The Sky Fisherman (35 page)

"Well, you learn something new every day," Gab said. "And that's doubly true at the Gateway High School Science Fair. Anything else?"

When he put the mike close by, I steadied it with my hand. "Unlike the deep and fertile soil of the Midwest, here the topsoil is only a few inches deep, because it takes so long for the natural elements—wind, sun, and rain—to break down hard volcanic rock."

My mother was beaming and Franklin smiled too, although he was looking at her, not me. Jake and Juniper had been on their way out but paused by the doorway.

"Wow, you know this stuff cold," Gab said, signaling with his hand for me to continue. "But what we want to know is, Will one of these babies blow? Should we learn to duck and cover?"

"Scientists have recorded significant seismic activity throughout the western region. Many believe that these tremors are signals that a volcano could erupt and become active in the not-too-distant future."

Gab interrupted. "You mean one could blow at any time? I got to get a big helmet?"

"It's entirely possible that one of the mountains in the Lost River Range could experience volcanic activity within our lifetime."

Gab drew his finger across his throat and took back the mike. "I'm
interrupting this program for an emergency announcement. Run home to check your insurance policies. Do you have volcano coverage? Do I? What about earthquake damage? Read the small print. You could be in for quite a shock." He chuckled at his little joke. Switching off the mike, he gave me a wink. "Some fun. That was pretty lively, Culver. You've inherited a bit of Jake's gift for gab. No kidding. You should consider a career in broadcast journalism."

"Gab's right," my mother said. "Or television. With your good looks, you'd be terrific on television."

"No doubt about it," Franklin said. "See how that blazer squared his shoulders. Good-looking kid."

Gab scowled. "TV is not as reliable as radio, Mrs. Walker. Culver has the charisma for radio. You know it from his voice. Those TV gadflies are all sizzle and no steak." He patted me on the back. "But you're a natural. Like Edward R. Murrow. And I discovered you."

"If he's so great, why can't he sell a picnic table or all-natural synthetic coat?" Jake asked. "Something must be haywire."

"Some crapola can't be pawned off on the public," Gab said. He slapped my back, then lowered his voice. "No kidding. You got the stuff, kid. When I tried to talk to that little egghead about his satellite, he was DOA. I heard people switching off their sets all over town."

***

While Mom vaguely regarded science as a launch for my future, she was also making plans for her own. She'd been upset that Riley was at the fire, but any anxiety his closeness may have caused was relieved by learning that he agreed to sign the divorce papers. Still, as weeks went by without a word from my stepfather, her hopes began to fade.

Just when I'd about given up, too, he called the store late one night with his uncanny ability to catch me when Jake was out. Riley's voice was thick and I suspected he'd been drinking. "I'll tell you where I am, Bucko, but no one else can know. I want you to swear. Got a Bible around there?"

We had a couple spares at home but Jake didn't keep a Bible at the store. "Just the state fish and game regulations book," I said, half joking.

"That'll have to do. Swear and hope to die. Stick a needle in your eye." He paused. "You're the only one I trust, Bucko."

"All right then. I swear. My right hand's on the book." I hoped no customers walked in about then.

"The book doesn't matter. It's your word. I'm giving your mom a break here but taking a big chance."

"You got my promise, Riley."

He seemed to relax. "Traverse City, Michigan. It's the cherry capital of the world. Lots of tourists and farmworkers. People pass through, no questions asked. I'm not using my real name though." He cleared his throat. "Send the papers general delivery to Dwight Riggins." He paused, perhaps waiting for my reaction, then continued. "And don't use the Gateway post office. Drive up to Central."

"I hear you, Riley."

"Dwight." He chuckled. "You can't believe the money around this place. People from Chicago and Detroit have big summer homes on Lake Michigan. You could break into one and live like a king all winter. Who'd be the wiser?"

"You'd better take it easy," I said. "Don't go doing anything dangerous."

He chuckled. "I am dangerous. I'm one dangerous son of a bitch. The railroad people know that now. They've got a little respect since I smoked them out. But Dwight's been going to church. Met a rich old widow woman and even helped her with a little carpentry work. Maybe I'll wind up owning her cherry farm. Sit out on the porch swing in a straw hat eating fistfuls of cherries. No worries, except how to keep the juice from dripping on my white shirt."

