Coldwater Revenge, James Ross [books for 9th graders txt] 📗

“I’ll make him wear a life jacket. I promise.”

Bonnie hesitated.

“Trust me.”

CHAPTER 6

Luke sprinted to the end of the dock and dipped a bare hook into the blue/black water, staring expectantly after it. Tom checked the marina office and found it locked and shuttered. The only sign of life appeared on the deck of a thirty foot Penn Yan tied to the end of the dock. Tom walked over and asked the man mopping the stern if they were too late to rent a boat.

“Season’s over,” he said, spilling soapy water from a bucket onto the deck. “I’m just getting ready to haul this one.”

Tom admired the oiled mahogany and polished bright work. “She’s a beauty. Ever take her out for salmon?”

The man brushed the soapy water toward the stern. “Don’t have the time. I’ve got an old downrigger in the locker, if you’re looking for used tackle.”

Tom laughed. “I need a boat first. I made the mistake of telling my nephew here about this place where the fish are as big as he is.”

“That’d be out past Pocket Island in about a hundred feet of water, if they’re there today.”

Tom touched the pocket that held his wallet. “Anyone who could get us there could name his price.”

The man smiled. “What’s the boy’s name?”

“Luke Morgan.”

“Any relation to our sheriff?”

“His son. My brother.”

The man’s face grew thoughtful. “We might be able to work something out, Mr. Morgan. I’m Jack Thompson, by the way.”

Tom held out his hand. “Tom Morgan.”

“That’s right. Tell young Luke there to step on board. We’ll see if one of those monster fish is out there cruising around.”

Tom felt the flush of relief. He’d been cooler in the face of a busted mega-deal than in the prospect of disappointing Luke on their first outdoor adventure. “What do I owe you for saving my life, Jack?”

Thompson grinned. “I’ll let you know later.”

The Penn Yan kept to the middle of the channel until it cleared the cove, then Thompson opened the throttle for the twenty minute run to the trench west of Pocket Island. Over the noise of wind and motor, he shouted to Luke, “Go below and say hello to Brutus! He likes company!” Luke disappeared into the cabin and emerged with his arms wrapped around a large black Labrador. Thompson handed the boy a biscuit. “Give him this.”

Overhead, long, v-shaped lines of geese and mallards dotted the pale blue sky. It was good that the lake was calm. Luke wasn’t big enough to take a pounding, and the deep water beyond Pocket Island could get rough.

When the depth-finder registered an abrupt drop from thirty to a hundred forty feet, Thomson eased the throttle. “We’re here.” To Luke he added, “Take Brutus up front. He likes to sun himself up there. Take these, too.” He handed Luke a baggie of dog biscuits. Then he turned to Tom. “Do you know how to set up a downrigger?”

“It’ll come back to me.”

Thompson disappeared into the cabin and came back with an old Cannon hand crank, a seven foot Loomis rod and a single red and white J-plug. It took Tom longer than he remembered to get the drag and clip set right. But eventually everything was ready. Thompson held the boat in the center of the trench and kept the throttle at one and a half knots. Tom took the mate’s chair and turned it to face the rod. If a salmon hit, the line would pull free from the downrigger, and the rod would snap upright signaling a fish was on.

Thompson turned the captain’s chair to face his passenger. Soft and matter of fact, his voice blended easily with the throaty murmur of the inboard engine puttering just above idle. “So, who killed William Pearce?”

Tom looked at the Lowrance. Depth 120 feet, water temperature 51 degrees Fahrenheit. “You a good swimmer, Jack?”

Thompson smiled. “Coldwater hasn’t gotten any bigger since you left, Tom. Everyone knows the sheriff’s business.”

Tom looked toward the bow where Luke lay curled with the dog. At one and a half knots, the boat moved through the water at the pace of a brisk stroll. He calculated the permutations of possible trouble with Thompson. None worried him, as long as Luke kept out of the way. “What makes you think I know who killed Billy Pearce?”

Thompson smiled. “My niece is the receptionist at NeuroGene. She called to tell me her boss recognized the picture in the Gazette of the man they pulled from the lake yesterday, and that our sheriff and his brother were out there asking questions.”

“Your sheriff would say that’s police business.”

“It’s also news.”

“Are you a reporter, Jack?”

“Reporter, photographer, printer, publisher. I own the Coldwater Gazette.” He raised his chin toward the boy and the big black dog dozing in the sunlight. “You said I could name my price. I just did. An interview. About the murder of William Pearce.”

Tom released a stoppered breath. “You should really talk to my brother.”

“Maybe I should do an article about him?” Thompson’s voice was mock thoughtful. “That would be some juicy reading.”

Tom assumed his boardroom face, alert and expressionless.

“Do you know how hard it is to keep a weekly newspaper alive on a diet of school events and county politics?” Thompson asked. “A home-town murder is a gift from the gods. Pardon my cold heart. I’ve got a stack of bills on my desk that’d choke a moose. A juicy local murder could mean a couple of months of extra readers and ads that could put a dent in that pile of bills.”

Tom looked up at the bow where Luke lay with his arms around the Labrador. It was dead calm and there were no boats in any direction. “How much revenue could you get from the story you’re looking for, Jack?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No. You were talking about unpaid bills. How much revenue?”

“Enough to keep the doors open.”

“And your biggest cost is payroll?”

“Ha!” Thompson spat.