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Ready.”
    â€œThat’s—that’s a lot of bodies,” said Paul.
    â€œIt’s the current,” said Davis. “If the corpse doesn’t get caught on a sweeper upstream, or stuck in spin cycle beneath some falls, it’ll end up in that eddy.”
    â€œBad luck, the house being where it is,” Lazeroff said.
    â€œThis Ready guy we haven’t figured out,” said Davis. “He certainly wasn’t a kayaker, or fishing.”
    Lazeroff gave Davis a quick glare, then shrugged. “Damned shame. Bottom line is, maybe Hardy’s still a bit rattled. It’s partly up to you, of course, but we’d like to not make much trouble.”
    Paul shook his head, confused. “Trouble for whom?”
    â€œI’m just saying, there’s not much to gain. Did he, in fact, threaten you with his firearm or point it at you?”
    â€œMore or less,” said Paul. This was all because he wasn’t a local. If he was someone like Tanner, things would be handled differently. “I don’t know.”
    â€œHard to say he did anything on purpose?”
    â€œExcept shooting the fish.”
    â€œAny dead?”
    â€œOne. He wounded a female too, but it looks like she might make it.” Which made him laugh a little crazily. The cops looked at each other. He went inside and brought out the killed trout he’d kept in the freezer. They hummed and hawed, and finally said they’d take it back with them. “We’ll probably end up eating it,” Lazeroff said.
    Paul sighed, irritated. He didn’t want complications either—or more visitors. But he didn’t want to be shrugged off.
    â€œLook, I’m willing to let it go,” he said. “But I need to know I’m safe. I need to work in peace.”
    â€œYou will.” Lazeroff looked relieved. “We’ll go talk to him right now. Maybe turn things over to the conservation officer. He’ll likely get a fine.” Or nothing, Paul thought.
    â€œMight be worse than going to jail or a hospital,” said Davis. “Can’t imagine he’s got a lot of money.”
    The cops nodded at him, looking for agreement, so Paul obliged them, still unhappy. Did they expect him to feel sorry for the old loon?
    â€œHey,” said Lazeroff suddenly. “You mind taking us down to the fence? I’m curious for a look.”
    At the creek, Davis appraised the equipment in the measuring station as if he were shopping at a rummage sale, holding up the Floy tag gun and vials of clove oil, his eyebrows narrowing and then rising, his lips pursed. “Huh,” he muttered indifferently when he finished. Lazeroff, meanwhile, stood at the edge of the fence, the water touching his boots. When he spoke, which he did with a low, almost wistful voice, he pointed out every aspect of the stream—the straight riffle, the curve upstream that created a pool along the far bank.
    â€œYou call this a job?” he said. “This is a vacation.”
    Paul grimaced. “You aren’t here at night.”
    â€œYou getting bushed yet?” said Davis. He grinned at Lazeroff.
    The constable laughed. “Oh, it’s too early. Give the man another few weeks until the cold and the rain hit, with nothing but a pack of cards to keep him company.”
    Lazeroff gave him more assurances before leaving. “Pop into the station when you come into town,” he said. “I’ll let you know how it turns out.”
    For a long time after they’d gone, Paul paced the camp. The cops made the old man sound harmless, an object of pity. Not much sympathy for an outsider—didn’t he know madness was par for the course out here? Apparently he’d soon be half-mad himself.

7

    He decided to head to Shellycoat the next morning. Food and clean clothes were running low. And it might be best, he thought, to get the trip over with, not have it lurking in the back of his mind