"I hope things work out."

"She lives right on the peninsula." His voice became intense. "From her place, you can see those big old summer houses, the lights of town glimmer across the water. That's how the other half lives, kid."

When I closed my eyes, I could imagine him on the porch, but he wasn't watching lights. Near the dark water, a home blazed.

My eyes opened when the operator came on the line to tell him he'd have to deposit another sixty-five cents.

"This call is burning money. Listen, Bucko, don't smoke any trick cigars. Tell your mom I'm in clover and got a bead on this widow woman."

"I'll have her send the divorce papers, Dwight." The line went dead, so I didn't know if he'd heard me or not.

At dinner, when I told Mom he'd called, she started from her chair. "Where is he? Back in California?"

I knew she was excited but I kept my word. "I promised him I wouldn't tell."

"Okay, a promise is a promise," she said. "I don't really care where he is. I just wonder how many days the divorce papers will take to reach him. Well, things always drag out longer than you expect." She sat back down and shook her head. "Culver, I hope you don't regard me as being foolish for ever marrying that man."

"Of course not."

"I knew he lacked gumption, but he was always good to you. And I thought you needed a father."

"Well, now there's Jake," I said.

"Yes," she replied without a hint of enthusiasm. "Jake."

O
NCE THE CORONER CONFIRMED
that the two dead bodies were Meeks and Chilcoat, you never saw such a stir as appeared in the local papers. They started rehashing all of Meeks's high school football victories and his short, ill-fated career after Gateway. The
Gazette
reran an old sports article about Meeks scoring three touchdowns during his senior homecoming game. An end-zone photo accompanied the article. Helmet off, Meeks kneeled, his head bowed in what appeared to be prayer. In a recent interview, Coach Woof Stevans called Meeks "one of the finest young men I ever had the privilege to coach. He loved the game and earned the respect of his teammates." He also commented that his loss was tragic for Gateway, and they planned to dedicate the rest of the football season to him.

"Looks just like he's praying all right." Buzzy folded the paper, holding it close so he could study the picture. "Wonder how they ever got that photo."

"He's praying his buddies don't drink all the beer before he can shower and change," Jake said.

"Don't go speaking ill of the dead," Homer said. After making the pastry deliveries he had decided to stay. Identification of the bodies had made the back-room talk particularly intense that morning.

"We're putting together a radio show," Gab said, "interviewing some of his old teammates. It's a real human interest feature. Kind of whatever happened to the team. One got his leg cut off in a mint chopper; another got hurt in that water-skiing accident..."

'"Found dead under mysterious circumstances,'" Buzzy read from the article. '"Foul play not ruled out.'"

"Bullshit," Jake said. "The only foul play was those yahoos shooting that elk."

"The editor at the paper's always trying to stir up things," Homer said. "Remember when they had the noxious weed roundup last spring. 'Farmers Kill in Fields.' Earlier today the coroner stopped in to buy a cake for his grandson's birthday. His findings were 'accidental death.' No doubt about it."

"If you ask me, there's more to this than meets the eye," Buzzy said. "What were they doing so far back on the rez? When I first spotted that wreck, it was so remote, I thought it might be in the National Forest. You don't have to go that far from civilization to shoot an elk." He took a bite of his cinnamon roll. "You using margarine now?" he asked Homer.

"Never! God forgive you for even thinking it," Homer said.

"Probably the Indians aren't telling us everything," Buzzy said. He looked at the roll. "Maybe my taster's on the blink. Anyway, they took their own sweet time even checking out my report. Billyum always has been a little shifty, if you ask me. Sorry, Jake. I know he's your friend and all. But I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him—and he's a big man. All I'm saying is when you get on the reservation, there's not a thimbleful of real law."

"Or even a sense of fair play," Sniffy said. "For years the plywood mill kept the Indians' logging operations going. Then when the chance comes up, they plan to build their own damn mill without so much as a howdy or holler. Seems to me they're taking unfair advantage now because of government help. No regular outfit gets the same tax breaks and incentives the Indians do."

"What's that got to do with the guys in the woods?" Gab asked.

