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notebook and then released him.
    He lifted the last fish and saw the red tag and then the bullet wound. She’d come back. “Gave up, did you?” he said. “Or got confused, poor girl.” He let her go, as he had the male, but didn’t expect to see her again.

    The RCMP showed up late the next morning after Paul had finished his morning count. Paul recognized the driver as the officer who’d stood with Tanner on the road. The other, younger than Paul, had a cocky swagger, good-looking but rugged, a hockey player who’d somehow avoided breaking his nose or losing any teeth. The older cop greedily sniffed the fresh air as he approached, his face lifted to the warm breeze.
    â€œPretty sweet set-up you’ve got. I haven’t been this far up the mainline since a fishing derby two summers back, I think.” He introduced himself as Cliff Lazeroff and the younger man as Davis.
    â€œCoffee?” Paul asked.
    â€œPlease.” Lazeroff looked a little apologetic. “Should talk about yesterday, but it’ll wait. Let’s pull up some chairs here.”
    They grabbed two log ends near the fire pit and dragged them close to the camper. Paul kept the door open and listened to the men talk idly while he brewed coffee and herbal tea for himself. Lazeroff was saying something about dry fly casting. The younger cop owned a powerboat and spent most of his time on the lake. “New motor on it. Hauls ass out to my favourite spots and back in an afternoon. Have to watch out for deadheads, though, especially the north end,” he told Paul. “Sometimes an old snag that’s been standing underwater comes loose and pops straight up and out. Like a rocket.”
    â€œIt’s a spooky thing to see,” said Lazeroff.
    â€œThere’s a whole forest underneath the reservoir,” Davis said. “It’s gotten better over time, but it’s best to stay out of certain areas.”
    They went quiet, as men do when they’re given an image of danger, envisioning deadly scenarios, savouring, in a way, the possibility of disaster.
    â€œSo about yesterday,” Lazeroff said, once Paul sat down. “Going by the description you gave Tanner, I’m pretty sure we know who it is.” Davis shook his head and smiled into his coffee.
    â€œOh?”
    The constable gestured downriver. “His name’s Hardy Wallace.”
    â€œHardy Wallace,” Paul repeated.
    â€œYou know the day you came up with Tanner?”
    â€œYou were directing traffic.”
    â€œThat man who drowned. An older fella, Caleb Ready, not that the name’s going to mean much to you.” Lazeroff coughed. “Hardy spotted the body from his kitchen window.”
    Davis interjected. “He was pretty shaken up.”
    â€œI remember him now. He was standing on the deck.”
    â€œHe’s got a history. Gone off the deep end before,” Lazeroff said. “Lives alone. Always has, from what I understand. A Lambert local, as they say.”
    â€œLambert? Is that the place with all the shacks and summer homes?”
    â€œNo, that’s Bishop. Lambert was a village across the lake from Bishop, before the dam. Lambert folks were given property in Bishop as compensation for getting flooded out. From what I understand.”
    Paul nodded impatiently. “So what do you mean he’s got a history?”
    â€œThis isn’t the first body that’s ended up below his house,” said Davis.
    â€œFirst time, a young woman, a rafting accident upstream,” said Lazeroff. “He took that okay. A real tragedy, was all he said. Then that child on the May two-four weekend.”
    â€œThat’s right, three years back,” said Davis. “Horrible. Fishing trip near the falls, kid stumbled off the bank.”
    â€œThrew him for a major loop. Some folks had to look after him until he got his head back together. And now, Mr.