Chapter 10 - The Man Who Was Supposed to Stay Buried
Police found Harold Finch alive but badly injured beside the back steps of his trailer.
His door had been kicked in. Drawers were emptied. Mattress cut open. Cabinets torn from walls. Whoever entered had not been looking for money.
They wanted records.
Harold suffered a broken arm, cracked ribs, and a concussion. Before the ambulance took him away, he told a deputy two words.
“Steel case.”
Ryan understood immediately.
The evidence from Storage Unit 214 was in Marnie’s basement.
By midnight, the shop had three security cameras, two motion lights, and Marcus sleeping in a folding chair with a baseball bat across his knees.
“This is stupid,” Eli said.
Marcus yawned. “Agreed.”
“I mean you sleeping here.”
“You got beaten unconscious last week.”
“I was never unconscious.”
“Wonderful distinction.”
Ryan spread documents across a worktable.
The betting ledgers were damning but old. Some names belonged to dead men. Some payments ran through companies that no longer existed. They needed direct proof connecting Victor to the manipulation—and if they were going to raise questions about Mason’s death, they needed far more.
Tyler digitized every page.
“Look at this,” he said.
One ledger contained initials beside payment amounts.
V.K. appeared repeatedly.
D.M. too.
Then another set: T.C.
Ryan stiffened.
“Thomas Cole.”
Tyler looked at him. “Maybe.”
Ryan’s face hardened. “Don’t protect me.”
Eli came over.
The ledger showed T.C. receiving $8,000 two days after the 2001 scandal.
Ryan sat down.
“My father took money.”
Eli examined the page.
“Could be somebody else.”
“You just told me not to set a hook early.”
“That doesn’t mean ignore doubt.”
Ryan laughed bitterly. “Maybe Dad didn’t hide the tape because he was scared. Maybe he hid it because they paid him.”
Susan Cole arrived the next morning after Ryan called her.
She studied the ledger, then closed her eyes.
“He took the money.”
Ryan looked away.
“Why?” Eli asked.
Susan folded her hands. “Because our house was in foreclosure. Ryan had pneumonia that winter and no insurance. Thomas had already missed two payments.”
Ryan stood. “So he sold Mason?”
“No.”
“He took their money.”
“And kept the tape.”
“That makes it better?”
“It makes him human.”
Ryan pushed away from the table.
Eli caught his arm.
“Sit.”
Ryan jerked free. “Don’t.”
“I spent half my life hating men for being afraid. It didn’t bring Mason back.”
“My father helped ruin you.”
“Your father also preserved the only video we have.”
Ryan stared at him.
Eli continued, “If you’re going to judge a man, judge the whole man.”
Susan began crying silently.
Ryan sat.
Later that afternoon, the American Masters released its promotional trailer.
Victor Kane stood on a stage overlooking Blackwater Lake.
“Fishing,” he said smoothly, “is a sport where every generation must prove itself against the next.”
The video cut to Eli with his maple stick.
Then to Ryan.
Then to Marcus.
The final graphic read:
PAST VS PRESENT. LEGEND VS TECHNOLOGY. FOUR DAYS. ONE MILLION DOLLARS.
Eli watched twice.
“He’s making money off me.”
Marnie laughed. “That bothers you more than the attempted cover-up?”
“Yes.”
Ryan pointed to the rules page.
“Day one: full electronics. Day two: forward-facing sonar limited to three hours. Day three: no FFS. Final day: top ten, traditional electronics only.”
Eli nodded.
“Smart format.”
“You approve?”
“I approve of making anglers solve different problems.”
Marcus leaned against the counter. “You’ll need to practice modern suspended-fish techniques for day one.”
Eli made a face.
“You know them?”
“I know what they do.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“I know.”
So Ryan spent the next week teaching Eli.
The reversal amused everyone.
They practiced forward-facing sonar on Ryan’s boat. Ryan explained that the tool was not magic: it showed returns ahead of the boat, but interpreting distance, depth, lure track, boat movement, and fish behavior took skill.
“See that streak?” Ryan asked.
“Bass?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Electronics are still fishing, old man.”
Eli smiled.
They worked with a jighead minnow, mid-strolling it through suspended fish. Eli struggled at first because he watched the screen instead of feeling the lure.
“You’re over-controlling,” Ryan said.
Eli glared at him.
Ryan grinned. “Feels good.”
They practiced a Damiki-style vertical presentation: small bait held above a suspended fish, often with minimal movement. They tried hover rigs, light line, tiny swimbaits, and jerkbaits counted down to specific depth.
By the fourth day, Eli began predicting fish movement before the screen showed it.
“How?” Ryan asked.
“Screen shows where it is. Body angle tells me what it wants.”
“That’s on the screen.”
“Exactly.”
Ryan laughed.
Eli pointed at a bass hovering twelve feet down.
“It’s nose-up. Put bait above it. Don’t drop through its face.”
Ryan did.
The fish rose and ate.
“Damn.”
“Technology isn’t the enemy,” Eli said. “Depending on one answer is.”
That evening, Victor Kane appeared unexpectedly at the marina.
No Doyle. No guards visible.
Just Victor in a gray coat.
He stopped ten feet from Eli.
“Twenty-five years,” Victor said.
Eli did not stand.
“Still ugly.”
Victor smiled. “Still poor.”
Ryan reached for his phone.
Victor noticed.
“Record if you like. I came to make a legitimate offer.”
He placed a folder on the table.
Five million dollars.
A lifetime endorsement contract.
A public statement clearing Eli of intentional cheating while calling the old scandal an administrative misunderstanding.
Ryan whispered, “Five million.”
Victor looked at Eli. “You can spend the rest of your life being adored. All you have to do is stop digging.”
Eli closed the folder.
“What happens if I don’t?”
Victor’s smile faded.
“You’ll discover that the truth is not the same thing as justice.”
Eli slid the folder back.
“And you’ll discover something too.”
“What?”
“I’ve already lost everything you know how to threaten.”
Victor stared at him.
Then his eyes moved to Ryan.
“No,” he said softly. “You haven’t.”
He walked away.
May you like
Ryan watched him go.
For the first time, Eli wished he had taken the money.
