Lemuria, Burt Clinchandhill [adventure books to read .TXT] 📗

“The reason we had to come all this way to the north end of the river and left a lot of Otter Creek behind us, is that this time of year the water in the south is relatively warm, but here in the north the water is cold, and that makes it an excellent breeding ground for the brown, brook, and rainbow trout. And if we are fortunate, maybe we can even catch ourselves a landlocked salmon.”

Monroe started to unbutton his trousers.

“What are you doing?” Bishop laughed and flapped his hands. “Over your clothes. Just take off your shoes and step into the wader. Put the suspenders over your shoulders, and you’re good to go.”

Both men got into their clothing. Bishop took a fly-fishing vest from the car, put in on Monroe, and handed him a rod. “You look ravishing.” Bishop gave his boyish smile, the enthusiasm showing in his eyes.

Monroe shook his head.

“Let’s go.” Bishop closed the car and walked up to the river. “Now, since you never fished like this before, I’ll teach you the ropes. There’s nothing to it. Listen to me and do as I do. The only important rule is that you always stay upright. Don’t fall. If you fall over into the river, your chest wader could fill up with water, and you’ll sink. Not recommendable, so to say.”

“This is getting better and better,” Monroe grumbled.

“No worries, I’ll get you back home safe again and tonight”—Bishop opened his stretched arms and anticipated an answer that didn’t come—“we eat fish. Follow me.” He waded from the bank into the shallow river.

When Monroe stepped into the water, Bishop started humming the Jaws theme.

“Shush.” Monroe put a finger to his lips.

“Scared?” Bishop replied.

Monroe shook his head and pointed to the sky behind Bishop. He instantly recognized the sound of helicopter rotor blades. As a young pilot, he had flown a Sea King helicopter from the carrier HMS Hermes during the Falklands War. It was the only time he saw combat as a volunteer pilot. The sight of one of his comrades being shot down, just over the island, traumatized him so he gave up his career as an army pilot, and returned to school to study comparative literature.

Bishop turned around. Accompanied by a low rumble of rotors, a helicopter neared from the east, soaring low over the marshes.

Monroe’s voice lowered an octave. “It looks like it’s coming this way, and fast.”

Bishop looked at the blackish dot in the sky that rapidly became bigger and bigger. Within thirty seconds, the blue and white Eurocopter had neared them and now hovered some fifty feet upstream over the river.

“It’s one of us, Yale-New Haven Health,” Monroe read from the side, shouting over the loud sound from the rotors.

Bishop walked a few steps back and put his mouth to Monroe’s ear. “I know. I got invited to an introduction flight in 2014. They use it for critical-care patients to transport and provide care during transport from one hospital to another.”

“But what is it doing here?”

“Good question,” Bishop replied as the helicopter hovered sideways to the parking lot, over Bishop’s car, and landed at the center of the terrain. Bishop and Monroe looked left and right, but there was no one in sight as far as they could see and then looked at each other in wonder.

“What now?” Monroe asked when the helicopter door opened, and a woman and a man with a briefcase jumped out.

Bishop squinted and focused on getting a better look through the sand and debris flying around. “Is that...?” He raised his eyebrows as the man and woman neared the water. “Lindsey—Lin—can it be?”

Rubbing his chin, Monroe opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Bishop took a few big steps out of the water.

“It is you.” He stretched out his arms, and the woman ran straight into them. He gave her a firm hug. Then he pushed her away from him, held her at the shoulders and took a good look at the woman dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt. “My God, it is you. You look great. How have you been? How long has it been? What are you doing here?”

“Which question would you like answered first?” Lindsey asked, smiling.

Monroe cleared his throat with a crunchy “hem-hem” while walking out of the water.

“Sorry, Walker. This is Lindsey Wilson. It is still Wilson?”

She nodded. “It’s Dr. Lindsey Wilson actually.”

“Dr. Lindsey Wilson.” Bishop pointed both hands at Lindsey. “This is Walker Monroe, friend and colleague.”

As Monroe shook the woman’s hand, the man behind her stepped forward. “We know who you are, Mr. Monroe. Pleasure to meet you.”

Monroe’s forehead wrinkled.

“And this is Ralph Ignatowski, a co-worker of mine,” Lindsey explained.

Bishop turned to Monroe. “Um, Lindsey and I studied mathematics together at Berkeley a long time ago.” Bishop’s college days flashed before his eyes. Even though he and Lindsey had been good friends in school, they’d lost track after graduating. Now and then he would think of her, and why they were never more than friends.

“Early this century,” Lin added, smiling.

Bishop snapped out of a thousand thoughts that crossed his mind. “That leaves the question,” Bishop said. “Why are you here, with such luxurious transportation, after so many years?”

“I’m sorry about the entrance, but we came looking for you at the university. They told me you took the day off and had gone fishing. Fishing, Matthew Bishop?” she frowned. “I never figured you a fisherman,” she quickly continued. “Your department’s secretary knew of your favorite fishing spot, and when I explained the urgency to the dean, the university was all too eager to give us a ride here.”

“Mysterious,” Monroe pitched his voice. “I get a feeling that we don’t go fishing today?”

“I’m sorry,” Lyndsey replied. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

Bishop looked left and right, then shrugged. The bait and tackle shop closed down long ago. “The only place we can sit is the fish cleaning place next to the shop.” He pointed