Nowhere to Run

a lot of dead fish in it.

“Why did you release the first one and keep the second?” Joe asked. “They looked like the same fish.”

The man grunted as if insulted, “Not up close, they didn’t. The one I kept had a nick on its tailfin. The one I threw back was perfect. The perfect ones go free.” He spoke in a hard, flat, nasal tone. The accent was upper Midwest, Joe thought. Maybe even Canadian.

Joe was puzzled. “How many imperfect fish do you have there?” Joe asked. He was now around the lake and behind and to the side of the fisherman. “The legal limit is six. Too many to my mind, but that’s the law. It looks like you may have more than that in your possession.”

The fisherman paused silently in the lake, his wide back to Joe. He seemed to be thinking, planning a move or a response. Joe felt the now-familiar shiver roll through him despite the heat. It was as if they were the only two humans on earth and something of significance was bound to happen.

Finally, the man said, “I lost count. Maybe ten.”

“That’s a violation. Tell me, are you a bow hunter?” Joe asked. “I’m wondering about an arrow I found stuck in a tree earlier today.”

The fisherman shrugged. Not a yes, not a no. More like, I’m not sure I want to answer.

“Do you know anything about an elk that was butchered up in a basin a few miles from here? A seven-point bull? It happened a week ago. The hunters who wounded it tracked it down but someone had harvested all the meat by the time they found the carcass. Would you know anything about that?”

“Why you asking me?”

“Because you’re the only living human being I’ve seen in two days.”

The man coughed up phlegm and spat a ball of it over his shoulder. It floated and bobbed on the surface of the water. “I don’t know nothing about no elk.”

“The elk was imperfect,” Joe said. “It was bleeding out and probably limping.”

“For the life of me, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“I need to see your license,” Joe said.

“Ain’t got it on me,” the man said, finally, still not turning around. “Might be in my bag.”

Joe turned in the saddle and saw a weathered canvas daypack hung from a broken branch on the side of a pine tree. He’d missed it earlier. He looked for a bow and quiver of homemade arrows. Nope.

“Mind if I look in it?”

The fisherman shrugged again.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes. But while you look, I’m gonna keep fishing.”

“Suit yourself,” Joe said.

The fisherman mumbled something low and incomprehensible.

Joe said, “Come again?”

The man said, “I’m willing to let this go if you’ll just turn your horses around and ride back the way you came. ’Cause if you start messing with me, well . . .”

“What?”

“Well, it may not turn out too good.”

Joe said, “Are you threatening me?”

“Nope. Just statin’ a fact. Like sayin’ the sky is blue. You got a choice, is what I’m sayin’.”

Joe said, “I’m choosing to check your license. It’s my job.”

The fisherman shook his head slowly, as if to say, What happens now is on you.

The rod flicked out again, but the lure shot out to the side toward Joe, who saw it flashing through the air. He flinched and closed his eyes and felt the lure smack hard into his shoulder. The treble hooks bit into the loose fabric of his sleeve but somehow missed the skin.

“Damn,” the fisherman said.

“Damn is right,” Joe said, shaken. “You hooked me.”

“I fouled the cast, I guess,” the man said.

“Seemed deliberate to me,” Joe said, reaching across his body and trying to work the lure free. The barbs were pulled through the fabric and he ended up tearing his sleeve getting the lure out.

“Maybe if you’d stay clear of my casting lane,” the fisherman said flatly, reeling in. Not a hint of apology or remorse.

Joe dismounted but never took his eyes off the fisherman in the water. He fought an impulse to charge out into the lake and take the man down. He doubted the miscast was an accident, but there was no way he could prove it, and he swallowed his anger. He led his horse over to the tree, tied him up, and took the bag down. There were very few items in it, and Joe rooted through them looking for a license. In the bag was a knife in a sheath, some string, matches, a box of crackers, a battered journal, a pink elastic iPod holder designed to be worn on an arm but no iPod, an empty water bottle, and half a Bible—Old Testament only. It looked as if the New Testament had been torn away.