Backcast (31 page)

Kate folded her arms again. “Is that your entire list?”

“No. I have one or two more.”

“By all means, let's hear them.”

Shawn looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Are you pissed?”

“Not yet.”

“Good, because that's number four. I don't get mad when somebody confronts me with a problem I'd rather ignore.”

Kate regarded the gelatinous, dark-red glop on Shawn's plate. “I had no idea that aspic was this complex.”

“Which brings us to number five.”

Kate rolled her eyes.

“Hey, you said you wanted to hear the entire list.”

“You're right.” Kate sighed. “Please continue.”

“As I was saying. Number five. Every problem, no matter how simply it presents, is usually masking something deeper. I try to look beneath the surface and find out what the real issues are, rather than dismiss something irksome as a simple annoyance.”

“And what mystical truth lurks beneath the surface of your uneaten aspic?”

Shawn looked down at her plate. “I don't know yet.”

“You don't know yet?”

Shawn shook her head.

“I fail to see how that's possible. You've contemplated the stuff twice a day for nearly two weeks.”

“Like I said. Inherent opportunities abound.”

“Well, by these calculations, it would appear that your problem-solving skills are highly evolved.”

“I'd like to think so.”

“Mine, on the other hand, are sadly purported to be the antithesis of yours?”

“Sometimes they are.”

“Care to give me an instance?”

Shawn leaned forward. “I'd rather give you an opportunity.”

Kate looked suspicious. “What kind of opportunity?”

“It's kind of a test case.”

“What are we testing?”

“Your ability to withhold judgment and make a snap decision that might be something we both end up regretting.”

Kate sighed. “Are we talking about Linda's job offer again?”

“No.” Shawn shook her head. “This time, we're talking about an opportunity for me.”

“For you?” Kate seemed perplexed. “What kind of opportunity?”

Shawn reached over and picked up a notebook that sat on the vacant chair beside her. She withdrew a folded document and passed it across the table to Kate.

“What is this?” Kate unfolded the papers and studied them. Shawn watched the expression on her face change from curiosity to surprise to disbelief. She looked up at Shawn. “You bought a house?”

Shawn nodded.

Kate held up a photo of the Craftsman cottage. “You bought
this
house?”

Shawn nodded again.

“In Vermont?”

“Yes.”

Kate dropped the papers to her lap. “Why?”

“I don't know.” Shawn shrugged. “It felt right.” She considered her words. “It
is
right. I like it here. A lot.”

“I don't know what to say.” Kate seemed genuinely dumbfounded. “I don't know what to think.”

Shawn leaned toward her again. “Don't tell me what you think. Tell me how you feel.”

Kate shook her head.

“No. Really.” Shawn reached across the table and touched the top of Kate's hand. “Try.”

Kate stared out the window. When she looked back at Shawn, her expression was unreadable.

“Confused. Afraid.” She lowered her eyes. “Excited.”

“Excited?” Shawn squeezed the top of her hand.

Kate slowly nodded. “But don't forget confused and afraid.”

“I won't.” Shawn took Kate's hand between both of hers. “I promise.”

“Why didn't you
tell
me about this?” Kate picked up the papers with her free hand and gave them a gentle shake. “It's crazy.”

Shawn chuckled. “So I guess you've now had enough time to figure out what you think?”

Kate finally smiled.

“Do you wanna go see it?”

Kate stared down at their pile of hands.

“Try and stop me.”

Two and a half hours.

Two and a half hours they'd been drifting around in these goddamn weeds and nothing. Not a single nibble.

It was ridiculous. He didn't know a lot about fishing, but one thing he did know was that fishing was like gambling. And in gambling, you never stayed with a cold machine or a table that wasn't paying out. You kept moving until your luck changed.

He watched Quinn try another cast.

You'd think she'd realize that nothing was going to happen here. You'd think she'd notice that not another damn boat had shown any interest at all in this spot.

But, no. She kept tossing out her lines and reeling them back in. Over and over, like some kind of idiot savant. She'd probably done it a hundred times now. Montana wasn't much better. The two of them kept taking turns. Quinn would pull her line in and Montana would throw hers out. She was working the other side of the boat, trying her luck with different kinds of lures. They were both crazy.

He shifted on the recliner. It wasn't his job to point anything out.

He checked his watch again.
Twelve-thirty
.

Only another hour and a half to go, and this first day would be over. Then there would only be two more to go. The tournament would be over—and Barb's damn workshop would be over. They could all get out of here and get back to their normal lives.

He watched Quinn and Montana.
What a weird-ass couple.

He scratched his leg. These damn trousers were bugging him. They felt foreign. The fabric itched. He didn't like having to wear them. He couldn't wait to get off this boat and change back into something normal.

Normal.

Right.
None of them had anything remotely like normal lives to get back to. He understood that now. Barb had done a good job assembling her crew of wackos. Together they were a big, simmering pot of hot mess. This whole production should make one helluva show.

Of course, none of that crap made sense to him either. Why did the government fork out taxpayer money to erect these high-priced monuments that glorified everything fucked-up about society? Shit. If you wanted a good dose of reality, you didn't have to pay to go to a damn museum. All you had to do was watch the eleven o'clock news.

He tried asking Barb about that one night, but she just laughed at him and fired up another smoke. Barb was a piece of work. He'd never met anyone quite like her. She just took things at face value and didn't ask a lot of questions. She reminded him of Mrs. Alvarez.

“I think it's time for a lunch break.” Montana secured her fishing pole against the deck railing. “Who else wants a hot dog?”

