Backcast (8 page)

3

An Obscure Object of Desire

Junior wasn't talking. He pretty much just sat back on his plaid throne and let Quinn figure things out.

They'd moved one of his big, Dorito-stained recliners out of the warehouse and set it up on the pontoon. It reposed there proudly, dead center on the carpeted area beneath the red canvas awning, like a makeshift captain's bridge. It looked sort of good, too—almost like it came with the boat as part of some luxury package.

The way Quinn saw it, these damn boats were just like double-wide trailers on floats—so why not trick one out with real furniture?

When she suggested the idea to Junior, he didn't say much. He just stared at her and plucked at a stray chin hair.

She took that as a “yes.” Montana helped her haul the big chair outside and drag it down to the dock so they could move it onto the boat. They also took along a full-sized Weber grill that had seen better days.

Quinn loved hot dogs, and so did Junior. It was another thing they had in common.

Now they were out for their first motorized tour of the islands.

While Quinn got the hang of driving the boat—which was really more like aiming it in the general direction you wanted it to go—Montana sat on the bow, cleaning the grill racks with steel wool. Quinn didn't bother to suggest to her that it might make more sense to do her scraping at the back of the boat. Ancient flecks of carbonized meat kept billowing across the deck in rust-colored swarms.
Montana sat with her long legs spread-eagled, riding the swells like a pro. She was wearing cutoff jeans and a loose-fitting tank top. Her short blonde hair glowed like a second sun.

Nope. Quinn didn't mind the chunks of rust and burnt grease that kept hitting her in the face. It was worth it to enjoy the view.

She caught Junior watching her watch Montana. She smiled at him and shrugged. He stared at her for another moment before nodding and returning his gaze to the front of the boat. It was pretty clear that he was enjoying the view, too.

They were making their second trip around Knight Island. It was shadier on the backside, and there were some outcroppings of rocks and places where old trees had fallen and were partially submerged in the water.

“Stop!”

Junior's command surprised Quinn. She cut the motor without hesitation. The water wasn't very deep through here, so they hadn't been going all that fast. It didn't take the boat long to wind down to a gentle drift. The pontoons rocked up and down on the waves that rolled in toward the shore.

“Why are we stopping?” She asked Junior.

He pointed a fat finger toward one of the felled trees. “I just saw her.”

Her?
Quinn looked toward the tree and the bank beyond. There were no people in sight. There wasn't anything in sight but what was left of a cracked concrete slab and a beat-up picnic table. Knight Island was part of a state park, and people could still camp on it.

“I don't see anyone.”

Junior shook his head. “Not a person. A fish.”

A fish?

“What fish?” Quinn looked again toward the tree. She could feel a twinge of excitement. Even Montana dropped her steel wool pad and climbed to her feet.

Something splashed in the water ahead.

“Right there!” Montana cried. “I saw her. My god. She's
huge!
”

Junior nodded. “That's her all right.”

Quinn still didn't see it. “What the hell are you two looking at? Who is ‘she,' and why are you so damn excited?”

“It's Phoebe.”

Quinn looked at Junior. His face had taken on an odd expression. It was almost reverential.

“Who?”

“Phoebe,” he said again. “The biggest damn bass in this lake.”

“Her name is
Phoebe?
”

Junior nodded. “Been called that for nigh on a hundred years now. She ain't never been caught. Hooked a time or two, but never brung up.” His voice dropped an octave. “I had her once. She fought me like a tiger. I damn near bested her, too—but my line got tangled up when I was tryin' to pull her into the boat.” He held up his hand to show Quinn where part of his pinkie finger was missing. “She done this to me when I tried to get a net under her.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Junior was watching the water again. “They don't come bigger or meaner'n Phoebe.”

Montana was shaking her head. “She has to be at least a twenty-pounder.”

Junior agreed. “Some of them Japanese anglers come over here a year or two back, just hopin' to get a hook into her. But she's too smart for 'em. Ain't nobody ever gonna catch Phoebe.”

Quinn was still watching the water. She was mesmerized by Junior's tale about the great fish.

“You said she's a hundred years old?”

He nodded. “Mebbe two hundred. Nobody knows for sure. Only thing I can tell you is that she's been swishin' her fat tail around these islands ever since my granddad was runnin' hooch down from Montréal.”

Quinn's eyes grew wide. “Your granddad saw her?”

“Yep. Lots a times. He said she always knew where to find the sacks of whiskey they'd deep-six when they were bein' chased by the boat patrol.” He chuckled. “Granddad said that ole Phoebe liked to nip on more than just night crawlers.”

“Look!” Montana was pointing at the water on the port side of the boat. “I think she's coming by again.”

Quinn could see her this time—heading straight for them in bold flashes of brown, green, and silver. She was liquid and solid all at the same time. And she was moving fast—uncommonly fast—as she twisted and shimmied just beneath the surface of the water. She skimmed along the side of the pontoon and at the last second, dipped her head and dove deep, flipping her wide tail up and out of the water in a hail of spray.

“My god.” Quinn wiped the drops of water from her face.

But Phoebe wasn't finished yet. She made another pass. And this time, Quinn saw her eyes, deep, dark eyes that were empty and full all at the same time. Fish eyes. Just like the camera lenses that distorted reality by twisting everything into macabre circles of burlesque shapes. The eyes looked at her and through her, seeing everything and seeing nothing. “I know you,” they said. “You're just like me—and no one will ever catch you, either.”

“She's beautiful.” Quinn was staring at the water like she was in a trance.

Montana didn't share her assessment. “That thing is a freak of nature.”

Junior agreed. “You take my advice and leave that'n alone. Ain't no good gonna come from chasin' this piece of tail.”

