Free Dead Man’s Fancy by Keith McCafferty Page A

dark.”
    Stranahan thought about it, “Why not?”
    â€œWhere are you staying tonight?”
    Stranahan asked if there was a campground along the river.
    â€œThere’s one right at the put-in. I’ll come by and collect you in the morning. Here, I’m going to draw you a map.” He scribbled on a legal pad and tore out the sheet and handed it over. “You don’t hesitate to call that number now.”
    â€”
    T he Hook & Hackle, on the north bank of the Kootenai River, was everything Rainbow Sam’s Fly Shack wasn’t. For starters it wasn’t a shack, but a neat, two-story clapboard with twin trailered ClackaCrafts in a gravel swing-through drive. He entered the shop, which could have been any of fifty fly shops in Big Sky country—a picket fence of fly rods, gleaming bar-stock aluminum reels, bins stocked with every variety of fur- and feather-clad hooks, custom teardrop landing nets, logo hats—right down to the obligatory Labrador snoozing on a throw rug. Stranahan exchanged nods with the man behind the counter and bent down to pat the broad head of the Lab.
    â€œDoes she hunt?” he asked without standing up.
    â€œDoes she hunt? You come into my shop and first thing you do is insult my dog?” Stranahan looked up. He was a big man with an outdoor complexion, a high wattage smile at the center of a doorknob- style beard and brown eyes in the pale ovals of skin where his sunglasses would rest.
    â€œFirst time to the Kootenai? I can offer you the off-season rate if you’re looking for a guided float. I know this river better than anyone.”
    â€œThanks, but I’m fishing tomorrow with Carter Monroe.”
    â€œThat’s the name of our sheriff.”
    Stranahan nodded. “It’s why I’m here, actually. He’s assisting the Hyalite County sheriff’s office with the search for a woman who went missing in the Madison Range a couple days ago.
    The man was nodding. “Nicki. I read about it. I sure hope she’s okay.”
    â€œSo do we.” Stranahan waited.
    â€œI don’t know what to tell you. She worked here right up until this summer.” He counted on his fingers—“Four seasons.” He raised his eyebrows. “The newspaper says she was working at a dude ranch. One of the wranglers looking for her fell on a dead elk and got an antler through his gut. That’s a hell of a way to go.”
    â€œIt is. I’m up here trying to collect some background information.”
    â€œThey don’t suspect her of having anything to do with that man’s death, do they? That wouldn’t be the Nicki I know.”
    â€œNot as far as I’m aware. Who was the Nicki you knew?”
    â€œA . . . good . . . kid.” The brown eyes had become hard. “Who did you say you were? I didn’t catch the name.”
    â€œStranahan. Sean Stranahan.” He extended his hand, which the man took after a moment’s hesitation. “I work for Sheriff Ettinger in Bridger.”
    â€œRobert Kelly,” the man said. His eyes relaxed. “It’s just that you’re not the first person who’s come here looking. A guy was asking questions about her at the start of the summer, after her dad passed.”
    â€œWhat can you tell me about him?”
    â€œHe rode a motorcycle. About your size and build. Younger. Had these little cornflower blue earrings. Long hair. Wore a leather vest unzipped, man had chest hair like a brown bear. But his face was almost delicate, not handsome, but beautiful. Like the
David
. The sculpture.” He tilted his chin in an approximation of the pose. “I’m as hetero as the next guy, but I’m not ashamed to say I was attracted. Not in a sexual way but like a mouse mesmerized by a snake.” He crooked two fingers and jabbed them like fangs. “He had a rawhide shoelace with a pendant about the size of a silver dollar