“Looks good,” I said, and he handed it over. I struggled, taking a couple of minutes to open the clip at the end of my line and attach it to the lure. I nearly jabbed myself twice, but did my best to keep Bob from noticing. Bob whipped his pole back over his shoulder, then cast out, the plug landing in the water thirty to forty feet away.

“We’ll drift this way”-he pointed-“so cast out the other side.”

I was worried about how this was going to go, but surprised myself when the pole whipped back over my head, I released the tension on the line, and the plug went sailing through the air, plopping nicely into the water not far from where Bob’s had gone.

“Juanita would’ve loved a morning like this,” Bob said.

“Juanita?”

“She was my wife. You’re thinking, a name like that, what was she? She was from Mexico, originally. She loved to come out here, especially early in the morning, with the water smooth as glass, the mist still not all burned off. At first, years ago, when we first started coming up, I thought she did it just to keep me happy, which made me feel sort of bad. Didn’t want to think she was sitting out here for hours just tolerating it, you know?”

“Sure.”

“So one year, I decide, without telling her, to book something different for when we usually come up here. Put aside some money, to take her to San Francisco. Ride the trolley cars, see the Golden Gate, that kind of thing. Well, she finds out I’ve done this and doesn’t talk to me for two days. All she wants, she says, is to come up here and sit on a lake with me. Made me cancel the Frisco trip.”

“She liked fishing?”

Bob Spooner shrugged. “Liked it okay. It was sitting out here that she liked most. Sometimes, she’d bring a book, curl up right there, on the floor by the front seat, and just read while I fished. One time she read one of your books.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, your dad had a copy, she borrowed it. About these guys, they go to another planet, they’re like missionaries, only backwards? They try to spread the word that there’s no God, but then something awful happens to them. That one.”

“How’d she like it?”

Bob pondered. “I don’t know. She didn’t finish it.”

I reeled in, cast out again. “You miss her,” I said.

Bob nodded. “Awful thing, that cancer. Took her a long time to go. Didn’t want to lose her, but at the same time, wished I could have ended it for her sooner.”

For a long time, we said nothing. We sat there in the stillness of the morning, watching the last of the overnight mist burn away. I understood what had drawn my father up here to stay, how up here, there was much less to worry about, much less to get your shorts in a knot about.

Except, maybe, for the Wickenses.

“I’m thinking,” I said, breaking the silence, “of taking Dad into town to see a lawyer, see what he can do about those people renting his farmhouse. Maybe he could get them evicted. Look what they’re doing to the place.”

“Worth checking into,” Bob said, studying where his line disappeared into the water. He turned his reel a couple of times, then let it back out again.

“A lawyer could at least let Dad know where he stands, tell him what his options are regarding-”

And then my line took off. The reel started spinning.

“Jesus, what the hell’s that?” I said. “I must be caught on a log.”

“That’s no fucking log,” Bob said. “You’ve got hold of something.” He began reeling in his own line so he could concentrate on what had hold of mine. “Just play it,” he said gently. “Keep him busy.”

I pulled back on the pole, then eased it forward again, turning the reel furiously to pick up the slack and bring the fish closer to the boat.

Something dark and oily looking broke the surface of the water. Something long and slender and black, and at least three feet long. With a broad fin toward one end.

“Whoa,” said Bob.

“What? What is it?”

“It’s a muskie, that’s for sure. Probably go four feet, maybe more.”

And then the fish’s snout appeared above the surface, my lure caught on the edge of its lower lip, and it shook its head vigorously back and forth a couple of times before disappearing under the surface.

“That’s not just any muskie,” said Bob. “I think that just might be Audrey.”

“Audrey?”

“Just then, I noticed a scar on her snout, just under the right eye. I know that fish. I’ve hooked into her a couple times over the years. Biggest fish I’ve ever seen out here. Keep reeling in.”

“I’m trying but she’s putting up a hell of a fight.” Truth was, I couldn’t manage to turn the reel. “You want to take it?”

Bob shook his head. “She’s your fish. You either land her, or you don’t. I hooked into her three years ago, and two years before that. It’s in my diary. That bitch is still out here. I don’t believe it. Last couple times I hooked into her, it was right near here.”

The pole was bent over sharply, the line taut. “Why Audrey?” I asked.

“My grade two teacher. Used to whack me with a ruler every day. Meanest bitch ever to stand in front of a classroom.” He paused. “I’ve thought, if I could ever land Audrey, I could retire from fishing altogether and die a happy man.”

“It’s not right that she’s hit my line,” I said. “Really, take the pole and-”

And suddenly, my fishing pole sprang upward, the tension going out of it instantly. The line went slack.

I reeled in as quickly as I could, until my lure appeared above the surface of the water, nothing attached to it.

Bob smiled. “Audrey’s as smart as she is mean. Maybe, next time we’re out here, she’ll hit my line instead of yours.”

When I got back to Dad’s cabin, Dr. Heath was taking a look at Dad’s ankle. Dad was stretched out on the couch, and the doctor had perched himself on the big wooden coffee table, looking at the bandage, lightly touching it.

Dr. Heath turned when he saw me come in. “Why, hello,” he said. “Just thought I’d take a run out here and see how your father’s coming along.”

“And how’s that?” I asked.

The elderly doctor nodded wisely. “I’d say just fine. If he can keep his weight off it, I’d say another week he’ll be in pretty good shape.”

Yikes. A whole week? Taking that much time off from the paper might be pushing it. Best to take this a day at a time, I told myself.

“Arlen,” he said to my father, “you have to promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“Fine, fine, don’t worry,” he said, pulling a thick sock back up over the wounded ankle. “Zachary’s hanging in for a few days.”

The doctor grabbed his medical bag, headed for the door.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” I said.

We were approaching his black Buick, and I said, “Can I ask you something?”

“If you’re worried about your father, you shouldn’t be. He’s going to be just fine.”

“That’s good, but that wasn’t what I wanted to ask you about. It’s about Morton Dewart.”

“Awful thing,” Dr. Heath said.

“Did you do an autopsy on the body?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Dr. Heath. “I had to declare a cause of death.”

“And what did you determine that to be?”

Dr. Heath made a small snorting noise. “Misadventure, with a bear.”

“So that was your conclusion, that he was killed by a bear?”

Dr. Heath looked puzzled. “Of course. You saw him. Didn’t he look like he was killed by a bear to you?”

“But isn’t that just an assumption?”

“You heard what Mr. Wickens said. He made a statement that Mr. Dewart had gone out, specifically, to find that bear, and shoot it. Then he’s found as he was. It doesn’t take much to put that together, Mr. Walker.”

“But when you did your autopsy, did your examination of the wounds support the contention that he was killed by the bear? Did the bite marks match the size of a bear’s jaw, that kind of thing?”

Dr. Heath was shaking his head, getting irritated. “Look, I don’t understand what the point of your question is. We saw the body, we have Mr. Wickens on record as saying the deceased was hunting for a bear. I think you put all that together and you conclude that Mr. Dewart was killed by a bear. That’s what I did, and now the body is being released to his own family, not the Wickenses.”