Chapter 16 - Win Tomorrow and He Loses
Ryan wanted to call the police immediately.
Eli already had.
The photograph of Frank Delaney was forwarded to the state police, tournament security, and a federal agent Marcus knew from an old boating-fraud case. The image contained no useful location data. The background was dark except for a concrete wall and one strip of corrugated metal.
“Victor knows we’ll report it,” Ryan said.
“Maybe Victor didn’t send it,” Eli replied.
“Who else?”
“Someone who wants us to think only about Victor.”
Ryan stared at him. “You’re saying there’s another player?”
“I’m saying fear narrows vision.”
At 5:20 a.m., Eli climbed into the boat for day two.
Ryan grabbed his arm.
“You don’t have to fish.”
“Yes, I do.”
“A man might die.”
“And me quitting doesn’t tell us where he is.”
“What if that message means they hurt him if you win?”
Eli looked toward the dark lake.
“What if they hurt him if I lose? Threats don’t come with honest rules.”
The tournament official called their number.
They launched.
Day two allowed forward-facing sonar for only three hours. Many anglers planned to spend those hours early, when suspended fish were easier to locate in low light.
Eli left his unit off.
Ryan stared at him. “Now you’re being stubborn.”
“Maybe.”
“You practiced for this.”
“I did.”
“Then use it.”
“When I need it.”
Eli ran to a shallow creek arm where overnight rain had stained the water. He chose a spinnerbait with one Colorado blade and one smaller willow blade, balancing vibration and flash. He slow-rolled it beside flooded bushes, keeping it just deep enough to occasionally tick branches.
First cast: nothing.
Second: a two-pounder.
Fourth: three pounds.
Then the bite died.
Eli switched to a compact square-bill crankbait and deliberately crashed it into wood.
“Most beginners avoid hitting cover,” he told Ryan.
“Because lures cost money.”
“Fish live where lures get lost.”
The crankbait ricocheted off a submerged limb.
A bass struck on the deflection.
By 8:30, Eli had four keepers.
Then the sun emerged and the shallow bite vanished.
Only then did he switch on forward-facing sonar.
“You saved your three-hour window,” Ryan said.
“For when my eyes stopped answering questions.”
They moved to an offshore timber line. Bass hovered beside submerged treetops in twenty-four feet.
Eli tried a jighead minnow.
Fish followed but refused.
He downsized.
Still refused.
Ryan said, “Drop shot?”
“Maybe.”
Eli watched one fish track the lure for six feet, then turn away when it rose.
“Not chasing up.”
He rigged a heavier drop shot with only eight inches between weight and hook, allowing the bait to stay close to the horizontal level of the fish without swinging wildly.
He cast beyond the target, let the sinker touch a limb, and held the bait almost motionless.
The fish approached.
Stopped.
Eli did nothing.
Ryan whispered, “Shake it.”
“No.”
Five seconds.
Ten.
The fish ate.
“Five pounds,” Ryan said after landing it.
Eli culled his smallest keeper.
At noon he was projected third overall.
His phone, locked in the console, received another image.
This one showed Delaney’s left hand holding a folded napkin.
On it, barely visible, he had drawn three symbols: a triangle, three vertical lines, and a circle.
Ryan stared.
“What is that?”
Eli zoomed in.
“Not for us.”
“What?”
“Delaney knows whoever took the photo will inspect obvious writing. This is something he thinks someone specific will recognize.”
Tyler received the image from shore and called twenty minutes later.
“The three lines might be a logo. I’m searching warehouses, roofing companies, storage facilities.”
“Triangle?” Ryan asked.
“Could be Delta.”
Eli looked toward the south end of Blackwater.
“Delta Three.”
Ryan turned. “What?”
“There used to be an old boat manufacturer called Delta Three Marine. Closed maybe fifteen years ago.”
Tyler shouted through the phone, “Where?”
“Industrial park west of Paducah.”
Tyler hung up.
Eli resumed fishing.
Ryan stared at him. “How did you remember that?”
“They sponsored a tournament in 1998. Terrible rain jackets.”
Two hours later, police surrounded the abandoned Delta Three warehouse.
They found Frank Delaney tied inside an office.
Alive.
They also found one of Doyle Mercer’s former employees guarding the building.
The arrest hit social media before weigh-in.
Victor Kane denied involvement.
Doyle disappeared.
Eli brought eighteen pounds, six ounces to the stage.
He moved into third overall.
Victor met him beside the scale.
“Busy day,” Victor said.
Eli looked into his eyes.
“Your people need better napkins.”
For one fraction of a second, Victor’s face changed.
The cameras caught it.
So did Ryan.
Backstage, a tournament official approached.
“Mr. Carter, we received a protest.”
“For what?”
“Illegal outside assistance.”
Ryan laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
The official looked uncomfortable. “Someone claims you received location information from shore during competition.”
Eli stared at him.
“That call was about a kidnapped man.”
“I know. We’re reviewing it.”
“If you disqualify him for helping police—” Ryan began.
Eli raised a hand.
“No shouting.”
The official continued. “There’s more. A competitor says you were given fish-location information during practice by a local guide.”
“Who?”
The official hesitated.
“Caleb Brooks.”
Eli almost laughed.
“The twelve-year-old?”
“Yes.”
Someone was no longer trying to beat him on the lake.
They were trying to remove him from it.
The officials eventually dismissed the Caleb protest after reviewing timestamps, practice boundaries, and the boy’s interview. Still, the delay cost Eli his evening meal and most of his tackle-preparation time.
Ryan offered to retie everything.
Eli handed him the frog rod. “Check the braid for fraying.”
“Sixty-five pound?”
“Fifty. Grass isn’t as thick as you think.”
Ryan inspected the line near the lure. Eli explained that heavy braid helped cut through vegetation and provided direct hook-setting power, but oversized line could reduce casting distance and alter how some baits behaved. As always, he chose only as heavy as the cover required.
“What about punching tomorrow if the storm mats the grass?” Ryan asked.
“Possible. Heavy tungsten, compact plastic, straight fall through the mat. But only if fish are actually under it.”
Ryan smiled. “Evidence first.”
May you like
“Now you’re annoying me correctly.”
Before bed, Eli laid out one rod for each likely situation instead of twenty speculative ones. He slept four hours and woke before the alarm.
