He reached over and gripped his favorite jigger pole. Years ago he’d taken a month to whittle one from cane. Now they could be bought anywhere, professionally manufactured out of lightweight flexible nylon. Slowly, he tied the special double-reverse spinner knot learned from his father, assuring that the sinking Rapala at the tip was tightly secured. It was shaped and colored like a small bream, the perfect temptation for a near-blind, greedy-gut bass.
He tested the treble hooks fore, aft, and abeam.
Sharp. Ready to snag.
He extended the black pole from the boat and ever-so-gently lowered the plug beneath the quelled surface. Brooks Creek was best fished early. By midday, after the sun steamed the tepid water, warmth drove the fish into the cool lake bottom. Right now, just after dawn, the environment was perfect and he stared hard at the black crevices in the creek’s east bank. Twice, when he’d won the Golden Angler award from the Woods County Bass Association, the snagged bigmouth bass came from those crevices.
The plug submerged.
Ever so gently he added to the allure by jiggering the pole up and down, the splashing piece of plastic now appearing like a fingerling bream casually investigating the surface. It wouldn’t take long. Never did. The trick was knowing how to splash. Too hard would scare the bass off. Too soft would never get any attention.
The line knocked hard.
He tightened his grip and hung on, allowing the hooks to tangle deep. Jerk too soon and all he’d have left was an empty lure. When he sensed the hooks were set, he swung the frantic fish up and into the boat.
Hell’s bells he loved jigger fishing.
He pinched his boot down on the thrashing bass and thrust a finger into the gills. Carefully, he removed the hooks and admired the catch. Four pounds. Maybe five.
It would make excellent fillets.
HE WAS READY.
Occasionally he wished he could simply snap their necks. It’d be so much simpler and a thousand times less trouble. Unnoticed deaths took imagination, thought, and creativity. A flair for the expected mixed with the unexpected.
Like an art form.
The scene needed to be set perfectly in the Priority’s mind.
THE OLD MAN DROPPED THE BASS INTO THE CATCH COOLER, THENleaned over the side and rinsed the fish coat off his hands. He then reached into another Igloo for an apple. He’d overslept and left home in a hurry, not taking time to have his usual bowl of shredded wheat and coffee.
Overhead, swallows and mockingbirds twittered from tree to tree in search of their own breakfast. A welcome waft of honeysuckle accompanied bees filching nectar. He should have bought a lot here years ago, back before the price of lakefront property skyrocketed. But even now the lack of adequate water and sewer lines and paved roads kept the number of dwellings to a minimum. Especially here, on the northeast shore. Nothing but loblolly pine all around for miles.
He gnawed on the apple and, as always, tossed the spent core into the pool where he was about to replace the lure.
It never failed to draw a fish.
Pole in hand, he extended the lure back over the water.
HE SEARCHED HIS JUMPSUIT POCKET AND FOUND A PACK OFDoublemint. He folded a stick into his mouth and rejuvenated his palate. It was almost a conditioned response. Death and dry mouth.
A habit?
He grinned at the irony.
Then he relocked his eyes on the old man sitting in the boat fifty yards away. A minute went by. He flicked his wrist and the associate standing beside him understood what to do.
Timing was so important.
Nothing unusual except—
THE OLD MAN HEARD THRASHING AHEAD IN THE DENSE SCRUB ONthe far bank, beyond the point where the creek left the pool snaking inland. People rarely frequented those woods, so he wondered if the visitor might be a deer, hog, or brown bear. Fifty feet past the pool the foliage thinned to a tiny beach. He gazed into the woods beyond and saw the orange of a hunter’s vest.
“Hey,” a male voice said. “You there. I need some help.”
He whirled the jigger pole back into the boat.
“Please don’t go,” the voice said.
