Read Online When Is a Man by Aaron Shepard - Free Book Online

weathered and scarred. The bullet wound looked bad, an ugly divot in her back. She was tagged already, red from last year. The plastic nub was buried under thick algae, like something from an ancient wreck. He scraped the green algae away, and for a moment he could almost picture the gloom and murk of the lake bottom where she’d come from.
    A host of purple spots danced in front of his eyes, and he sank to his knees, trying to keep the netted fish from hitting ground. He took a few deep breaths, and his vision cleared, his stomach settled. What to do with the fish—she’d be too weak, the anesthetic would do her in. He took a guess at her length and weight and remembered the tag number before he released her. No doubt her body would end up pinned against the fence sometime later today. Too bad you can’t bandage a fish, he thought.

    Tanner on the satellite phone: “Explain again what happened.” Static or a breath of exasperation. He’d told Paul to use the phone only for the direst of emergencies. He’d been uncharacteristically sour when he said it. Paul realized then what the most important part of his job was: to let Tanner focus on the festival. So the phone had sat in a cupboard, and Paul had resented the mere presence of it—an unwanted lifeline. He enjoyed the way his cellphone would signal to him, the icon flashing and spinning in futile circles, searching, searching, and coming up empty. On any other occasion, he might have disliked hearing Tanner’s voice as much as Tanner probably disliked hearing his.
    He repeated his story. “Garbage fish. What the hell does that mean?”
    â€œSome old-timers say that. The bulls aren’t as much fun to catch, you see, and the big ones eat cutthroat. Was a time some fishermen used to kill them and throw ’em out. That was mostly back in the late seventies, before people realized bulls were the endangered ones, not the cutties or rainbows.”
    â€œThat’s a very strange vendetta.”
    â€œProbably drunk.” There was noise in the background, a television, laughter. “I’ll give the conservation officer a shout, or maybe the cops. That’ll put the fear of God into him.”
    â€œWhichever. I just don’t want to get shot.”
    â€œSounds like you scared him off. I’m sure he’s gone for good.”
    â€œGive me a break. If he wants to kill trout, what better place to do it?”
    â€œLike shooting fish in a barrel.” Tanner laughed suddenly. “Nice.”
    â€œGlad you’re enjoying this.”
    He spent the rest of the day pacing around the rec site or sneaking through the brush to Basket Creek, expecting the man to be there with his gun. It was worse after sunset. While he sat inside the camper waiting to go down to the fence, something moved outside the window. He recoiled, then swore—it was the underwear he’d hung on the line.
    At the measuring station, none of the equipment had been disturbed, and there was nothing wrong with the fence. Eight fish were in the weirs, the flick of tail and dorsal fins catching the light of his headlamp. He worked with one eye toward the forest, his ears straining to hear over the water and the lantern hissing on its hook. He struggled to find his rhythm: he bungled a couple of tags and measurements, and re-entered the data into his notebook with quick, furious scribbles.
    When the traps were empty, he dumped the used-up water from the cooler, closed the lid, and sat down. He’d only rested for a minute or two before he heard a splashing. A cutthroat hovered near the surface of the downstream trap, and he released it into the main current. He peered in again and saw two other fish, bulls that swam near the bottom. They flashed colour—both tagged, thank God. The first was a male with a blue tag, the number perfectly familiar. “I saw you an hour ago, you sonofabitch.” He marked the number in the