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  “Charlie was spot on about the poaching.”

  “He talked to you about it?”

  “Now and then. Charlie fished at night more than anybody. He knew what was going on. Poachers take big fish. Big fish are survivors. That’s the problem, stripping the river of the top of the gene pool.”

  “Charlie never said anything to me.”

  “Yeah, well, he knew you and Mercy were hooked up together. He wouldn’t.”

  “But that’s what I’m saying. If Charlie was concerned about Mercy’s feelings, why write to Woodsman? It’s odd.”

  “So Proffit thinks Charlie recognized some poacher, the poacher wanted to cover his tail, he went up to the campground, blasted away through the tent?”

  “In a nutshell, yes.”

  Calvin placed the oiled reel in a cloth bag, cleaned his hands again. “I got an idea.”

  “Go down to Big Rapids, find Charlie’s drug source.”

  “Naw, forget that. This makes more sense. We know Charlie was hot about poachers.”

  “So what’s your new idea?”

  Calvin said, “Let’s take a hike, look at the river.”

  *  *  *

  A PATH FROM Calvin’s cabin ran for a hundred yards or so through thick pine, then emerged onto a grassy bank above a tight bend in the river. The current braided around a small island thick with alders and outlined at the water’s edge with trout iris.

  “Nice spot,” Fitzgerald said.

  Calvin lowered himself to the grass, propped his back against the stump of a poplar downed by beavers. “It’s got a point. One night, ’round about here, Verlyn put an arrow this far from Stanley Elk’s ear.” Calvin held up a hand, showed the gap between his thumb and forefinger. “He got Stanley’s attention.”

  Fitzgerald settled into the grass beside Calvin. “Don’t think I know the name.”

  “This goes back before your time up here. Verlyn and I were still high school kids. Those days, there wasn’t much DNR enforcement of fishing regulations, so we used to prowl the river on moonlit nights, enforce them ourselves. One night we ran into this Ojibway, kid about our age, fishing with worms and killing big browns right and left. There wasn’t any flies-only, catch-and-release water then, but there was a bag limit.

  “So Verlyn released an arrow, it zipped past Stanley’s ear, stuck in a tree on the island. Verlyn was just getting into archery then, and he liked the challenge, sizing up a target in the river under moonlight, seeing how close he could come with a miss. Man, did it work. You’re out at night, breaking the law, you hear that rush an arrow makes going past, then the plunk into a tree—you get the hell out of the water, never come back. We figured, an arrow, poachers would think it was a bunch of Ojibways letting them know this part of the river was already staked out for poaching. They’d think it was an Indian attack. Next thing, they didn’t get out of the water, they’d get scalped.

  “The night I’m talking about, Stanley, Ojibway himself, didn’t think that way. He didn’t move a hair after the arrow zipped by. We thought maybe Verlyn had screwed up, nailed him with it, so we waded out to where he was. That was how we first met Stanley.”

  “You really did that?” Fitzgerald said. “You fired off arrows at night?”

  “The DNR should try it. With poachers, fines are a badge of honor among thieves. Stark fear is the only thing that works.”

  “So what happened with Stanley?”

  “Like I say, he was about our own age, kid from around Roscommon. He was used to horsing around with bows and arrows, so getting shot at was nothing special. He thought it was kind of funny, in fact, two palefaces trying to scare off an Ojibway with an arrow. Anyway, we got to talking, telling him he was screwing up the river by killing fish, telling him it was more fun fishing with flies and a fly rod. Stanley was interested, so we agreed to meet over the next nights, start him in on a fishing education.

  “We went through everything: different fly rods, different line weights and tippets, dry flies and wet flies, nymphs and streamers. All the black magic of fly fishing. Stanley took to everything except the catch-and-release part. He said Ojibways lived off the land, so they had to kill fish. We got him down to killing only a couple at a time, still using his spinning rod and worms, but that was as far as Stanley would go. He wouldn’t buy a license, either. Claimed there was some treaty with the government about it, way back. Otherwise, Stanley ended up a fly fisherman.”

