Mallory.”
“She’s you through and through, Doc.”
“She’s having a hard time. That’s my fault.”
“C’mon, we all have to find our own way.”
And then he was gone.
Osborne remained where he was, rocking. The loon called. Mourning. Once. Twice. And yet again. For the first time in a long time, Osborne felt at peace. He had no idea why.
The pockets were heavy in his old fishing pants. Osborne looked down in surprise. He hadn’t seen these pants in years. Didn’t Mary Lee throw these out? He pulled at the waistband to adjust the trousers. The weight was pulling them down.
Damn. What did he have in his pockets, anyway? Thrusting both hands deep, he yelped in surprise as something clamped hard on both sets of fingers, clamped and bit and kept on biting.
Screaming with pain, Osborne yanked both hands out.
The teeth in his pockets began chattering. The two mouths opening and closing in a fierce staccato, leaping against the fabric as though they could tear right through the pockets. Terrified that they might come at his eyes, at his face, Osborne struggled with his belt. He couldn’t get it undone, he couldn’t get the pants off! My God, they were biting through the fabric. He screamed.
He woke to a pitch-black room. Mike’s anxious wet nose pushed against his shoulder. Osborne lay perfectly still, registering where he was. He was in his own bed, he wasn’t wearing pants, no teeth were coming at him. He flexed his hands where they lay at his sides. They were free.
He shivered in the dark and sat up to reach for the quilt and the sheet that he had thrown off.
“It’s okay, Mike,” he whispered to the black Lab who now had a paw up on the pillow. “Go lie down. Be a good dog.” Mike gave a quizzical cock of his head, turned, and loped back to his sheepskin pillow.
But even as Osborne dozed off, he could still feel where the teeth had seized his flesh.
thirteen
“Of course, folk fish for different reasons. There are enough aspects of angling to satisfy the aspirations of people remarkably unalike.”
Maurice Wiggin
Gina Palmer flew down the stairs from the Northwest plane and pushed through the doors of the Rhinelander airport like a dragonfly in flight.
She was dressed all in black and quite tiny, though her slim figure was topped with a largish head. Her big eyes were startling in their intense blueness against luminous white skin. Or maybe it was just the intensity with which she stared as she headed in his direction. Osborne braced himself for a landing.
She headed toward where he stood behind the small cluster of people waiting just beyond the security door. “Dr. Osborne?” Her voice was deep and loud, the voice of a woman three times her size.
“How did you know?” he blurted.
“You look like a dentist,” she said. “No, of course not.” Her voice might be loud, but it was friendly. “Look around. How many older gentlemen do you see? You told me you were retired, right? And I was hoping you weren’t that idiot over there with the fish on his head.”
Osborne glanced around. She was right. The only other people in the tiny airport were a young couple greeting an elderly woman and two college boys, probably camp counselors, lining up a gaggle of youngsters that had been on Gina’s flight.
“You’re very observant,” he said.
“Not really.” She shifted a bulging black leather bag to another shoulder. “Years of reporting make it second nature. You rarely have more than fifteen seconds before the cops bump you from the crime scene, so you grow fast eyes.”
“You have luggage?”
“I sure hope so,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting a puddle-jumper. They stuck my carry-on underneath and made me check my computer. Where will I—oops, I see it.”
“Yep, right there.” Osborne pointed to a metal bin, which was the top of a luggage carousel in the middle of the one-room airport. Next to the carousel, elevated on a wooden stand, was a plastic column housing a
“She’s you through and through, Doc.”
“She’s having a hard time. That’s my fault.”
“C’mon, we all have to find our own way.”
And then he was gone.
Osborne remained where he was, rocking. The loon called. Mourning. Once. Twice. And yet again. For the first time in a long time, Osborne felt at peace. He had no idea why.
The pockets were heavy in his old fishing pants. Osborne looked down in surprise. He hadn’t seen these pants in years. Didn’t Mary Lee throw these out? He pulled at the waistband to adjust the trousers. The weight was pulling them down.
Damn. What did he have in his pockets, anyway? Thrusting both hands deep, he yelped in surprise as something clamped hard on both sets of fingers, clamped and bit and kept on biting.
Screaming with pain, Osborne yanked both hands out.
The teeth in his pockets began chattering. The two mouths opening and closing in a fierce staccato, leaping against the fabric as though they could tear right through the pockets. Terrified that they might come at his eyes, at his face, Osborne struggled with his belt. He couldn’t get it undone, he couldn’t get the pants off! My God, they were biting through the fabric. He screamed.
He woke to a pitch-black room. Mike’s anxious wet nose pushed against his shoulder. Osborne lay perfectly still, registering where he was. He was in his own bed, he wasn’t wearing pants, no teeth were coming at him. He flexed his hands where they lay at his sides. They were free.
He shivered in the dark and sat up to reach for the quilt and the sheet that he had thrown off.
“It’s okay, Mike,” he whispered to the black Lab who now had a paw up on the pillow. “Go lie down. Be a good dog.” Mike gave a quizzical cock of his head, turned, and loped back to his sheepskin pillow.
But even as Osborne dozed off, he could still feel where the teeth had seized his flesh.
thirteen
“Of course, folk fish for different reasons. There are enough aspects of angling to satisfy the aspirations of people remarkably unalike.”
Maurice Wiggin
Gina Palmer flew down the stairs from the Northwest plane and pushed through the doors of the Rhinelander airport like a dragonfly in flight.
She was dressed all in black and quite tiny, though her slim figure was topped with a largish head. Her big eyes were startling in their intense blueness against luminous white skin. Or maybe it was just the intensity with which she stared as she headed in his direction. Osborne braced himself for a landing.
She headed toward where he stood behind the small cluster of people waiting just beyond the security door. “Dr. Osborne?” Her voice was deep and loud, the voice of a woman three times her size.
“How did you know?” he blurted.
“You look like a dentist,” she said. “No, of course not.” Her voice might be loud, but it was friendly. “Look around. How many older gentlemen do you see? You told me you were retired, right? And I was hoping you weren’t that idiot over there with the fish on his head.”
Osborne glanced around. She was right. The only other people in the tiny airport were a young couple greeting an elderly woman and two college boys, probably camp counselors, lining up a gaggle of youngsters that had been on Gina’s flight.
“You’re very observant,” he said.
“Not really.” She shifted a bulging black leather bag to another shoulder. “Years of reporting make it second nature. You rarely have more than fifteen seconds before the cops bump you from the crime scene, so you grow fast eyes.”
“You have luggage?”
“I sure hope so,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting a puddle-jumper. They stuck my carry-on underneath and made me check my computer. Where will I—oops, I see it.”
“Yep, right there.” Osborne pointed to a metal bin, which was the top of a luggage carousel in the middle of the one-room airport. Next to the carousel, elevated on a wooden stand, was a plastic column housing a
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