“I do.” Quinn turned toward her. “Let me tie this thing down.” She reached for some bungee cords.

“Are you gonna leave your line out?”

Quinn shrugged. “Why not?”

“Suit yourself.” Montana walked over to the gas grill. “How about you, Mav—Marvin? You hungry?”

“I could eat.” He watched her open the valve on the propane tank and light the burner. “What else you got on board this thing?”

She waved a hand toward the dry storage area located beneath one of the padded bench seats. “Chips. Cookies. Some beef jerky. There's water and sodas in the fridge.”

Sodas?

“No beer?”

“Nope.” Montana shook her blonde head. “It's against tournament rules to have alcohol on the boat.”

Well shit.

Even with the steady wind blowing, it was getting hot out here on the water. He got up and walked toward the refrigerator.

“Anybody else want a soda?”

“I'll take one of Junior's grape Fantas.” Quinn walked over to join them and flopped down on one of the long seats.

Marvin handed her one of the plastic bottles filled with purple liquid.

“How do you drink that shit?”

Quinn slowly twisted off the cap so the foamy drink wouldn't spew out. “It's not that bad once you get used to it.”

“I'd still rather have a beer.”

“Well you aren't gonna get one until after the weigh-in. We aren't allowed to leave the boat.”

“Say what?” Marvin wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly.

Quinn nodded. “Tournament rules. We're not allowed off the boat until we check back in at the Marina at two.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me?” Marvin was dumbfounded. He couldn't even get off this damn barge for a piss break? That had to be against the Geneva Conventions.

“Hand me that pack of hot dogs, will you Mav—Marvin?”

Marvin rolled his eyes and snagged the pack of McKenzie franks off the center rack of the fridge. He tossed them to Montana.

“Look, little girl. Why don't you make it easy on yourself, and just call me Mavis?”

Montana looked embarrassed. She concentrated on opening the pack of hot dogs and placing them on the grill. They made soft hissing sounds when they connected with the hot grate.

“She could call you Marvis.” Quinn suggested. “Or Mavin.”

Marvin glared at her. Quinn didn't seem to notice. She warmed to her idea. “I kinda like Mavin.” She took a big swig of her purple drink. “It fits.”

Marvin was about to ask Quinn if she'd like to see how well his foot would fit up her ass when he noticed something strange happening in the background behind her. Quinn's fishing rod was vibrating. He pointed at it.

“What the hell is going on with your gear?”

Quinn swiveled around on her seat. The rod was now shaking from side to side.

“Jesus!” Montana yelled. “You've got a live one! Get over there!”

Quinn stumbled to her feet and lunged for the rod just as it broke free from the bungee cords. She managed to grab hold of it before it slid off the side of the boat. The reel was wide open and singing as line flew out across the water.

“Stop the spin! Set the hook!” Montana was scrambling around the grill to get to Quinn.

Quinn flipped the crank lever on the reel and stopped the line from feeding out. She yanked hard and away on the pole, then lowered the tip and slowly started to wind in the line.

Marvin was mesmerized. Whatever was fighting on the other
end of the line was plainly massive. Quinn's pole was bent at an impossible angle. She kept switching the direction of the pole from left to right as she fought to keep winding up her line.

“Oh, god.” Montana was right at her elbow. “Don't let the line break.”

Something flashed in the water.

“There it is!” Montana cried.

Marvin could see it too—something oblong and bright, undulating just below the surface. It was getting closer.

“I don't think my pole can hold.” Quinn was really struggling now. Her fishing pole was nearly bent in half.

“Keep the head down, keep the head down.” Montana grabbed the net. “Just get it in as close as you can to the boat.”

Marvin could see it better now. It was huge—and—pink?

“What is that thing?” He moved over to stand beside Montana. “That's not a fish.”

“No.” Montana's shoulders sagged. She looked up at Quinn who was still fighting to bring it in. “It's an umbrella.”

“It's a what?” Quinn looked at her.

Montana pointed out at it. “It's a pink umbrella.”

“And it's
open
,” Marvin added. “No wonder it was such a bitch to reel in.”

Quinn's pole lurched and was nearly yanked out of her hands. The umbrella surged away from them.

“Hey!” Quinn took a tighter hold of her rod and commenced fighting it once again. “This damn thing's
alive
.”

Montana was peering out at it. “Oh, my god. This
cannot
be happening.”

“What are you talking about?” Marvin followed her gaze. “I don't see anything.”

Something splashed inside the umbrella. The pink fabric flounced out and flattened in rapid succession.

“There's a
fish
inside it.” Montana got on her knees and signaled to Marvin. “Get over here and help me pull it into the boat.”

Marvin hesitated. He hated fish—unless they were deep fried and covered with tartar sauce.

“Goddamn it, Mavis—Marvin.” Montana threw her net aside and reached into the water. “Now!”

Marvin squatted down and blindly shoved his hands into the water. He grabbed hold of the first thing he could reach. It felt like one of the metal ribs. Together, they hauled the fussy pink and white striped umbrella up over the side of the boat. The damn thing looked like an oversized snow cone. Its handle was broken off and it was rusted into a semi-open position. It crashed to the deck like a ten-gallon water balloon and drenched everything in sight. The panel facing them was emblazoned with a ridiculous caricature of a wide-eyed cat.
Hello Kitty
, it proclaimed.

Montana was screaming at him. “Rip it open, rip it open!”

“What do you want me to use?” Mavin yelled back at her. “My teeth?”