The Wind Knot Read online

  The Wind Knot

  John Galligan

  The Dog won’t fish anymore.

  After five years of self-imposed exile on the rivers of America, trout bum Ned “Dog” Oglivie has burned his waders and hat, given away his rod, and turned his lumbering Cruise Master RV toward home. The waters Hemingway made famous in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula didn’t receive the Dog the way he expected—his Nick Adams baptism failed to wash away his guilt.

  Bound for reconciliation with his past, the last thing Dog expects to find in his bunk is a dead man. But there lies Heimo Kock, the big-shot guide who locals called “The Governor of the U.P.” With a vodka-Tang fire in his belly and an admittedly skewed view of justice, Dog dumps the body where he figures it’ll be found.

  He didn’t figure on the local sheriff, a varmint-faced water thief, and the sheer “doggedness” of the local librarian …

  Also by John Galligan

  Red Sky, Red Dragonfly

  The Nail Knot

  The Blood Knot

  The Clinch Knot

  Published by

  TYRUS BOOKS

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  4700 East Galbraith Road

  Cincinnati, Ohio 45236

  www.tyrusbooks.com

  Copyright © 2011 by John Galligan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-3108-0

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3108-8

  This work has been previously published in print format under the following ISBNs:

  978-1-9355-6230-6 (hardcover)

  978-1-9355-6229-0 (paperback)

  In memory of Tom Helgeson, a difference-maker in the

  causes of good fishing, good writing, and the good life where

  the two flow together.

  1

  Dog quit fishing that night.

  Dolf Cook came by in a bathrobe and slippers, toe-stubbing drunk through the campground from his summer cottage on the other side. He said, “Here’s your money.”

  Dog counted it. The bills added up to a thousand dollars. Dog put the cash in the glove box of his Cruise Master RV.

  “Stop over before you go,” Cook told him. “I want to give you something. When you leaving?”

  Dog arranged pine twigs in a teepee around a crumpled map of the Upper Peninsula. He was done with the place. He stuck his lighter in there and got a flame going. “About an hour.”

  “Where in New York is that again? I used to fish the Finger Lakes when I had a hit restaurant up in Rochester. Christ, I used to top-line stickbaits for Atlantic salmon in there, catch fish my brother never even dreamed of. He never landed the Prince of Salmon. Sure, he’s a big-name guide around here, but there’s a lot of fish he never caught that I did, and you know, my good friend, if you coulda seen my dumb brother …”

  On went Cook into his nightly logorrheic coma. All topics led to the man’s famous brother and festered there. This was the sixth night running.

  Hungry flames licked up through the pine twigs as Dog laid in kindling the thickness of his thumb. This was going to be a fast, hot fire—just what he needed. “Not New York. Massachusetts,” he interrupted Cook. “I’m going back home. Take care of some personal business.” Dog paused. He was still finishing the idea. “For a long time I’ve been trying an approach that doesn’t work. Now I’m going to do the right thing.”

  “Atta boy,” Cook slurred.

  Dog looked at him across the leaping flames. Cook swayed. His fire-shadow thrashed against the pine trunks behind him. Now and then he raised his flask and the shadow of his left arm slashed across the outhouse and darkened the bear box that held the trash cans.

  “I met your brother,” Dog said. “This morning at the Rainbow Lodge. I asked him about the West Fork of the Two Hearted.”

  “What’d that peacock sonofabitch say?”

  “He said it was barren. No trout in it.”

  “Shit, everybody knows that. Not a goddamn trout in the whole river. Hell, I’m not a famous guide, but I coulda told you—”

  “So I went up there. Caught about a dozen brookies over twelve inches. Best fishing I’ve had on the peninsula.”

  “Hell,” Cook said. He lurched toward the fire. “I coulda told you that.” Dog watched the sloppy mental flip-flop. “Like I told you, my brother lies. It’s all about him and his celebrity clients. He doesn’t have time for me. I only own restaurants in fifteen states. I never fished with Coach Bob Knight or did it in the woods with Miss Michigan. Sonofabitch hasn’t fished with me since Billy Sims ran for the Lions.”