  “That’s two rather large exceptions.”

  “True. But you’ve got to remember how we found him, a kid who didn’t know anything but spin fishing with bait, hauling out stringers of fish. Stanley’s a schoolteacher now. In Roscommon.”

  “A success story.”

  Calvin shrugged, looked out at the island ringed with iris. “He still lives off the land on the side, fishing the South Branch at night, killing a couple fish, no license. What I’m thinking is we get Stanley working for us. We get him talking to poachers, see what they’re saying. The poachers know Stanley, know he’s an Ojibway killing fish, so they tell him their war stories.”

  “Kit told me poachers like to boast about their exploits.”

  “The kid’s right. Stanley might learn who it was recognized Charlie.”

  “But would Stanley do it? It’s risky. He wouldn’t just be talking with poachers. One of them—that’s the theory—is a killer.”

  Calvin nodded. “You got a point. So I’ll give him some incentive, tell him about the reward. Stanley could have a shot at it.”

  “I don’t know,” Fitzgerald said. “You’d have to see what Stroud and Mercy think.”

  “You kidding? I know what they’d think. They have to play by the book. I’m hunting up Stanley, seeing if he’s interested. If Stroud or Mercy get wind of anything, I’ll say I’m dangling the reward around, seeing what develops.”

  “All right,” Fitzgerald said. “But watch your step. The reward’s for apprehending a killer.”

  “Dead one,” Calvin said, “you want my preference.”

  19

  BURT BERRY WAS sitting at the picnic table under the awning of the fifth-wheeler when Mercy arrived at Rainbow Run. After she parked and leaned out the window, he hurried over to her.

  “Just about getting ready for my chores.”

  “There are any?”

  “Will be.” Burt inclined his head toward the campground road. “No deputy at the entrance, you notice? Sheriff’s letting us open is why.”

  “News to me,” Mercy said.

  “Campers just allowed on the first loop road. Sheriff wants the second kept closed a while longer. Deputies went over Charlie’s campsite again, took more pictures. Now they’re loading the tent and gear in a van. They’re sending the whole batch to Big Rapids. The pickup too, pulled along behind the van.”

  “Stroud might have told me.”

  “Deputy said they called Charlie’s wife, asked what she wanted done with his things. Said she wanted everything. She’s the one sent the van up.”

  “More for the garage sale.” When Burt looked at her, Mercy shook her head, said, “Are there any? New campers?”

  “I’m thinking it’ll take a while,” Burt said, “given what happened. But August’s coming up. People got to camp somewhere. No reason not to camp here.”

  “Some people might take murder as a reason.”

  “That’s so,” Burt said. “But safest airline to fly is one just had a crash. Here, the sheriff’s going to double campground patrols. One of the deputies told me.”

  “I should keep checking in with you. You’re way ahead of me.”

  “We’ll be the safest place in Michigan.”

  “Let’s hope. The reason I’m here,” Mercy said, “is to see Alec Proffit. He’s at his campsite?”

  “Hasn’t left since he came back. I’ve got a lookout on him.”

  Mercy started the Suburban, then leaned out the window again. “Billie still doing all right?”

  “About the same.�
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  “And you?”

  “Can’t complain. About back to routine.”

  “That’s fine. We all are,” Mercy added, “trying to get back.”

  *  *  *

  WHEN SHE CAME up the path from the loop road, Alec Proffit rose from a folding camp chair beside the fire pit, ballpoint pen in one hand, stenographer’s notebook in the other. “Mercy Virdon,” she announced briskly. “From the local DNR field office in Ossning.”

  “Ah,” Proffit said, drawing out the sound. “I assumed I might be hearing from you. But—”

  “You didn’t expect a woman.”

  Proffit smiled—a long, deep smile. “I hadn’t really thought about it. But I suppose not.” He looked down at the camp chair. “Would you?”

  “This isn’t a social call. Sheriff Stroud let me hear the recording of your interview with him. I want to talk about that.”

  “Of course.” Proffit placed the notebook on the camp chair, sunk his hands into the pockets of his khaki trousers. “Could I make you a coffee first? I have a little espresso machine. It works off the car lighter.”

