By Erica Shoemaker
By Saturday afternoon, Grandpa’s driveway looked like duck season had blown through a week early. Jake and Wyatt Emerson had spent the morning cutting willows and now branches covered the concrete around their eighteen-foot boat while they worked them through the blind frame.
At fifteen, Jake had spent two summers saving for the boat. Wyatt, thirteen, had contributed nearly as much, a fact he mentioned whenever Jake called it mine instead of ours. Grandpa had helped them find a used mud motor and covered the last of the purchase price in exchange for keeping his yard mowed. He had taken them scouting twice, too, and helped them choose their spot.
Grandpa supervised from a chair just inside the garage with Tank stretched out beside him.
Jake pulled on his work gloves, and Tank got up and moved behind Grandpa’s chair. He had never liked gloves. Grandpa figured someone wearing a pair had given him a reason before Grandpa brought him home.
“They’re saying it could be down in the thirties next weekend,” Wyatt said, passing another bundle of willow over the side.
“Good,” Jake said from inside the blind.
Wyatt leaned over the rail. “You won’t be saying that at four in the morning.”
Jake’s head appeared above the top of the blind. “You’re the one who wanted a cold front.”
“I want ducks moving,” Wyatt said. “I don’t want my fingers falling off.”
Grandpa took a drink of coffee. “You’ll forget about the cold if the birds are flying.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Wyatt told him. “You’ll be home in bed.”
“I don’t hunt at midnight,” Grandpa said. “In my day, we didn’t have to get to a spot six hours before shooting light.”
Jake grinned over the top of the blind. “In your day, were there ducks?”
Grandpa looked at him over his coffee cup. “More than you’ll ever see.”
Wyatt laughed.
Jake reached over the blind and smacked him across the shoulder with the bundle of willows.
“Hey!” Wyatt grabbed for the branches, but Jake disappeared back inside before he could get him.
A minute later, Wyatt handed another armful over the side. “Mason said they’re setting up where they hunted last year.”
“Let them,” Jake said.
“You think ours is better?” Wyatt asked.
“I know ours is better,” Jake said.
Grandpa nodded toward the boat. “If that wind stays where they say it will, you boys picked a good one.”
Wyatt looked pleased. “Told you.”
Jake poked his head up again. “You agreed with me.”
“Eventually,” Wyatt said.
Bicycle tires rattled at the end of the driveway.
Wyatt looked toward the street. “Speaking of the devil.”
Cole and Mason coasted into the driveway and stopped beside the boat.
Cole studied the willow-covered frame. “That a boat blind, or are you boys starting a brush pile?”
Mason leaned his bike against the garage. “You really taking it out by yourselves next weekend?”
“That’s the plan,” Jake said, trying not to sound as pleased as he felt.
“Where are you setting up?” Cole asked.
“On the river,” Jake answered.
Wyatt pointed toward the north end of town. “Back in that slough past—”
Jake bumped his elbow.
“Past somewhere,” Wyatt finished, glaring at him.
Mason laughed. “Afraid we’ll steal your spot?”
“Afraid you’ll tell everybody at school and we’ll have six boats sitting there by eleven-thirty,” Jake said.
Wyatt offered a demonstration of his duck call, which made Tank raise his head and bark.
“Even the dog wants you to stop,” Cole said.
A few minutes later, Cole and Mason pushed off, promising to check the boys’ results after opening morning.
Not long after they disappeared down the street, Earl Jensen’s pickup turned into the driveway with Denny Walsh riding beside him. Both men had been at the cafe with Grandpa, and Denny still carried a foam cup of coffee as though the afternoon were merely an extension of breakfast. They walked around the boat, trading comments with Grandpa about duck blinds, bad knees, and how much easier hunting had supposedly been when they were younger.
“Somebody at coffee says another tow slowed along the town shoreline Thursday night,” Denny said. “A little boat came out from shore and sat alongside it a few minutes. No running lights when it headed back.”
Earl snorted. “By the second refill, he had it all figured out. By the cinnamon rolls, he had accomplices.”
“That’s twice somebody’s seen it,” Denny said. “And trucks waiting near the old ferry landing. You tell me what they’re doing.”
Grandpa glanced toward the boys, but both were looking down at their work now.
“Could be a crew change,” Grandpa said.
“Could be,” Denny agreed. “Could be funny business, too.”
“Something else for everybody to talk about,” Grandpa said.
