Chapter 8 - The River Reads Back
Eli disappeared the next morning.
Ryan found his hospital wristband in the trash behind Marnie’s and his borrowed coat gone from the storeroom.
“Where would he go?” Tyler asked.
Marnie did not hesitate.
“Ohio River.”
They found him forty miles downstream sitting on riprap beneath an old bridge, ribs taped under his shirt, a cheap baitcasting rod beside him.
Ryan slammed the truck door.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Eli watched a barge crawl upriver.
“Morning.”
“You’re injured.”
“I noticed.”
“We may have evidence your son was murdered and you came fishing?”
“Yes.”
Ryan threw both hands up. “Why?”
“Because I’m angry.”
“That’s your answer?”
“When I’m angry, I make stupid decisions. Fishing slows the stupid part down.”
That was so reasonable Ryan had no immediate response.
He sat beside him.
The river was chocolate brown from recent rain. Current hammered bridge pilings, curled around wing dams, and carried sticks through seams of foam.
Eli pointed downstream.
“Tell me where you’d fish.”
Ryan groaned. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Ryan studied the surface.
“Current break behind the piling.”
“Why?”
“Fish conserve energy. They hold in slower water and feed where current brings bait past.”
“Good. What else?”
“That seam where muddy tributary water meets the main river.”
“Why?”
“Different clarity, temperature, maybe oxygen. Ambush edge.”
Eli nodded.
Ryan pointed at a flooded bush line.
“Pitch a jig or Texas rig there.”
“Maybe. But current’s too hard on the outside. Fish may tuck deeper into the backside.”
Ryan smiled faintly. “You really can’t stop teaching.”
“Thinking keeps me from finding Doyle.”
The smile disappeared.
Eli picked up the rod.
He had tied on a square-bill crankbait, a shallow-diving lure designed to deflect off hard cover. He cast upstream of a submerged rock and retrieved just fast enough to make the bait dig.
It struck the rock.
He paused.
A bass hit immediately.
“Deflection bite,” Ryan said.
“Fish often react when prey changes direction.”
Eli landed it carefully and released it.
Then he switched to a spinnerbait with a single Colorado blade.
“Stained water,” he explained. “Big thump. Easier to track.”
“You’re explaining basics.”
“Basics are what people abandon first when they get expensive equipment.”
They fished until Eli’s breathing slowed and his fists unclenched.
Then Ryan asked the question both had avoided.
“What if Victor killed Mason?”
Eli stared at the current.
“Then I spent twenty years mourning an accident that wasn’t one.”
“What will you do?”
“Find proof.”
“And after?”
Eli looked at him.
Ryan saw something frightening there.
“I don’t know.”
A truck pulled onto the gravel access road.
Ryan tensed until Marcus Vale climbed out.
“What are you doing here?” Ryan asked.
“Following the circus.” Marcus carried two rods and a paper sack. “Also, Marnie said the old fool hadn’t eaten.”
Eli accepted the sandwich without complaint.
Marcus sat.
“I’ve got information.”
“Everybody does lately,” Eli said.
“The Masters changed format.”
Ryan looked up.
The American Masters Championship was the largest invitational bass event of the season. Victor Kane’s company held title sponsorship rights.
Marcus continued. “Two electronics-limited days. One full-tech day. Final day, no forward-facing sonar.”
Ryan whistled.
Professional tournament organizations had been wrestling publicly with forward-facing sonar rules. Some limited its use to preserve multiple styles of fishing and keep traditional methods competitive. The Masters had never gone that far.
Eli smiled faintly. “Victor thinks that helps him?”
“He thinks it helps ratings,” Marcus said. “And he invited you.”
Ryan laughed. “Of course he did.”
Marcus handed Eli an envelope.
Inside was an official invitation.
Eli read the first page.
“Entry fee is fifteen thousand.”
“I’ll pay it,” Ryan said.
“No.”
Marcus said, “I’ll pay half.”
“No.”
Marnie’s voice came from behind them.
“I’ll pay all of it.”
Everyone turned.
She had driven up unnoticed.
Eli looked annoyed. “Why are people stalking me?”
“Because you wander off with cracked ribs.” Marnie took the invitation. “And you’re entering.”
“I don’t have a boat.”
Ryan jingled keys.
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard me.”
“I know that sound. It’s expensive generosity.”
Ryan sat closer. “Then borrow it. Not a gift. You lose, you wash it.”
Marcus laughed.
Eli shook his head.
Marnie folded her arms. “Eli, twenty-five years ago they took you off the biggest stage in the sport. Now they’re inviting you back because they think they can turn you into a sideshow.”
“That’s exactly why I shouldn’t go.”
“No. That’s why you should.”
Eli looked at the river.
A drifting branch struck a current seam, spun once, and shot downstream.
“What’s the lake?” he asked.
Marcus smiled.
“Blackwater.”
Eli’s expression changed.
Ryan noticed. “You know it?”
Eli looked toward the muddy horizon.
“I won my first national event there.”
Marnie smiled.
“Then go remind it who you are.”
Eli did not answer.
Instead he picked up the rod and cast again.
But this time, the lure hit the exact center of the current seam.
Before leaving the river, Eli showed Ryan one more lesson. He cast a jig upstream of a wing dam and let the current sweep it naturally toward the slack water behind the rocks.
“Most people drag against the flow because they want to feel everything,” he said. “But prey doesn’t always march upstream. Sometimes the best presentation is the one that looks helpless.”
The jig crossed the seam and stopped.
Ryan asked, “Snag?”
Eli lifted gently. “Fish.”
He set the hook and landed a thick river smallmouth.
“Current bite,” Ryan said.
“Positioning bite. Current just wrote the address.”
He also showed Ryan how heavier sinkers could maintain bottom contact in fast water, but warned that too much weight made a bait unnatural and increased snagging. The goal was not always to touch bottom continuously; sometimes a controlled tumble was better.
Ryan shook his head. “You’ve got a lesson for everything.”
“I’ve got scars for everything. Lessons are what you call scars after enough time passes.”
On the ride back, Eli finally signed the Masters entry form. He did it on the dashboard with a borrowed pen while the truck bounced over potholes.
Ryan glanced over. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You just entered a million-dollar championship.”
“I’ve entered worse things.”
“Like what?”
May you like
Eli looked out the window.
“Trust.”
