Dead Float Read Online Free Page A

stenciled across the top, I knew I was close to the put-in. The tracks that ran along the Deschutes connected central Oregon and California with the Columbia River and destinations north, east, and west.
    As I pulled into the parking lot at the campground, I saw Philip’s truck at the boat ramp and counted ten other rigs, at least. It’s not going to be lonely out there, I thought. Hunched over, Philip was winching one of his aluminum drift boats into the water. The other was already in the river, lashed to the bank.
    I stood there for a moment watching my friend. The only son of a proud Paiute Indian father and a white, social worker mother, Philip was someone you’d notice in a crowd. Narrow in the waist but thick through the chest and shoulders, he had his dad’s high cheekbones, strong chin, and inky black hair, which was pulled back in a thick ponytail. Set against a coppery complexion, his jade green eyes were almost startling, and his narrow nose completed the break with classic Native American features.
    Philip considered himself a Paiute first and foremost. He could be edgy around whites and had zero tolerance for patronizing do-gooders, to say nothing of outright bigots. It was as if the atrocities visited upon his father’s people had been distilled down and poured into his consciousness, and the anger and frustration seethed, deceptively, just below the surface of his stoic demeanor. The death of my wife had affected me in a similar way, although my anger was self-directed. In any case, these similarities seemed to help us understand each other. I was proud to be his friend.
    As I approached, I cupped a hand and called out, “Straight from central casting, Philip Lone Deer, fishing guide.”
    Philip stopped cranking and without looking up replied, “Sounds like the forked-tongued lawyer from the wine country.” Then he raised his head, smiled broadly and said, “Glad you made it, Cal. Give me a hand with this damn boat.”
    With both boats in the water, we started loading the rubber raft that would carry our food and camping gear downriver. By this time, Blake Forman, the third guide, had joined us. Born and raised on the Sandy River outside Portland, Blake was only twenty-one but a top-notch boatman whose job was to navigate the heavily laden raft to our campsites. Judging from the number of rigs in the parking lot, we needed to get him on his way so he could secure our designated site downriver before it was snapped up.
    We’d nearly finished packing the raft when a black Lexus and a canary yellow Hummer rolled into the lot and parked. Philip said, “That’ll be our clients,” and strode up the bank to greet them as Blake and I continued to pack.
    Any hope I had that the new arrivals weren’t the group from last night were dashed when Hal Bruckner came struggling down the bank in his pricey Orvis waders and boots. He was breathing hard, his belly sagged over his nylon wading belt, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. Wisps of blond hair protruded from a black ball cap with the name of his company— NanoTech— written in white script across the front.
    â€œGood morning, fellas,” he said. “My name’s Hal.”
    Blake took his bag, and both of us introduced ourselves and shook hands with him. After wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he looked directly at me. “Of course. You’re Cal, the lawyer from Dundee. Good to see you again. You know, the reason I’m here is that dinner we shared on the Klickitat last year. Couldn’t get your description of this place out of my head.” He hiked a thumb in the direction of the parking lot. “Decided to bring my management team along for a little team-building.”
    â€œWell, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,” I responded.
    Bruckner mopped his brow again. “What’s this heat going to do to us?”
    I looked at Blake,