“Did anybody see who was in the little boat?” Wyatt asked.
Grandpa looked over at him. “Those willows aren’t going to put themselves in.”
Wyatt tucked another willow branch into the blind. “We can work and listen at the same time.”
“That’s what worries me,” Grandpa said.
Earl brushed a willow leaf off his sleeve and climbed into the pickup with Denny, probably off to spread more “news” with the next person they stopped to talk to. The boys went back to work as the truck backed out.
By late afternoon, the last willow branches were woven into place. Grandpa took the boys to get a pop, then drove down to the boat landing to check the river.
Grandpa parked above the ramp. “Heard they got a lot of rain up north. River may come up some in the next few days,” he said. “Let’s see where the water is.” The boys followed him toward the dock.
Stub Mercer was standing beside his boat. A man Jake had never seen before stood with him. Grandpa gave Stub a short nod, and Stub returned it before looking at the boys.
“Well, look at the Emerson boys,” Stub called. “Saw you two working on that little toy boat of yours.”
“You want a turn when we’re done playing with it?” Jake asked.
Stub’s smile thinned. “Smart-mouthed little punks.”
“Little?” Wyatt looked from Jake to Stub. “He’s as tall as you.” He nodded at Stub’s beer belly. “He’s growing up. You’re growing out.”
Grandpa coughed into his hand.
The stranger glanced at Wyatt, then turned back to Stub without smiling.
Grandpa nodded toward the truck. “Come on, boys.”
Jake was still laughing when they climbed back inside.
* * *
The following Friday night, a little before midnight, Grandpa drove them to the landing with the boat riding behind them. Opening morning was still hours away. Neither boy had a driver’s license. Their hunter education courses, hunting licenses, and boating certificates had earned them a night on the river, but they still needed Grandpa to get them to it.
Grandpa backed the trailer down the ramp and helped them float the boat, then stood at the landing in his canvas coat while Jake checked the fuel and Wyatt rearranged a bag he had already rearranged twice. Grandpa watched him move it again. “Leave that bag alone. You’re busier than a fart in a skillet.”
“I’m making room,” Wyatt said.
“You’ve made room three times,” Grandpa said.
Tank sat in the boat wearing his hunting vest, watching Grandpa as though waiting for him to climb aboard. Grandpa reached in and patted his head. “Not tonight, buddy. You’re in charge.”
Tank’s tail thumped against the bench in response.
Grandpa helped them make sure they had everything and reminded them not to step anywhere they had not tested the depth. He checked the running lights and made sure the unloaded shotguns were cased and stowed where they would stay dry: Jake’s twelve-gauge Remington 870 pump and Grandpa’s twelve-gauge Remington 1187 semi-automatic, which Wyatt had borrowed for the hunt.
“You boys know how to run this boat,” Grandpa said. “That doesn’t mean every idea you have in it is a good one.”
“We’ll be careful,” Jake promised.
Grandpa studied him before nodding.
He knew they understood the current, tow wakes, wing dams, and stump fields hidden beneath dark water. He also knew teenage boys had a particular talent for mistaking experience for invincibility. More than once, he had caught them using the mud motor to jump half-submerged logs because it was the river version of four-wheeling.
Still, he understood what this first trip meant.
“Call me if you need me,” Grandpa said.
“We will,” Jake answered.
“And take turns,” Grandpa added.
Wyatt pointed at his brother. “He heard you.”
* * *
The motor’s exhaust mixed with the muddy smell of the river as they eased away from the landing.
They followed the channel first, giving a southbound tow plenty of room. Its wake lifted the loaded boat and rolled it hard before settling again while Jake worked the bow through the waves.
Only after they turned into the backwaters did Wyatt lean toward him.
“My turn,” Wyatt said.
“Let me get us past this bend,” Jake said.
“You said that at the last bend,” Wyatt answered.
Jake kept his hand on the tiller another moment before letting Wyatt take over. He moved to the bow, where he could get a better look at the stumps ahead.
Away from the channel, the river narrowed into dark passages between islands. The harvest moon was bright enough to show pale tree trunks along the banks, but fog lay low over the water and hid the stumps. Jake kept the spotlight within reach. Familiar stretches looked entirely different than they did in daylight.
“Little left,” Jake warned.
“I see it,” Wyatt said.
Something scraped beneath them.
Both boys stiffened.
Wyatt eased off, worked the boat free, and glanced at Jake.
“Still see it?” Jake asked.
