Free Dead Frenzy by Victoria Houston Page A

pack the damn vest. Hours that had convinced him that fly-fishing vests were a diabolical plot orchestrated by the same miscreants who designed 3,000-piece jigsaw puzzles. The goal was the same: torture. The only difference was the weapon of choice: pockets. Pockets of all sizes—small, large, horizontal, vertical, square, oblong, tubular, zippered, Velcroed, buttoned, zippered
and
Velcroed.
    Add to that the fact that each pocket was destined for some particular tool, line, or other mysterious fly-fishing gadget. Of course there were no directions; you had to figure that out yourself. You could go mad managing the pockets on your fishing vest. Not to mention the strange hunks of fake sheepskin stuck here and there.
    Osborne had worked slowly, carefully, packing and repacking until his vest looked not only like he knew what he was doing but, more important,
so he could remember where the damn stuff was.
    Now he had to take it apart and do it all over again? Jeez Louise. Maybe Ray was right when he needled, “Listen, Doc, stick with bait fishing. All ya need is a rod in one hand, tackle box in the other, doncha know.” He had a point there. After all, when you open a tackle box, you can see every lure lined up neatly under clear plastic—they aren’t hidden behind zippers, flaps, and goddam Velero
barricades
for God’s sake.
    While Osborne agonized, Lew bustled. Her anxiety over Roger’s ability to monitor the drugged-out girl had given way to cheery enthusiasm. “Take just what you need, Doc, and we’ll stick everything else back in the truck. Oh, and we have to pack in a mile—so keep it light.”
    “Got it,” said Osborne, still without a clue. Following the first set of orders, he moved his gear bag, box, and rod case from the truck down onto the grass. Lew did the same, setting her stuff off to the other side of the truck. Then she pulled out the two float tubes and shoved a red one at Osborne.
    It looked like a monster doughnut, only it had a seat instead of a hole in the middle. Shallow, zippered pockets ran up both arms. He was happy to see a deeper pocket running across the back. The mesh seat with its straps resembled a child’s high chair. Osborne shrugged. He couldn’t imagine how this was going to work, but plenty of men he knew did it so it couldn’t be rocket science. Behind him, Lew’s hands flew as she tucked what she needed quickly, expertly, into the zippered sections dotting her tube.
    Feeling lost and late and knowing he was going to hold up the show yet again, Osborne decided to get at least one thing accomplished. Turning his back so Lew couldn’t see what he was doing, he opened the cardboard box. Thank God for Ziplocs and his own foresight. Quickly, he shoved the three bags, which included some cutlery and paper plates, into the large pocket across the back of the tube, then grabbed the tablecloth and napkins and pushed them in on top. He was just pulling the zipper shut when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
    “What are you doing? What’s that?”
    “Oh, nothing.” Did she see the tail end of the tablecloth? “Extra shirt in case I get wet.”
    “You won’t get wet,” she said in a tone that made him feel like a numbskull. “And who cares if you do? It’s sixty-five degrees—you’re not gonna freeze to death. And you don’t want to carry any more weight than you have to…. ”
    “Okay.” Ignoring the criticism, Osborne reached into a pocket on his fishing vest to grab his box of trout flies. He studied the contents. Irv Metternich, a good friend and former patient who had fly-fished for years, had just given him two Deer Hair Hoppers, size twelves, that he had tied himself—and a larger Grizzly King. Osborne wanted to try those just for friendship’s sake. Earlier, he had also tucked in two size fourteen stone flies and his favorite, a size twelve Adams.
    Lew snorted whenever she came across a fly fisherman with boxes and boxes of trout flies stashed in his vest