Dead Madonna (21 page)

“Any strings attached?” said Osborne unwilling to believe his good luck.

“Only that I can’t afford to go very far in case we have new developments on this Curry situation or something else goes haywire. So I was thinking we’d start out on Big Pine Lake, just north of here where I’ll still have cell service. I’ve been told there’s a creek that runs parallel to the Gudegast down into the Loon Lake chain. I’ve never tried it but it could have brookies, maybe even browns. Would you be up for that? Do some exploring?”

“How soon can I pick up the kayaks?”

“Not necessary,” said Lew with a chuckle as she leaned up to kiss his cheek, “I got ‘em this morning. See you ‘round five.”

C
HAPTER
28

“O
n a lake this big, we should use streamers,” said Lew, leaning over the tailgate of her truck to reach for one of her small plastic cases of trout flies. “But these winds aren’t going to make it easy.” She squinted into the east, her face against the wind. “What do you think—gusting twenty, thirty miles an hour, Doc?”

“I’d say so. But it has to be over ninety degrees, Lew. At least the wind takes the edge off.”

Osborne watched as she opened a box of sparkling, colorful trout flies—fatter and longer than any he’d fished with so far. “In the lake, it’ll be all about bass and pike—maybe even a muskie, Doc.”

“Does it make a difference that Big Pine is deep with dark water?”

“Oh, yeah, means the fish can stay cool in the heat. Plus they’ll see a lot more minnows and crayfish than they will insects. See this?” She pulled out a streamer with a bright yellow body. Let’s start you with a Muddler Minnow.”

“What about you?” said Osborne, picking up his fly rod, which he had managed to rig a little faster this time. Lew was always way ahead of him. The minute she got close to water she was a speed demon, whether pulling on waders in a split second or rigging her fly rod. He was always at least ten minutes behind.

But today, with no waders needed in the kayaks and his fingers becoming more adept each time he rigged his rod, Osborne cut five minutes off his time.

“I’m going to try a Conehead Madonna—the trout fly that Marcy Kurlander’s father tied for DeeDee. It’s similar to your Muddler, Doc.”

“Why can’t I try one, too?” The trout fly that she was pinning to the patch of lamb’s wool on her fly-fishing vest was too gorgeous to resist.

“I only have one. We’ll trade off later if you want.”

Before getting into the kayak, which held a rack for his fly rod along one side, Osborne waved to Lew, who was pushing her kayak into the water. “One question—if we’re planning to be on the lake for a while and then head down that creek—are there any rapids to worry about?”

“Oh, gosh, no, Doc. The guy who told me about it said he kayaked it last fall and it was easy going.”

“Okay, then I’m not going to worry about anything getting too wet,” said Osborne.

Rushing up to the truck, he grabbed a sweatshirt. If they were going to be on the water for hours in this wind, it might cool down later. He also tucked his reading glasses into his shirt pocket instead of zippering them into the flyfishing vest. And at the last minute, he grabbed his camera.

Then he put his life jacket on the seat of the kayak to cushion it, shoved his fishing vest down into the front of the kayak, pushed the boat onto the water, straddled the seat and plopped in. The lake was choppy with waves but the kayaks were sturdy and flat and cut through the chop with ease.

Lew led the way to a small bay. There she set her paddle aside and reached for her fly rod. Her instructions were simple. “You want to show these fish a disoriented minnow, Doc. So first angle your kayak to have the wind behind you.

Then watch for the gusts. Time your backcast to coincide with the end of the gust—then make your forward cast so you present your fly in the calm behind the gust. Got it?”

“Oh yeah.” Osborne waited as the wind buffeted. Then, at what he thought was the tail end of a gust, he raised his fly rod and backcast with a power snap, only to hear Lew shout: “Duck!” He did, barely avoiding hooking himself in the head.

Lew was laughing. “You’ll get the hang of it. The good thing is we’re only twenty minutes from the hospital—and they got a whole wing dedicated to hook removal, doncha know.”

“Very funny,” said Osborne, raising his rod again. He was determined to make this work. He waited. A gust blew hard from directly behind, then eased off. Raising his right arm, Osborne launched a backcast, only to have the line snapped up, whipped around and spit out by a monster of a crosswind. Fly line, leader, tippet and trout fly spun crazily until all ended up in a massive knot, a knot so dense it would take days, possibly months, even years to unravel. Osborne stared at it. A lot of words came to mind—every one challenging him to be morally flexible.