  Mercy ignored him. “What Charlie Orr wrote you about poaching on the Borchard was totally exaggerated. We have problems, sure. Every river does. But poaching isn’t a primary cause of the Borchard’s decline as a fishery, if there’s a decline. It’s one part, a small one, of a complex of problems. Charlie knew that.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Proffit said evenly.

  Mercy raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m sure he understood the complexity.”

  “But that isn’t what you claim he said in his letter.”

  “He wished to make a point, so he embellished the role of poaching. I understood that.”

  “But on the recording you repeated what Charlie told you. And you were going to put it in an article.”

  “Writers get carried away. Myself, I’m afraid, as well as Charlie.”

  Mercy stared across the fire pit. “You’re saying you didn’t believe what Charlie told you—told you about poaching—yet were going to write it up anyway?”

  Proffit smiled again. “As you heard, I came out here to check what he told me. His letter was only a starting point.”

  “What I heard was, following Charlie around on the river, you came to agree with him about the poaching.”

  “There was some going on. One couldn’t help noticing it.”

  “And from that you jumped to the conclusion that a poacher killed Charlie.”

  “I believed that a possibility.”

  “Or the DNR did.”

  Proffit drew a hand from his pocket, ran it through his hair, shrugged sheepishly. “I expected we would get around to that. Listen,” he said, “it’s awkward standing here. Couldn’t we at least sit at the picnic table?”

  *  *  *

  THE MOMENT SHE did, she regretted it. Sitting just across the picnic table, its top a mosaic of carved initials, he was too close to her, too physically present. Mercy squirmed on the bench, unable to gain more separation.

  Alec Proffit was somewhat older than she had imagined from hearing his voice on the cassette, fifty-something perhaps, though his hair was still dark brown and his tanned skin was strikingly smooth. The eyes looking back at her were clear and unblinking. She found herself turning away, concentrating on the Royal Coachman stitched above the pocket of his blue shirt. She could dislike that—dislike it as something excessive, perhaps even false—and so maintain her anger. A genuine fisherman would never parade his obsession that way. The angling equivalent of a drugstore cowboy would.

  “You have to bear in mind,” he was saying to her, “that Charlie Orr’s death took me by surprise. I was evaluating his account of poaching on the river. Then, like that, he was gone. Under the circumstances, it seemed sensible to conclude that an angry poacher had killed him. Just as sensible that an angry DNR officer might have. Charlie’s complaint was twofold: Poachers were harming the river, and the DNR wasn’t doing enough about it. So both parties had a motive for getting rid of him. It was incredible.”

  Mercy said, “And incredible material for Will Woodsman’s column.”

  “I admit that. I got carried away. I’m only asking that you understand the situation—the shocking nature of Charlie’s death, how disorienting it was.”

  Mercy forced herself to meet Proffit’s gaze. “There are people around here, people who actually knew Charlie, who were shocked as well. They didn’t accuse the DNR of killing him.”

  Proffit lifted his hands from the table. “What can I say?”

  “You could apologize,” Mercy said sharply, “to begin with. Then you could go to the sheriff, tell him what you said on the recording is complete nonsense.”

  “Certainly.”

  Mercy stared at him.

  “I’ll clear it up. It still seems likely that a poacher killed Charlie, but of course the DNR wasn’t involved. Not unless there’s a rogue agent who had a particular grudge against Charlie. You would know about that.”

  “Exactly,” Mercy said. “I’d know and you wouldn’t. And I know there are no rogue agents in the Ossning district.”

  “So I apologize. Heartily so.” Proffit smiled, showing off teeth that seemed excessively white—all of a piece, somehow, with the stitched Royal Coachman on his blue shirt. “I’m glad we’ve got that settled.”

  “You’re going to tell Sheriff Stroud you didn’t mean what you said about the DNR. And he’s going to record what you tell him. That’s what we’ve got settled.”

  “Of course.”

