Chapter One

It was way early, like 5:30 in the a.m., when Billy Ray Dent eased his metallic blue pickup and bass boat into the parking lot at Vera's Largemouth Cafe.  Even though it was only early summer the East Texas air was already warm and sticky, promising another hot one.  He shoved open the truck’s door and noted that the sun hadn't even begun pinking up the sky over the far side of Lake Fork, the undisputed bass capital of the free world.  Billy Ray limited his bragging to the free world because he knew that Castro was hiding some damn good fishing over in Cuba.

Poochie Rappalla’s truck and lime-green hellcat of a boat with the two-hundred-and-fifty-horse super-charged Evinrude already sat in the lot.  Poochie downplayed it, said the boat ran only seventy-five miles an hour, but Billy Ray figured it more like ninety-five.  He'd sworn to never, ever ride in another boat Poochie was driving.  He enjoyed a little adrenaline rush as much as the next guy, but a shade under a hundred miles per hour in a bass boat was pushing the limits of common sanity.  None of this had anything to do with Poochie’s talent as a fishing guide; he was renowned in certain circles for the ability to think like and properly anticipate the sporadic movements of the pregnant female bass.

At the door Billy Ray tucked the tail of his purple golf shirt in his jeans, then entered the cafe and took his usual seat at the counter.  The smell of thick bacon frying and fresh brewed coffee hung heavy in the air.  Vera was banging pots and rustling around back in the kitchen, so he got up and poured himself a cup.  He spotted Poochie in a booth over underneath the big pane glass window with the dancing bass painted on it.  His friend gave his patented, early-morning, not-quite-right-with-the-world nod as he took a puff of what was most likely his third cigarette since rolling out of the sack.  The man’s cheeks were splotchy red, but there was no getting around the fact he had skin like a well-fed baby, his sunburned forehead plump and smooth.

The miniature cowbell tied to the front door jingled.  A pasty-skinned little fella shuffled in and looked around like he was lost.  Billy Ray figured anybody sporting a wrinkled black suit at Vera's at 5:30 in the a.m. had to be lost.  He looked around for Vera, who was still nowhere in sight, then addressed the stranger.  "Can I help you?"

The stranger's thick forehead drew up into little washboard rolls.  He stood about five foot three.  The guy's black shoes were shined to a high gloss, looking out of place with the rest of the rumpled outfit.  He rummaged around in his various pockets, finally producing a crumpled piece of paper from which he read.  “I am looking for a Poochie Rappalla."

Some accent.  Billy Ray figured the guy was just off the boat, some sort of German or Russkie or Polack.  "You're in luck.  Poochie would be the sober-looking fella down there."

The guy didn't nod, or say thank you, or nothing.  He turned slow and deliberate and marched off toward the booth.

Billy Ray shrugged and settled his sturdy six-foot frame back onto the stool.  The double-strength coffee tasted like bitter fire going down, but the little sparks of caffeine going off in his head were helping his attitude about the day.

Vera pushed through the swinging doors from the kitchen with a plate of bacon and eggs and a short stack of pancakes, her streaked blonde hair cut in a shag and bouncing lightly off her shoulders.  She frowned at Billy Ray.  "You can't wait fourteen seconds for me to get your coffee, can you?"

"You sounded busy in there."

"The cook called in hung-over again.  I’m running the whole show.”  She headed for Poochie's table.

He called after her.  "I'll take a short stack."  As expected, she ignored him.  Ever since he moved down to the lake Vera had been one of his best buddies.  There was nothing romantic, just similar views that allowed them to talk about nearly anything.

The front door jangled open again, and in stepped a large, heavyset man with deep circles under even darker eyes.  But there was something to his face, not quite jovial.  With his hand still on the doorknob the man regarded Billy Ray with a suspicious stare and said, "Dent, are you sure the fishing wouldn’t be just as good at a reasonable hour of the morning?”

Billy Ray had mixed feelings about seeing Cole Parker.  The man was probably one of the smartest people Billy Ray had ever known, an engineer way out on the cutting edge of technology.  But Cole was different than most high intellect people Billy Ray had known.  He liked the man, in fact they had been friendly during Billy Ray’s tenure at Tech Instruments, but they hadn't really talked since everything went down at the company, and that was well over a year ago.  At least Cole wasn't like the rest of the big bosses at Tech Instruments who acted like Billy Ray had AIDS from the day his forced early retirement was announced.  What Billy Ray wanted to know was how they expected someone at the grand age of forty-two to retire.

"Been a while," he said, shaking Parker's hand.

