Dead Float (3 page)

Chapter Four

The motel radio alarm buzzed at six the next morning. By 6:35, I was juggling a cup of acrid motel coffee in my car while I called Well Spring on my cell. I was relieved when a live human answered. I explained my situation to the receptionist, who immediately put me through to the director of operations.

“Chad Harrelson.” He sounded young, too young.

“Uh, this is Calvin Claxton. I'm Claire Claxton's father. She's a volunteer on one of your teams in northern Darfur.”

“Yes, Mr. Claxton.” He paused for me to go on. This encouraged me in a sense. Apparently he had no shattering news. On the other hand, I sensed I wasn't going to get much from this guy.

“She's supposed to call me every Sunday. She's, uh, four days late. I'm wondering if you've heard from her team?”

“Just a moment, Mr. Claxton.” I heard his chair squeak and the click of computer keys. “Yes, she's with Jerry Baker's team. Let's see, Jerry checked in last Saturday. Everything was copasetic.” He paused again.

“So, I shouldn't worry that I haven't heard from her?”

“No. Not at all. It happens all the time with our field teams. Communicating in northern Darfur is difficult at best. Satellite phones are great, but they aren't very reliable.”

I felt somewhat reassured, but not much. “I'm leaving on a three-day fishing trip and will only be in cell phone range tonight when we camp. I'm, uh, trying to decide whether to go or not.”

“Mr. Claxton, I wouldn't worry about this. Go on your trip. We'll take good care of your daughter.”

I paused for what must have seemed a long time to Harrelson. “I'd like to call you tonight to see if you have any news.”

“Sure,” Harrelson replied. “I'll give you my cell number. Call me anytime. Don't worry, Mr. Claxton. This isn't unusual.”

Okay, I'm going, I decided. I should've felt better. After all, with any luck, word from Claire would be waiting for me tonight or at worst, when I got back. But I didn't feel better. Instead, I sat staring out across the mesquite-covered landscape, absently pulling at my mustache with my thumb and forefinger. The knot that had quietly formed in my gut tightened, and suddenly the coffee turned undrinkable. I opened the car door and poured it on the asphalt.

I headed north out of Madras and after a few miles turned onto a dirt road that angled off through a section of farmland made verdant by the water pumped up from the Deschutes River. Originating on the eastern slopes of the Cascades, the river traversed two hundred and fifty miles of high-desert terrain before emptying into the Columbia. I slowed to keep the dust down, thankful I wasn't following anyone in. When I saw the narrow, wooden train trestle with
Barlow Northern
stenciled across the top, I knew I was close to the put-in. The tracks that ran along the Deschutes connected central Oregon and California with the Columbia River and destinations north, east, and west.

As I pulled into the parking lot at the campground, I saw Philip's truck at the boat ramp and counted ten other rigs, at least. It's not going to be lonely out there, I thought. Hunched over, Philip was winching one of his aluminum drift boats into the water. The other was already in the river, lashed to the bank.

I stood there for a moment watching my friend. The only son of a proud Paiute Indian father and a white, social worker mother, Philip was someone you'd notice in a crowd. Narrow in the waist but thick through the chest and shoulders, he had his dad's high cheekbones, strong chin, and inky black hair, which was pulled back in a thick ponytail. Set against a coppery complexion, his jade green eyes were almost startling, and his narrow nose completed the break with classic Native American features.

Philip considered himself a Paiute first and foremost. He could be edgy around whites and had zero tolerance for patronizing do-gooders, to say nothing of outright bigots. It was as if the atrocities visited upon his father's people had been distilled down and poured into his consciousness, and the anger and frustration seethed, deceptively, just below the surface of his stoic demeanor. The death of my wife had affected me in a similar way, although my anger was self-directed. In any case, these similarities seemed to help us understand each other. I was proud to be his friend.

As I approached, I cupped a hand and called out, “Straight from central casting, Philip Lone Deer, fishing guide.”

Philip stopped cranking and without looking up replied, “Sounds like the forked-tongued lawyer from the wine country.” Then he raised his head, smiled broadly and said, “Glad you made it, Cal. Give me a hand with this damn boat.”

