As Joe rode closer, he could see the fisherman was armed, as he’d suspected. Tucked into the man’s belt was a long-barreled Ruger Mark III .22 semiautomatic pistol. Joe knew it to be an excellent gun, and he’d seen hundreds owned by hunters and ranchers over the years. It was rugged and simple, and it was often used to administer a kill shot to a wounded animal.
The tip of the fisherman’s pole jerked down and the man deftly set the hook and reeled in a feisty twelve-inch rainbow trout. The sun danced off the colors of the trout’s belly and back as the fisherman raised it from the water, worked the treble-hook lure out of its mouth, and studied it carefully, turning it over in his hands. Then he bent over and released the fish. He cast again, hooked up just as quickly, and reeled in a trout of the same size and color. After inspecting it, he bit it savagely behind its head to kill it. He spat the mouthful of meat into the water near his feet and slipped the fish into the bulging wet fanny pack behind him. Joe looked at the pack—there were 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.
“I don’t see a license,” Joe said, stealing a look at the journal while the fisherman kept his back to him. There were hundreds of short entries made in a tiny crimped hand. Joe read a few of them and noted the dates went back to March. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Was it possible this man had been in the mountains for six months?
“Don’t be reading my work,” the fisherman said.
On a smudged card inside the Bible was a note: FOR CALEB ON HIS 14TH BIRTHDAY FROM AUNT ELAINE.
“Are you Caleb?” Joe asked.
Pause. “Yeah.”
“Got a last name?”
“Yeah.”
Joe waited a beat and the man said nothing. “So, what is it?”
“Grimmengruber.”
“What?”
“Grimmengruber. Most people just say ‘Grim’ cause they can’t pronounce it.”
“Who is Camish?” Joe asked. “I keep seeing that name in this journal.”
“I told you not to read it,” Caleb Grimmengruber said, displaying a flash of impatience.
“I was looking for your license,” Joe said. “I can’t find it. So who is Camish?”
Caleb sighed. “My brother.”
“Where is he? Is he up here with you?”
“None of your business.”
“You wrote that he was with you yesterday. It says, ‘Camish went down and got some supplies. He ran into some trouble along the way.’ What trouble?” Joe asked, recalling what Farkus had said at the trailhead.
Caleb Grim lowered his fishing rod and slowly turned around. He had close-set dark eyes, a tiny pinched mouth glistening with fish blood, a stubbled chin sequined with scales, and a long, thin nose sunburned so badly that the skin was mottled gray and had peeled away revealing the place where chalk-white bone joined yellow cartilage. Joe’s stomach clenched, and he felt his toes curl in his boots.
“What trouble?” Joe repeated, trying to keep his voice strong.
“You can ask him yourself.”
“He’s at your camp?”
“I ain’t in charge of his movements, but I think so.”