"That's the truth.  Been too damn long."  Parker looked him up and down, a quick once over, and added, "Looks like the lake life agrees with you."

"Yeah, I've been worried that maybe I need a little more stress in my life, you know, to keep my blood pressure from getting too low."  And Cole Parker looked plenty stressed.  Billy Ray had made a living watching and following other people, and there was no doubt this man was carrying a heavy load.  Cole had always been one quick to smile, an easy face to like, but that was gone.  The cheeks were ruddy and his gut looked bloated, like he put on a fresh twenty pounds.

Billy Ray wolfed down his short stack and three pieces of bacon.  Parker drank a Coke and ate two cream Danish.  As they finished eating, Parker said, "Things have been a little shaky since you left.  It’s not the normal routine.”

"Whatever normal is."  Billy Ray took a final chug of coffee and reached for the check.  "You about ready to hit it?"

"No way, the check's mine."  Parker snatched it out of his hand.  "You're the guide today.  I'm the paying customer."

"Fair enough.  You take care of that and I'm gonna check with my buddy back here in the booth."  He walked back toward Poochie's table.  The disheveled fella he'd seen before was stuffing his pockmarked face with biscuits and white gravy.  He gave Billy Ray one hell of a cold stare, his eyes irritated and red-rimmed.

He did his best to ignore the guy and spoke directly to Poochie.  "I thought I'd try that cove on the backside of Mustang Island.  I saw some bigger fish up on the beds last week before that storm blew through."

Poochie rubbed his beefy hands together as if they were suddenly cold, almost a nervous gesture.  "Sounds good to me.  I'll go on down from there.  Holler if you scare up anything big."

Something wasn't right with his friend, but it wasn't something he felt strong enough about to say anything.  Probably just a touch of the bug that was going around.  Catch him later this afternoon and get the skinny.  And find out about this character with the bad suit.  "See you out there.  I'm gone."

In the truck riding over to the boat ramp, Billy Ray said, "I don't want you feeling bad about what happened to me."

Parker stared straight ahead.  "It's not that I feel so bad.  I just wish there was something I could've done."

"It's all worked out for the best anyway.  I almost make as much now guiding and fishing tournaments as I ever did working for that bunch of crooks.”  He surprised himself with the sharpness in his tone.

“Sounds like you still got a mad-on.”  Cole grinned.

“Jack Windhorn seems to bring that out in people.”  Billy Ray had the feeling they were beating around the bush.  He said, “Cole, I like you, always did.  And I’m glad to carry you fishing.  But you got to tell me what you’re really doing out here.”

Cole nodded solemnly.  “You’re right.  Dancing around it won’t do anything but wear us out.”  He paused, then, “I need your help.”

A slight twinge tickled Billy Ray’s gut.  He kept his eyes on the winding road ahead.  “What exactly do you need?”

“I’m not completely sure myself.  But you ran security for the company, kept an eye on all the key employees.  You were a Texas Ranger, for God’s sake.”  Cole sounded almost desperate.

Billy Ray didn’t like the way this was going.  He had no interest in wading back into the corporate muck.  Hell, he’d just got out. 

Cole hung his head.  “Billy Ray, this just isn’t right.  I thought it was a good idea coming out here, but seeing you, seeing how well you’re doing, well, I’ve got no right to involve you in my own mess.”

Billy Ray felt a small sense of relief, but Cole sounded so close to the end a rope that he couldn’t feel good about being let off the hook.  Billy Ray’s law enforcement training had kicked in almost immediately after Cole had shown up, his mind analyzing and making guesses as to Cole’s possible troubles.  It had to be a problem with the company, nothing else made sense.  He said, “I tell you what, let’s you and me go catch some fish, get a little fresh air.  Whatever it is, we can talk about it over lunch when we get done.”

Cole looked relieved.  “That sounds like the best idea.”

Billy Ray asked, “You still seeing that redhead?  What was her name, Danielle?”

“Darian.  Darian Tonelli.”

“I was close.  Real catchy, Tonelli.  I like it.  You gonna marry her?”

"I learned my lesson on that."

Billy Ray backed the trailer down the boat ramp and set the parking brake.  "You want to pull this thing up and park it under that big oak over there after I get her cranked?"

Cole nodded.

A weak breeze worked up out of the south and pushed the slate-colored water to a slight chop.  He sniffed at the pungent lake air.  A good day to fish.  The sun showed over the horizon and colored orange the low strips of clouds that would burn off later as things heated up.  He climbed aboard and eased in behind the wheel.  The engine fired on the first crank and bellowed out a bluish smoke smelling of burnt gasoline and oil.  A nudge of power from the one-hundred-and-fifty-horse engine slid the boat off the trailer.  He idled in a broad circle and then edged up to the bank.  Cole hopped aboard. 

