Chapter 6
Clay has hooked over a dozen fish but only brought seven into the net.
He could catch more, he knows, if he weren’t such a dry-fly snob.
The dries are the flies that float on the surface.
Some fish come up for them but most feed on flies in their larval stage toward the bottom of the stream.
Too many dangers near the surface. Especially birds.
Osprey, eagles, hawks, herons, and kingfishers.
And it’s especially difficult today. A thunderstorm blew over before sunrise, dumping rain, the runoff creating a stain on the water.
That makes it harder for the fish to see a fly on the surface.
But Clay likes the challenge of catching trout on dry flies.
Loves the take on the surface of the water. The purity of it.
Dry fly-fishing takes more focus, and that’s something Clay is having a hard time maintaining. His mind keeps going to Teddy and where his uncle might be. Clay struggles to sight his fly in the water’s foam and to mend his line to ensure the fly dead-drifts with the current.
A branch snaps. Not a twig. Something thicker.
Louder. Clay reaches for his pistol but neither it nor its holster is there.
He left the gun locked in a safe box in his truck.
He stands thigh deep in the middle of a river, unable to run.
Unable to hide. How could he be so careless?
His only possible escape is to go under, let the current take him as far as it will before he has to surface for air.
He scans the riverbank. He sees no one. Nothing.
Then a wild parsnip plant shakes. Clay follows the stem down toward the ground and there he sees it.
A deer staggers and stumbles into the river only twenty yards downstream. If it were hunting season, Clay would guess that it had been shot. If they were anywhere near a road, he’d guess that it had been hit by a car. But neither of those seem possible.
The doe collapses onto the far bank, and Clay wonders if she’s suffering from chronic wasting disease. But the deer is hardly wasting away. She is round in the middle, and Clay realizes she’s pregnant. Very pregnant. And something has gone wrong.
When asked why he fly-fishes, Clay says it’s to be part of nature.
Certainly the beautiful part. But he also has to admit that he becomes a player in nature’s cruelty.
Its brutality. Both as a witness and as a participant.
Clay understands this whether he’s hooking trout in the lip then letting them go or harvesting them for meat.
He has hooked a trout with every intention of releasing it, but an otter saw the struggling fish and took it for itself.
And it’s rare to hook a fish deep in its mouth with a fly, but it does happen. Clay cuts the line as close as he can to the fly, hoping the trout’s saliva will dissolve the fly, metal hook and all. That’s what is supposed to happen, but there’s no way of knowing for sure if the fish will survive.
The juxtaposition of beauty and death are everywhere on the river.
And now, surrounded by wildflowers and blooms of all sorts, impossible greens, the ever-changing currents of the stream, he watches the doe take its last breath.
And almost as if nature’s first job is to clean itself, the current dislodges the deer’s body from the bank, and away she goes, floating like a fallen log.
It’s all a bit too much for a founding member of Lads Without Mums, and Clay decides to call it a day.
On his way back to his truck, he knocks on the front door of Deb and Teddy’s doublewide.
Deb answers and Clay sees the same question in her eyes that lingers in his own: Any word from Teddy? The answer is no.
“I’m sure he’ll show up later today,” says Clay, trying to sound confident and reassuring.
“I’m sure he will,” says Deb. Her gray hair falls to her shoulders and her fashion sense is modern peasant. Flowing earth-tone dresses that have more layers than a foot-tall cake. She looks like she hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours because she hasn’t. “How did the trout treat you this morning?”
“They were somewhat cooperative.”
“Good,” says Deb. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. I have to admit—I’m kind of nervous to meet your dad’s girlfriend. Thought that would never happen.”
“Me too and me too,” says Clay. “And when Teddy shows up, tell him he’s doing all the dishes tomorrow night for making us worry.”
“Oh, I will,” says Deb. “Dishes and he’s making dessert, too.”
“Where’s my trout?!” This from a voice behind Clay.
Clay says goodbye to Deb and turns to see Ash Solbakken, Deb’s first cousin and Riverwood’s most eligible bachelor.
According to Ash, that is. Forty-nine years old with a penchant for eighties clothing.
Ralph Lauren polo style. Popped collars and wide-wale cords.
Penny loafers and deck shoes. Field coats.
Pea coats. Sweaters in argyle, cable-knit, and quarter zip, often tied around his shoulders. All brand-conspicuous.
Ash’s and Deb’s grandmother made her modest fortune selling Mary Kay cosmetics.
Now she’s dead and Ash is independently wealthy, at least by the standards of Riverwood, Minnesota.
He owns his hundred-plus acres free and clear.
Along with his 4,500-square-foot home, complete with in-ground pool, brick pizza oven, metal pole barn, stables, horses, and three llamas.
