“Where are you really taking me?” the governor asked Justin Pitre.
He sat beside Justin, who was deftly steering his outboard through a light chop along a winding bayou toward the camp at Crawfish Mountain. Grace sat forward, on a swivel seat near the bow. It was a cloudless day, breezier than it had been earlier, and chilly in the wind-whipped open boat.
Joe T. was forced to snuggle deeper into a cheap green-and-gray Wal-Mart windbreaker supplied by Justin. He'd been also offered a pair of white, knee-high shrimper boots to spare his highly polished Italian penny loafers, but the Guv had declined. It was one thing to be kidnapped, another to be turned into a geek.
He'd also been asked to turn over his cell phone—at least, the one they knew about.
“Relax, Governor,” Justin replied. “Like my wife told you, we're goin’ fishin’ while we talk things over. It's a great place—I know you'll love it. And the reds are probably biting.”
The Guv stared at Justin, wondering which of them would win in a staring contest. He'd already taken his measure of the man and had come to two conclusions. The first was mildly comforting: Justin didn't appear to be de ranged, evil, or even mean-spirited (at least so far). The second conclusion was less comforting: he was ruggedly masculine, the kind of man who looked like he could handle himself in a scrape. He also looked calm and fiercely determined.
The Guv now greatly regretted his initial panicked reaction. It had sent all the wrong messages to his captors. Now he had to reestablish himself as a man in control; he would have to convince this couple that they had made a serious miscalculation—unnerve them into a quick return trip to the fair.
“Well, Mr. Pitre,” the Guv said over the thrum of Justin's outboard, “last time I checked, forcing a man to go someplace against his will is kidnapping. And kidnapping is seriously against the law. And kidnapping the governor in his home state—I dunno. If you don't turn around and bring me back to the fair, you might want to think about the kind of roommate you'll draw up at Angola State Penitentiary. He won't be as cute as your wife, that's for sure, and sharing that shower—well, it won't be nearly as much fun.”
Justin even managed a laugh. “All true. But, see, the reason you're here is that I'm already in a load of trouble and we're hopin’ you'll get me out.”
The Guv intensified his stare. “Oh,” he said, “you try to blackmail me. Then you kidnap me. And now you want me to help you? What are you smokin’, son? I'd hide it before the cops get here, because it has to be some seriously dangerous narcotic.”
“Well, at least you still have a sense of humor, Governor Evangeline,” Justin replied. “And yes, sir, I do. I want you to help me, same as we'll help you.”
“By blackmailing me with that preposterous document?”
Justin looked at the Guv sternly. “You're a fine one to talk about blackmailing. But no, we've got something we're willing to swap you. But we'll talk when we're at the camp.”
“Well, I think we need to keep talking now so that you have a clear picture of the trouble you're in. And what if I don't want to go to your camp?”
Justin's reply was perfunctory. “It's a long swim back is all I can tell you. And I wouldn't really try jumping out of the boat. We're doing about fortyfive—it'll sting quite a bit. In fact, you could knock yourself silly.”
“Oh, gee, I appreciate your concern for my well-being. But really, Justin, this isn't gonna go down well with my State Police apparatus. And did you see my bodyguard? Big as your boat, and the man's awfully protective of me.”
“Ah, no one's coming out here for a while,” said Justin. “See, people are already lookin’ for us, so we anonymously phoned those very people and tipped them off that the runaway Pitres had been spotted at a shack about thirty miles west of here. I have a feelin’ your podnah Go-Boy Geaux has sent his posse there.”
The Guv glared at Pitre. “So, why are they looking for you? You kidnap the governor of another state?”
Justin shook his head. “Funny, Governor, but no, nothin’ like that. A piece of machinery drowned, and, well, some hothead oil guy thinks maybe I drowned it.”
“I don't follow.”
“I'll explain later. For now, just relax. I'll get you that beer that spilled when we took off in the RV.”
“I don't want a beer,” said the governor. “I want—no, I demand—that you take me back to the fair. Now!”
Justin shook his head. “Governor, you're disappointing a constituent. Part of your reputation among the Cajun rank and file is that you like your beer and you like drinkin’ with real folks. And we are real folks.”