The nineteen-foot bass boat had a bench seat in the middle for the driver and any passengers, a flat deck up front and another in the rear.  Both decks could be fitted with swivel fishing seats, but Billy Ray didn't believe in sitting while he fished.  He'd seen too many good fish lost because of some lazy fool was half asleep in a seat when the bite of a lifetime came and went.  A man needed to be standing to properly set the hook on a decent fish.  Hell, a big bass's mouth was as hard as PVC pipe.  The chance of getting a good hook set with your ass in a seat was about the same odds as winning in Vegas.

Once Cole got situated he romped on the gas.  The prop dug in and powered the craft through the waves.  As the bow came down he eased off and let the boat skip along at about forty miles an hour. 

Parker yelled over the whine of the engine and rushing wind.  "You damn guides are all the same.  Got to show off your muscle."  He jerked a thumb back at the big engine.

Billy Ray lifted an eyebrow, then jammed the throttle down.  The boat bolted forward as if it had been standing still.  In seconds they were up to sixty-five miles an hour, the fiberglass hull skipping over the tops of the small waves.  He glanced at Parker and laughed at the way the wind separated his full lips and moved them around like they were putty. 

Lake Fork was a big lake, two miles or better across and fifteen miles long.  Except for out in the very middle, most of the lake was flooded timber; every stick of it weathered gray and black.  They shot down a boat lane cut through stumps and branches that stuck out of the water like menacing tentacles reaching up from beneath the surface.  He saw the spot he wanted up ahead, a long grassy bank, and backed completely off the gas, let the boat glide to a crawl, then idled forward, negotiating his way through the underwater stumps that could easily rip open a fiberglass hull.  Back when he first started fishing the lake, when he was still with Tech Instruments and guiding on weekends, he'd been skimming along and hit an underwater stump so hard it bent the lower unit on the engine.  Five-thousand-dollar hickey.  He didn't plan on doing that again.

"Had a guy catch a twelve-pounder out of here last week."

Cole said, "Twelve?  Hell, that's twice the size of anything I ever put in the boat. "

Billy Ray cut the engine, and as the sound of it drifted across the water a roaring silence replaced it.  After his ears adjusted, he could hear the breeze sifting through the leafy trees up on the near bank.  Out of the wind like they were, the water was slick and clear and the grassy bottom showed itself as the boat drifted into the shallows. 

He pointed above them and whispered, "Check it out."  Way up high at the peak of a dead oak, a bald eagle watched their approach.

"I read about them coming back and nesting here."  Parker stood, stretching his thick torso from side to side.  "Only other place I ever seen them is up in Alaska.  They're thick as fleas up there.  Baldies and Goldens everywhere."

"You still got that cabin up there?"

"It’s Darian’s place, in fact she recently built a new one up in a valley just north of McKinley.  On a clear day it's like you're right under the peak."

"I always wanted to go up there.  Catch some of those salmon."

"Nothing like it."

"We'll see about that."  Billy Ray moved to the front of the boat and dumped the trolling motor off into the water.  Using the foot guide he eased the boat forward, the only sound a low electric hum.  His polarized sunglass lenses allowed him to see through water like an aquarium.   Thick moss choked the shoreline, so he edged the boat out into four to five feet of water where the muck gave way to grassy beds.  He was looking for sandy spots where the bass used their tails to clear away bald areas in which to lay their eggs. 

"I can't see a damn thing."  Parker crowded up front, squinting down at the water.

"You got to get some of these X-ray shades.  I can see momma bass down there fixing breakfast with these.  Here, take 'em for a minute."

"Holy moly!  Check this out.  That's amazing."

Even without the glasses Billy Ray made out a nest off to the left toward the bank.  At the base of a gnarled stump was a sandy-colored area the size of a trash can lid.  "Look at the bottom of that tree.  See that murky gray stripe in the middle of the sand?"

"That's a fish," said Cole.  "I can see it plain as day."

He took back the glasses for a better look and saw the fish swim off the back of the nest.  "She's not huge.  But she's a nice fish.  Five, maybe six pounds.  You want to try for her?"

"I'm not that picky.  Let's put her in the boat."

With the trolling motor turned off the boat drifted with the wind some thirty feet off the spot under the dead tree.  He grabbed the bell-shaped anchor off the deck and slipped it into the water, then tied the rope off on a chrome cleat.  "You ever fished with waterdogs?"

Cole gave a blank stare.