“Better now,” Wyatt said.
They passed a muskrat cutting a narrow wake through the moonlight and a beaver lodge tucked against the bank. Farther ahead, a large buck stood at the edge of an island. Its antlers caught the light before it stepped into the trees.
“Did you see that?” Wyatt whispered.
“I saw it,” Jake said.
“Grandpa’s going to wish he came,” Wyatt said.
“Grandpa’s asleep,” Jake said.
“He’ll still wish he came when we tell him,” Wyatt said.
They reached their spot shortly after midnight.
Setting the decoys took longer without Grandpa. The boys had drawn the spread twice at the kitchen table, but the wind and shape of the pocket made the plan less useful than it had seemed indoors.
Jake wanted the nearest group farther out.
“If they come around that point, you want them looking at an opening here,” Wyatt argued.
Jake studied the water. Wyatt was right, although Jake took a few seconds longer than necessary before admitting it.
They moved two decoys and left the others.
When they finally climbed back aboard, both boys were warm from working. Tank lowered himself between their gear and boots with a sigh that suggested he had been waiting all night for them to get organized.
For a while they listened to water tapping against the hull and frogs calling from the bank.
A motor approached in the distance. Jake switched on the spotlight and swept it across their spread. The other hunter’s motor slowed, then moved on.
Their spread floated in front of them, and for once there was no Grandpa telling them what needed fixing.
Wyatt poured coffee into the thermos lid and passed it over.
Jake took a drink. “How much sugar did you put in this?”
“Enough,” Wyatt said.
“Is there any coffee?” Jake asked.
“Some,” Wyatt said.
Tank raised his head when the breakfast bag rustled.
“You’re early,” Wyatt told him. “Kitchen’s closed.”
Tank continued watching.
By three o’clock, they had cooked an egg-and-sausage scramble on the propane stove and argued over who had taken more sausage. Tank lived up to his name, putting away a helping nearly as big as Wyatt’s before looking for more.
They packed the breakfast things, pulled their collars up, and dozed against the bench cushions. When Jake checked his phone again, it was a little after five. Shooting time was still more than an hour away, and frost silvered the exposed edge of the bench. Wyatt had stopped pretending he could sit still.
He shifted on the bench, rubbed his hands together, then stood and stamped his feet.
Jake opened one eye. “You’re going to rock the boat.”
“I’m freezing. Let’s walk the bank a little and warm up.”
Jake checked the time again. “We’ve still got more than an hour.”
“That’s my point.”
Jake looked toward the island. Moonlight reached the open bank, although the woods beyond it were dark. “We stay close to the boat.”
Tank followed them ashore. Wyatt clipped a lead to his collar and tied it to a fallen tree trunk beside the boat.
“Stay. You’ll scare everything halfway to Wisconsin,” Wyatt told Tank.
They started along the bank, moving mostly to get feeling back into their feet. Tank watched from beside the boat.
A buck stepped out near the edge of the trees ahead of them. Its antlers caught the moonlight.
Wyatt caught Jake’s sleeve. “That him?”
“Could be,” Jake whispered.
The buck moved into the trees and stopped once, looking back toward the water.
Wyatt started after it.
Jake hesitated, then followed. “Just a little ways.”
The buck disappeared into the brush. The boys kept going another minute before they realized they had crossed a low ridge and the boat and decoys were no longer visible behind them.
“Listen,” Wyatt whispered.
Voices carried through the trees.
One man was asking for more time. The other would not let him finish.
“Better not be Cole and Mason,” Wyatt whispered.
They moved quietly through the grass and between the trees, trying to get a look at who was there.
Through the trees, moonlight opened across a narrow stretch of shore. A boat rested against the bank, and two men stood beside it.
Stub Mercer and the stranger from the landing.
Jake pulled Wyatt down behind a fallen tree.
“You told me it would be here,” the stranger said.
“It was supposed to be,” Stub answered.
“Supposed to be?” The stranger stepped closer. “You were paid to pull it off the tow. Now it’s gone.”
“I didn’t take it.”
“Then where is it?”
Stub lowered his voice. “I can fix it.”
“You said that last time.”
“Give me another week.”
“There isn’t another week.”
Stub raised his hands. “Wait. I can get the money. Just put the gun away.”
Neither man spoke for several seconds.
Then the stranger said, “They weren’t happy when I told them I saw federal guys at your house.”
“I didn’t tell them nothing,” Stub said.
