Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler

For Riley, Willow, Quinlan, and Todd—who were there with love and humor when it counted

“You can tell the nature of a man from his companion or his wife. Every woman explains the man by whom she is loved, and vice versa: he explains her character.”

—ODILON REDON, 1869

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Copyright

Easing the beat-up SUV to the side of the road, Liam Barber reached behind his seat for the tattered copy of the
Wisconsin Gazetteer
. He ran his finger down the grid, then turned to the corresponding page with the topographic map showing where the Pine River narrowed to what was likely a barely navigable stream: perfect for trout. The map indicated that the stream jogged to the left just short of the dirt road he had passed moments ago. He was pretty sure he had to be close to the right spot but he checked the page once again. Well … he might be off by a few yards but it was worth a try.

He glanced at his watch. If he started right now he’d have his entire lunch hour to explore the area.

He still couldn’t believe he had landed the perfect summer internship collecting samples of invasive plant species, a job that guaranteed he’d be able to work outdoors. And get
paid.
They might make him drive this crummy car but what the heck—this would be one great summer.

Professor Cruikshank in the UW Botany Department had gone on and on about the native brook trout that could be found in the shaded, cold streams running through the Nicolet National Forest. Because the streams were hidden so deep in the woods, few people fished them.

That will not be me
, thought Liam. He was young and strong and ready for the challenge: Secret water can mean superb fishing.

Pulling on his fishing vest, Liam checked the pockets to be sure he had his sandwich, his compass, and the hand-carved wooden fly box. The box held two dry flies—one resembled a Royal Wulff and the other a foam hopper-type pattern.

Both trout flies had been tied by Takumi Tsuchiya, a friend he had met in Japan and a fly-fisherman who had taught him the art of tenkara fly-fishing. Liam had met Takumi during the year he spent teaching English as a second language in Japan. Upon learning that Liam loved to fly-fish Takumi had insisted he learn the Japanese style of fly-fishing: tenkara.

Awed by the simplicity of tenkara with its rod, line, and dry fly—no reel—Liam had become so enthralled by the sport that during a vacation back in the States he had insisted that his father, Jake, learn tenkara as well. After all, it was Jake who had spurred his son’s addiction to traditional fly-fishing when he turned ten.

Earlier that summer, the two of them had spent hours fishing their way upstream from their cabin in Wyoming before Liam flew to northern Wisconsin to take the job. Liam had taken the lead, showing his father that tenkara was not about the cast (which both men had spent way too much time stressing over) but about the trout fly and what you want it to do once you have oh so delicately dropped it onto the surface of the stream.

“Dad, no—the goal is to be
one
with your trout fly—not hammer it,” Liam admonished every time Jake tried to power through his cast with the long, unfamiliar tenkara fly rod. “Keep it simple… intuitive…”

“Maybe it’s too Zen for me,” Jake had said, frustrated at first. But he caught on and before long father and son found tenkara to be a fine way to spend time in the water, time together.

Today marked two weeks since Liam had been able to carve out time for fishing. Frankly, he thought, after the hours he had put in scouring the forest floor for invasive plant species, he deserved at least an hour in the stream. An hour with his tenkara rod, his trout fly, the burbling waters, and the Dresden blue sky: just one hour of heaven and he would be happy.

After double-checking to be sure that the delicate, handmade wooden fly box that Takumi had given him was stowed safely in his pocket, Liam gathered up his gear. Gear? He had to chuckle. Tenkara gear is basic beyond belief and so easy to carry: two trout flies and a fourteen-foot collapsible rod with twelve feet of fifteen-pound-test fluorocarbon plus three feet of 5X tippet. And no reel. Perfect for someone planning to bushwhack into backcountry.

Ready for action, Liam crossed the road, stumbled down the grassy slope to the ditch, then up the other side and into the woods. About a hundred yards in he paused to listen. Yes! He could hear water. He stepped up his pace. The July sun was high overhead but the air under the forest canopy was cool.

In less than ten minutes he found himself on the edge of a swampy patch of tag alder beyond which was a boulder-strewn stream. Just what he had hoped to find. He reached for his rod case and uncapped it.

Then he set the rod case down and, rod in hand, stepped into the water, which was so cold he wished he had brought his waders along. Oh well. He glanced upstream: perfect. It might be called a “river” but the Pine along this stretch was just a stream—and what a lovely stream, the current racing past and around huge boulders and misshapen rocks that would provide the riffles and pools ideal for hidden caches of wild trout.

