Free Evasion by Mark Leslie Page A

with his nerves running on edge, he forgave himself for being a bit overly sensitive and paranoid.
    He let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, realizing just how anxious he was.
    This was, indeed, more than finding his father’s stash of porn magazines. This was a deeper secret, part of the cards Lionel Desmond held close to his chest.
    Yes, fishing had always been a significant priority for the man – but this was something more, something that went a lot deeper than the desire to pursue, in Moby Dick fashion, the big one, the one that got away, the elusive perfect catch.
    Scott returned to the “empty” tackle box and resumed his exploratory investigation, determined he would get into the secret lower compartment.
    Running a list of the various ways he had already poked and prodded, he made a mental tick mark into the concepts and ideas he had already run through so that he wouldn’t duplicate his efforts and waste time.
    This was, despite the nervousness, despite the fear of being caught, an intriguing and satisfying challenge.
    He fiddled for another five minutes, continuing to tick off each new idea of things to try, before he finally figured it out.
    It was a trick bottom that operated on a similar principal to the Chinese finger trap puzzle.
    Placing just the right amount of pressure using opposing forces on the top diametrical corners of the box, he heard a distinct click. And that’s when the compartment snapped open and he was able to lift the false bottom out.
    This is not a standard tackle box that you can buy at a place like Ramako’s Scott thought, as he lifted it out and glanced at the curious objects hidden beneath.
    On top of the compartment were some additional maps; ones that seemed to be topographical and hydrographical like the other ones. But they were printed in a different fashion and on a thicker type of paper that the others.  He placed them aside and there he spied a series of old brown photographs.
    Pictures of his grandfather. He recognized the man’s distinctive well-packed eyes. At least, that’s how his father had described his dad, when he spoke about him. It was one of the main features he could remember from his father, and in the few pictures Scott had seen, the man’s eyes, slightly droopy in nature, seemed to always have large wrinkly sacks under them, as if the man were perpetually overtired.
    “My old man’s eyes looked like they were always packed and ready to go,” Scott’s father had said on those occasions where Desmond senior had come up in conversation or reminiscences.
    Scott had only ever seen perhaps half a dozen pictures of his grandfather in the various photo albums on the bookshelf in the family room – but here, tucked away and hidden in this secret location of his father’s tackle box, were at least a dozen shots he had never seen.  The photos were of the same brown and white quality of the ones he had seen before, and featured Reginald Desmond in various stages of his life. 
    One featured him as a young man, posing with a couple of buddies, shit-eating grins on their faces, their arms draped over one another’s shoulders. All three were crew cut like Scott’s grandfather, who was in the middle – his swollen eye bags immediately revealing him as the man to the left of the trio. In Reginald’s right hand was a beer bottle that he was lifting and tipping towards the camera as if offering a toast.
    Another picture was a solo one of Reginald, dressed in his military gear – unlike the bust portrait Scott was used to seeing, this was a full-on full body shot. Reginald was in full dress uniform, hat, tie, etc.; he looked proud to be wearing the uniform.
    The picture under that was Reginald, in a picture that had to be of him ten years earlier – this one was of him in uniform as well, but not a military uniform. A Boy Scout uniform. He wore the rounded small cap atop his head, the elegantly tied kerchief around his neck, the dual