  That morning Dog had recognized Cook’s brother, Heimo Kock. The living legend who locals referred to as “The Governor of the U.P.” had nearly knocked Dog over as he barreled out of the Rainbow Lodge with a half pint of Bailey’s Irish Crème in one fist and several spools of Berkeley Tri-Line in the other. The brothers looked alike, but Heimo Kock was handsomer and more robust, richly silver-haired and dressed like a sales rep for outboard motors. What Dog had wondered about was the wee bottle of girly liqueur. But he didn’t want to start Dolf Cook on that topic.

  Instead he asked, “I’m curious. Who changed the family name, you or your brother?”

  “I was born Adolf Kock. You want a name like a goddamn Nazi porn star?”

  “But—Heimo Kock?—your brother doesn’t mind his name?”

  Cook leveled a soused glare across the fire. “Perfect fit,” he said.

  Dog turned to his woodpile. Earlier he had dragged big, awkward branches out of the forest. With a saw and an axe, he had made a decent stack. “Maybe what you want to give me, you could bring over here.”

  “Aw, come on.”

  “I’m not drinking tonight.”

  “You’ve been drinking my liquor all week.” Cook shook the flask. “Where’s your cup?”

  This fire was moving. Dog had to stay with it. “I packed it,” he said, circling, laying on arm-thick branches.

  “First day of the rest of your life and all that crap.” Cook let go a presumptuous chuckle. He was one of those lonely guys Dog met on the road who tried to take shortcuts to fellowship. He had appeared across Dog’s fire the first night in a fishing hat and pinstriped pajamas, bearing two Cohibas and a flask full of Glenlivet. To a complete stranger he had brayed: “How’d we do today, partner? We knock ‘em dead, did we?”

  “Two days from tomorrow morning,” Dog told him now, “my son would be ten years old. These last six years I tried to heal the pain of losing him in a way that hasn’t worked.” He was composing this explanation for himself, knowing Cook didn’t care. “Fishing seems to do the job, but then this time of year comes around again, and I realize a helluva a lot of trout have suffered for nothing. I’ve decided to try something different.”

  Cook chuckled again, shaking his jowly head as if there were great ironies in the air. “Rewrite history and yada-yada, yakity-yak. Been there, done that. Christ, back in ‘81 I brought this nice lady and her sixteen-year-old daughter here up to the cottage for the summer—and goddamn if my brother didn’t somehow get his gaff into the daughter behind my back. I thought that lady was going to be Missus Cook number three, but she dumped me because of it. I never forgave my sneaky, horn-dog sonofa—”

  Dog threw on a big log that splashed sparks up into Dolf Cook’s face.

  “I’ll come over and get whatever it is,” he said. “You go back and wait.”
>
  A few hours earlier, Dog had navigated upstream five miles along the sand road beside the West Branch of the Two Hearted River. He had been a fool to drive in that deep. He was always a fool, this time of year. The road became a soft-bottomed roller coaster, interrupted by hard patches where heavy tree roots humped across the narrowing track. Dog turned the engine off at the base of a sand hill that his eight-ton RV could not climb. The road there sloughed into bog on either side. The river was a nasty bushwhack to the southeast. Dog left the vehicle like a cork in the road. He was unsure how a person would turn around. But he didn’t worry about it. It didn’t matter.

  He geared up and fished, productively and in total isolation. He smoked Swishers to fuddle the mosquitoes. He saw two eagles, a kingfisher, a porcupine up in a tree, and a Detroit-to-Shanghai jet in the high blue sky. This time of year he became aware of exactly where he was on the calendar. Eamon’s birthday was three days away.

  He fished streamers down to where a shelf of the Canadian Shield planed the river into a sheet of root beer candy. That smooth brown water wanted to buckle his knees from the back. As the current shoved him along, Dog found himself recontemplating the Hemingway story that had sent him on this six-year fishing trip in the first place. “Big Two-Hearted River” had stoked in him a hope that was just intense enough to keep him looking ahead. At last he had come to the story’s sacred source—only to discover that there was no Big Two Hearted River.

