Untraceable (15 page)

I nod. That’s an understatement.

~~~~

Early the next morning, I stand at the window, waiting for Les’s call. The distant sky seems darker than usual. Clouds shaped like massive clumps of cauliflower hang on the horizon. I press my face against the cold window, letting my breath create patches of fog so I can draw little hearts. Through the glass, I squint at the dense woods enveloping my house. What once was my best friend, my retreat, seems to be turning on me a little. But I can’t let those guys scare me away from everything I know. Or I’ll lose everything that’s keeping me safe.

Chewing my fingernails, I pace in a square along the room like a caged lion. No matter how much I want to head out, I promised Les I’d wait.

An hour later, Les still hasn’t called. Forget this. I’m going fishing whether those guys are busted or not. No way I’m holing up in this place any longer. Probably not something my dad would approve of.

Then again, he’s not here.

I check my backpack for all my supplies and jump on my bike. The whole ride, I feel fine. Until I start walking deeper into the woods. Every rustle and every creek rattles my nerves. My body stiffens and tension balloons in my chest, crowding my lungs. I force the fear aside, telling my nerves there’s nothing to worry about; Al and Billy are probably miles from here. It’s just for a couple hours of fishing then back home. I need this.

Most people don’t get why I love flyfishing so much. They seem to think the sport is about having the perfect looped cast like in
A River Runs Through It
. Or about snagging the largest fish. To those of us who spend hours and days on the river, it’s about so much more.

Thoreau’s quote trails through my mind.
Many men go fishing all of their lives without ever knowing that it is not fish they are really after
. So true. After suiting up, I wade into Bear Creek’s quickening tide. As I strain to find a rhythm, the angry water slams against my ankles, pushing me off the slimy rocks. It takes me a few tries, but I finally manage to dig my heels into the silt and cast smoothly. However, instead of finding peace, my brain jumps around from Dad to Al to the case and back again. There’s got to be a missing piece to this whole puzzle, one I can’t wrap my brain around.

Seconds later, something snags my line. I rejoin reality, only to find my tippet trapped in a low-hanging tree. Great. I wrestle with the line, hoping the branch will release my fly. No such luck. Instead, the line snaps in two and coils around me. Resting on a boulder, I pick at the jumbled knot, reminding me of when Mom used to untangle my hair, a tiny clump at a time. Somehow, this mangled mess becomes a metaphor for my life.

No matter how much I try to straighten everything out, it remains muddled.

Eventually, I tuck the twisted mess into my pocket and tie on a new leader and fly. Just a few more minutes of fishing before I hunt for more clues. Scanning the river’s brown canvas, I spot a few fish splashing downstream and stalk my quarry, teasing the surface with my line. One of Dad’s fishing tips scrolls across my brain.

Take it easy, Gracie. You’re better off letting it happen than making it happen.

Instead of recasting, I let the line float along the glassy surface. Just as I’m about to give up, something nibbles my fly. Breathing evenly, I do a quick jerk before reeling in the line. Seconds later, a shiny fish flaps along the surface, trying to escape. I counter his reaction by anticipating his next move. My body tingles with excitement. I feel more alive than I have in a long time.
 

For one brief moment, I forget all my problems.

I grab my net and scoop up my catch before he flops on the sand. The fish’s brown-spotted body gleams with water and a reddish-pink band decorates his side. A rainbow trout. I hold him up to my face and stare into his big, bulging eyes. The fish opens and closes his mouth, as if telling me his life story.

The current tugs at my ankles, begging me to release him back to nature. I ease up on shore and carefully remove the hook from his mouth. It’s important to respect every catch or it isn’t flyfishing. Since I’m not going to eat him, I need to let him go. Nature shouldn’t be wasted.

I whisper, “Thank you,” just like Dad always did and open my hand. The slimy fish slides down my fingers and plops into the gurgling water. As he squirms away to freedom, I envy him. Wishing it was that easy for me to swim downstream and start over as if nothing bad had happened.

As I take off the waders and gather everything, my sixth sense kicks into overdrive. The hair on my neck rises.

I’m not alone.

I freeze and tune into every noise around me, waiting for the one that’s out of place. A cricket. A bird. A fish jumping. Then I hear it.

Two pebbles clap together.

Then another crunch. This time, much closer.

I wait and let my intruder approach, knowing I’m not prepared to face Al alone.

As soon as my ear detects a sound behind me, I pivot, sweeping my leg along the ground. My foot clips two black boots, catching my attacker off guard. He trips and as soon as he falls, I pounce on top and jab my knee into his chest, pinning him to the ground.

I do all this in a flash, without thinking or even realizing who it is.

Mo stares up at me with wide eyes. “Bloody hell!”

It takes a second to register his face. “Jesus. Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on someone?” I roll off him and jump to my feet, still tense and on guard. Darting my eyes, I search the woods to be sure someone else isn’t with him.

Mo lies on his back with his mouth hanging open. “I wasn’t sneaking. I was
walking
.” He sits up and smacks dirt off his pants. “Anyway, I believe it’s much ruder to
attack
someone who’s only armed with a fishing pole and a smile.”

I take my hand off the handle of my knife before he notices I almost drew a weapon on him. “Well, if we’re getting literal, I wasn’t
attacking
. I was defending.”

