Dead Frenzy (6 page)

Lew
pulled the truck into a small clearing. Out his window, Osborne could see tire marks indicating other vehicles had been there recently, but no one was around.

Holding her door open, Lew paused for a moment to look over at Osborne. “Hey,” she said with a questioning lift of her eyebrows, “ready to go play with some fish?” She shook a finger at him. “Now just you remember Birch Lake is a secret—don’t you
ever
tell a soul about this place.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Hopping down and out of the truck, Lew gave a quick look in every direction, stuck both her arms straight out, and waited. She had rolled up the sleeves of her khaki fishing shirt, so plenty of bare skin was exposed. But no insects took the bait.

“So far so good,” she said after a moment. “Last time I was here, the mosquitoes dive-bombed us. Better bring your Deet just in case, Doc.”

Walking to the back of the truck, Lew yanked down the tailgate and reached inside. Osborne hurried back to help. “First we unload this stuff.” She pointed to his gear bag and the little cardboard box. “You don’t wear a fishing vest in a float tube so what you’ll need on the water, you want to pack into your tube.”

“Really?” That worried Osborne. It had taken him hours to pack the damn vest. Hours that had convinced him that fly-fishing vests were a diabolical plot orchestrated by the same miscreants who designed 3,000-piece jigsaw puzzles. The goal was the same: torture. The only difference was the weapon of choice: pockets. Pockets of all sizes—small, large, horizontal, vertical, square, oblong, tubular, zippered, Velcroed, buttoned, zippered
and
Velcroed.

Add to that the fact that each pocket was destined for some particular tool, line, or other mysterious fly-fishing gadget. Of course there were no directions; you had to figure that out yourself. You could go mad managing the pockets on your fishing vest. Not to mention the strange hunks of fake sheepskin stuck here and there.

Osborne had worked slowly, carefully, packing and repacking until his vest looked not only like he knew what he was doing but, more important,
so he could remember where the damn stuff was.

Now he had to take it apart and do it all over again? Jeez Louise. Maybe Ray was right when he needled, “Listen, Doc, stick with bait fishing. All ya need is a rod in one hand, tackle box in the other, doncha know.” He had a point there. After all, when you open a tackle box, you can see every lure lined up neatly under clear plastic—they aren’t hidden behind zippers, flaps, and goddam Velero
barricades
for God’s sake.

While Osborne agonized, Lew bustled. Her anxiety over Roger’s ability to monitor the drugged-out girl had given way to cheery enthusiasm. “Take just what you need, Doc, and we’ll stick everything else back in the truck. Oh, and we have to pack in a mile—so keep it light.”

“Got it,” said Osborne, still without a clue. Following the first set of orders, he moved his gear bag, box, and rod case from the truck down onto the grass. Lew did the same, setting her stuff off to the other side of the truck. Then she pulled out the two float tubes and shoved a red one at Osborne.

It looked like a monster doughnut, only it had a seat instead of a hole in the middle. Shallow, zippered pockets ran up both arms. He was happy to see a deeper pocket running across the back. The mesh seat with its straps resembled a child’s high chair. Osborne shrugged. He couldn’t imagine how this was going to work, but plenty of men he knew did it so it couldn’t be rocket science. Behind him, Lew’s hands flew as she tucked what she needed quickly, expertly, into the zippered sections dotting her tube.

Feeling lost and late and knowing he was going to hold up the show yet again, Osborne decided to get at least one thing accomplished. Turning his back so Lew couldn’t see what he was doing, he opened the cardboard box. Thank God for Ziplocs and his own foresight. Quickly, he shoved the three bags, which included some cutlery and paper plates, into the large pocket across the back of the tube, then grabbed the tablecloth and napkins and pushed them in on top. He was just pulling the zipper shut when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“What are you doing? What’s that?”

“Oh, nothing.” Did she see the tail end of the tablecloth? “Extra shirt in case I get wet.”

