Seventh Enemy (8 page)

Suddenly there came a shrill whistle, the kind that basketball coaches make by jamming two fingers into the corners of their mouth. I never learned to whistle that way.

A woman’s voice yelled, “Corky!”

Instantly the Springer scrambled to his feet, trotted back to the porch, and flopped down beside the woman who was standing there waving at me. Her blond hair was pulled back into a careless pony-tail. She was wearing a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans and bare feet. She was slim and tall. She looked about sixteen. She was smiling at me.

“Hey, Brady,” she called.

I waved back at her. “Diana. Hi.”

I went to the porch. Up close, I saw that she was closer to thirty-six than sixteen. Tiny lines webbed the corners of her dark eyes and bracketed her mouth and lent character to her face. She looked even better up close.

The legend on her T-shirt read, “
I FISH THEREFORE I AM
.”

She was holding out her hand. I took it. Her grip was firm. “You made it,” she said.

“Only took one wrong turn.”

“That’s par. I hope you’re ready to go fishing. Time for one cup of coffee. Let’s get your stuff.”

We headed back to my car. Corky scrambled up and heeled behind her.

“Where’s Wally?”

She jerked her head backward in the direction of the cabin, “On the phone.”

“Problems?”

“He doesn’t seem particularly concerned. He’ll be out in a minute.”

We unloaded my stuff and lugged it to the cabin. As we stepped onto the porch the front door opened and Wally stood there. He grinned and held up one hand like an Indian. “Howdy.”

“Hiya,” I said.

He held the door for me and Diana. It opened into a brightly lighted space that encompassed the kitchen, dining area, and living room. A huge fieldstone fireplace took up the entire side wall. Brass-bottomed cookware and sprigs of dried herbs hung from the kitchen beams and framed wildlife prints hung on the raw cedar walls.

“You’re in here,” said Diana. She pushed open a door with her foot. It was a small bedroom. One queen-sized bed, a dresser, bedside table, chair. The single window looked out back into the woods. “Bathroom’s through there,” she added, indicating a doorway.

We dumped my stuff on the bed, then went back into the living room. Wally handed me a mug of coffee. “We oughta be on the river in an hour,” he said. “Drink up.”

“Let the poor man relax,” said Diana.

“How can I relax?” I said. “I want to go fishing.”

I sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace, where embers were burning down to ash. Wally sat beside me and Diana took a rocking chair. Corky hopped onto the bare wood floor beside her. She reached down absentmindedly to scratch his ears.

“Who was it this time?” she said.

Wally waved his hand dismissively. “One of the assistant producers.”

“Is this serious?” I said.

He shrugged. “The word’s gotten around. Kinnick has betrayed the cause. I guess SAFE’s got the NRA boys calling the station from all over the country. But, shit, we’ve always had stuff like that. Today the NRA, tomorrow People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals or the congressman from New Jersey. I don’t know, I just seem to piss people off. The producers complain and worry and create disastrous scenarios, but I think they actually kinda like it when I offend. Controversy. That’s the ratings game, I guess. They like to say, bad reviews are one helluva lot better than no reviews. No, he was just wondering what I said in Boston that got the switchboard all lit up. I told him, just like I’ve been telling everyone else. He said it sounded okay to him.”

“You seen a newspaper recently?” I said.

“Absolutely not. Newspapers are not allowed in this place. Or televisions, either. We get some ink?”

“The
Globe
thinks you’re a hero.”

“Sure. They would.” He stretched elaborately. “Ready to go?”

I gulped the dregs of my coffee and stood up. “I’m ready.”

“Me, too,” said Diana. The instant she stood, Corky scrambled to his feet and scurried to the front door. He whined and pushed at it with his nose. “Okay, okay,” she said to the dog. “You can come.”

Corky turned and sat, resting his haunches back against the door. I’d have sworn that dog was smiling.

T
HE FOUR OF US
piled into Diana’s Cherokee—she drove and Wally sat beside her in front, while Corky and I shared the backseat. After twenty minutes—and at least that many forks in the dirt roads—we pulled onto the grassy parking area on the banks of the Deerfield just downriver from the hydroelectric dam. Only one other car was there, a late model green Volvo wagon with Vermont plates and a Trout Unlimited sticker on the back window.

