Dead Frenzy (7 page)

Ancient trees towered over them, shutting out the sun. Dark shapes hunkered behind splayed, dead stumps. The trunks of the living trees were so tall and bristled with dead branches that Osborne felt as if he were creeping under the legs of giant spiders. The change was typical of a northwoods forest: in less than ten feet, these woods could turn on you—from hallowed to haunted.

Off to his left, through the shadows, he saw jagged branches clawing at the air. The sight jolted him back to the morning—to Erin, the fear in her eyes and the terrifying memory they had revisited.

Stumbling suddenly, Osborne grabbed for the spindly branches of a young hemlock to steady himself. The float tube didn’t help. It swung around, catching in the overhanging brush. Leaning back to tug it loose, Osborne hoped like hell the damn thing wasn’t punctured. He was still leaning when it came free with a snap that sent him lunging backward. Grabbing at air with one hand and trying desperately to keep his rod free of branches with the

other, he went down on his butt—and the tube. It was a soft landing.

“Need a hand?” Lew hurried back to help him.

“I’m fine, I just tripped on something.”

“You didn’t
just trip
, Doc. You weren’t watching where you were going. What is up with you anyway? You haven’t been yourself all afternoon.”

Really? He thought he’d been doing just fine.

Before he could answer, Lew said, “You’re preoccupied. I know you well enough to know you’ve got something on your mind. You want to talk about it?”

She yanked his float tube around and adjusted the straps again. Osborne brushed pine needles off his hands and knees.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she said. Her tone implied the exact opposite. She gave him a sharp look, then started down the path again.

After a few steps, she called back over her shoulder, “Are you worried about the fishing?”

Again he felt that sting behind his eyelids. “No … I’m worried about my daughter.”

Lew stopped and turned around. “So tell me about it while we walk?”

“I was hoping I didn’t have to ruin the evening with this.”

“Trust me, if there’s a hex hatch, nothing can ruin my evening. C’mon, get it off your chest, Doc. I may be able to help—after all, I’ve raised one, too, y’know.”

And so he told her everything, starting with Erin’s surprise visit that morning and ending with the vision of the decomposing body, the bones fighting their way out of the burlap sack. The only thing he forgot to mention was the mysterious appearance of the peach pie.

When he had finished, Lew nodded. “Feel better getting it off your chest?”

“A little. No, a lot better. I feel much better, Lew. Thank you.”

“Good. Now we’ll go fishing and we’ll both think about it.”

That struck Osborne as not quite fair, but he had to admit he was up for sharing the burden.

At
the end of the path, a pool full of sky broke the gloom of the forest. Though it was already past six, the July sun hung high enough in the west to send shards of glitter rippling across the surface.

Ready to launch in boots and waders, Lew stood with her hands on her hips, eyes raking the water. “I see slurps … some jumping. But those are little dinks.” She waited. “We oughta see some
big
brook trout in this lake, Doc—planted, of course. This is one place that doesn’t get overfished because very few people know about it. I’ve seen plenty sixteen to twenty inchers—caught one nineteen inches last time I was here.”

An impish look crossed her face. “If I get one over twenty-two inches tonight, I might have to keep it—and you might not have to tell anyone.”

“To mount?”

“Yep. How many times do you see a twenty-two-inch brookie in this neck of the woods, huh? Ready, Doc?”

“I think so,” said Osborne. Boots on over his waders, he was standing in water up to his knees, one hand on the float tube, the other holding his rod. He watched as Lew stepped into the mesh seat of her tube, sat down, then leaned forward to strap the fins on over her boots.

“Be sure you clip the ankle strap on,” she said. “If the fin slips off, it’s gone and you will be floating forever. Hook the stripping basket across your lap like so,” she demonstrated, “and you’re set.” She pushed off from the bottom. “You want to kick nice and slow and don’t let your fins break the surface or you’ll scare the fish. Just like this—keeping it slow and rhythmic.”

“Lew, it’ll take forever to get anywhere,” said Osborne a few minutes later as he tried to follow her out. They didn’t have far to go. The lake was quite small, maybe five acres at the most, a perfect oval ringed with hemlock, balsam, and white pine. Feeling like a human bobber, he did his best to follow Lew as she worked her way toward the center in a silence broken only by the trill of an occasional bird.

At first, Osborne found the boot fins awkward and ineffectual—propelling him nowhere fast. On the other hand, he had an immediate sense of being one with the water and that was good. He could see sneaking up on a loon or joining a family of ducks with no one noticing—not a bad crowd if you needed new friends. To his surprise, in less than five minutes they were a good distance from shore and Lew was bouncing with excitement, switching her tube around so he could catch up.