Billy Ray believed in the value of shock appeal.  The real thing, or even a picture of said reality, was most every time better than a bunch of words.  He flipped open the lid to the live well and shoved his hand inside.  No matter how many times he handled them, they still gave him the creeps.  Prehistoric-looking little bastards.  He felt one of the bigger ones and gripped the slimy lizard around its mid-section, then pulled it out real quick.

"Jesus!"  Cole jumped back a half step, then froze.  "What the hell?"

Worked every time.  Billy Ray laughed, but not too hard.  Who wouldn't be startled at the sight of some dark, greasy, foot-long salamander with a Cro-Magnon-looking head?  It was one of the high points of being a fishing guide.  Of course there were plenty others, but jolting a man with a waterdog before the sun was up good was tough to beat.

Parker moved his hand out as if to pet the creature.  "Where'd you get something that ugly?"

"They grow up north.  I got a guy ships them down special for me during spawning season.  Bass think they're candy."

"My opinion of a bass just went down a notch."

"They're not as bad as all that."  He stroked the back of the creature's head.  "You'll see what I mean here in a minute."  He leaned down and snatched one of the rods out of the holder that ran down the boat's side.  He'd rigged everything up the night before, so he let out some slack, gripped the hook between thumb and forefinger, and punched the sharp steel into the pulpy area under the dog's mouth, popping the hook out just behind its upper lip. 

"That had to hurt."  Cole winced, the thick skin on his brow all scrunched up.

"He didn't feel a thing.  At least not compared to how he's gonna feel after that bass has a run at him."

"I suspect you’re right about that.”

He tossed the dog over the bow and let out enough slack to let it swim alongside the boat, its long tail wagging back and forth.  "He’s ready for battle."  He handed the rod to Cole.  "Toss it just past that stump.  Let it lay there a while, then start working it real slow, I mean super-slow, across the nest."

Cole hefted the rod with the dog dangling and clawing at air.  "Go get 'em, buster."  He side-armed the rod and hunked the dog in a big looping arc toward the target.

"That wasn't bad at all," said Billy Ray.

"I wet a few hooks before.  Just none as ugly as this one."

He backed into the boat's middle, giving Cole the whole front deck to work with.  Off in the distance another boat powered toward them, but he didn't bother to see who it might be.  Too busy coaching.  "That's it.  Real slow.  Dog ought to be there right now.  Let it lay."

"Shut up with the commentary.  You're making me nervous."

Billy Ray smiled.  He knew what Cole was talking about.  When there was a dog on the nest and the rod in your hands, the anticipation of the strike was almost as good as the real thing.  Almost. 

"I think I feel something."

"Hit him."

Cole jerked up on the rod.  It bowed momentarily then snapped back straight.

"You missed her."

"I wasn't sure she hit it."  He reeled in the dog and prepared to toss it out again.

Billy Ray snatched the bait and examined the strafe marks across its back.  "She hit it all right.  Now you know what it feels like.  When she bumps it again lay the wood to her."

Cole tossed the dog to the far side of the nest and began the slow retrieve. 

"You're on top of it now.  Let the dog work there for a minute."

"I don't feel anything.  Maybe she scared off."

"A momma don't scare off her babies that easy."

He watched the rod tip and just like before there was a slight tap-tap movement.  This time Cole didn't have to be told.  He yanked the rod up over his head in a perfect hook set.  The stiff pole bent and stayed that way as he reeled down the slack.

"You got her now."

Breathless and excited, Cole said, "Feels like a whale.  That ain't any five-pounder."  He let the fish fight for a few seconds before trying to work it to the boat.

Twenty feet off the bow there was a heavy swirl under the water. The fish rolled out showing white underbelly, then went back under with a slap that sounded like a toilet flushing.

He patted Cole on the back.  "You're right.  That isn't any five-pounder.  I must’ve seen the smaller male, and she was lying off to the side.  I bet she'll go ten pounds."

"Are you gonna get the net?  Or do I have to land her myself?"

"Falling down on the job."  He bent over to dig the net out from the side compartment.  At exactly that moment there was a loud clap like a baseball bat hitting a mattress, followed immediately by a sharp crack that echoed around the lake.  Without even consciously thinking he said to himself, that was a thirty-aught six.  Cole gasped hard like the wind had been knocked out of him.

Billy Ray glanced up to see his two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar rod and reel go flying over the side of the boat with a ten-pound bass hooked to the other end of it.  Then he watched Cole Parker stumble backwards, holding his chest.  The man had a stunned look on his face as he back flopped his near-dead ass off into the chilly water.

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