When I stepped out I could hear the river gurgling down in the gorge beyond the screen of trees. Here and there through the leaves I caught the glint of sunlight on water. I was familiar enough with the sounds of the Deerfield to know that the dam had reduced its flow and the water was running low. The sun was warm and mayflies and caddis flitted in the air—perfect fly-fishing conditions.

I glanced at the sign tacked onto a fat oak tree, identical to the signs that were spaced every fifty feet along the river.

In hold red letters, it read:

WARNING RISING WATERS

Then, in more sedate black lettering:

Be constantly alert for a quick
rise in the river. Water
upstream may be released
suddenly at any time.
New England Power Company

I smiled to myself. On two occasions in the years I had fished the Deerfield I had failed to be “constantly alert.” Twice I had been lifted from my feet and swept downstream on the crest of the rising water.

The first time it happened I was trying to make a long cast to a large trout. Charlie McDevitt fished me out.

The second time, two men with guns were chasing me and a boy named E.J. Donagan. That time a bullet grazed my buttock, and it was E.J. who saved me.

I had no desire to try it again.

Another sign on an adjacent tree, also one of many, read:

CATCH AND RELEASE AREA

ARTIFICIAL LURES ONLY

NO FISH OR BAIT IN POSSESSION

A guy from North Adams named Al Les had worked mightily to persuade the state to set aside these several miles of beautiful trout water for no-kill fishing. The trout here were bigger and more abundant than elsewhere in the river, the logical result of their being allowed to continue their lives after being caught by a fisherman. If your idea of good fishing did not require you to bring home trophies, this was the place.

More than fifty years ago Lee Wulff said, “A good gamefish is too valuable to be caught only once.” Thanks to people like Wally Kinnick and Al Les, Wulff’s wisdom has been gradually catching on, and those of us who love fishing for its own sake have been the beneficiaries.

The three of us pulled on our waders and rigged up our rods, while Corky sniffed the shrubbery and lifted his leg in the prime spots.

Wally was ready first. “I’m heading down,” he said.

“We’ll be right along,” said Diana.

After Wally disappeared down the steep path, Diana smiled at me. “He’s like a kid when he’s going fishing. I love his passion for it.”

“I knew him when he was a kid,” I said. “Nice to see he hasn’t changed.”

She was tying a fly onto her leader tippet. She squinted at it, clamping the tip of her tongue in her teeth. She was, I thought, very beautiful in her floppy man’s felt hat and bulging fishing vest and baggy chest-high waders.

We started down the path, me first, Diana behind me, and Corky at her heel. It was narrow and descended abruptly, so that I had to grip saplings to keep from slipping. Halfway down, I came upon Wally. He was crouched there in the pathway, peering through the trees down at the river.

Without turning around, he held up one hand and hissed, “Shh.”

I stopped right behind him.

“Look,” he whispered, pointing down at the river.

I peeked through the foliage. A fishermen was standing knee-deep in the water. His rod was bent. He was bringing a fish to his net. It looked like a large one.

“Hey,” I said. “A good—”

“Shh!”

The angler had stepped directly out of the Orvis catalog. His vest was festooned with glittering fishing tools and gadgets, and his neoprene waders looked new and custom-fitted. His slender split-bamboo rod was bent in a graceful arc. He netted the fish and then knelt in the water to remove the fly from its jaw. He was turned away from me so that through the foliage I couldn’t clearly see what he was doing.

Suddenly Wally muttered, “Bastard!”

“What?” I said.

“The son of a bitch killed the fish. He slipped it into the back of his vest.”

“You sure?”

“Damn right I’m sure.”

“But it’s—”

“Of course. They’re all supposed to be released. He’s a fucking poacher.”

We hunkered there in the path for another minute or two. Then Wally said, “Let’s go.”

We scrambled the rest of the way down the slope and found ourselves standing on the cobbled bank of the river where, in high water, we’d be up to our knees in surging currents. Big boulders along the edges were still wet from where, not too much earlier in the morning, they had been underwater.

The fisherman had resumed casting. Wally called, “Hey! How’re they biting?”

The angler turned, hesitated, then smiled. “Oh, hi. They’ve just started to rise.”

“Catch any?” said Wally.