With both boats in the water, we started loading the rubber raft that would carry our food and camping gear downriver. By this time, Blake Forman, the third guide, had joined us. Born and raised on the Sandy River outside Portland, Blake was only twenty-one but a top-notch boatman whose job was to navigate the heavily laden raft to our campsites. Judging from the number of rigs in the parking lot, we needed to get him on his way so he could secure our designated site downriver before it was snapped up.

We'd nearly finished packing the raft when a black Lexus and a canary yellow Hummer rolled into the lot and parked. Philip said, “That'll be our clients,” and strode up the bank to greet them as Blake and I continued to pack.

Any hope I had that the new arrivals weren't the group from last night were dashed when Hal Bruckner came struggling down the bank in his pricey Orvis waders and boots. He was breathing hard, his belly sagged over his nylon wading belt, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. Wisps of blond hair protruded from a black ball cap with the name of his company—
NanoTech—
written in white script across the front.

“Good morning, fellas,” he said. “My name's Hal.”

Blake took his bag, and both of us introduced ourselves and shook hands with him. After wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he looked directly at me. “Of course. You're Cal, the lawyer from Dundee. Good to see you again. You know, the reason I'm here is that dinner we shared on the Klickitat last year. Couldn't get your description of this place out of my head.” He hiked a thumb in the direction of the parking lot. “Decided to bring my management team along for a little team-building.”

“Well, I don't think you'll be disappointed,” I responded.

Bruckner mopped his brow again. “What's this heat going to do to us?”

I looked at Blake, since he'd been on the river the day before.

“The fishing was killer yesterday, and it was hotter. Cloud cover or a little rain's usually a good thing, but when the hatch's full-on like this, the weather doesn't matter much.” He glanced out at the river. “It's an orgy out there right now.” As if to underscore his point, Blake brushed a two-inch salmon fly off the back of his neck. It hit the river with a plop and drifted away, thrashing about in the current.

By this time, the other three men in the party had gathered around us. The dark-haired man with the horn-rimmed glasses offered his hand and spoke first. He was lean and trim, with a condescending smile and an air of confidence bordering on arrogance.

“Mitch Hannon. I'm here to see if this salmon fly hatch's all it's cracked up to be.”

Bruckner laughed heartily and nodded toward me. “This is the guy I told you about, Mitch, who sold me on this river.”

Hannon looked at me. There was something about his eyes, too small maybe, and set too far into their sockets. He allowed a thin smile. “Don't feel any pressure, Claxton.”

Blake stifled a laugh that came out as a snort. I said, “Well, I hope I didn't oversell the river. The trout won't jump in the boat. You
will
have to fish for them.”

Hannon introduced the nerdy-looking guy wearing a shirt decorated with drawings of artificial flies. His name was Duane Pitman, and he bent forward in the habit of tall people, his hand enveloping mine like a flaccid glove. He had a narrow face, like something off a Modigliani canvas. His eyes were alert and intelligent as they appraised me behind thick wire-rims.

Hannon introduced the guy with the Popeye forearms next. Andrew Streeter was a stocky hulk of a man. “Glad to meet y'all,” he greeted us with a hard Southern twang—Georgia or Mississippi, I figured. His bushy eyebrows reminded me of weeds growing through cracks in a sidewalk, and his toothy grin seemed more nervous tic than an expression of friendliness. He handed me his bag. “When do we get to fish on this trip?”

I forced a smile. “Soon enough.”

Pointing to the river, Hannon said, “Remember, Andy, those ain't your daddy's catfish out there.”

Streeter smiled. “Shee-it, my daddy and me used to fish for tarpon in Boca Grande. Makes these trout look like minnows.”

Pitman rolled his eyes. “Oh, God, no tarpon stories on this trip. You promised.”

I glanced up the bank and saw the small woman with the raven hair but no Alexis. Another seed of hope germinated in my gut—maybe Alexis had decided to sit the trip out. Reasonable. After all, you could break a nail fishing on this river.

The small woman was struggling with her overstuffed bag. She smiled. “Okay, no comments about women bringing too much stuff. Guilty as charged.” I thought I caught just a trace of an accent but wasn't sure.

I laughed. “Here, let me help you with that. I'm Cal Claxton, by the way.”

