He rounded a bend and stopped quickly. The brush had been cut back so that the creek was fully exposed from where he stood all the way up to the house and the barn, less than 500 yards away.

Nervous at being in the open without warning, Osborne cast off to his left and cast again without looking in the direction of the house. He did not want to appear curious about anything other than fish. Only when he heard the roar of motorcycles did he look up to see a line of six bikes heading up the long drive to the house.

Now he could see why Lew had wanted him on a bike: The house was situated on a ridge, even with where he was standing, that provided a full view of Highway 45, running north and south, as well as down Hagen Road to the county highway. Even the gravel road where he had parked his bike was visible from where he was standing. No one was going to arrive at Patty Boy’s without warning.

As it was, bikers weren’t the only visitors. Osborne saw two large semitrailer trucks parked in close to the front of the barn. A silver van like Catherine’s was parked near the house, along with two pickup trucks, one black and one red. He counted half a dozen motorcycles parked near the house as well.

Looking back at the semis, he caught glimpses of men loading the trucks, but with the doors open so close to the barn he couldn’t see beyond a slight crack between the barn and the doors. As he watched, he became more and more convinced they were not
unloading.
It looked more like moving day—as in moving
out.

Osborne turned away to make what he hoped were some casual roll casts. As he turned to his right, sunlight flashed off an object in a clearing this side of the house. Casting as he waded, Osborne moved forward about five yards until he could see past the brush. In the clearing was parked a shiny new vehicle much larger than a motorcycle. This was an RV, one he recognized instantly.

Osborne backed up. The last people he wanted to see right now were Bert and Harold, and that was the same RV they had parked up at Birch Lake. Only today, hooked to the back of it, was a trailer carrying a white bass boat that glittered under the sun. Black-and-yellow stripes along the side of the boat matched the stripes on the monster 250-horsepower Mercury outboard—forty thousand bucks’ worth of boat and motor. Had to belong to someone very successful, someone like Bruce Duffy.

Funny, for a place that had advertised a “Boats and Bikes” swap meet on the
Help Your Neighbor
radio show, that was the only watercraft in sight.

It was nearly noon when Osborne had safely parked the bike back in his garage. He dashed into the house to call Lew. Marlene said she was still out but had left instructions to patch him through when he called in.

She picked up the radio in her cruiser. Osborne detailed everything he had seen, saving the best for last: “No question, Lew, you’re coming to Steadman’s with me tonight.”

“Doc…. ”

“Bruce Duffy, who owns that RV, the pro that hired Bert and Harold? The RV is parked front and center at Patty Boy’s. And, Lew, Bruce is on Parker’s guest list.”