By this time, Grace had moved from the bow and joined Justin and Joe T. behind the boat's windshield. “A bit chilly up there without my jacket,” Grace said. “Plus, I didn't want to miss out on the sparkling conversation.”
The Guv scowled at Grace but Grace parried his anger with a smile.
This was not going well. Thoughts of unnerving these people into a quick ride back to the fair had now evaporated.
Okay, plan B. These people were (1) professed supporters; (2) desperate to resolve some mysterious issue that they thought the Guv could resolve for them; and (3) perhaps blackmailers but not homicidal maniacs. Thus, the best course of action might be for the Guv to hear them out without giving in to any particular demand and trust in his judgment that they ultimately wouldn't harm him.
He would even go so far, if pressed, as to make a promise or two but once back in the safety of 'ti-Ray and other minions of the law he would have these people seized. Well intentioned or not, this was kidnapping and they would have to pay.
Then a more sobering thought.
Of course, they did have this annoying document in their possession.
Well, he'd have to find a way to remove it from their possession or, if not, somehow discredit it.
Then the Guv found himself swinging suddenly from defiance to deflation. The friggin’ mess—here it is, biting me on the ass.
Then another random thought. This is all her fault—Julie Galjour's. If she hadn't snubbed me, I wouldn't be here!
Followed by: Joe, you reckless bastard. You're here because you keep playing your stupid games.
A strained silence ensued as the Guv struggled to regain his composure and sort out his next move. Then he looked at Grace and said, “Great, fine. I'll have that beer. And fire away. Whatever it is you want to tell me, I'm ready to hear. I'm taking you at your word that you intend me no physical harm.”
“Absolutely none,” Grace said. “I'll get the Dixie.”
While Grace fetched the beer, Justin spoke up. “Thank you, Governor Evangeline. We appreciate your willingness to hear us out. We're about fifteen minutes out from the camp. It'll be easier to talk when we settle in there. By the way, when's the last time you went fishin’?”
The Guv felt a mild annoyance at this ruse, surely an effort by his captors to trivialize what they had done. Be cool, the Guv thought. Just play this thing out and you'll be fine.
“Actually,” the Guv replied, “I last fished when I was about sixteen. I was trying to impress a certain young lady who, for reasons I still can't fathom, was a fishing fanatic. Her family owned a farm on the bayouside, and we fished for perch with cane poles and worms she'd dug up herself. I didn't like worms, and anyway, I didn't win the young lady's affection. Maybe that's why the sport never took.”
Grace nodded. “Aw, well, sad story. But don't worry, no worms today, Governor. We're casting spoons and top-water lures. If the fish are turned on, you're in for a treat.”
The Guv smiled but thought to himself: Sad story? It's a joke, lady! Maybe these people ARE insane. Sorry, folks, but fishing just isn't that interesting!
Several minutes later, the boat slowed to a crawl as it nosed through a narrow cut into the marsh off the main Bayou Chacahoula channel. Another channel lay ahead, one so narrow that the governor wondered how the boat would ever navigate it. Were they taking him to a dead end?
Mild panic set in—what if he were to be dumped and forgotten in this lonely, godforsaken place? But instead the bayou made several sharp turns until it emptied itself into a small bay, perhaps a hundred yards wide.
“Surprise Bay,” said Justin to the governor as Grace, who had taken over the helm, slowed the skiff to a near standstill. “My grandpa named it that because it seems to come out of nowhere. You're sitting at the southern edge of our property—five hundred acres we've got out here.”
The governor peered about, trying to see if anything about the place surprised him. It was pleasant enough. The sun clear and golden on the sprawling marshes reminded him vaguely of the loveliness of Kansas wheat fields he'd seen on a college road trip years and years back. Moss-draped hackberry trees graced a far bank. Serpentine meanders added a touch of mystery. Somewhere in the distance, birds twitted and creedled. It was quite peaceful but a bit desolate for the Guv's tastes.
In truth, the Guv had never paid much physical attention to wetlands before. He'd been slightly more intrigued by them lately, based upon the passions of his gone-missing friend, Julie Galjour. But they'd been mostly a policy issue, something his constituents loved and he tried to care about because he was supposed to.