“We got a hatch!” She pointed off to the southern shore as she held a thermometer in the water. “Definitely a good hatch, too. See those little dinks leaping off to your left, Doc? But this water is too warm on the top for the big guys—we have to go down. I figured we would. They’re feeding on the emergers on the bottom. Whoa, look at that! This is a
fine
hex hatch.”

“Maybe I should use that Hairwing Dun that I’ve got?”

“No, not yet. I know this water real well. We need weighted flies with a touch of split shot on a sinking line. That’ll sink your fly down to where it can drift through the feeding zone and reduce the vertical drag so you’re less likely to spook the fish.”

She reached for his fly rod. Fingers moving deftly, she clipped and tied. “Because this lake is so clear, I’m giving you fluorcarbon tippet for the sinking line and I’m tying on a rabbit fur strip nymph.”

“So no dry flies…. ”

“Not if you want a big fish.”

“Lew, whatever you say—I definitely want a big fish.” Given his track record, Osborne hoped for
any
fish. Even a dink would do.

She handed his rod back and began to work on her own. “Maybe after dark you could try an extended body deer hair.” She spoke through the line in her teeth. “That’s when that Hairwing Dun might work, but only if we see hexes all over the surface. This is just like fishing muskie, Doc—by this time in July, the thermocline sets up so those big fish go deep. Kinda like the Packers: ‘Go-o-o Deep!’“ She flashed a big grin as she mimicked a crowd cry. “But if you do decide to use a dry fly, be sure it’s a size six—”

“I know, I know—better the wrong fly in the right size than vice versa.”

Lew knotted, then spit, then tested her knot. “Good. Okay, let’s fish.”

Osborne raised his rod for a backcast. He could move easily in the float tube, which was a good sign.

“Oops, no, Doc, you don’t
cast
a sinking line. You have to troll, letting the line drop and keeping the slack out so you can feel a strike. Watch me.”

That he was happy to do. Sometimes he thought he fly-fished not for the challenge but just to see the sheer enjoyment on her face.

Feet moving under the surface, Lew positioned herself about twenty yards from shore and thirty feet from Osborne. With a simple roll cast, she had the fly line out, let it sink, and then, kicking slowly, she trolled.

Bam! A trout slammed the line.

Osborne’s adrenaline skyrocketed as he watched Lew work the fish: rod bent, line taut, letting it run then stripping in her line. He loved to watch her—every move fine-tuned to the action of the trout. Her whoops of excitement and the shine in her eyes were so infectious he had to laugh out loud as he shouted encouragement. Soon she had a fourteen-inch trout, which she deftly measured against the ruler diagrammed on the stripping basket, then released.

“See how easy it is, Doc? Hey-y-y, did you hear my rod
sing?”

“Sure did.” God, he was happy he was here. While Lew checked the condition of her leader and trout flies, Osborne paddled off to troll on his own.

In less than two minutes, he had a strike.

“Set that hook!” shouted Lew.

Yanking too soon and too hard, he lost the fish. Ten minutes later, another strike but no fish. No mistakes on his part, however. That strike was a signal that he recognized from his years of bait fishing for muskie and walleye and bass: Something big was down there, nibbling, testing. What a night this might be! Holding still to hang in the same general area as that second strike, he suddenly felt the fin slipping off his right boot. Darn!

Cradling his rod against his left shoulder, Osborne paid no attention as the line sank, the fly drifting down and down while he reached with his right hand over the side of the tube to rank on the strap holding the fin to the heel of his boot.

“C’mon, Doc, what are you
doing
?” Lew sounded exasperated. “You can’t catch fish that way.” Just as she spoke, something hit his fly and zoomed.

“Whoa!” Osborne grabbed his rod at the last minute and held on.

“Set that hook!”

“I did!”

“Let it run … don’t let that line go slack!”

“I won’t, I won’t, ohmygod…. ”

The fish was running deep and it was strong—it had to be big! Lightly grasping the stripped line with his left hand, Osborne let it out, watching it speed away. Suddenly the fish turned, heading in the direction of Lew—then it was under her. The two of them burst into excited laughter. This was amazing! Then, just as suddenly, the line went slack.

“He broke it,” said Lew, “that son-of-a-gun. I’ll bet he bit that fly right off.”

She was right. But even as Osborne examined his decimated tippet, he was happy. He grinned over at Lew. “Do you believe I’m as excited now as I was when I was six years old catching my first fish—it was a ten-inch rock bass.”

“Yeah,” she said, “doesn’t it always feel that way?” She looked around. “I hate to say it, Doc, but this hatch is over.”

“We got in a good half hour.”

“A
great
half hour. Let’s head back. I need to grab a bite before heading over to the hospital to check on Roger and that girl.”

