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“You think you’ve got it?” the grizzled instructor asked.
“I think so. Like this?” Samuel whipped the rod back then forward, mimicking the man’s instructions for how to cast the line out.
The old man patted Samuel’s back gently. “See, you got it. Now try it with bait and let the line go.”
He eyed the plastic container with the wiggling worms.
Did he have to?
Then again, if he went back without actually fishing, he’d never hear the end of it.
Mind made up, he reached for the container and popped the top off. He’d seen gory, bloody crime scenes that would make the most stalwart agent vomit. But none of that compared to the way looking at those little wriggling worms made his skin crawl.
Why the hell was he doing this?
If his partner saw him out here, Baruti would lose his damn mind laughing so hard. Samuel had been raised in the heart of Atlanta. Sure, he’d had survival training as an FBI agent, but that didn’t mean he was an outdoorsy kind of person.
“Nice to see young people learning how to do this,” the old man said from his perch on the wooden dock’s railing where he’d retreated to watch and wait.
Samuel chuckled. “It’s been a while since anyone called me young.”
“Black might not crack, but I reckon I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”
The old man’s words surprised a laugh out of Samuel.
“You’re the spitting image of a guy I served with in Vietnam.” The old fisherman shook his head. “Good man. Real good.”
Samuel held his breath. How did this story end?
The fisherman winked at Samuel. “He broke his arm trying to get another buddy of ours out of the line of fire. He got to go home to his wife and kid. Strange to be happy someone gets hurt, but…”
The old man shuddered, crossed his arms over his chest, and turned his head to stare out into the distance. Was he even seeing the present anymore?
Samuel turned his attention back to the worms. He understood what it was like to live with terrors stuck in your head. He counted himself lucky that, until this year, those terrors had all belonged to other people.
He still woke up in a cold sweat, reliving the moments spent grappling with the gunman in the middle of Miami. His chest felt tight, but he ignored it in favor of fishing out a worm. He grimaced as it wiggled between his fingers while he did the necessary business of putting it on the hook. Then it was time to cast his line.
Samuel advanced to the end of the dock, and just like the old man had shown him, sent the hook sailing out into the water. The ker-plop sounded unusually loud out here.
The spring thaw had swelled all of the creeks and tributaries to their boundaries and, in doing so, created this tiny oasis. Here, nestled on the side of the Colorado mountains, was a little bit of paradise. The old man’s home sat back in the trees, almost out of sight. From the way the recovery center staff had spoken, he ran regular fishing expeditions all through the year, mostly for experienced fishermen. This was something of a special case, or so he’d gathered.
Samuel glanced over his shoulder.
The dark SUV continued to idle in the background, an ever-present reminder this was not a vacation.
Where was she?
How long did it take to use the bathroom?
He drew in a deep calming breath and reminded himself, for probably the millionth time, that she was not his responsibility.
God save her if she was poking around where she didn’t belong…
As though his thoughts had summoned her, the too-loud sound of feet churning up gravel reached his ears.
“Sorry about that!” a cheerful voice called out. “You guys get started without me?”
It felt as though invisible fingers trailed up Samuel’s spine.