What the Guv really loved was crowds, noise, music, people, admirers. He suddenly felt very lonely in this place.
“You lookin’ for the shell reef, cher?” asked Grace, who had taken the helm.
“Yeah,” Justin replied, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. “It's not that easy to spot with the tide this high.”
A moment later he pointed to a spit of marsh jutting out into the bay about fifty yards away. “There, got it.” Then, turning to Joe T., he said, “This might be the best damned redfishin’ spot in Louisiana, Governor. There's an oyster reef here, with a deep hole right in the middle of it. The reds like the edge of the hole. Good-sized ones—you can easy get a ten- or twelve-pounder. We're hittin’ it just about right. The tide will be pourin’ out soon.”
It was clear that the governor was going fishing, whether he wanted to or not.
Justin signaled Grace to cut the engine as he slowly lowered an anchor over the side. The boat eased to a stop. Despite a breeze earlier, the bayou was now a mirror of calm.
“I suppose you never used one of these?” Grace said to the governor as she untangled a spinning rod and reel from the skiff 's rod racks.
“No, never have.”
“Well, it's pretty simple. Flick the bail like this, hold the line in your fore finger, and cast in the direction you want to fish. It's all in the wrist. When the bait settles in, flip the handle and you're set. Got it?”
“Hmm, I guess so, though, honestly, I might rather be dancing the two-step at the fair. We could still change our minds about this, you know.”
“Now, now, Governor, pay attention to your lesson. You're using a Johnson Gold Spoon. On the right day, it's a killer. The idea is to cast toward the reef. Once the spoon hits the water, let it sink down, maybe bump the bottom, then start a medium retrieve, not too fast, not too slow, twitching it now and then.”
“And how will I know if I have a fish?”
“With reds, no problem. They don't mess around. A good red's been known to jerk a pole or two out of a fisherman's hand. So don't lose my rod, okay? You got it?”
The Guv looked at Grace. At least he hadn't been totally wrong—she was a damned attractive woman. And he found something grudgingly admirable in her direct, unpatronizing approach.
“Right, well, I'll give it a try, though maybe you'll show me a demonstration cast?”
“Sure. The trick is that it's easier than it looks. Don't work too hard at it. Be relaxed. It's all Zen-like. And remember, with spinning tackle it's all in the wrist.”
With that, Grace flipped the bail of the reel, raised the rod, and deftly flicked the glittering spoon to a spot that instinct alone told her was at the edge of the hole in the shell reef. The bait plunked the surface about twenty-five yards away and disappeared. She flicked the reel handle to engage the line, checked the drag, and handed the rod to the Guv. “Now, reel in nice and steady. If you get a fish, don't try to horse him. We use light tackle—limber rods and eight-pound test line. Keep the tip of your rod up and let the rod and the fish and the line do the work.”
Hmm. The Guv was trying to take all this in. Zen-like? That seemed an extreme elevation of what fishing was all about. But, hey, here he was, fishing!
He might as well go along!
He was about to say thanks when a strong shock, like a bolt of electricity, went sizzling up his arm holding the rod.
My God—heart attack!
Suddenly he saw his rod bent double, heard the sing and sizzle of line rip ping from his reel and shredding the water, felt the incredibly strong pull of a fish desperate to get away.
How fast could a damned fish swim?!
“Damn, Governor, you got yourself a red!” yelled Grace.
As if to prove the point, the red broke the surface, finning itself partially out of the water in a violent, coppery thrashing and exposing the telltale dark spot on its tail. Then, in a flash, it was gone, diving deep and away from the Guv, and ripping off line in a torpedo-quick run toward the far bank.
The Guv, a competitive man, knew a challenge when he saw one. A surge of adrenaline raced through his body. The power of the fish as it accelerated across the reef was astonishing. He'd never felt anything like it. It was almost like… like… like…sex!
Justin whooped. “Hang on tight, Governor! You got yourself one fine fish there!”
The fish had taken fifty yards of line before Joe T. even caught his breath. Then suddenly, it surfaced, roiled the waters again like a coppery demon, and disappeared with a violent flip of its tail.