He holds up two hands. “Is it safe for me to get up?”

I shrug and hide a smirk. “If you can.”

Mo stands and massages the back of his neck. “Crumbs, I can’t figure you out, Grace.”

My tummy flip-flops when he says my name. “Are you trying to?”

He teases me with his eyes. “Maybe.”

I recoil, surprised at his bluntness. “So then, what’s the big mystery?” After all, Dad says I wear my emotions on my sleeve so I can’t be that difficult to read.

He picks his bag up off the ground. “Do you always react like this?”

“Do you always
stalk
girls? In the woods? When they’re alone? Anyway, after the other day, do you really blame me?”

Mo frowns and shakes his head. “No, I guess I don’t. You’re right. It was daft of me not to say anything. I apologize. Then again, I told you not to come out here alone. So in a way, maybe it was a lesson.”

“Only it looks like
you’re
the one who learned something.”

Mo grins and bows. “Touché.” He studies me and moves his lips to one side, chewing on the bottom one. “Well, not many people can throw me off guard. I believe you’re one of the first.”

I wish
, I think. Instead, I say, “Guess there’s a first time for everything. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Might ruin your reputation.”

He purses his lips before smiling. “It’s all right. Those are overrated anyway. Where’d you learn to move like that?”

I tuck my hands into my pockets so he can’t see the lingering tremors from an overflow of adrenaline. “My dad taught me self defense. He was a black belt.”

“Hmmm. Smart man.”

“Yes, he wa ... I mean ... is.” The pit of my stomach boils when I realize I almost used the past tense. My heart sinks, wondering if deep down, I’m secretly giving up. Letting go. I shake off the feeling. No, I will not let that happen. Ever.

Mo eyes my rod. “So let me get this straight. You’re a flyfisher, a tracker, and a black belt’s protégé?” He flips into a bad American accent. “Grace, you are one whacky chick.”

I return to the moment and crack a grin. “Ha ha. What are you doing here anyway? If I was paranoid, I’d think you were following me.”

He pushes his longish bangs to the side, out of his inviting eyes. “I was out collecting samples and wondered if you’d be here.”

“Thought this wasn’t a ‘good idea.’”

He laughs aloud. A deep throaty laugh that divides the tension between us in half. “And telling by your reaction, I was right. You out here fishing alone sure isn’t the best idea.”

“So then why’d you come?”

He claps the dirt off his hands and smears the rest on his pants. “I wanted to be sure you were safe.”

I grin and wrinkle my nose. “Only it was
you
who needed protection.”

“Who knew?” Mo moves next to me and stares out at the river. His elbow jabs me lightly between the ribs. “Oi. Fancy showing me some of your fishing moves?”

I inch to the right. “I changed my mind. I don’t fish with strangers.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Oh! Pardon me, but if I recall, this bloody
stranger
saved your life. That should count for something.”

I tap my finger to my lips and contemplate. “Why? You could be a mass murderer, casing riverbanks for your next victim.”

Mo shakes his head in disagreement. “That’s poppycock. If I were a mass murderer, I’d pick a more populated spot. Nothing ‘mass’ about it if it’s just one poor ole’ sod. Anyway, I don’t think a killer would take time out to fish. Do you?”

“Maybe it’s your cover.” I shrug. “Never know these days. The world’s a dangerous place.”

He smacks his forehead dramatically. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Did you think I would?”

“I guess not. Oh well, if you’re not going to fish with me,” Mo tosses his bag over one shoulder and shifts into an odd drawl, “then I’ll just
mosey along
.” He begins slowly walking away, every few feet looking back over his shoulder with a sad puppy face.

I giggle at his horrific attempt at a Southern accent and pitiful expression. Almost as bad as my English one, though my puppy eyes could take on his any day. “To where?”

“My
secret
fishing spot.”

My smile drops, and I call out to him as he leaves, hopping from rock to rock. “That’s ridiculous! I’ve lived here all my life and know every spot here.”

He shakes his head without looking back. “Not this one.”

I grow slightly irritated, shifting from foot to foot in a swaying motion. “Impossible. I’ve hiked out here almost every day since I was three.”

“Then you have nothing to fear, my dear. Fancy coming along? Or are you scared you might actually enjoy hanging out with a foreign stranger.”

“Hardly.” I pause for a few seconds. Part of me needs to stay. Yet a larger piece of me wants to go check this guy out. If he knows of a place I don’t, then maybe it’s a new place to search. Or maybe I should just go along because I deserve a break. “Fine, I’ll bite. What’s the catch? No pun intended.”

He grins mischievously. “If I show you a spot you’ve never seen, you have to teach me how to fish.”

“Thought you knew how to fish.”

He scoops up some water and runs his wet hands through his hair. Little drops land on his lips. “Bloody hell, woman, you know what I mean. Flyfish.”

My stomach flip-flops at the thought of spending more time with him. “What if I’ve been there before? What are
you
going to do for
me
?”

He scratches his scruffy cheeks for a few seconds until his face lights up. “I’ll cook you a fabulous dinner.”

“Can you cook?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely.” I pretend to think for a moment, letting the suspense accumulate. Mo urges me on. “Come off it. What are you afraid of?”