  There was a North Branch of the Two Hearted, a West Branch of the Two Hearted, a South Branch of the Two Hearted, and a Little Two Hearted—all of them willow-clogged, sand-bottomed, peat-stained affairs, with low densities of small trout—but no majesty, no gravity, no Big Two Hearted River, the place where Hemingway’s Nick Adams figured things out and got better.

  Nothing on Dog’s horizon anymore, in other words.

  And here came Eamon’s birthday around the calendar again, asking its annual question.

  Dog had overshot his streamer into hostile brush and snapped it off. He had waded on with his line trailing. Eventually the shelf narrowed, clogged with snags, and dropped off, pouring the West Branch into a deep, chaotic froth.

  Dog had stared at the swirling turmoil. His sadness would not leave him, he decided. It never would.

  He laid aside his rod and hat. He unbuckled his wader belt and stepped in.

  When Cook had gone, Dog built up a waist-high bonfire and first burned his waders. The campsite now stank of inhuman proceedings. He drizzled a hundred trout flies over tall orange flames, watched the flies sizzle and vanish, then dropped in his battered plastic boxes and stepped back from more foul smoke.

  He forged on. He emptied vest pockets one by one: strike putty, leader wallet, tippet spools, each creating its own quality of flame. Most spectacular was the squeeze bottle of Uncle Z’s Tropical Bug Dope, which caved in and then erupted like a tiny bottle rocket.

  That junk didn’t work on U.P. mosquitoes anyway. Nothing did but Swishers.

  The vest was too soggy to burn, but Dog was patient. He hung that tattered sack of pockets over his lawn chair. He paced around the campground’s dark little circle, smoking and thinking while the vest dried out.

  He couldn’t go through Canada. You needed a passport these days. And word was out that the Mackinac Toll Bridge to lower Michigan was closing at night for repairs. So Chicago, via Wisconsin.

  He tossed his fishing hat into the fire. It crackled like bacon. Red sparks jumped through the flaming hoop of his landing net. Eventually the vest was dry enough. In no time it was white ash and orange buttons. Dog stripped the line off his reel. That line had held about ten thousand trout: browns, rainbows, brookies, cutthroat, bull, golden, dolly varden, apache, grayling, greenback, steelhead, coasters. A good number of chubs and whitefish too. Plus one large snapping turtle, several bats, a swallow, and a six-foot water snake. He balled the line into a handful and lobbed it into the fire. It melted fast, squealing like a live thing. Dog’s heart hurt. But if he fished again, nothing would be the same. He would start over: gear, purpose, and all.

  Now that was it. His rod was graphite, wouldn’t burn. He snapped it into a handful, like fat black spaghetti, and dropped the pieces into the campground trash can. He let the lid on the box slam down.

  That left just him and his pistol. He retrieved that from the Cruise Master’s glove box and stood in the chill beneath the stars. Last chance for a bear attack. Going once. Going twice. He kicked his lawn chair into the fire. He fit the pistol into a jacket pocket. He turned his back and walked over to Dolf Cook’s place.

  The frothing plunge pool on the West Branch of the Two Hearted River had twisted Dog around and pulled him upstream before it submerged him. He had a view of tannin-stained river pouring over bedrock—smooth as dark beer from a bottle. Then it punched him under.

  Dog went limp and spun like a coin flip. His waders sucked against him. Something rough along the bottom nearly took his head off. Then he felt water rush down his left leg. In a few seconds that foot became heavy as a stone. Anchored and twisting, Dog felt his knee wrench. His eyes bugged open. Centered in the fastest current, he was trapped flotsam. Anything in his vest not pinned or zipped—floatant, indicators, cigar butts—streamed around him. His torso whiplashed frenetically, at the mercy of the river.

  Then he came loose.

  No explanation for it. He was tumbling, knocking his skull along the bottom in an arc from the center of the pool. In the next moment he was sitting in the shallows, a minor riffle plowing up his nose. He corkscrewed out of the current and staggered to his feet. His rod and hat and wader belt sat tidily upon a boulder not twenty feet away. His knee was tweaked but stable. He was hardly out of breath.

