The Naked Edge by David Morrell Page B

more attractive, the owner had put in a lake, stocking it with goldfish. What the owner didn't count on was the effect of heavy rains. The lake overflowed, fish and water spilling into the stream that wound through the park. Aaron and Bowie had sat by that stream, spellbound by the magic of the six-inch-long fish, their speckled gold shimmering beneath the water.
    “We could go home and get buckets,” Aaron had suggested. “Trap a couple of fish in each bucket.”
    “And then what?”
    “Try to convince our parents to buy us each a fish tank.”
    “I don't think my father would go for that. He'd probably knock me on the floor for suggesting it.”
    “I don't think my stepfather would go for it, either,” Aaron said. “But, hey, we could still get the buckets. What we'll do is catch the fish and carry them back to the lake.”
    “It'll take all day,” Bowie said, although his name had been different back then. “Besides it wouldn't make a difference. The next rain, all these fish will flood back into the stream.” He removed his knife from his pocket and opened it. “I know what to do.”
    Aaron stared uneasily at the sunlight glinting off the blade.
    Bowie saw a dead branch on the ground and cut off its twigs. He was about to sharpen its tip and suggest that they use the fish for target practice, but the look on Aaron's face told him to make a different suggestion. “Let's get some string and safety pins. We'll fish. We'll pretend our helicopter crashed in the jungle.”
    “Cool.” A doubt clouded Aaron's eyes. “But if we catch any, I don't want to eat them. They're not very big, and I'm not sure goldfish taste good.”
    “Who said anything about eating them? We'll put them back in the lake after we catch them.”
    But they never did catch any fish, no matter how hard they tried throughout that muggy summer, most of which they spent in the shade of those dense trees, pretending they were the last two members of a Special Forces team trapped behind enemy lines. They became so skilled at hiding from the enemy that kids bicycling past or men and women strolling hand-in-hand along the path didn't see them crouching among the bushes.
    As things turned out, it didn't rain again for a long time. The stream evaporated until there were only four inches of water. Most of the fish suffocated. By then, he and Aaron had gotten tired of fishing and instead lay among the bushes, reading Bowie's knife magazines. Sometimes when Bowie's father got even drunker than usual, bragging about what a hot-shit football player he'd been and how Bowie had damned sure better be as good, Bowie went down to the park on his own. He speared a couple of the surviving fish. His knife was so sharp that it made him feel as if he cut through butter when he sliced their bellies open. After all, what did it matter? The fish would have died anyhow.
    13

    “By the time I concluded that you and Aaron Stoddard were the same person, I'd learned a lot about your alter-ego,” William said in the cabin. “Aaron Stoddard is part of Jackson Hole's search-and-rescue team. He volunteers to coach basketball at a local school. He teaches children's groups about wilderness camping.”
    “A hell of a swell guy,” Cavanaugh said. Knowing that he'd been investigated made him feel vulnerable. If William could find him, others could. In fact, they had .
    The cabin—a hunting retreat that Garth leased from the government—had a living/cooking area, a bedroom, a hand-pumped well, and an outdoor toilet. After scouting the perimeter, Cavanaugh had waited in the woods, listening, satisfying himself that the night was quiet.
    Meanwhile, Jamie had closed and locked the interior shutters. When he entered, he saw her put a lamp in a corner, where it wouldn't help a gunman who peered through cracks in the shutters and tried to use its feeble light to guide his aim. Mrs. Patterson (tireless, wonderful Mrs. Patterson) used the cabin's Coleman stove to heat cans of soup