Quinn stared at him. Junior was still reared back in his recliner, but his expression looked serious enough to suggest that he was
thinking
about sitting up.

“You said nobody's ever caught her?”

“Didn't say that,” he corrected. “Said that nobody'd ever brung her up. She's been hooked 'bout a dozen times. Just always gets away.”

Quinn watched Phoebe's wake slowly dissolve into the rolling water. The lake had closed back up over her.

“Why do you call her Phoebe?” Montana asked. “That seems like an odd name for a fish.” Before Junior could answer, she added, “Not to say that there are other names that make more sense.” She picked up her steel wool pad and prepared to go back to work cleaning the grill racks.

“Nobody knows for sure.” Junior was watching Quinn watch the lake. “Most people think she was named for that Phoebe Campbell woman—the Canadian who chopped up her husband with an axe.”

That got Quinn's attention. “When did that happen?”

Junior shrugged. “Don't know for sure. Some time after the war.”

“World War II?”

“Nope. Civil War.”

“Canada had a civil war?” Quinn asked.

Montana rolled her eyes. “He means
our
Civil War.” She looked at Junior. “Isn't that what you meant?”

Junior nodded.

“Great.” Montana sniggered. “A fish named after the Canadian Lizzie Borden.”

“Why'd she do it?” Quinn was fascinated by Junior's tale.

“Why does any woman do anything?”

Quinn sighed. She was getting pretty used to Junior's economy of words. “Why'd she kill him? Come on, Junior. Even you have to admit that most women don't end up hacking their husbands apart with axes. Even if they fantasize about it.”

He shook his head. “I think she was gettin' some on the side from a farm hand, and they done him in together. But nobody knows for sure. She hanged for it, though, and he got off.” Junior chuckled. “More'n once, I'll wager.”

“So why'd they name this fish after her?”

“Probably because she's mean as a snake and craftier than a politician.”

Quinn didn't say anything. She continued to stand near the side of the boat, studying the water. There were no other boats out on this part of the lake. It was quiet here. The only sounds came from the slosh of the water rocking the pontoons and the scrape of Montana's steel wool against the rusty iron grate.

“She ain't gonna come 'round again.”

Quinn looked up at Junior. He really did make a ridiculous picture, bobbing up and down on that absurd chair. He had his feet hooked beneath the footrest so he could ride out the swells like a champion broncobuster. He was the stuff of legend, too.

“Why do you say that?”

“I know her,” he explained. “She saw what she came for. By now, she's likely halfway to St. Albans.”

“Can we go over there?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because that ain't why we're out here.” He gestured toward their drink cooler. “Give me one of them grape Fantas.”

Quinn sighed and walked over to retrieve the soft drink for him.

Junior was still scrutinizing her. “Don't go gettin' no half-cocked ideas about tryin' to catch her. That ain't what this whole circus here is about.” He took the frosty bottle from her and cracked its seal. The slow hiss it made underscored his warning. “Better men'n you have wasted their lives thinkin' they was gonna be the ones to catch her. All they got for their trouble was a lot of mangled hopes and beat-up body parts to match.”

“He's right.” Montana spoke up from her seat on the deck. “You've got one shot at this tournament, Quinn. Don't waste your time trying to nail Jell-O to a tree.”

Quinn was unconvinced. “I think you're both wrong.”

“Whatever.” Montana went back to her scraping.

“Just keep your priorities straight,” Junior cautioned, “and give up on them bass-ackward notions.”

Montana chuckled.

“What's so funny?” Quinn asked her.

“I think Junior just gave us the perfect name for this stupid boat.”

“What?”

“Bass-ackwards.” Montana was still smiling. “You gotta admit, it's catchier than
The Raft of the Medusa.
” She got to her feet and displayed the mostly clean grill rack. “Who wants a hotdog?”

“I am so not eating that.”

V. Jay-Jay looked at the congealed mass of red goo. “Why did you order it?”

“I didn't.” Darien pushed her plate away. “This stuff looks like the aftermath of a miscarriage.”

V. Jay-Jay did not look amused. “It's aspic.”

“I know what it is. I think it's disgusting.”

“Maybe you should mention your disdain for it to the wait staff?”

Darien glared at her. “How come you never get this crap on your plate?”

“I explained my special dietary needs on the first day.”

“Really? Is that some religious thing?”

“Religious?” V. Jay-Jay looked confused.

“Yeah. Like a Hindu thing?”

“I'm Presbyterian.”

“I thought you were from India?”

“I am. But being Indian and Presbyterian are not mutually exclusive.”

“So, why don't you eat this crap?” Darien poked at the aspic with a fork.

“I'm a vegan.”

“Aren't tomatoes vegetables?”

“Normally. But aspics are always made with some kind of meat stock.”

Darien stared at her plate. “Gross.”

“I agree.”

They were sitting at a window table. It gave them a great view of the lawn and the lake beyond it. There were several clusters of people outside, standing around in tight little groups or sitting in the big white chairs. They laughed and sipped on cocktails while they waited for their tables to be ready. There were several impressive-looking boats tied up at the long dock. Some of them were clearly built for speed. Others looked more like aquatic SUVs, with loud paint schemes and built-in stereo speakers that probably pushed enough amps to fill Yankee Stadium with top-40 tunes. Darien knew all about people who blasted around in these high-dollar rides. Sooner or later, a lot of them ended up on her list of “assignments.” But there were a couple of vintage Chris Craft launches tied up out there, too. The wooden boats looked downright regal with their polished decks and dark green upholstery. They
bobbed up and down, sandwiched between the modern monstrosities, with all the understated elegance of old money. They were like stray orchids in a vase full of dyed carnations.