  “The other matter is what Charlie told you about poaching. The importance of it on the Borchard. He was wrong about that.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Dammit,” Mercy said, “don’t be so agreeable. Just listen. I’d like to have Will Woodsman halfway informed, in case he decides to write something about the river. Charlie thought people should play by the rules, the legal rules and the rules of good sportsmanship, and he was right. But one of the first things you learn working for the DNR is people don’t. Not all of them, not all the time. And you learn there’s nothing, ultimately, you can do about it.

  “People moan that fishing and hunting aren’t what they used to be, but never seem to realize they contribute to the situation when they violate game regulations. I don’t know what it is—maybe a continuing black urge to conquer nature by completely eliminating it—but some yahoos have a compulsion to kill anything that moves or swims. When we catch them breaking the rules, we hit them as hard as we can. The judges have come around on this. It used to be like drunk driving—there but for the grace of God go I. But now we’re getting some serious sentences.

  “Recently we got a repeat offender fined a thousand dollars and jailed for six months. And we’re getting more cooperation from citizens, people as outraged as we are about violators. But it’s not going to end the violations. That’s my point. Enforcement isn’t the problem, though we can always do better with it. Human nature’s the problem.”

  Proffit dipped his head. “Well put.”

  “I’m not finished. Where Charlie and I really disagreed is about the specific harm poachers do the Borchard. There’s no doubt they kill some big fish, but our river shocking surveys indicate the number of large fish has remained fairly stable. Charlie’s evidence, on the other hand, is entirely anecdotal, plus his own fishing records indicated fewer big trout taken on a fly. So we went back and forth, scientific findings against personal experience. That’s the rub the DNR always has with the public. Charlie and I simply agreed to disagree. It was all perfectly civil. There was no bigger supporter of the DNR, and of me personally, than Charlie Orr. That’s why I can’t understand why he wrote to you. It wasn’t like him.”

  “Well,” Proffit said, “it’s water over the dam now.”

  “Not to me.”

  “With Charlie gone, I meant. We will never know what motivated him.”

  “Still and all.”

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nbsp; “It might have been nothing more than seeing a trophy trout killed one night. That can be a sickening experience for someone dedicated to catch and release. Something of the sort might have triggered Charlie’s reaction.”

  “Possibly,” Mercy admitted.

  Proffit paused a moment before he smiled and said, “Now could I interest you in an espresso?”

  “I have to be getting back. I just wanted to speak my piece.”

  “You did. Eloquently.”

  “Just remember to talk to the sheriff and have him record it.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Mercy extricated herself from the picnic table, a graceless movement when someone on the other side was watching and smiling. She had taken a few steps away, heading toward the Suburban, when she turned, came back to Proffit.

  “You had a notebook out when I came. Does that mean you’re going to write something about Charlie?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Unless you get carried away again?”

  Proffit again ran a hand through his hair, then rose from the picnic table—more graceful about it, Mercy noticed, than she had been. “I was merely thinking. Old habit. I think best with pen and notebook in hand. Will Woodsman won’t be writing anything about Charlie Orr. I assure you.”

  “But you’ll be staying in the campground?”

  “I believe that’s what your sheriff has in mind.”

  Mercy nodded, turned away.

  “Nice to have talked with you,” Proffit called out from behind her.

  *  *  *

  FOLLOWING THE LOOP road from Alec Proffit’s campsite took her past Charlie’s. When she came to it, Mercy parked the Suburban and walked up the incline on the path through the pines. She didn’t know what she had been expecting to find, but it certainly wasn’t this—a void, utter emptiness, every trace of Charlie Orr’s presence removed.

  She sat on the edge of the picnic table to steady herself. Burt Berry had told her deputies were removing Charlie’s things from the campsite, but to be so quick about it—and so thorough! It took her breath away. Where she remembered Charlie’s white tent standing, the dirt was no more hard-packed than elsewhere in the campsite. In the fire pit were no charred remains. Even Charlie’s stacked firewood had been removed. Mercy ran a hand across the rough surface of the table, aware that Charlie had sat here, taken his meals here. At least the table hadn’t been carted away.