Dead Angler Read Online Free PDF Page A

have time for that.”
    Osborne looked straight ahead as he spoke, “You know, I went through re-hab over at Hazelden right after my wife died?”
    “Did you?” She was quiet. So was Osborne. The truck sped forward in the dark. He could tell from the lack of surprise in her tone that she knew something about his problem.
    Almost everyone in Loon Lake knew that the unexpected death of his wife had left Osborne a shaken and deeply lonely man. Less than six months after her death he had awakened one day to a knock on the door from his beloved youngest daughter, Erin, who said she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Dad,” she had said with tears streaming down her face, “you’re in trouble. You are a serious alcoholic, and you’re killing yourself. You’re killing me, Dad.”
    Lew was an officer on the police force at that time, and Osborne dimly recalled she might have been one of the cops who drove him home in one of his drunken stupors. The kindness of Loon Lake residents can be deadly, Osborne had thought ever since, remembering how friends and other townspeople had been so helpful, protecting when they should have punished.
    “Yep. Saved my life,” said Osborne.
    That was all he wanted to say about the six weeks that had rescued him from the swoon of loneliness and despair. He hoped the day would come when he could tell someone like Lew of the courage he had seen in Erin’s face as she stood before him and told him, cleanly, clearly, how he was killing her love for him. Killing himself, killing a future with his grandson and grandchildren to come.
    But it wasn’t something he could talk about yet. Lew didn’t seem to mind. She drove on, relaxed and easy with the quiet between them. That was so unlike Mary Lee, who always found silence a necessary hole to fill. In stark contrast, Lew made Osborne feel as though this mutual silence was a ribbon of warmth wrapped around simple companionship.
    He felt so comfortable with her he made a mental note to consider offering to return the favor of taking him fly-fishing by giving her a few pointers in
his
area of angling expertise: musky fishing. A good musky fisherman doesn’t invite just anyone into his boat. Stalking the huge trophy fish can take hours if not days of casting in near silence. Osborne had a very short list of men to whom he would extend that invitation. He had a hunch Lew was the only woman he knew who would appreciate the offer.
    They made it to the Thunder Bay Bar a good half-hour before closing. Pickups, four-wheels, and a few flashy convertibles still filled the parking lot. Rock and roll blasted out the front door. Osborne shook his head as he looked at the neon bar signs in the windows. Thunder Bay was one Northwoods bar he had never entered. It was certainly the last place he had expected to find himself late this Sunday night.
    “Don’t worry, Doc,” said Lew as they walked around the truck towards the entrance. “Thunder Bay has been on my beat for years—they know me here.”
    Still, he felt edgy walking in. Thunder Bay might have the closest telephone, but that didn’t change the fact that it was an infamous stripper joint, notorious for topless dancing, rumors of prostitution and excellent barbecue ribs—all of which made it a natural hang-out when “da boys” out of Milwaukee or Chicago decided to go north for a long weekend of fishing. On a hot summer night like tonight, counselors from the ritzy summer camps nearby and other young men without girlfriends or wives tended to drift this way if action was light at the more respectable taverns.
    As the bar door swung shut behind him, Osborne wondered what his adult children would say when they heard he’d been seen in Thunder Bay, not to mention the razzing he’d get from the McDonald’s coffee crowd. And they would hear, no doubt about that. He took a moment to survey the crowded room, left to right, for any familiar faces. Any former patients? None. At least so far.
    “I’ll call