"I'm just putting in my opinion," Sniffy said. "Take it or leave it."

Jake raised an eyebrow, and I believe he was thinking of Sniffy's claim that the plywood mill had ripped off the Indians over the years. Now Sniffy was going along with the town.

"Grady thinks Billyum conducted a piss-poor investigation, too," Buzzy said. "By the time they got through mucking around, no one could even remember which body was in the pickup and which was on the ground. One's head was kind of bashed in. Maybe those two had a fight."

"Tree limb might have fallen," Homer said. "Of course, it wouldn't hit the guy in the cab."

"I still wonder why they were so far out," Buzzy said. "The longer they had to drive back, the greater the chance someone would spot them with that elk. Grady thinks it's peculiar, too." Buzzy finished the roll. "I don't care what you say, Homer. I know margarine. Can't trust anyone these days."

"Maybe they took a wrong turn." Homer was letting the margarine remark slide. "Reservation roads are confusing. If there's a sign at all, it usually points in the wrong direction."

"Could have been driven out there against their will." Gab raised an eyebrow. "A kidnapping?"

The back room was quiet for a few moments as they considered the idea. Then Jake began to speak with a lowered voice. "I know what happened. Billyum as much as said so, but it's all on the QT. If word gets back to him, I'm in dutch."

"You know us. Nothing leaves this room." Sniffy leaned forward.

"Put two and two together, you do come up with kidnapping," Jake said. "Someone pulled a pistol on them and headed out to the rez. Had a hell of a time driving the truck, holding the gun."

"I knew it," Buzzy said. "What did they want? Ransom?"

Jake waited for the hush. "Did I forget to say the kidnapper was the elk?" He grinned. "That elk knew it was going to be a lean winter and planned on feeding them to the little elks. But then it got to smoking, drinking, driving too fast. Big wreck."

"What a lousy story," Buzzy said. "I got a five-year-old niece lies better than that."

"Freak accident," Jake continued. "That's how one of those fellows wound up outside, the elk in the truck bed."

"You're full of shit as a Christmas goose," Gab said.

"Sometimes I don't know why I waste my time with you lowlifes." Buzzy put down the paper and left.

"When the truth comes out, you'll be laughing out the other side of your mouth," Jake called after him. "They'll vote me sheriff and I won't even have to run."

Juniper was steamed. I noticed the look the moment she stepped out of her van shortly after lunch. Inside the store, she nodded, then took coins out of her purse to buy a soda. "Got to cool off. I'm about to blow my top like some old Hawaiian volcano."

"I could say you're cute when you're mad," Jake said. "But I'm not even tempted. Just hoping you're not mad at me."

"Not so far, but there's plenty to go around. I stopped off at the
Gazette,
intending to give them a piece of my mind. These two poachers get page after page of news like they're some kind of saints. Kalim got murdered and only rated a tiny article on page six."

"So what did you do?" Jake asked.

"I parked in front of the
Gazette
office a long time, thinking about what I should say. But I couldn't go in. All those years, we stayed quiet whenever there was an insult. Say anything and you got tagged with being uppity or pushy." She shook her head.

"Most teachers treated us decent. Some didn't. But we kept our mouths shut or they made it worse. The other kids might jump on us, too. Find a weak point and they'd badger and badger until we broke down or headed back to the reservation." She frowned. "But the pressure was there, too. Always. 'You can make something of yourself,' teachers might say. What they really meant was 'Don't be like the rest of them.'"

"I still remember when you walked off the stage," Jake said.

She nodded. "That night I couldn't keep my temper. Later, when word got back to my mother and aunt, they scolded me and claimed I brought them shame." She sipped her drink. "Anyway, I'm getting sidetracked. Right now I've got another proposal to talk over."

Jake pretended to study his watch. "The consultant is in for the next hour and the back room is clear. Gonna cost you plenty though."

"Like what?"

"Lunch at the lodge. Fry bread and Indian chili."

Jake got a paper towel and wiped the pastry crumbs off a couple of the back-room chairs, but she sat at the high-backed work stool by the bench. Above her, Miss November on the Snap-On Tool calendar smiled at the wrench she was holding.