The stranger’s voice went flat. “They told me to make sure you never do.”
Stub took a step backward.
The stranger moved his hand. Metal caught the moonlight.
Jake grabbed Wyatt’s sleeve.
“We’re leaving,” he whispered.
Wyatt did not argue.
They had begun backing away when the shot cracked through the trees. A heartbeat later, something hit the water near the shoreline with a heavy splash.
Jake flinched so hard he nearly fell. Wyatt turned, planted his foot on a dead branch, and broke it with a sharp snap.
“Who’s there?” the stranger shouted.
The boys ran.
* * *
Within seconds, Jake could not tell whether they were following the trail or crossing it. Branches struck his face and caught his clothes. Wyatt stumbled behind him, caught himself, and kept coming.
Footsteps crashed through the woods after them.
Then Tank barked.
Jake changed direction. “This way!”
Tank barked again, furious now, and the sound pulled them through the trees toward the boat.
They burst onto the bank together. Tank strained against his lead, his head turned toward the footsteps behind them.
“Get Tank,” Jake ordered. “I’ll get the boat.”
Wyatt grabbed Tank’s collar and unclipped the lead, then held on with both hands while Jake fought with the bow rope. Jake’s fingers felt thick and useless.
Tank leaned forward until his front feet dug into the mud.
“Easy, Tank,” Wyatt whispered, pulling hard against him.
The bow rope came loose. Tank’s lips pulled back from his teeth, almost like a smile, except there was nothing friendly about it. The hair along his neck and back rose, and a growl started low in his chest. Jake followed Tank’s stare and saw the stranger at the edge of the trees with the gun in his hand. He held the line to keep the boat from drifting.
“Hold it,” the man ordered.
Jake straightened.
For a moment, the stranger only looked at them. His breathing was hard, but his voice became almost conversational.
“Aren’t you those Emerson boys?” the stranger asked.
Wyatt tightened his grip on Tank’s collar as the growl deepened.
“What did you hear?” the stranger asked.
“Nothing,” Jake answered.
The man glanced toward the boat. “Nothing.”
“We were just walking,” Jake said.
A small smile crossed the stranger’s face. He stepped forward and grabbed Jake by the front of his hunting jacket.
Tank lunged.
“Shut that mutt up or I will,” the stranger said.
Wyatt dug his boots into the mud and pulled back with both hands, but the dog dragged him forward.
“Tank, stay!” Wyatt ordered, his boots sliding.
The stranger jerked Jake closer. Jake twisted against the fist knotted in his jacket, but the man held on. “You know what happens when people stick their nose into business that ain’t theirs?” he said.
Tank exploded out of Wyatt’s grasp.
Tank struck the stranger high in the chest. The man’s grip wrenched Jake sideways, tearing the jacket across his shoulder, and Tank clamped down on the gloved hand holding the gun.
The gun fired beside them.
Jake ducked and stumbled into the water, dropping the rope. The stranger went down hard, smacking his head on the bank as the pistol flew from his hand, struck the hull with a metallic knock, and splashed beneath the boat.
“Wyatt! Boat!” Jake yelled.
Wyatt scrambled aboard, scooped the loose bow line over the side, and reached for the motor.
Jake ran his hands over his chest and stomach, searching for pain or blood.
“Are you hit?” Wyatt shouted.
“No. Are you?” Jake shouted.
“I don’t think so!” Wyatt ran a hand over his jacket, then shouted for Tank.
The motor caught.
Tank pulled free with something clenched in his teeth and splashed toward Jake. Jake caught the dog’s vest, helped haul him over the side, then dragged himself aboard.
“He’s getting up!” Wyatt yelled.
“Go!” Jake shouted.
Wyatt eased the boat away from the bank while Jake scrambled forward and raised his head above the willow fringe at the bow. Every part of Jake wanted Wyatt to open the motor completely, but the stump field stretched ahead.
“Little right,” Jake directed. “Easy. There’s one in front of us.”
Behind them, the stranger shouted something Jake could not understand.
Tank stood beside Wyatt, water streaming from his coat, his hackles still raised. He stared through the willow branches at the island with something dark hanging from his mouth.
Jake looked back long enough to see the stranger disappear into the trees.
Then he faced forward again. “Straight through here. Watch the left side.”
Another motor started somewhere behind them before they reached the lily pads.
Wyatt looked over his shoulder. “Jake.”
