“Right here,” he said when we reached the shoreline. “See those swirls on the surface?” He plunged his massive arms into the water and pulled hard on a line of green and purple rope. His tanned muscles tensed and his veins popped as he tugged one hand over another. But aside from an intensely concentrated stare and a tiny bead of sweat on his forehead, Ben made the task look as easy as reeling in an empty fishing line. Finally, an enormous metal contraption broke the surface of the glassy water. Nothing but reeds and bits of mud stuck to the bottom of the cage.
“This is the seventh one we’ve confiscated.” He walked the trap up to the truck and threw it into the bed without so much as a grunt. “You’d think this guy—or girl, I suppose”—he made a motion toward me as if trying to be politically correct—“would be tired of spending the money and go back to using a line and pole.”
“Have you ever confiscated one with an actual catfish in it?”
“Nope. Not one.”
Wow. This guy was an idiot. Like one of my college professors used to say, “The definition of stupidity is doing the same thing twice and expecting different results.” I was pretty sure Einstein said that was the definition of insanity—either way, if the shoe fit . . .
Muddy Water Cove seemed to go on forever as we drove around several twists and turns, the water still shimmering from behind trees and bushes to our left.
“You’ll notice five walk-in gates along the fence line where visitors can park their cars in the neighborhoods and walk into the reservoir.” Ben pointed up a dirt path leading to an open gate. “Every morning we open them and every evening we close them. It can be tedious, but if you’re late, you’ll get an earful from the fishermen. Sometimes they’ll even call the City Offices and then things get really sticky, so don’t dawdle in the mornings.”
“Gotcha.” I made a mental note to always get to the gates on time.
“There are three coves at Alder Ridge Reservoir. The one closest to the plaza and beach area is called Marina Cove because people pay to leave their boats attached to buoys for the summer. Muddy Water Cove is different from the others because it has trees and bushes lining the shore.”
He pointed to the natural landscaping.
“And then there’s Long Beach Cove where there’s—”
“Let me guess, no beach?” I laughed at my own joke.
Ben looked confused. “No, there’s a beach. All along the shoreline.”
Of course there was. “I just thought because Muddy Water Cove wasn’t really muddy . . . ”
“Oh, I see!” Ben let out a laugh. “That is funny.”
When we finally reached what had to be the opposite side of the cove—though the shoreline where we’d confiscated the trap was completely hidden from view—we stopped again to talk to a fisherman.
“Hey, Jackson,” Ben said. The man was Dave’s complete opposite. He was tall and dark with broad shoulders and a handsomely groomed beard. Where Dave looked to be around forty-five, Jackson was a solid twenty-two. The fishing gear around him was neatly organized into straight rows, from small to large, and color-coded.
“Ben,” he said with a charming smile. “And this is—?”
“Rylie,” I replied.
“Nice to meet you, Rylie.”
“Likewise,” I said.
“Jackson used to be one of our summies but has since moved on to be a state park ranger.”
“The fishing is still better here, though,” Jackson said handing Ben his fishing license.
“Hey, how long have you been here?” Ben asked. “We just found another trap on the far side of the cove.”
“Not long,” Jackson threw out his line with grace and accuracy that could only have come from years of practice. “I thought I would come out for a bit while the husband is shopping.”
“Any luck?”
“Nothing. Not a single bite,” Jackson slowly reeled in his line, tugging up then reeling in the slack over and over again to make his lure dance beneath the water’s surface. I watched, mesmerized by the smooth pull and quick flick of his wrist. He was good. “I don’t see how Ronnie did it.”
“Dave thinks Ronnie is the MWB and that’s how he caught the fish,” Ben said.
Jackson’s jaw tensed a bit. “I don’t know if I would be pissed or relieved to find out he caught that cat with a trap.”
“I’ll let you get back to it.” Ben handed his license back. “Tell Craig I say hi.”
“Will do.”
I’d never fished like Jackson before. Not only were my movements jerky and haphazard, typically all my crap was spread out randomly, and I used worms and marshmallow-esque bait. Maybe that’s why I never caught anything, not that Jackson was catching anything with his fancy moves.
“Nice meeting you, Rylie. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He put a hand up to the side of his mouth as if telling me a secret. “Don’t let this guy bore you with his endless stories.”
I laughed and nodded.
Ben rolled his eyes and motioned toward the truck.
The truck doors were so far from the ground I was certain my ass would be three inches higher by the time the summer was over from all the getting in and out. At least it meant I didn’t need to do so many squats.
“Do all the rangers fish?” I asked as we headed back to the main plaza area.
“For the most part,” Ben said. “Some of us are more, um, meticulous and enthusiastic than others.”
I chuckled. “Like Jackson?”
“Yeah, and Antonio and Kyle are known to fish quite a bit too. It’s easy to become obsessed. Fishing can be as addicting as smoking or drugs. Some of these guys have failed marriages and estranged children because they can’t kick the just-one-more-fish mentality.”
“And you? Do you fish?”
“Not as much as I used to. My wife and kids are my world. I have two teenage
