CHAPTER ONE
Sitting in his beat-up old pickup, Bobby absorbed the silence. Mist swirled lazily over the green, mirrored surface of Scratch Lake, the low-hanging clouds perched on the mountaintops like the sky had gotten sick of holding itself up.
Pete, the border collie/golden retriever mutt, panted beside him on the front seat, tail slapping gently against the shredded vinyl, white-tipped ears erect. Bobby had named him after Pete Townshend of The Who, a nod to his nearly irrational love for the big rock bands of the sixties.
Smiling, Bobby visualized the plump, unsuspecting creatures that would soon meet his hook. Last Sunday, he’d caught and released three wide-mouth bass. Wouldn’t be right if Bobby Pendell snatched up all the best fish in the lake. The eight perch he’d hooked were small, but fried up with some potatoes they’d made a good Sunday-night meal for the three of them.
When you’re seventeen and the main breadwinner for the family, fishing is serious business. And fishing was sacred for Bobby—the few hours each week that belonged to him and Pete alone.
Bobby unloaded his gear from the back of the pickup and lugged the outboard motor down to the skiff, Pete scampering ahead to the dock. In better days, Dad, who hadn’t been in a boat for nine years, had built the small motor himself, but like pretty much everything else that belonged to the Pendells, it was one step away from a sad and rusty end.
Bobby fastened the outboard motor to the clamps and the balky old thing sputtered, then roared to life with a steady growl. He tugged Dad’s army cap over his long black hair for extra luck and glanced up at the sky. The cloud cover was thick and ominous, but the rain would hold off. Just the kind of day fish loved. Pete waited on the dock. Bobby could never coax him into the boat.
It took a while to chug to the center of the large lake. Bobby cut the motor, his tight muscles releasing their tension with each bird squawk and fish splash.
Scratch Lake was the only place where he ever felt completely at home.
“I went down to the St. James Infirmary, I saw my baby there…” he sang at the top of his lungs, letting his raw, throaty voice boil up from deep in his chest. “Stretched out on a cold white table, so sweet, so cold, so fair.”
“Saint James Infirmary” was one of those depressing songs Dad played once a month with his so-called band of fellow vets, The Hurt Rockers. But like most old music, Bobby loved it.
And here, in the lake’s calm green center, he could sing as loud as he wanted. For some reason, the fish didn’t scare. On sunny days he even brought his guitar along. Yeah, he supposed it was crazy, but no one had to know that Bobby Pendell liked to sing old blues songs to the fish.
Bobby waved to Pete, now a speck on the dock. He chuckled to himself, peered over the side of the boat, and threw out a few minnows to see who’d stop by. Dad swore some wide-mouthed bass in Scratch Lake were as long as his leg and older than Bobby himself. He hadn’t seen one that big, but then again, Dad liked to talk. What else was he going to do with his time, besides complain and pluck away on his battered old guitar?
Bobby stared at the evergreens reflected in the silvery water. He’d offered to bring Dad down here and carry him into the boat. He was certainly big enough to carry him now.
“Nope,” Dad had said flatly. “My fishing days are over. My ass is never getting in a boat again.”
With his work schedule, Bobby had never found time to teach his eleven-year old brother Aaron to swim, so that left him out.