  And there Dog had decided. He would go home and see Mary Jane, and he would stand with her at Eamon’s grave on his birthday. Maybe he had to go into the agony, not away from it.

  Dog called the man’s name and waited. Cook wasn’t in his summer cottage. A satellite television showed news of a drought in the southwest. The worst dry spell on record. Crops and animals dying of thirst. A Phoenix man had stabbed a neighbor for stealing from his hose.

  Dog looked around Cook’s place. Phony crap crowded the shelves and walls. An antique deer rifle, circa 1850. A Mauser machine gun from the Great War. A shadow box full of historical salmon flies. The dusty severed head of a musk ox. It was real stuff, but God only knew where it came from. Cook was a drunk and a cheat.

  Dog snooped around for the photograph. The day before, Cook had hired Dog as a fishing guide. The man had obsolete gear and no skills. He could hardly draw water with a cast. Steady nips on the flask had nursed out his purpose: “A thousand bucks, partner, you catch a nice one for me.”

  They were on the Sucker River, at an upstream sweet spot Dog had discovered. For about three times a normal guiding fee he would catch a nice one with his bare hands if need be. He had ordered his “client” bank-side. There, finishing his flask, Dolf Cook had yammered about his brother non-stop while Dog teased a brush heap with a Mickey Finn and hooked a monster brook trout. It was better than a “nice one.” It was the kind of fish that fed by moonlight, eating mice and baby wood ducks. It was the kind of fish you saw in photos laid out on a car hood, in Hemingway’s time. Cook might have peed his waders. At least Dog could smell something.

  He had landed the trout without serious difficulty. The old man held it. Dog took a picture with Cook’s camera. Cook swore Dog to silence and then reached for his wallet. Oops. No cash. But he was good for it, the old man said. This had turned out to be true.

  Now, here on Cook’s dining table lay the fish porn. Cook had printed the photograph at eight-by-eleven: in his rabbit felt fedora with the gamecock feather, sunglasses on a lanyard around his neck, his sleeves rolled up, his sloppy mustache and his drunken blue eyes, his soft little hands where Dog had positioned them because the man had never held a fish that large. It was a fine fish and a fine photo. The trout, an instant later, had tail
-whipped Cook in the face and escaped beneath a reef of submerged alder. Dog had caught up with Cook’s soggy hat about thirty yards downstream.

  Cook startled him. “Even the great Heimo Kock never caught a fish like that!”

  Dog turned from the cluttered table, thinking neither did you. Tottering in the same doorway that Dog had come through, Cook was a sight. His robe was twisted, and he looked wet. Mosquitoes clung to his face. He was out of breath. He held out his old pushbutton Pflueger fly reel.

  “I must have dropped the darn thing outside,” he panted. “Hell to find it in the dark.” He extended the reel to Dog. “You admired this. I want you to have it.”

  “No thanks. I’m divesting.”

  “Take it. I insist.” Cook lurched forward and caught Dog by the shoulder. “C’mon. You’re my friend.” Dog took the damn thing.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hang on to that, it’ll be worth a fortune.”

  Cook tottered downhill to his liquor cabinet. He splattered more Glenlivet across the tops of two Detroit Red Wings shot glasses. Dog took the drink to keep it off his shirt.

  “You’re really leaving, right, partner? Now that you got all that money? Driving out to New York?”

  Cook slung a soggy arm around Dog’s shoulders. Dog peeled it off. “Massachusetts.” He produced the pistol from his back pocket. It was a modest thing, a short-barreled Colt automatic, easy to carry but probably not enough hammer to stop the black bears that sometimes marauded through Cook’s cottage. Shoot to scare, Dog was about to explain. But Cook had shrunk away against his booze supply. He aimed a trembling finger at Dog.

  “I … you … I won’t be blackmailed.”

  Dog downed the Glenlivet. What the hell. He removed the pistol’s magazine and placed it with the pistol on the table.

  “Well, good for you,” he said. “But here’s a little something to wave around if someone tries.”