“See the point over there?” said Osborne, indicating a spit of land not too far off. It looked conveniently sandy with a few fallen logs that could serve as seating. “Since it isn’t dark yet, why don’t we go ashore for a minute—I have something I want to show you.”

“Oh? All right. I need to see a man about a horse anyway.”

While she was in the woods, Osborne set up quickly: tablecloth, napkins, cutlery, paper cups, and with a couple quick squeezes on the Ziplocs, the plates were filled with slices of roast lemon chicken and cones of orzo, gleaming with olive oil and herbs. The menu was limited but he was pleased. Years of camping, in spite of Mary Lee’s disparaging remarks and refusals to come along, had paid off: His al fresco table technique looked great in the twilight.

Oh, right. He reached deep into the back pocket of the float tube for one last item. By the time he could hear Lew striding through the brush behind him, the candle was lit.

“For me?” She was dumbstruck. “You did all this for me?”

“Well, you’re such a good cook yourself, I didn’t want to show up with tuna fish.”

“You silly man.” She leaned up on her tiptoes, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, and brushed her lips against his cheek. He was happy.

“Everything is delicious, Doc,” said Lew, “but this peach pie is the best. Umm. I can’t believe you made this yourself!”

Osborne looked at her. “I didn’t … I thought you made it.”

“Me? I bake bread, not pies. What do you mean you thought I made it?”

“Someone left a warm pie on my deck this morning. At first, I thought it was Ray. When he said it wasn’t him, I thought for sure it must be you.”

“Not me. Maybe a neighbor?” Lew pushed the very last crumb of pie onto her plastic fork with her finger, swallowed with a look of intense satisfaction, then waved her fork at Osborne. “About that Schultz case—I would appreciate it if you would take the time to look over the file for me. All that happened just before John Sloan took over as chief of police from old man Raske and you
know
what a razzbonya that guy was.”

“Yes, I do,” said Osborne, the naming raising an ugly memory. “Raske was a real nogoodnik. I always felt sorrier’n hell when he got his hands on some of those young Indians from the reservation. The man was merciless—he went too far and there was nothing you could do to stop him.

“He was a patient of mine, too. Never paid his bill, of course. I finally told his wife I didn’t need their business, which was none too smart on my part. That arrogant son-of-a-bitch. I just kept my fingers crossed that no one in my family would need help from the police so long as he headed up the department.”

“He wasn’t just a bully—he was lazy as hell,” said Lew. “The state of the files from those days is pathetic. If he had a crime scene and no easy answers, or if it involved a friend of his—hell, he wrote it off as a misdemeanor. That man had the cleanest desk north of Wausau and south of the Canadian border. I’ll tell ya, Doc, if you’re up for it? When you finish looking at the Schultz file, I’ve got a half-dozen more we can check out. Chief Sloan was always going to get around to it but he never did.

“Plus, it’ll take your mind off the other situation.” Lew scrambled to her feet to help clean up.

“I hope so. I sure don’t know what to do about that.”

“Hey, Doc, when we get over to the other shore, I’ve got a little camp stove, some plastic mugs, another bottle of water, and a couple of those one-cup coffee bags in my pack. I can make us each a cup of coffee if you like.”

“I thought you needed to get back.”

“No more than you needed to make me this lovely dinner.” She grinned.

Osborne knew full well he had fins on his boots but he could have sworn they were wings—his float tube seemed to fly back. And when he and Lew reached the other shore, which had western exposure, they were just in time to enjoy a peach and periwinkle sunset.

And so they sat, shoulder to shoulder against a fallen log, sipping their coffee in silence. The lake so still they could hear the flutter of a loon’s wings from the far shore.

“About your daughter,” said Lew, her voice low and her eyes on the glowing sky. “She has to work this out herself, you know.”

“I know, I just worry so.”

“She’s a big girl.”

“I don’t want her to end up like her old man.”

“How’s that?”

“Alone. Alone with three kids to raise.”

“You’re not alone.” Lew cocked her head and looked at him in mock disbelief. “You have Ray.”

He threw her a look.

“C’mon, be real, Doc—you are
not
alone.”

She looked around. “Where’s your pack?” Spotting it, she jumped to her feet, zipped it open, and pulled out the checked tablecloth. She waved it in front of him as if she were a magician about to perform: “You may call it a tablecloth, Dr. Osborne, but I call it…. ” She shook it open, then spread it on the sand and grass in front of the log. Dropping to her knees in the center, she smoothed the edges, then sitting back on her heels, she reached for his hands and said, “I call it a bedspread.”

The invitation in her eyes was something he had never expected to see again in his lifetime. But given the opportunity, he did not hesitate.