“I don’t really give a rat’s ass about horses or llamas,” Ash once told Clay with a wink.
“But women? Let’s just say plenty want to come up to the house to see the horses and llamas. ”
Clay wanted to respond that some men have personalities.
They don’t need horses and llamas to attract women.
But he has never challenged Ash on the obnoxious things he says.
One reason is because he’s Deb’s cousin.
And the other reason is because he’s Deb’s neighbor.
She’s had her hands full being married to Teddy—Clay doesn’t want to add any additional stress to her life by pissing off Ash.
It doesn’t seem fair to Clay that Deb’s grandmother left her five acres with no house and left Ash over a hundred. Plus a near-mansion and outbuildings. But Deb has taken it in stride.
Ash smiles his bleached-teeth smile as he leans on Clay’s F-150. “I thought we had a deal. You can walk my land to get to the river, but the cost is two pan-sized trout.”
“I don’t remember making that deal,” says Clay, matching Ash’s smile.
“It’s implied,” says Ash. “Hey, what’d this truck run you? I’m in the market for new wheels.”
“Head down to Gilley’s. He has a lot full of them.”
“Maybe I will,” says Ash. “But I am putting solar on the barn. So maybe I’ll go electric. If you get one of those Ford Lightning trucks, come over to charge anytime.”
“And it’ll only cost me two trout, right?” says Clay.
“That’s right. I like eating trout. Just not enough to fish for ’em.”
“You joining us for dinner tomorrow night?” says Clay. Deb’s cousin has an open invitation to Sunday dinner, but he rarely shows up.
“No can do. Meeting a new lass down in Decorah.”
“You’re crossing the border into Iowa?” says Clay. “Must be a special lady.”
“Prof at Luther,” says Ash. “Met her on the apps. Quite the looker. She’s worth the drive.”
“Good luck. Hope she’s the one.”
Ash laughs. “No such thing.”
On Clay’s drive back to Judd’s house to pick up Braedon, he scans the sidewalks for Teddy.
No sign of his uncle. He checks every street corner for loiterers, every parked car for idle occupants, every park bench for a conversation between mismatched participants.
And then, more out of compulsion than sound reasoning, he pulls into a diagonal parking spot in front of the Riverwood Police Station. The moment he steps inside he hears:
“Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.” This from Sue Lodermeier.
She wears her gray hair short and parted on one side.
She’s a civilian and prefers jeans and fishing shirts.
Patagonia and Simms, mostly. Her partner, Carol, owns Nymphomaniac, the local fly shop.
Nymphs being the common term for flies in their larval stage. Maniac being the joke.
Clay greets Sue with a hug. She was an important part of his childhood.
Sue filled in when Clay’s mother was too sick to perform parental duties.
With Judd working long hours, it was Sue who made sure Clay had the clothing and school supplies he needed.
Sue drove him up to Rochester for medical and dental appointments.
Sue and Carol often attended Clay’s soccer games at Dorset-Cornwall.
And she helped Clay shop for his parents on their birthdays and holidays.
“I hear you’ve been keeping my better half in business,” says Sue.
“I needed a new four-weight and hip pack,” says Clay. “Carol took care of me.”
“How’d you do this morning?” Sue can tell Clay was on the river. He is a notorious wet wader, only wearing waders during the coldest time of the year. His quick-dry pants are still damp below the knee, and she can smell the stream on him. It’s a clean smell. Like moving water over smooth rocks.
“Caught a few,” says Clay. “Got ’em on PMDs and caddis. Hey, is the chief in?”
Before Sue can answer, Zoey Jensen steps out of her office. Chief Zoey Jensen wears her dark hair in one long braid that falls down the center of her back. She’s half Dakota on her mother’s side and that braid is Zoey’s way of showing it. “Are you Clay Hawkins?” she says.
“I am.”
“I heard a rumor you exist.”
“The rumor is true. Buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Ooh,” she says. “He wants to go straight to coffee. No How do you do? No presenting his calling card. Just wham, bam, cup o’ joe, ma’am.”
Clay has heard of Zoey’s odd sense of humor.
He’s heard a lot of things about her, all from his father.
And to Judd’s credit, he’s never badmouthed the police officer who replaced him as chief.
Even though she’s over twenty years younger than Judd.
Even though she was brought in from northern Minnesota. And even though she’s a she.
Zoey looks at her watch and says, “Sue, I’m going to take thirty. I’ll be down at Maisy’s if you need me.” She looks over at Mike Wahlquist, a sixty-year-old uniform, and says, “Mind the store for me while I’m gone, Mike?”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Mike, eyes on his desk. Then the officer who once served under Judd stares hard at Clay.