“You won’t get wet,” she said in a tone that made him feel like a numbskull. “And who cares if you do? It’s sixty-five degrees—you’re not gonna freeze to death. And you don’t want to carry any more weight than you have to…. ”

“Okay.” Ignoring the criticism, Osborne reached into a pocket on his fishing vest to grab his box of trout flies. He studied the contents. Irv Metternich, a good friend and former patient who had fly-fished for years, had just given him two Deer Hair Hoppers, size twelves, that he had tied himself—and a larger Grizzly King. Osborne wanted to try those just for friendship’s sake. Earlier, he had also tucked in two size fourteen stone flies and his favorite, a size twelve Adams.

Lew snorted whenever she came across a fly fisherman with boxes and boxes of trout flies stashed in his vest pockets—”You never need more than five at a time if you have any idea what you’re doing.” Osborne was getting better at listening to what other fly fishermen were saying, which clued him into the current hatches at least. Today he thought he had good excuses for four of his six selections.

“Oh, gosh no,” said Lew, leaning over to peer into his box. “Those won’t work, Doc. We’re supposed to have a hex hatch—but I don’t know if they’ll be emergers, duns, or spinners. Listen, put those away. I’m going to give you the right flies tonight after I see what the hatch is. We might have to nymph with sinking lines and I know you don’t have any. You just get your sunglasses, your rod, and your waders. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Oh, great, thought Osborne, a hex hatch. He struggled to remember what the hell kind of mayfly that was. He knew he should be able to conjure an instant image to which he could match a trout fly but it totally escaped him at the moment. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever master the basics of this sport.

“Look, Doc,” said Lew, her voice softening at the confusion on his face. “You haven’t float-fished before so take it easy. Here”—she shoved a pair of rubber flippers at him—”these are for you—boot fins.”

Ten long minutes later, Osborne had managed to locate and pack his polarized sunglasses, floatant, clippers, forceps, Ketchum release, two new leaders, some 4x and 3x tippet, an extra pair of reading glasses, a packet of Kleenex—everything except his water bottle, waders, boots, and fins. Not only that, he had a shot at remembering where everything was. And he had his reel safely on his rod with the fly line threaded through the guides. He relaxed ever so slightly.

Lew handed him one of two small backpacks that she had pulled out of the truck. “Put those boots and waders and that bottle of water in here, Doc, then we’ll hook the float tubes and the fins onto these packs.”

“Okey-doke.” Helping each other, they rigged up. Lew locked the truck, hid the keys behind a bumper, and they started down the path into the woods.

“I feel like a little kid getting ready for my first day of kindergarten,” said Osborne. The float tube was annoying, bouncing off the back of his legs as he walked. He decided not to let it bother him.

The hike took them into a light-filled forest of white birch and hard maple. Splashes of sun sprinkled down through the canopy of spiky maple and serrated birch leaves. It bounced off the baby maples, bright green and leafy, that blanketed the ground in every direction.

The sun, just beginning its descent, chose that moment to soften the air with a golden sheen. Osborne loved this time of day. He let his eyes wander through the woods, which were luminous and deep. Dark brown trunks of maple etched black lines against the brilliant white of the birches. Everywhere was leaf and light.

“Trout live in beautiful places,” said Lew, her voice low and soft as she trudged along before him. It was her favorite expression. She stopped for a moment to inhale and look about with pleasure. Osborne said nothing. At this moment, the forest cast a spell so magic, so infinitely peaceful, that no words were necessary. Maybe this was why he loved fishing with Lew: He never had to say more than he wanted to.

As they resumed their walk, Osborne studied his companion from the back. She had rigged her float tube, her fish net, and her flippers with such precision that she strode soundlessly along the path while he bumped along, the float tube banging off the backs of his heels. He couldn’t have felt more awkward than if he had spilled an entire box of fishing tackle.

Another fifty yards and Lew stopped short, a look of annoyance on her face. “For heaven’s sake, Doc, let me rig that higher for you,” she said, turning him by the shoulders to adjust his straps. That helped. On they went.

As they walked, Osborne was reminded of Lew’s home, where everything, like the rigging of her backpack, had its place. Just a week ago, when they had decided to fish a trout stream thirty miles west of Loon Lake so it made more sense for him to pick her up for a change, he finally had a chance to see where and how she lived.