“I hear it,” Jake said. Neither of them had to say who they thought it was.
Mercer’s boat came around the end of the island, its bow lifting as the stranger accelerated toward them.
Ahead, the slough narrowed across a shallow stretch the boys had explored with Grandpa. Beyond it, another cut led back toward the landing.
“Keep going,” Jake said.
The mud motor pushed them into the lily pads. Stems scraped the hull, and the boat shuddered over something beneath the surface.
Behind them, the other motor slowed.
Jake risked a look.
The stranger had stopped at the edge of the shallows. His outboard churned mud when he tried to nose farther in. He backed off and stood in Mercer’s boat, watching them.
Then he turned toward the deeper water on the far side of the island.
“He can’t get through here,” Wyatt said.
Jake nodded, but the relief lasted only a moment.
The stranger knew their name. Mercer had seen their boat in Grandpa’s driveway, and now Mercer’s truck and trailer were sitting at the same landing they needed to reach.
“Keep driving,” Jake said.
He pulled his phone free and dialed Grandpa.
* * *
Grandpa answered on the third ring.
“Everything all right?” Grandpa asked.
“We’ve got a little problem,” Jake said.
“What kind of problem?” Grandpa asked.
“Can you meet us at the ramp? We had to leave the decoys. Some guy is chasing us,” Jake said.
Behind him, Wyatt shouted, “Bring your shotgun!”
Silence filled the phone for half a second.
“Where are you?” Grandpa asked.
Jake told him.
“Both of you okay?” Grandpa asked.
“Yeah,” Jake said.
“Tank?” Grandpa asked.
Jake looked back. Tank still stood beside Wyatt with his hair raised.
“Yeah,” Jake said.
“I’m leaving now, with the truck and trailer,” Grandpa said. “I’ll call the sheriff. Stay out of sight until I call you from the ramp.”
Jake put his phone away and turned back toward the water ahead. “Stay in the shallows,” he told Wyatt.
* * *
Grandpa was waiting beside his truck and the empty trailer when the boys reached the landing.
“What the hell is going on?” he demanded, catching the bow. “What did you two get into?”
Both boys began talking.
The eastern sky was beginning to gray.
“Some guy came after us with a gun,” Wyatt answered.
“We think he shot Stub Mercer first,” Jake said.
Grandpa raised one hand. “One at a time. I’ve called the sheriff. Now tell me what happened.”
Both boys took a breath.
Jake tried to explain the argument, the shot in the woods, the stranger chasing them, and Tank knocking him down. Then Wyatt looked toward the river.
“That’s him,” Wyatt said.
Mercer’s boat was speeding toward the landing, its bow raised and a white wake spreading behind it.
Jake felt the same cold rush he had felt on the island. “That’s the man who chased us.”
Grandpa opened the truck door and pulled out his Remington 1100.
“Get behind me,” Grandpa ordered.
Jake and Wyatt backed toward the truck as Grandpa stepped into the open and brought the shotgun to his shoulder.
“I don’t think so, mister,” Grandpa said.
The stranger cut the throttle.
For several seconds, Mercer’s boat drifted toward the landing while the two men stared at each other across the water.
Grandpa did not lower the shotgun.
The stranger turned the boat around and accelerated toward the channel. Grandpa held his place until it disappeared beyond the point.
Then he lowered the gun and turned.
Jake and Wyatt stood behind him, both holding their shotguns. Both barrels pointed toward the gravel, and both boys kept their fingers away from the triggers.
Grandpa looked from one brother to the other.
“I told you to get behind me,” Grandpa said.
“We did,” Jake said.
Grandpa glanced at their shotguns. “Then what happened?”
“We thought you might need backup,” Wyatt answered.
Grandpa studied them for another second. Their hands were shaking, but neither looked away.
“Safeties on?” Grandpa asked.
“Yes,” they answered together.
Grandpa nodded. “Good. Keep those barrels pointed down.” He took out his phone and called the sheriff again. “He was just here at the landing,” he said. “He’s headed back toward the channel in Stub Mercer’s boat. We need officers here now.”
Jake laid his shotgun back in the boat while Grandpa spoke on the phone. Wyatt stayed beside Grandpa, watching the point where the stranger had disappeared.
Tank climbed onto the landing and shook river water over everyone. Whatever he had carried out of the woods was still clenched in his teeth.
Grandpa looked down. “What have you got there?”
Tank’s tail moved once.
“Drop,” Grandpa ordered.