He shrugged. “A couple.”

Wally waded toward him. Diana and I followed along a few steps behind. Corky sat on the bank.

The fisherman stopped casting. He cocked his head, squinting at Wally. “Hey,” he said. “I know you.”

Wally smiled at him.

“Walt Kinnick, right? Damn! I watch your show all the time. I heard you had a place near here. Jesus, what a treat!”

He held out his hand to Wally, who took it.

“You know,” said the guy, “I’m a real fan of yours. A couple years ago I drove all the way down from Brattleboro to hear you speak at the Boston Fly Casters club.”

Wally nodded and said, “That’s a nice-looking fly rod.”

The angler grinned. “Neighbor of mine in Vermont custom made it for me. I love it. Guess I ought to. Cost me fourteen hundred bucks.” He held it out to Wally. “Give it a try.”

Wally handed his own rod back to Diana and took the man’s split-bamboo fly rod. He examined the workmanship, nodding his approval. He waved it in the air a few times. “Sweet,” he said. “I bet it casts like a dream.” Wally glanced at the man. “Come here often?”

“Couple times a week. It’s only an hour or so from home, and it’s better than any of the rivers in my own state.”

“It’s been terrific since they made it catch and release, huh?”

The guy nodded.

“I hear,” said Wally, “that sometimes guys’ll sneak in with bait, catch a bunch and kill them. It’s a shame that the wardens don’t patrol it better.” He waved the man’s rod in the air, admiring its flex. “The way I figure it,” he continued, “we’ve got to more or less patrol it for ourselves. Wally turned around to Diana and me and showed us the fly rod. “This is a beautiful piece of work, Brady,” he said. “Damn shame that this guy doesn’t deserve it.”

The fisherman was frowning now. “Just a minute, there—” he said.

Wally turned back to him. “I saw you kill that trout,” he said quietly.

“What—?”

“How long did it take the guy in Vermont to make this rod for you?”

The guy frowned, “Almost two years from the time I ordered it. But I—”

Wally gripped the rod with both hands. “It took five years to grow that trout you killed,” he said softly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the guy muttered.

Wally held the man’s rod up at eye level and began to bend it.

“Hey—!”

It cracked halfway up the butt section. Wally twisted the two broken parts until the splintered halves separated. He handed the mangled rod back to the wide-eyed fisherman. “That’s the price for killing that fish,” he said.

The guy dumbly took his rod. He stared at it for a moment. Then he looked up at Wally. He was shaking his head slowly back and forth. “You broke my rod,” he finally said.

Wally nodded.

“You
bastard.
You broke my rod. Who the
hell
do you think you are?

Wally shrugged. “Try obeying the rules, friend,” he said. He turned his back on the guy To Diana and me he said, “Let’s head upstream where the water’s not polluted.”

The three of us began to wade away. The man with the broken rod yelled, “God
damn
it, Kinnick. That’s fourteen hundred bucks. I’ll sue you, you son of a bitch.”

“This is my lawyer,” said Wally, gesturing to me. “Talk to him.”

I turned to face the man. “Brady Coyne,” I said, clipping my head cordially. “My number’s in the Boston book.”

The guy glared at me but said nothing.

We headed upstream. “That was a little extreme, don’t you think?” I said.

Wally shrugged. “Bastard deserved it.”

“It’s obvious you’re not interested in a lawyer’s advice.”

“Nope.”

“You can’t just run around breaking people’s fly rods, for God’s sake.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s a terrible habit of mine.”

Diana smiled. “Walter’s a real diplomat. He makes enemies wherever he goes.”

“Yeah, just what he needs,” I said. “More enemies.”

“Judge a man by his enemies,” said Wally. “I’m going fishing.”

He waded in and began casting. Downstream from where we stood, the fisherman with the broken fly rod was standing there knee-deep in the Deerfield River staring at us. As I watched, he trudged out of the water and disappeared up the path toward the parking lot.

Diana and I continued to pick our way upstream through the calf-deep water over the slippery rocks. We hooked elbows with each other for our mutual balance. Corky followed along on the bank. “He’s a very impetuous man,” said Diana. “You must know that. It makes him lovable and impossible, all at the same time.”

“It’s actually kind of admirable, in an Old Testament sort of way.”