They found shelter from the wind just past the opening to the creek. Sitting on a hummock under a stand of young balsam, Lew worked at his knot while Osborne set out wedges of cheddar cheese and crackers. She hadn’t had the easiest time casting either, though she hadn’t destroyed her equipment. And so they made the decision to give up on Big Pine and head for quieter water.

“Tell you what, Doc,” said Lew, clipping away and digging deep into various pockets on her fly-fishing vest, “I’ve got the fly line okay and we’ll just tie on a new leader and some tippet. Forget the rest of this.”

“What about the Muddler?”

“We’ll sacrifice it. Not the first trout fly you’ve lost.” She grinned in sympathy, then reached for one of the crackers he’d prepared. “Something I forgot to tell you earlier, by the way. While the Wausau boys were getting started on the Curry place this morning, I happened to check the refrigerator and took a good look at Gwen Curry’s supply of medication since she didn’t take all of it with her when she left last night. Turns out she mail-orders from Universal Medical Supplies.”

“That’s interesting,” said Osborne.

“I thought so. I called Rick Meyerdierk and asked him to check the dates on her recent orders, and if those orders were called in.”

“You’re thinking of Nora Loomis?”

“Um-hmm. I’m remembering the unmistakable sound of a shredder and that Nora thought she heard a couple fighting. What if Gwen is lying? What if she knew all along that her husband was a little too interested in DeeDee? What if what Nora overheard was Hugh confessing to Gwen that he had killed DeeDee and it was the fight that followed that was on that tape?”

“Which would make Gwen an accomplice.”

“Certainly changes things. I just … I don’t trust the woman. So maybe I’m being ornery because I don’t want to make it easy for her. Does that make me a bad person?” Lew gave a sheepish grin.

“I wouldn’t feel bad about it if I were you,” said Osborne. “Better to have every question answered, every possibility examined. You’re not being ornery, you’re doing your job, Lewellyn.” She kissed him.

They pushed the kayaks back into the stream. A slight current carried them forward and the tamaracks lining the bank, their roots happy in the wetland border, provided good cover from the wind. Whether it was the wind that had fine-tuned his casting skills, Lew’s kiss or the new leader and tippet along with his favorite dry fly (an Adams Wulff Size 10), Osborne wasn’t sure—but to his surprise he could make his fly go right where he wanted it to. No belly in the line this time and a silent, delicate presentation of his trout fly.

And then, in a small, quiet pocket of water less than a quarter mile downstream, he made another discovery: the biggest fish were in the least likely spot. Not only did he set the hook on a nine-inch brookie, he followed that success with a stunning twenty-one-inch brown trout! Lew, pleased for him, refused to let him release the fish before she could take a photo.

As she handed the camera back, he heard a sound off in the distance—familiar but unexpected. A low rumble, it added to the pleasant haze of the summer evening. Even the temperature was easing off. “Whaddya think that noise is, Lew?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the trout fly he was mending with short, quick flicks of his rod. Never had he felt so at one with the world around him: water, fly rod, trout fly and the woman in the kayak ahead. Life doesn’t get much better than this, he was thinking as she answered.

“Not sure, Doc,” said Lew, her voice happy as she set the hook on a ten-inch brook trout. “I was told there were no rapids in here.” Unworried, they let the kayaks drift and kept casting. The lake may have been a disappointment but this creek was rich with fish. For a while, neither of them noticed that the rumble was growing closer.

C
HAPTER
29

Osborne was so pleased with his tight fly line and so focused on mending the Adams Wulff dry fly across the riffles and eddies in the stream that he didn’t notice his kayak was picking up speed. The wind, though rebuffed by the tamaracks bordering the stream, found plenty of opportunity to roar high overhead and mask the sound of distant waters.

Neither Lew nor Osborne heard the rapids until they rounded a bend. Just five hundred feet ahead the stream split around an island of exposed rock ringed with half-submerged boulders. From a distance, the narrow chutes on each side of the outcropping appeared to drop maybe six inches or so. Osborne wasn’t worried. He’d canoed Class Three rapids, which made these look easy.

