Coldwater Revenge by James Ross (best e reader for android .txt) 📕

“I’m it. The paper can’t support more than one person, even if he is getting kind of long in the tooth. Printing and newsprint are the big tickets.”

“Suppose you could cut those bills in half?”

“I’d sell my soul… for that or a Pulitzer.”

Tom reached for the binoculars tucked into the pocket on the back of the captain’s chair and focused them on the horizon. Ten miles away, the dark shoreline of Quebec was broken by the thumbnail smudges of Sainte Foy, Pont Rouge and Grand-Mere. He handed the glasses to Thompson. “From here you can see three towns with newspapers just like yours. If it were clearer, you could see more.”

“So what?” said Thompson, not bothering to look. “That’s Quebec.”

“And the papers are French,” said Tom. “So they don’t compete with you for the same readers. If you went to any of them and offered to co-buy and co-publish—paper, ink and everything else, you could all cut your operating costs by an amount a whole lot larger than a temporary bump in ad revenue from a one-time murder story. You could even print cheaper over there and bring the papers across duty free under NAFTA.”

Thompson looked at him hard. “Is this what you do for a living?”

“On a different scale. Yes.”

Thompson handed the glasses back. “The brain drain around here…” He shook his head. “It’s a wonder this town survives. Every one of you bright boys should be made to come back and do a year of public service to repay the free education that launched you.”

Tom laughed. “Take this as a down payment. A six-month ad bump from a murder story is just that. But the savings from co-publishing with one of the French papers across the lake would be permanent. And you don’t have to compromise a murder investigation to get it.”

“So it is a murder?” Thompson leapt.

Tom shrugged. “Unless Billy Pearce put himself into that bag and tried to play Houdini.”

* * *

Thompson turned the boat at the end of the trench, shifting the sun to the stern. The big Labrador followed the sunlight and Luke followed the dog. Thompson whistled and waved at Luke to move to the stern. “Go sit behind the rod, son. If you see it pop or if Brutus starts to bark, crank the reel as fast as you can. There’s fifty feet of slack and you’ll need to get all of it back before the salmon throws the hook.”

Luke nodded and climbed into the chair behind the downrigger. The dog sat on the deck and watched the rod. Tom took a turn asking questions. “So what do you know about Billy Pearce? You must hear things in your line of work.”

Thompson shrugged. “I do. But why should I tell you, if you’re not going to help me?”

Tom waved toward the shoreline of Quebec. “I just balanced your checkbook for the next ten years. I could give some thought to that Pulitzer, too, if you let me know what you left out of the obituary.”

Thompson’s eyes widened, but his mouth remained firm. “Rumor and innuendo. None of it news. I played bridge regularly with the father years ago. Hell of a card player. But always whining about his idiot son. Of course, the boy got in trouble when he got older: shoplifting, graffiti, that kind of thing. I take it you never met him.”

“I used to coach his little league team. He was a bright kid. No idiot at all.”

“Well, the father had some pretty high standards.” Thompson checked the depth finder and turned the wheel to bring the boat about. A hundred feet below, the J Plug slowed to a halt as the bow swung to port, then accelerated as the stern swung back in line. As the wheel straightened, the dog barked and the rod popped. “Fish on!”

Tom wrapped his hand over Luke’s on the handle of the fishing reel as the rod tip plunged and line began to tear off the reel. “Crank, buddy, crank! He’s hooked!”

Luke churned his arm. The bail spun like a fist-sized dynamo. Tom squeezed the boy’s hand. “Wait. When he’s taking line like that, just hold tight and keep the rod tip up. When he stops, start cranking.”

Luke nodded and kept his eye fixed on the reel.

The rod began to straighten. “He’s coming up,” said Thompson.

Thirty feet behind the boat, the blue/black water erupted in foamy spray and rainbow prism. A gray cylinder the size of a man’s leg broke the surface and whipped the water into foam with a tail as wide as a catcher’s mitt.

Thompson whistled. “That’ll go forty pounds.”

Don’t jinx it.

Tom held out a hand. “You got a net?” Thompson disappeared into the cabin. The rod plunged again and the reel began to scream. “Let it run,” whispered Tom. “He’ll tire himself out.”

Luke nodded.

The fish rose and the boy took line. It sounded and he gave it back, the drag putting pressure on the fish. When the reel stopped turning, Luke cranked again, Tom’s whisper steady in his ear, “Crank, buddy, crank.”

Then a boy-sized fish rose to the surface, tailing behind the boat, momentarily exhausted.

“I’m going to take the rod out of the downrigger and hand it to you,” said Tom. “I want you to stand and grip it above the reel. Tuck the butt into your hip, then crank and lift steady. The rod will bring the fish to the net and then Mr. Thompson can grab it.”

Luke nodded.

“You ready?”

He nodded again.

“Here goes.” Tom took the rod out of the holder and placed it in Luke’s hands, putting one above the reel, settling the butt on the boy’s left hip and placing his other hand on the handle. “Okay, lower it. Slowly.”

Luke dipped the rod with Tom’s hand underneath acting as a brake.

“Reel in the slack.”

The boy turned the big, knobbed handle while Tom guided the rod from upright to nearly horizontal.

“Now lift again. Slowly.”

“He’s coming,” shouted Thompson. “Keep it up!”

“Lower and lift,” said Tom. “Lower and lift.”

Luke nodded and