A black leather glove landed at Grandpa’s feet.
* * *
At first light, shotgun blasts rolled across the water from up and down the river. It sounded like the American Revolution. Opening morning was finally here, and Jake and Wyatt were missing it.
Sheriff’s deputies and Iowa DNR conservation officers gathered at the landing. Boats headed toward the island while a deputy kept everyone else away from the ramp.
An investigator collected the glove without letting anyone handle it. Jake showed him the torn jacket, then told him where the pistol had gone into the water. Another deputy took the stranger’s description while the boys could still picture his face.
A sheriff’s investigator took each boy’s account separately while Grandpa waited nearby. A conservation officer sat in on the interviews.
Jake remembered the argument about something Stub was supposed to pull off a tow and the warning about federal agents at Stub’s house. Wyatt remembered Stub begging for more time and saying he could get the money.
Neither boy had seen Mercer get shot. They had heard the shot, heard something hit the water, and both were certain the stranger had chased them and later left alone in Mercer’s boat.
Some details came back out of order; others would not come back at all. Grandpa remained close enough for the boys to see him.
Across the parking lot, Mercer’s truck sat with its empty trailer still hitched behind it.
* * *
The following afternoon, a conservation officer told Grandpa they could retrieve the decoys as long as they stayed in the boat and did not go onto the island.
Grandpa went with them.
In daylight, the island looked smaller and disappointingly ordinary. Sunlight filtered through the trees where the boys had run for their lives, and nothing along the shoreline suggested that anyone had been shot there.
The decoys still floated in the pocket where Jake and Wyatt had left them. Some had swung against the reeds, and several lines were tangled together. The boys had saved for most of the spread. Jake counted the heads bobbing between the reeds while Wyatt reached for the first line.
Grandpa looked across the spread. “Left the whole works, did you?”
“To be fair, we were getting chased by a guy with a gun,” Jake said.
“That’s the first good reason you’ve ever had for not picking up after yourselves,” Grandpa said.
They worked without going near the island. Tank stayed in the boat, watching the trees.
When the last decoy came aboard, Grandpa looked at both boys.
“You did right leaving them,” he said. “If anything like that ever happens again, you leave every last one.”
Neither boy argued.
* * *
The river rose before the search was finished.
Deputies and conservation officers searched the island and surrounding water, but found no sign of Mercer or the stranger. By then the rising river had covered the stretch of shore where the boys had seen them, and the current could have carried anything that entered the water far downstream.
For days, Mercer’s truck and its empty trailer remained at the landing.
At school, questions became rumors and then stories the boys no longer recognized. Jake heard one version in which the boys had exchanged gunfire with three men.
Neither boy argued much.
They remembered the stranger’s hand gripping Jake’s jacket and the fabric tearing at his shoulder.
Late that week, authorities found Mercer’s boat tied at a public landing across the river. There was no sign of the stranger.
Federal agents began asking questions about barge traffic, unexplained stops along the town shoreline, and small boats meeting tows after dark. At coffee, the guesses had become more specific, but Grandpa warned the boys that a rumor was still a rumor, even when somebody repeated it louder.
A few days later, Grandpa sat with them in the garage while they put away their hunting gear.
“You know this river,” he said. “But you don’t know everybody on it.”
Neither boy answered.
“If you ever hear something like that again, you leave. Don’t go looking. Don’t wait to find out whether it concerns you. Get yourselves out and call for help. The gear can wait,” Grandpa said.
Jake nodded. He had expected Grandpa to tell them how stupid they had been.
Grandpa’s quiet voice stayed with him longer than yelling would have.
* * *
The boys wanted to hunt again, but they kept finding reasons to wait.
One morning the wind wasn’t right. Another time, Wyatt said he thought the motor ought to be checked, although it had run perfectly when they retrieved the decoys.
Grandpa listened without commenting.
Three weeks after the morning on the island, Mercer’s body was found downriver.
He had been shot.
Grandpa came over to tell the boys before they heard it somewhere else.
Wyatt sat at the kitchen table with both hands wrapped around a glass he had not touched.
“So we were right,” he said.
Grandpa nodded.
Jake looked toward the window. Beyond the houses and bare trees, he could see a narrow piece of the river. He had thought knowing would make him feel better.
“What about the other guy?” he asked.
“They’re still looking,” Grandpa answered. Jake and Wyatt looked at each other anxiously.