She owned twenty acres bordering tiny little Lake Tomorrow and lived in the original farmhouse. Once upon a time the place had been a goat farm; now it was a jewel. At least that’s what he thought. Built of weathered planks, inside and out, and with rooms whose walls were hung with silver-framed fish etchings interspersed with trophy fish mounts—including a muskie nearly fifty inches long—the farmhouse was quite small, picturesque, and comfortable.

Arriving ten minutes early that day, he had caught her still in her apron with flour up to her elbows. She was pulling four loaves of bread from the oven of an old ceramic and iron gas stove. Over her head hung a rack of pots, all sizes and blackened with use. On a wooden table behind her sat two dozen freshly frosted cinnamon rolls. The aroma made him hungry even though he had just wolfed down a ham sandwich.

“Lewellyn! I didn’t know you cooked.”

“Bread and rolls—every Saturday.” She spoke with the same crispness she used to assign a jail cell to a drunken ATV rider.

“Every week? How do you eat all that and not get fat?”

“Oh, this isn’t for me. I cook for my nephew and his family. And my daughter’s family when she visits. Here, have one.”

She handed him a roll on a piece of paper towel and waved him toward the living room. The room held a wood-burning potbelly stove, an old wood and leather chair with a leather ottoman, and an oak bookcase. It was a place that made him feel like putting his feet up and staying awhile. A long while.

Careful not to drop crumbs, Osborne leaned over the bookcase, curious to see what she read. The shelves held a collection of books on fishing muskie and trout, a stack of old Orvis and Cabela catalogs, one book on shotguns, and a couple on tying trout flies. There were several children’s books, which he imagined she read to her grandchildren, some cookbooks, and oddly, a well-thumbed paperback edition of
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
The top of the bookcase was covered with framed photos.

Lew walked in, drying her hands on a towel, just as he was examining the pictures. She pointed to one. “That’s my nephew and his wife and these are his children…. And this is my daughter, her husband, and my two grandchildren. Aren’t they cute?” And there were more pictures—of her parents, aunts, and uncles—and her son, the one that had been killed. “He lived hard and it’s good he did for all the time he had, Doc.” Once again that crispness. What a funny woman, thought Osborne. Rarely did he catch her in a moment when she wasn’t no-nonsense.

Then she had shown him the rest of her place, including the bath with its old claw-foot tub. Her bedroom held an antique iron bed painted white and covered with an orange-and-white patterned quilt—”My great-grandmother made that.” Over the bed hung a wood carving of an eagle in flight. A beat-up vanity, well on its way to losing all its paint, was angled into one corner. Her holster hung off the side and the .40 caliber SIG Sauer rested beside the telephone.

Can’t beat
that
as a quaint setting for communications and firepower, thought Osborne. He still found it hard to believe he had a crush on a woman who packed heat.

A second room held a small workshop. Neatly organized like the rest of the little farmhouse, two countertops held boxes of tools and supplies for woodworking. “When the weather is too rough to fish, I relax in here,” said Lew. “I make walking sticks, wall sculptures, pins—that kind of thing. Nothing special.”

“Did you carve that eagle in your bedroom?”

“Yep—that’s one of my favorites. These walking sticks over here in the corner? These are my own designs, too.” Then she pulled out a wooden box and opened it to show him more of her work: little wooden grouse pins, lots of leaping trout, and Christmas angels.

“Lew, these are good. You should sell these.”

“Actually”—she paused and for the first time ever he saw her blush—”I do. A shop up in Boulder Junction carries my stuff. Everything I make on these I save in a special account that I plan to use to buy fishing equipment for my grandchildren when they’re old enough. And travel—I want to take them fly-fishing in Colorado someday.”

Osborne had the feeling that he was one of the few people who knew this about her. “So that’s that,” Lew had said, shutting the box. Excusing herself then, she had changed into her fishing clothes.

While he waited, Osborne had felt a little sad. What a full life she had. Too full. No room for him, that’s for sure.

The sun was still high as they walked. The light dappling through the leaves, a gentle breeze, and the fragrance of some wild bloom did its best to make all the cares of the world seem far away. They were three quarters of a mile into the maple and birch forest when the path took a turn into a stand of virgin hemlock.