Dead Float Read Online Free Page B

since he’d been on the river the day before.
    â€œThe fishing was killer yesterday, and it was hotter. Cloud cover or a little rain’s usually a good thing, but when the hatch’s full-on like this, the weather doesn’t matter much.” He glanced out at the river. “It’s an orgy out there right now.” As if to underscore his point, Blake brushed a two-inch salmon fly off the back of his neck. It hit the river with a plop and drifted away, thrashing about in the current.
    By this time, the other three men in the party had gathered around us. The dark-haired man with the horn-rimmed glasses offered his hand and spoke first. He was lean and trim, with a condescending smile and an air of confidence bordering on arrogance.
    â€œMitch Hannon. I’m here to see if this salmon fly hatch’s all it’s cracked up to be.”
    Bruckner laughed heartily and nodded toward me. “This is the guy I told you about, Mitch, who sold me on this river.”
    Hannon looked at me. There was something about his eyes, too small maybe, and set too far into their sockets. He allowed a thin smile. “Don’t feel any pressure, Claxton.”
    Blake stifled a laugh that came out as a snort. I said, “Well, I hope I didn’t oversell the river. The trout won’t jump in the boat. You will have to fish for them.”
    Hannon introduced the nerdy-looking guy wearing a shirt decorated with drawings of artificial flies. His name was Duane Pitman, and he bent forward in the habit of tall people, his hand enveloping mine like a flaccid glove. He had a narrow face, like something off a Modigliani canvas. His eyes were alert and intelligent as they appraised me behind thick wire-rims.
    Hannon introduced the guy with the Popeye forearms next. Andrew Streeter was a stocky hulk of a man. “Glad to meet y’all,” he greeted us with a hard Southern twang—Georgia or Mississippi, I figured. His bushy eyebrows reminded me of weeds growing through cracks in a sidewalk, and his toothy grin seemed more nervous tic than an expression of friendliness. He handed me his bag. “When do we get to fish on this trip?”
    I forced a smile. “Soon enough.”
    Pointing to the river, Hannon said, “Remember, Andy, those ain’t your daddy’s catfish out there.”
    Streeter smiled. “Shee-it, my daddy and me used to fish for tarpon in Boca Grande. Makes these trout look like minnows.”
    Pitman rolled his eyes. “Oh, God, no tarpon stories on this trip. You promised.”
    I glanced up the bank and saw the small woman with the raven hair but no Alexis. Another seed of hope germinated in my gut—maybe Alexis had decided to sit the trip out. Reasonable. After all, you could break a nail fishing on this river.
    The small woman was struggling with her overstuffed bag. She smiled. “Okay, no comments about women bringing too much stuff. Guilty as charged.” I thought I caught just a trace of an accent but wasn’t sure.
    I laughed. “Here, let me help you with that. I’m Cal Claxton, by the way.”
    â€œI’m Daina Zakaris. I can manage the bag. Just show me where to put the damn thing.” I pointed at a spot on the raft, and after loading her bag she said, “So, did you enjoy observing our little get-together last night, Cal?”
    Her comment caught me off-guard. I broke into a guilty grin despite myself. “Uh, yeah, I did. I didn’t think you folks noticed me.”
    â€œThe rest didn’t, but I did. I could feel you looking at us,” she continued in a tone suggesting this was an everyday occurrence for her. Her eyes were extraordinary—black and luminous, like dark globes with a lit match behind them. They were teasing me, but I knew she wasn’t kidding about catching me spying at the restaurant.
    â€œYou know how it is—eating alone with nothing to do. Your group was quite a challenge for an