“These are worth a lot of money,” Ott said to Clarisse.
“Maybe I should take out an ad in your newspaper.”
“Yes, good idea.” All Harney Sentinel reporters were trained in the paperwork of classified advertising, just in case the moment arose. Ott got a pad of order forms out of the glove box in the truck.
“Twenty-two fishing rods,” he began.
“Three pairs of hip waders,” Clarisse said, rummaging through her husband’s bass trove.
“Two landing nets,” Ott noted.
“Four vests,” she said, “one with Velcro pockets.”
“Is that an electric hook sharpener?”
“Brand new,” Clarisse said. “Make sure you put down that it’s brand new.”
“Got it.”
“And I don’t know what to do about this.” From under a workbench she dragged what appeared to be a plastic suitcase with the word “plano” stamped on the top. “I can’t even lift the darn thing,” she said. “I’m afraid to look inside.”
“What is it?” Ott asked.
“The mother lode,” Clarisse said. “Bobby’s tacklebox.”
Ott hoisted it by the handle, then set it down on the kitchen counter. It must have weighed fifty pounds.
“He has junk in there from when he was ten years old. Lures and stuff.” Clarisse’s voice sounded small; she was blinking her eyes as if she were about to cry, or at least fighting the urge.
Ott unfastened the clasps on the tacklebox and opened the lid. He had never seen such an eclectic collection of gadgets: rainbow-colored worms and frogs and plastic minnows and even tiny rubber snakes, all bristling with diamond-sharpened hooks. The lures were neatly organized on eight folding trays. Knives, pliers, stainless-steel hook removers, sinkers, swivels, and spools of leader material filled the bottom of the box.
In a violet velvet pouch was a small bronze scale used for weighing bass. The numerals on the scale optimistically went up to twenty-five pounds, although no largemouth bass that size had ever been caught.
Of the scale, Clarisse remarked: “That stupid thing cost forty bucks. Bobby said it was tournament-certified, whatever that means. All the guys had the same model, he said, so nobody could cheat on the weight.”
Ott Pickney carefully fitted the bronze scale back in its pouch. He returned the pouch to Bobby Clinch’s tacklebox and closed the latches.
Clarisse sat down on the concrete steps in the garage and stared sadly at the bushel of orphaned fishing poles. She said, “This is what Bobby’s life was all about, Mr. Pickney. Not me or the kids or the job at the phone company… just this. He wasn’t happy unless he was out on the lake.”
Finally a decent quote, Ott thought, and scribbled feverishly in his notebook. He wasn’t happy unless he was fishing on the lake. Close enough.
It wasn’t until later, as Ott Pickney was driving back to the newspaper office, that it hit him like a fist in the gut: R. J. Decker was right. Something odd was going on.
If Bobby Clinch had taken the tacklebox on his fateful trip, it surely would have been lost in the boat accident.
So why had he gone to Lake Jesup without it?
Skink’s boat was a bare twelve-foot skiff with peeling oars and splinters on the seat planks.
“Get in,” he told R. J. Decker.
Decker sat in the prow and Skink shoved off. It was a chilly night under a muffled sky; an unbroken mat of high gray clouds, pushed south by a cold breeze. Skink set a Coleman lantern in the center of the skiff, next to Decker’s weatherproof camera bag.
“No bugs,” Skink remarked. “Not with this wind.”
He had brought two fishing rods that looked like flea-market specials. The fiberglass was brown and faded, the reels tarnished and dull. The outfits bore no resemblance to the sparkling masterpiece that Decker had seen displayed so reverently in Bobby Clinch’s casket.
Skink rowed effortlessly; wavelets kissed at the bow as the little boat crossed Lake Jesup. Decker enjoyed the quiet ride in the cool night. He was still slightly uneasy around Skink, but he was beginning to like the guy, even if he was a head case. Decker had met a few like Skink, eccentric hoary loners. Some were hiding, some were running, some just waiting for something, or someone, to catch up. That was Skink, waiting. Decker would give him plenty of room.