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

Thompson leaned over the stern and waved the net over the water. “Closer,” he shouted. “Two more feet.”

Luke lowered the rod and reeled in the slack. Tom held a hand under the rod and placed the other on the boy’s back.

“Six inches,” shouted Thomson. “God, he’s the size of a duffel bag!”

“Just a little bit more,” Tom whispered.

Luke lowered the rod, reeled in the slack and lifted steadily. Thompson thrust the net into the water. “Got him!” he shouted. “Got him!”

As Thompson shouted, the Loomis plunged. The rod ripped from Luke’s hand, slapping him across the face and then disappearing over the stern. A small white tooth landed on the deck.

“Oh shit!” said Thompson. “Oh, God.”

Tom moved his hand to Luke’s shoulder. Blood oozed from the boy’s chin and the skin around it turned the color of eggplant. He didn’t notice the tooth until later. “Are you okay, buddy?”

Luke moved his head up and down.

“You’re going to have a shiner. Me too, when your mom and grandma get a look at you.”

Luke stared at the spot behind the boat where rod and fish had disappeared into the blue-black water. His right arm trembled at his side.

“You okay?”

The boy nodded slowly.

“So what do you think about salmon fishing, now? Like it?”

The boy made a sound, but Tom couldn’t make it out. He rested his chin on top of Luke’s head and stared at the spot where the big fish had disappeared. “I didn’t catch that, buddy. What did you say?”

The boy whispered again.

Tom kept his chin on the top of Luke’s head. “That’s right, buddy. That’s right.”

CHAPTER 7

Billy Pearce’s funeral was held at the local United Church, a merger of the former Methodist, Baptist and Presbyterian churches whose congregations and collections had dwindled over the years to the point of overlooking doctrinal differences. It was Tom’s first time inside the simple clapboard structure and, he suspected, the first for Billy as well. The dark wood and white plaster interior was eerily Spartan compared to the lakeside Catholic church where the Morgan family had spent the soporific Sundays of Tom’s youth. There were no statues, no pictures, no candles and no gold. The attendance that morning was equally sparse: fewer than a dozen mourners, including himself, Joe and the minister.

Susan Pearce sat alone in the front pew next to the closed casket, her charcoal tailored suit and silver jewelry more understated than severe, and her shoulder length hair the golden focal point in an otherwise colorless gathering. Her small straight nose, thin upper lip and rounded cheekbones were exactly as Tom remembered. He couldn’t see more without changing seats, and Joe’s orders had been to remain inconspicuous.

The lone occupant of the pew on the other side of the casket was a dark complexioned, forty-ish looking man wearing an expensive herringbone suit. Tom guessed Armani and noted, too, that despite the absence of other visual distractions, the man never looked in Susan’s direction. Or if he did, he was extremely discrete. When the service began, his movements copied hers, with a second or two delay at the kneeling parts as if he was unsure whether these might be gender specific.

The heavy, brooding figure at back of the church came from the other end of the fashion spectrum. The feet were hidden, but muddy boots most likely completed the outfit. Tom had no trouble putting a name to the pugnacious profile. The extra forty pounds on Frankie Heller did nothing to soften the menacing image seared on Tom’s memory.

One of the more painful and humiliating incidents of Tom’s youth had been a confrontation with Frankie Heller at a Coldwater High School dance. Tom had spent most of the evening on the basketball court turned dance floor, absorbed in the company of a vivacious young woman who he had known casually for some time and who he hoped to get to know better, as occasionally happens at high school dances. The only impediment to his plan was another dancing couple who kept crashing into Tom and his partner, and who neither apologized nor seemed to make any effort to avoid doing it again. By the end of the evening, Tom had had enough. When the dervishes careened into Tom and his partner one more time, Tom planted a polished wingtip in the backside of the twirling trousers, connecting solidly.

Before his foot returned to the ground, Tom realized he’d made a mistake. The butt he’d kicked in a moment of pique looked, on quick assessment, to be easily capable of kicking him back and then some, thoroughly, and over a long period of time.

Frankie Heller’s assessment was the same and quicker. Before Tom had even finished his pirouette, Frankie crashed into Tom’s torso, knocked him to the hardwood floor and mounted his chest. Grabbing a hunk of hair, he bounced Tom’s head on the parquet floor like one of the basketballs the hardwood was meant for. For what happened next, Tom had to rely on the account of others, because by then, he was out cold.

Some accounts had Joe and a few of his teammates from the Coldwater High School football team pull Frankie off, drag him out to the parking lot and beat the bejeezus out of him. Other accounts had Joe doing it all by himself right there in front of everybody. In any event, alone or with help, Joe did a thorough job. Tom recovered his senses in a few minutes and the softness and ache at the back of his head disappeared in a few days. But Frankie Heller lay in the Coldwater Hospital for a week and did not return to school for a month. Joe escaped assault charges only because the sheriff who investigated the incident (their dad) claimed to be unable to find a witness.

After that night there was an unspoken realignment in the Morgan family constellation. Tom began to draw away from his former circle of friends, from