Free Dead in the Water by Ted Wood Page A

through the narrows there was a boat tied to the marker buoy, something you're not supposed to do. Two fishermen were in it, dangling minnows in the hope of pulling in one of our muskellunge. They had beer in the boat and did a quick shuffle with their tackle box when they realized who I was.
    I pulled alongside, careful to stay away from their lines. "Hi, been here long?"
    "No, we just this minute tied up to the buoy," one of them lied quickly. "You wan' us to move?"
    I shook my head. "I wondered if you've seen a cedar strip like this one going through the narrows, about two hours back." They both shook their heads and I pulled away without bothering to listen to their explanations. They were lying about the time they'd been tied to the buoy and would protect it by lying about everything else.
    I went on farther to where the channel widened again. It would be best to check the west shore first. There were fewer cottages there, fewer places that a man could get out of a stolen boat, and have a road to walk away on, instead of fly-filled bush. I could check it quickly, touch base with the lock-keeper at the other end, and come back down the east shore, probably no wiser than I was now. I figured this out loud and Sam looked at me, wondering if a command was coming. I told him "easy" and went back to scanning the horizon.
    There were five boats in view. Two were sailboats. The others probably belonged to pickerel fishermen; they were drifting aimlessly down the current, their baits bumping along the tops of the reed bed where the lunkers lay, even in warm weather. I wondered if one of the hooks would grab into the flesh of one of the missing men from Winslow's boat. I kept close enough to the shoreline to look at all the cottage docks, but never lost sight of the drifting boats. I was level with the first one when Sam suddenly sat up and started sniffing the air.
    I watched him. He doesn't spook easily and he's long since been taught to take no notice of some female in an accommodating state. His nose was high and he suddenly whined. I turned the boat in the direction he was sniffing. It was past the first and second boats, both of them with moms and pops in them, burning quietly in the heat. It seemed he was singling out the third boat.
    It was still too far off to be clear to me, but it didn't appear to have anyone sitting in it. That's not remarkable. A lot of fishermen have a beer or two and then lie on the seat waiting for the big strike to happen to them. As I came closer I saw it was a cedar strip. And as I came closer still, Sam stood up and gave a short, urgent bark.
    I wound up my motor and closed on the other boat. Even from forty yards it looked empty, but I drew my gun anyway, keeping my gun hand down out of sight in case there were only lovers in the boat, not my missing men.
    From twenty yards I could see it was the police boat.
    From ten I could see there was nobody lying on the seat. I slowed the motor but drove at the other one, hitting it a glancing blow that would have put anyone inside at a shocked disadvantage.
    No head stuck up. No voice protested. And when I stood up, I knew why.
    Ross Winslow was in the boat, lying on his back, dead, in a rusty mess of coagulated blood that sang with the wings of a million flies.
     
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6
     
    I put my gun away and silenced Sam with a word. Then, careful not to touch the interior or top of the police boat, I reached in for the bowline coiled on the front seat. I made it fast to my own boat and turned away, heading for the nearest place I could get help, the lock at the north end. As I drove I checked each way for landmarks. It seemed I was downstream about half a mile from the X spot on Winslow's map.
    It took me seven minutes to reach the lock. My mind was racing ahead of the boat, working out what I would do when I got there. And I was going over the few facts I had. For one thing, there was no weapon in the police boat. It might be