He moved forward studying the rocky terrain. He liked how narrow the stream was. That would make it easy for his long tenkara rod to reach across the rippling currents and drop his kebari—the word Takumi used to mean “trout fly”—into one of the quiet pools hiding behind one of the boulders. When he had reached a stretch that struck him as ideal for his first cast, he leaned back against a large boulder and pulled from the pocket of his cargo shorts the spool holding his line. He attached the line to the tip of the rod, then unfurled it, testing the tippet on the end before tying on his kebari.

He always used the same kebari—in fact, his tenkara trout fly was a Royal Wulff dry fly—the one trout fly he could tie himself and be satisfied with. That was something else that Takumi had taught him: Tenkara fishing is not like its American cousin where “matching the hatch” is mandatory. No, no, no. The tenkara fisherman is concerned with one thing only—the
presentation
of the trout fly. As in Zen Buddhism where a person seeks to be at one with his breath, at one with the moment in which he is living, so is tenkara about being focused on the kebari floating in the stillness behind the big rock.

When his rod and line and kebari were ready, Liam stood up and walked upstream another few yards to where he could see a silence of water beckoning from behind a black rock cantilevered over burbling stones. Before making a move with his rod, he turned his face up for a caress from the warm July sun. Whispers from the tag alders lining the riverbank were as friendly as the smile he’d gotten from the girl he hoped to ask out later that day. He lifted his rod and, leaning forward, sent the kebari over the rock and into the pool. He waited. He watched the still water, the drifting kebari, his universe… a pause in the movement of the kebari. Liam struck.

His rod bent as the fish fought but the tippet did not break. Minutes passed before the fish stopped struggling. Liam pulled the sparkling beauty of a brook trout into the shallow water at his feet. With gentle hands he retrieved his kebari then slipped the brookie back into the stream.

Satisfied, he walked over to a grassy hummock and was sitting down to savor the moment when his jaw disintegrated. The second bullet slammed into the back of his neck. He died in the embrace of a tag alder.

Four Days Later

“Hey, Dad,” said Erin, her voice breaking up over Paul Osborne’s cell phone. “Are you… busy?”

“Am I busy? Hard to hear you, kid. Can you hear me?”

“Now I can,” said Erin. “Sorry, I must have hit a dead zone. I was wondering if you’re busy right now?”

“Just leaving the house,” said Osborne. “Rushing Mike to the vet. He got into it with a porcupine last night—not sure I got all the quills out.”

“Oh, good, you’ll be in town. I mean, sorry about the dog but since you’re going to be in town—”

Osborne could hear anxiety in her voice. “What do you need?”

“Would you mind stopping by the house to check on Cody? He wasn’t feeling well this morning and I had to leave early to drive down to Wausau for a client meeting. Mark’s got court today and both girls had sleepovers at friends’ houses last night. Do you mind? It’s just a bad cold but he looked so sad when I left.”

“C’mon, you know how I hate that kid,” teased Osborne, smiling to himself. “Of course I’ll check on the little guy. Right after we see the vet. Mind if I bring him out to my place? He can help me clean up around the dock, maybe we’ll drown a few worms—no better medicine than July sunshine.”

Erin chuckled as she said, “Sure, Dad, any excuse to use that new pontoon, right?”

“Well, I bought it for you and the kids.” And he had. The pontoon was quite small, designed to be transported on a standard boat trailer, and to hold no more than four people. In Osborne’s mind ever since he had retired from his dental practice the four included himself and his three grandchildren, although the oldest, Beth, was hitting her teens and more interested in boys than fishing. Funny how that happens.

Ten-year-old Mason could be counted on to enjoy spending time on the lake but it was Cody, who had just turned seven and was showing promise of being as tall and lanky and as smitten with the outdoors as his grandfather, who begged his mom daily to “drop me off at Grandpa’s—he needs help with that new boat.”

After the vet had determined that Mike would survive the two remaining porcupine quills he was able to remove, Osborne pulled up in front of the big yellow Victorian where his youngest daughter and her family lived. The day was so warm that he rolled down all the windows and opened the Subaru’s tailgate. He wanted to be sure the breezes could reach the black lab resting in his crate. “Be right back, Mike. Watch the car.”

He ran up the front steps of the house and onto the porch. He peered through the screen door into the living room. “Cody?”

“Grandpa?” A weak voice answered him. Osborne opened the door and walked in. His grandson was lying on a couch in the living room, a light blue coverlet pulled up to his shoulders and a glass of water with a straw on the floor beside the couch. On the end table behind Cody’s head was a plate of cookies that appeared to be untouched. A thermometer rested on a paper towel.

Kneeling beside the boy, Osborne laid the back of his right hand against the child’s forehead. “Whoa, son, you are hot,” he said, noting how flushed the child’s face was.

“No I’m not,” whispered Cody, pulling at the coverlet and shivering as he spoke. “Grandpa, I’m freezing.” He was shivering so violently his teeth chattered.