Dead Float by Warren C Easley Page A

fisherman returns,” he said as he opened the door and looked at me above his granny glasses.
    I had phoned him that I was picking up Archie early, but I hadn’t told him why.
    â€œI trust you didn’t torture too many mykiss iridus on this trip?”
    â€œIf by that mouthful of Latin you’re referring to desert red band trout, I’m pleading not guilty. Catch and release, yes. Torture, no.”
    â€œActually,” he continued, warming to the task, for my friend loved to argue, “I chose the term torture with some care. Did you know that it’s been shown scientifically that fish feel pain when they’re hooked?”
    I was thinking about how to respond to this without getting trapped when Archie burst into the room. He was wagging his entire back end, his high pitched yelps reaching the pain threshold. I dropped to one knee and grabbed him in a bear hug while he scrubbed the side of my face with his tongue.
    I used Archie’s sudden arrival as an excuse to change the subject. I wasn’t up to a debate on the cruelties of fishing with my sharp-witted friend. Instead, I filled him in on what had happened on the Deschutes. I left out the parts about the affair with Alexis and my missing knife and jacket. Hiram was shocked by the story and full of questions. I didn’t start home with Arch for another hour.
    With Arch in the backseat I headed into the Dundee Hills, whose volcanic soils and southern exposures underpinned the local wine industry. After passing several rows of houses with excellent views of the northern valley, I drove through the vineyards that hugged the rolling hills with geometric precision. As I rounded a curve, I caught a glimpse of the ridge where my house stood behind a line of Douglas firs. A glint of white through the trees told me my sanctuary was still standing.
    The 1917 farmhouse stood on the south edge of five acres of sloping, tillable land atop the ridge. It was a “Four Square”—four rooms built over four rooms—and was clad with the original shiplap siding and a weather beaten, shingle roof of old-growth cedar. A wide, wraparound porch surrounded the structure like a moat. The only outbuildings were a two-car garage and a small barn housing my twenty-two-horse John Deere and a multitude of gardening tools. A sign with letters deeply carved into a block of red cedar greeted visitors at the gate:
    Claxton’s Aerie
    Welcome
    The word aerie is Gaelic for fortress on a hill.
    ***
    The following Saturday morning Archie and I worked our way down to the mailbox while playing a leisurely game of fetch the tennis ball. News of Hal Bruckner’s murder was on the front page of The Oregonian. There was a photo of Bruckner and an inset showing a map of the river with an arrow pointing to the Whiskey Dick camping area. The story was sketchy, although the reporter had managed to get all the names of the NanoTech employees on the trip. Detective Escalante was quoted as saying they had no suspects, but several leads were being aggressively followed. If anything had been found in the river, it wasn’t mentioned. The story did mention Philip’s guide service, Northwest Experience, although no names, including mine, were given.
    Like most Australian shepherds, Archie showed no signs whatsoever of tiring of our game, nor was he the least bit concerned that the tennis ball had acquired a thick coating of slobber, dirt, and fir needles. We had just worked our way back up the long drive and through the gate when my cell rang. I gave the ball a final heave and accepted the call.
    â€œMr. Claxton? This is detective Escalante from the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department.”
    â€œYes, Detective. What can I do for you?”
    â€œWe’d, uh, like to talk to you again. There’re some loose ends we’d like to clear up.”

Chapter Sixteen
    Escalante’s voice was even, businesslike, and even though I knew the call