“My guess is a foot drop at the most, Doc,” said Lew. “Shouldn’t be bad—” Before she finished speaking, her kayak took on a life of its own, leaping into the swirling waters. “Watch your fly rod through the chutes,” she cried. “Try to keep it out of those branches!”

“I will—don’t worry, Lew,” shouted Osborne over the water, which now roared louder than the wind. “Uh-oh.” In slow motion he watched the front of Lew’s kayak tip up, up and over. An instant later, he hit the same hidden rock, the bow of his kayak airborne for a split second then tipping sideways, spilling him into the rushing water.

The current was hard and fast, pounding. This is not good,’ he thought. At first the water seemed about two feet deep and he was buffered as he held tight to the back end of the kayak—but the water level changed and the current slammed him onto sharp, rough rocks. The kayak righted itself but it was fast filling with water. Osborne slammed his fly rod into the boat and grabbed on with both hands.

The pounding on his lower body and legs was severe, and all he could think was, when is this going to stop? I think I might die …

As his head hit a rock, light exploded, blinding his eyes. I’m dead … no, not yet. He drifted into semi-consciousness. Time slowed. He hung on, waiting to feel his bones break—they would if he didn’t find deeper water. The bank! He had to get to the bank. Out of the merciless current.

One slippery toehold after another, he forced his way off to the left, out of the water pulling him through the minefield of river rock. All of a sudden the water was up to his chest and he was struggling to gain a footing when he saw his life jacket, his fishing vest, and his sweatshirt float from the kayak. He reached into the kayak and grabbed for his camera only to let it drop as his glasses floated by. He lunged for those instead. Glasses in one hand, he reached out again for the camera. In that second, his kayak was swept back into the stream and on its way without him.

“Lew!” Osborne scanned the bank ahead to see if she’d made it. No sign of her. He took a deep breath, felt for broken bones. Then, grabbing one tag alder branch after another, he pulled himself through the deep holes along the bank and around a bend. The stream bed gave way to a shallow, sandy bottom making it possible for him to haul himself up and around until he could see downstream.

On the opposite bank was a dry, sandy stretch of shoreline. Lew lay there, face down, not moving. Breathing hard, Osborne’s voice croaked as he called out, “Are you okay? Lew?”

She raised her head slightly. He pushed himself to his knees, thankful he could get that far, then onto his feet. Determined not to fall and be dragged again, he staggered across the shallow, rushing water on shaky legs. As he bent over Lew, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, a grimace of pain on her face. “Doc, are you okay?”

“I have no goddamn idea. I’m alive, I’m upright. What about you? Is anything broken?”

“Not sure. Just … no … strength.” She pulled herself sideways and lowered her head onto the sand. “I need to catch my breath.”

“Lie still.” He ran his hands down her limbs, feeling for trouble. The fishing shorts and sandals made it easy to see and palpate long, red scrapes running from her knees to her ankles. “No bones broken, Lew. But we’re both very badly bruised.”

“Let me try getting up, Doc,” said Lew, bracing herself on her arms and pushing up onto her knees.

“Take it easy, sweetheart.” Osborne dropped onto the ground beside her. “Let’s just sit still for a few minutes. I’m exhausted.”

“Wait’ll I talk to the sonofabitch who told me this was calm water,” said Lew, pushing her wet hair back from her face. “Man, I am so pissed. Our kayaks are gone—what about your fly rod?”

“Last I saw it was in the kayak, but then everything else I had in there was dumped. I don’t know but I couldn’t hold on. What about you?”

“Me neither. And I made the big mistake of taking my fishing vest off when we were on the lake, so that’s gone along with my cell phone and everything. But the hell with all that. Jeez, Doc, I thought for a minute there I was going to get us both killed. I mean, really, we’re lucky our skulls weren’t fractured on those rocks.”

“I have to say that crossed my mind, too.” They looked at each other and burst into laughter. Long, hard, semi-hysterical laughter.

Finally Lew wiped the tears from her eyes, wriggled her toes as she dumped the sand from her sandals and said, “So where the hell do we go from here?”

“Well …” Osborne got to his feet and reached out his hand, “depends on whether or not you can stand up.”

“I’ll try. I have to say, laughing made me feel better.” She got to her knees first, then onto one foot and the other. “I think I got it,” she smiled. “But, man, am I banged up. I hurt!”