“Moby Dick!” the Guv found himself yelling as he raised the rod and clumsily attempted to reel. “What the hell do I do?”
“Keep your rod tip up!” yelled Grace. “Steady pressure. Keep the line taut. This fish wants to kick your ass.”
The governor, with two hands now, raised the rod high, watching in awe as it bent remorselessly under another powerful surge. The reel screeched in an ever-higher pitch as the fish took another thirty yards of line.
Joe glanced down at the bail. The reel seemed precariously short of line. He remembered Grace's admonition not to horse the fish in.
Horse it in? How ridiculous. This damn fish could pull me off the boat!
The fish surfaced a third time, boiling the water around it to a silvery froth, before disappearing with a deep chug into the murk. Then suddenly it turned—heading toward the boat.
“Reel in, Governor!” Justin shouted. “He's comin’ at you!”
The governor reeled furiously if clumsily, trying to use the rod as leverage. But suddenly it was high over his head and he felt his line go slack. He stopped reeling, dejectedly letting the rod slip low.
“Aw, damn!” he muttered. “I lost him.”
The governor suddenly felt the rod being yanked from his hands.
It was Grace. “He's just playin’ with you,” she said.
Commandeering the rod, she jerked up the tip and reeled faster than the governor thought possible. With the slack taken in, she gave a violent pull. The rod met fierce resistance. The red, still on the hook, blasted off on another run.
“Hoggin’ the bottom—they do that sometimes,” said Grace as she handed the rod back to the governor. “Now, c'mon, rod tip up, steady pressure. And reel like hell if he turns toward you again.”
The Guv would've replied but found himself too preoccupied. I want this fish!
So he concentrated all of his effort on obeying the sharp, no-nonsense commands of Grace: “Rod tip up…give him some slack… let him run … easy now, don't get his head out of the water. That's when they throw the hook…. C'mon, Governor. Nice and slow …You want him belly up at the boat.”
It was a strange, wordless place—his adrenaline surge unabated, yet something unmistakably soothing about Grace's cadences. It was all, he had to admit, very… Zen-like!
At the same time, Joe T. Evangeline was thinking: How come I'm the governor of the most redfish-rich state in the nation, and I've known nothing about this?
His redfish surrendered to Justin's net about fifteen minutes later. The fish was beat, but so was the governor—beat but strangely happy.
“So, what do you think?” Joe T., massaging a tired shoulder, asked Grace. “Twenty pounds?”
Justin laughed. “Aw, he fought like a twenty-pounder, but I'd say fourteen or fifteen pounds is about right. Still, that's a helluva beginner fish.”
“No way—not an ounce over thirteen,” chimed in Grace matter-of-factly.
“Aw, it's fifteen at least, Grace,” Justin said. “C'mon, give the governor a break.”
“Justin, get out the scale. Five bucks says it won't break thirteen. Okay, I'll give him thirteen and a half.”
The scale produced, the fish weighed in at thirteen pounds, four ounces. Justin, shaking his head in mock disgust, pulled a wallet from his hip pocket, took out a wrinkled five-dollar bill, and handed it to Grace.
“Damn, how'd you know that?” asked the governor.
Grace smiled. “Experience. I caught my first red as a four-year-old. I've caught a few since then.”
“Including a forty-pounder,” said Justin. “It's the family record, by the way. I've only got a thirty-five-pounder. But I keep hopin’.”
“Dream on,” said Grace. She looked sheepishly at the Guv. “Justin and I— we love each other. But when it comes to redfishin’, well, it's a rivalry thing.”
“Rivalry?” said Justin. “Governor, every time I fish with my wife, all she wants to do is kick my ass.”
Grace laughed. “Okay, true. But, Justin, baby, guess what? Right now, the governor's kickin’ our ass. We gonna fish or talk?”
“Fish,” said Justin. “And five more bucks says you don't get one bigger than me or the Guv here.”
“You're on,” said Grace.
The Guv could only stare at this pair. So, this is what his people got excited about, huh?
“Grace,” Joe T. Evangeline found himself saying, “one more time. Show me that casting technique.”
Grace smiled. “One more time, Governor. Then you're on your own.”