Grandpa stayed at the table with them for a while. Before he left, he told them to call him whenever they wanted to go out. Neither boy pretended not to understand what he was offering.
The following Wednesday, Grandpa had different news. The sheriff had called him that afternoon.
“They’ve got him,” Grandpa said. “The man from the island. They picked him up in a town downriver.”
Wyatt sat forward. “You’re sure it’s him?”
“The federal investigators had already been looking into some of Mercer’s associates,” Grandpa said. “Your descriptions helped them put a name to him. Then the lab got DNA from inside that glove and compared it with a sample from the man they found. It matched.”
“Even after Tank had it?” Jake asked.
“Enough left for them to use,” Grandpa answered. “They’re holding him in connection with Mercer’s death. Still investigating the rest of it.”
Jake loosened his grip on the edge of the table. He had not noticed how tightly he had been holding it.
Wyatt reached beneath the table and rubbed Tank’s head. The dog thumped his tail against a chair leg, then settled his chin on Wyatt’s shoe.
Thursday evening, Grandpa called.
“Have the boat ready Saturday. I’m coming,” Grandpa said.
“You sure you want to get up that early?” Jake asked.
“No,” Grandpa said. “Bring more sausage.”
* * *
The next time they went out, Wyatt drove.
Grandpa had driven them to the ramp and launched them before climbing aboard. Now he sat in the middle beside Tank while Jake watched ahead. They waited for a tow to pass before crossing the channel, worked carefully through its wake, and slipped into the quiet water beyond.
At the mouth of the slough, Wyatt eased off the throttle without being told. The island came into view around the bend.
Jake felt his stomach tighten. Wyatt glanced at him once. Grandpa said nothing.
After a moment, Wyatt eased the throttle forward. Jake picked out the first stump. “Little left.” The brothers worked their way toward the hunting spot while Grandpa sat beside Tank and let them find their own way.
They put out the spread they had planned at the kitchen table. Grandpa offered one suggestion, which Wyatt considered before moving a pair of decoys. Jake watched him, then shifted the nearest group to leave the opening Wyatt had wanted the first time. By shooting time, they were tucked inside the blind with coffee warming their hands.
Grandpa’s shot-gun rested beside him, its stock worn smooth in places from years of mornings just like this one.
Grandpa missed the first duck.
Tank slowly turned his head and gave Grandpa a sideways look, as if to say, “Really?”
The boys had both been on the receiving end of that look—a long, disappointed stare suggesting the dog had fulfilled his obligations and could not understand why the humans found theirs so difficult.
“I’m rusty,” Grandpa told him.
Wyatt bent over his coffee, his shoulders shaking.
Tank seemed to accept the explanation because he turned back toward the water.
Grandpa’s next three shots gave him nothing to complain about. By midmorning, Grandpa had a Canadian goose, a mallard, and a wood duck, and the boys were beginning to regret how much they had enjoyed his first miss.
“Thought you were rusty,” Jake said.
“Worked it out,” Grandpa answered.
Wyatt brought down a Canadian goose and a mallard, and Jake got two Canadian geese, although they disagreed afterward about whose had been the harder shot. Tank retrieved the geese and ducks with equal enthusiasm and stationed himself where he supervised the sausage cooking, payment for services rendered.
When he shook himself inside the boat, Grandpa caught most of the spray.
“Appreciate that,” Grandpa told him.
Tank thumped his tail against the bench.
By the time they collected the decoys, the sun had warmed the tops of the trees, and Wyatt was telling Grandpa about the buck they had seen on their first trip.
“His rack was this wide,” Wyatt said, stretching his arms.
Jake looked at him. “It gets wider every time you tell it.”
“You saw him,” Wyatt said.
“I saw a buck. I didn’t see a moose,” Jake said.
Grandpa laughed, and Wyatt splashed Jake with the decoy he was hauling aboard.
On the boat ride back, Tank stretched out with his head against Wyatt’s boot, worn out and satisfied. Grandpa sat with his coat open, looking considerably more pleased with himself than a man who had complained about getting out of bed had any right to.
Jake watched Grandpa for a moment. He had always seemed capable of doing just about anything on this river, and three straight shots after one miss had done little to change that opinion. He was still the legend he had always been to them.
As they passed the island, Jake glanced toward the trees. Wyatt looked too, but only for a second.
“Little left,” Jake said.
“I see it,” Wyatt answered.
The boat slipped around the stump and headed for home.