“I'm Daina Zakaris. I can manage the bag. Just show me where to put the damn thing.” I pointed at a spot on the raft, and after loading her bag she said, “So, did you enjoy observing our little get-together last night, Cal?”

Her comment caught me off-guard. I broke into a guilty grin despite myself. “Uh, yeah, I did. I didn't think you folks noticed me.”

“The rest didn't, but I did. I could
feel
you looking at us,” she continued in a tone suggesting this was an everyday occurrence for her. Her eyes were extraordinary—black and luminous, like dark globes with a lit match behind them. They were teasing me, but I knew she wasn't kidding about catching me spying at the restaurant.

“You know how it is—eating alone with nothing to do. Your group was quite a challenge for an amateur psychologist like me, but I think I've got you all figured out.”

She raised her chin and laughed with genuine amusement. “We'll have to compare notes sometime.” She looked almost comical in her oversized waders. But I sensed her legs were strong, an attribute I knew would hold her in good stead on the river.

“So, do much fly-fishing, Daina?”

She brushed a strand of hair from her eye. “I took a course last year in Seattle. Fell in love with the sport, but I only know enough to be dangerous.”

I heard the scraping of feet behind me, then a familiar voice. “She's being modest. Actually, we're going to kick these guys' butts on this trip, aren't we, Daina?”

I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Alexis Bruckner.

Chapter Five

“Oh, hi, Alexis. How are you?” I hesitated a moment, then extended my hand.

“Hello, Calvin.” Her hands remained resting on her hips.

“You two know each other?” Daina asked.

I glanced at Alexis, hoping she'd respond. But she merely looked back at me with a sardonic smile and folded her arms across her chest.

I stood there feeling Daina's gaze on the side of my face like a heat lamp. “Uh, yeah, we met last fall on the Klickitat River over in Washington. She and, uh, Hal were salmon fishing with Philip. I joined them for dinner.”

“I see,” said Daina. She looked at Alexis and then looked back at me. Her eyes were amused again, making it clear that she did, in fact, see.

“See you tonight at the campsite. Keep 'er dry.” Philip's shout out to Blake as he shoved off with the raft interrupted the awkward scene. Philip waved me over to where he and Bruckner were standing, and after a brief huddle we decided I would take Daina, Hannon, and Streeter in my boat. Philip would take the Bruckners and Pitman in his. I figured Philip would opt for the Bruckners since Hal was paying the bill, and I was damn relieved when he did. While Alexis dallied on the bank meticulously applying sunscreen and threading her ponytail through the back of a NanoTech cap, I eased my boat into the current to the delight of Hannon and Streeter, whose competitive juices were already flowing.

“Atta boy, Claxton,” Hannon said. “Let's put some distance between us and those bait casters.”

“Yeah,” echoed Streeter, “put your back in it, man. We need to bag the best fishin' holes.”

Just my luck to get stuck with the type-A personalities. But I bit my tongue. “No worries, gentlemen, it's a big river, and there's plenty of trout to go around.”

The day continued to warm and there wasn't a breath of wind. Insects buzzed and darted low over the water as the air filled with the scent of wild sage and mock orange. The river was glassy smooth, and I could see the telltale spreading rings of feeding trout along the banks. I rowed with the current for about twenty minutes until we came to the first section I planned to fish.

“Okay,” I said after securing the boat, “the current's swift and the rocks are slick, so use your wading sticks and keep your wader belts cinched tight. The salmon flies are concentrated in the brush along the bank, so the fish will be in close. And remember, it's all catch and release on this river.”

I had Streeter and Hannon fan out downstream and reserved a wide, riffling section that started at the boat and went upstream for Daina. Standing on the bank, I watched her fish, giving pointers now and then. She hadn't moved upriver more than thirty feet when a fish rose in front of her. I didn't think she saw it.

“Try casting at about one o'clock. Thought I saw something,” I said casually.

She hit just above the spot on the second try, and I held my breath. Like it'd been waiting all day for it, the trout took the fly with a shattering strike that brought its body halfway out of the water.

