Part 8 (1/2)

aThe fish just gained ten pounds,a Hawk said, startled.

The rod bent in a tight, inverted U, reinforcing the truth of his words.

aThatas a cod for you,a Angel said, laughing. aHe caught a glimpse of the boat and spread his fins to make it harder for you to pull him up. Good-bye streamlining. Itas like hauling up a cement slab, isnat it?a Hawk grunted and kept reeling in until a long, surprisingly slender shape showed just beneath the surface. The lateral fins were widely flared.

Angel slid past Hawk to reach for the net that was in a rack beside the c.o.c.kpit door. She leaned over the low railing, net in hand, and deftly scooped the sullen cod out of the sea.

aHand me the cosh, would you?a she asked.

Hawk glanced just beyond Angelas reaching fingertips to what looked like a short ax handle. He pulled it out of its holder.

With a single, quick blow, Angel dispatched the fish. Her grimace told Hawk that this was one part of fis.h.i.+ng that she didnat particularly enjoy.

aYou could just throw it in the box and let it die,a he pointed out.

aI canat stand to hear fish flopping around,a she admitted.

aSoft-hearted, Angel?a Hawk asked, his voice sardonic.

aIam no more cruel than circ.u.mstances require.a She pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers out of her hip pocket, fastened the pliers onto the codas lower lip, and extracted the cod from the net.

aTeeth,a Angel said succinctly.

A glance showed Hawk that the codas jaws were lined with needlelike teeth. The fish was indeed a predator.

Angel opened the fish box, dropped the cod in, and closed the lid. She tested the sharpness of Hawkas jig with a careful fingertip, nodded, and gestured for him to go back to fis.h.i.+ng.

Silence returned, broken only by the soft nibbling of small waves along the boatas length. Angel caught the next fish, two pounds of fiercely ugly red rock cod. When Hawk reached for the net, she shook her head.

aNo,a Angel said, reeling in smoothly. aThis one has spines that can rip apart a net. Theyare poisonous, too. Not lethal. Just painful.a She pulled the pliers out of her hip pocket again. Leaning low over the rail, rod held high in one hand and pliers in the other, she fastened onto the shank of the hook. She gave a quick shake, freeing the fish. It swam languidly back into the green darkness, more disgruntled than frightened.

aNot good to eat?a asked Hawk.

aTheyare fine. That one was a bit small. It would fillet out into about two bites per side.a aMore trouble than itas worth.a aUnless youare hungry, yes.a As Hawk turned to resume fis.h.i.+ng, the radio in the c.o.c.kpit crackled to life.

aa”calling Angie Lange. Can you read me? Black Moon calling Angie Lange. Can you read me? Over.a Eagerly Angel spun toward the sound. She reached the c.o.c.kpit in two steps, s.n.a.t.c.hed the mike off its rack, punched in the b.u.t.ton, and spoke quickly. Excitement vibrated in her voice.

aCarlson? This is Angie. Where are you?a aHeading up the pa.s.sage for ten days.a aOh.a Angelas disappointment was as clear in her voice as it was in her face. aYouare an elusive man, Carlson.a aYouare a bit hard to catch yourself. Must be those big white wings growing out of your back.a Angel smiled.

aDerryas been trying to raise you on the radio for the last hour,a Carlson said. aI figured you must be jigging behind one of the islands, so I offered to relay for him.a aHeas all right, isnat he?a Angel asked anxiously.

aHeas doing okay. Grouchy as a spring bear, but otherwise fine. Thereas a message for a Mr. Hawkins. Your client?a aYes.a Suddenly Angel was aware that Hawk was leaning against the frame of the open c.o.c.kpit door, listening.

aDerry said that Lord Something-or-other called with a counter-counteroffer.a Angel grimaced.

Carlsonas amus.e.m.e.nt was clear in the extraordinary precision of his words.

aPoor Angie,a he said. aYou always end up with the stuffiest s.h.i.+rts and the clumsiest white eyes ever to get a yen to go fis.h.i.+ng.a aNot this time.a Angel smiled at the man in the doorway. aThis time Iave got a real live hawk.a Carlsonas deep laugh seemed too big for the small speaker.

aHave fun, Angie, but watch your fingers. Hawks are the meanest birds ever to fly.a aTake care of yourself, Carlson. I heard that there was a storm coming down out of the Aleutians.a aYeah, I know. Thatas why I left without waiting to see you.a aCall me when you get back.a aDonat I always?a There was a pause. aI may still be out on the twelfth.a aThatas okay,a said Angel.

Her voice was too even, too calm, belying the sudden paleness of her cheeks.

aAre you sure?a Carlson asked.

aDerry will be here. Iall be fine.a Angelas voice softened, revealing a hint of the emotion beneath. aThanks, Carlson. It meansa”a lot.a aSave your best hug for me, Angel Eyes.a The faint hiss of static filled the c.o.c.kpit.

Suddenly Angel felt very much alone. The old nickname had brought back too much of the past with it. She loved Carlson in the same way that she loved Derry, but Carlsonas voice inevitably reminded her of love and death and loss. Of Grant.

Yet Angel needed Carlson. His laughter and the memories that they shared created a bridge between the irretrievable past and the often lonely present.

aI take it that was the salmon shaman,a said Hawk.

His voice was smooth and cold. He was irritated by the transparency of Angelas ploy in dangling her deep-voiced admirer in front of him.

aThe salmon shaman? Oh.a Angel smiled slightly. aYes, that was Carlson. Did you hear the message?a Hawkas mouth made a cynical downward curve.

I heard it, all right.

And in case I didnat, youare giving me a reply with that lonely, wistful look.

Well, thatas one type of chase I wonat have any part of. If she wants to play one man off against the other, sheall find herself without a game.

When I hunt, I hunt alone.

Hawk pushed away from the c.o.c.kpit door, turning his back on Angel.

aTake me back to Eagle Head,a he said curtly. aI have some calls to make.a

9.

That was the first of many times when the demands of Hawkas business interrupted Angelas guided tour of Vancouver Island and the waters around Campbell River. Hawk had flown to Vancouver three times, where he had met with lawyers and signed papers.

When he stayed in the Ramsey house, he was often on the phone. In ten days Angel had managed to get Hawk out fis.h.i.+ng only twice. Each time phone calls had made them miss the tide.

Not that it really mattered. The run of the silver salmon had not yet begun. Even the commercial fishermen were catching only a handful of fish for each day spent on the water.

In the end, Angel settled for giving Hawk a slow-motion tour of rocky heads and tiny bays as she showed him how to troll for salmon. To her it was the least interesting method of catching salmon. The stiff rods required for trolling masked the energy and vibrancy of the fish.

But trolling was the price of missing the tide changes, when the s.h.i.+fting balance of water and moon coaxed the salmon to feed closer to the surface.

Angel was determined that there would be no more missed tides. Word had come through the fis.h.i.+ng grapevine that the first true run of summer salmon was sliding silently down the Inside Pa.s.sage. Yesterday the catch had been up at the north end of the pa.s.sage.

If the fish followed past patterns, one of Angelas favorite stretches of coastline should be hosting the salmon for a while on their run south to the countless rivers that drained the mountainous land. By boat, it would take nearly six hours to get to Needle Bay, but Hawk had finally agreed that he could take time away from the phone for a five-day trip. In order to do so, though, he had worked steadily.

Other than mealtimes Angel had seen very little of Hawk for three days.