“Whoa! Did you see that?” she screamed with pure delight as the fish dove and ran for the safety of the deep current. Line buzzed off her reel. Then the fish stopped abruptly. Daina's pole bent double in what was now a standoff. Just as suddenly the trout broke again, this time, toward her.

“Reel in!” I shouted.

Too late. Her line went slack, the fish jumped again, and with a flick of its head tossed the barbless hook.

“Oh, damn! I lost it. Did you see him? Wasn't he gorgeous? Those colors, my God. That was my first wild trout.”

“Congratulations. That was a beautiful fish—fifteen, sixteen inches, easy. You hooked him on a good cast, and he gave you a helluva fight. Doesn't get much better than that.”

“Thanks,” she said, as she worked her way further upstream and began casting again. I was about to leave her to check on Streeter and Hannon when she said over her shoulder, “Somehow I get the impression this isn't your full-time job. What do you do when you're not guiding, Cal?”

I shrugged. “I'm a small-town lawyer who'd rather fish than practice law.”

“I'll bet the story's more complicated than that.” Her eyes were now studying me.

I laughed. “You're right about complicated, but long, too. The fish are biting, so my advice is to keep moving up this seam to the point. There should be plenty more action up ahead. Meanwhile, I need to check on your colleagues.”

I spotted Streeter fifty yards downriver. He was working close to the bank in hip-deep water. I stopped behind him on the trail and watched him fish, thinking of water buffalo. He was nearly up to a hackberry tree whose branches formed a sizeable patch of shaded water. I knew there'd be at least one big redside feeding there.

He moved within range and squared up to cast.
Don't hang it in that hackberry
, I said to myself. But his cast was too strong, and disaster struck.

“Goddamn son of a bitch!” Streeter bellowed as his fly flew smack into the hackberry branches. “You dumb bastard,” he screamed at himself, while frantically yanking on his line to free the fly. I was a good distance back, but I could see that the back of his neck was already beet-red with rage.

“Hang on, Andrew,” I called out. “Let me give you a hand.”

I slipped into the river and worked my way out to a spot directly below the snagged lure. Just managing to reach some leaves on the involved branch, I gently pulled it down and unhooked the fly, which now looked more like a plucked chicken than a salmon fly. I took his line in closer to the bank where the footing was firm and tied on another fly.

“You're good to go,” I told him, tossing his new fly into the water.

He grunted something and started moving upriver, his face flushed and drenched with sweat. I found myself wondering about his blood pressure. It wasn't until I was halfway down to Hannon that I realized Streeter hadn't bothered to thank me.

I found Hannon working a stretch of deep water. As I approached, he snapped off a beautiful cast that took his fly out forty-five feet before dropping it on the river as softly as a flower petal. In the flick of an eye it vanished from the surface.

“Gotcha,” he said as he expertly set the hook and brought the tip of his rod up. After a lengthy fight, he had the fish in front of him. Clamping his pole under his right arm, he reached down to release it. The trout still had plenty of fight in him and began to thrash about wildly. I smiled when it splashed him directly in the face, Top Gun aviator glasses and all. But my smile vanished at what happened next. Hannon reached down and grabbed the fish with his left hand and the nylon leader with his right. He yanked hard. The hook tore free and blood spurted from the fish's mouth.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” I yelled as I charged down the bank toward him with my fists clenched.

Hannon turned toward me and removed his glasses. He looked surprised for a moment, then defiant.

“Don't
ever
do that to a fish in this river!”

“Ease up, man. The little bastard splashed me. Whataya expect?”

I was aware this was Philip's paying customer, but I didn't care. “Listen, Hannon,” I said, looking straight into his squinting eyes, “if you do that again on this trip you'll walk home.”

“Okay, okay. You know damn well one dead trout isn't going to tip the ecological balance on this river, so cut me some slack.” His smirk was intended to show he wasn't intimidated by my threat.

I turned on my heels and headed back toward the boat without saying another word. I knew Hannon's type. To him, catching a fish was an act of dominance, something to tally, stuff, and hang on the wall. It was the same mentality that led to shooting polar bears from helicopters or hunting cougars with dogs. I owed it to Philip to make nice with this guy, so I kept my mouth shut.

What a bunch of creeps
, I muttered to myself as I walked away, wondering if Philip had fared any better that morning.