Page 77 of Silver-Tongued Devil
“Oh. No,” she said, looking flustered. “I’d rather you stayed. But you don’t have to.”
“Yep. I do.” He reached over, took her cheek in his hand, gave her a kiss on the mouth, and said, “I definitely do. Back in half an hour. Don’t leave without me.”
When he got back up there with a cup of coffee and a sandwich for her, Russell was there, and Dakota was dressed. Baggy T-shirt and shorts, which he’d bet wouldn’t have been what she’d have chosen.
“You hear anything?” Russ asked him when they’d settled in again. “About what happened?”
“Nope. Blake sipped at his own coffee. “Called the sheriff, though, and he said he’d come by later. Said they’re working on it.”
“Milo Sawyer. He’s got a my-way-or-the-highway streak in him.”
“I noticed.”
“No mean streak, though. Not like some of the Sawyers. Come on back with Dakota and me if you want. Stay for dinner, watch the ball game. It’s no good going home alone after a day like this, when you’re shook up. Better to be with friends.”
Blake did that, because it sounded good to him, too. That was why he was eating meatloaf and mashed potatoes in Russell’s kitchen, his leg propped on a chair, when the sheriff finally showed up.
“Offer you some meatloaf, Sawyer?” Russell asked as he brought the sheriff into the kitchen.
“This is an official visit,” Sawyer said.
“It’s also dinnertime,” Russell said, “and these two have had kind of a rough day. Besides, mashed potatoes don’t heat up good. There’s a whole bunch more in the pot. You’re welcome to it.”
Sawyer looked like he wanted to refuse, but also like he wanted meatloaf. “Thanks,” he said. “If you’ve got enough. My wife’s got us on this diet. Mediterranean. You don’t eat red meat.”
“Huh.” Russell dished up a hefty plate of meat and potatoes, added a healthy spoonful of green-bean casserole with fried onions, and put it in front of the sheriff. “Can’t say I’d care for that.”
Sawyer took a bite of meatloaf, potatoes, and gravy, then sighed with the contentment of a man deprived. “When I get hungry, she tells me to eat a handful of nuts. I don’t want a handful of nuts. I want a steak.”
“Well, yeah,” Russell said.
There was silence for a while as everybody concentrated on Russell’s cooking, but finally, Sawyer pushed back his chair and said, “So—we found something out there.”
Blake’s neck muscles, which had been tense ever since Sawyer walked in, tightened some more, and he looked over at Dakota and saw the same thing. He put a hand on hers and said, “Shoot.”
Sawyer opened the manila folder he’d set beside him on the table, which Blake had been trying not to eye as they ate, and pulled out some color pictures. “Gill net,” he said. “Caught up in those logs, some holes ripped in it, nothing bigger than a human head, weights at the bottom like you’d have. It was a mess. Some fish hooks caught in it, too.” He slid a close-up along the table to Blake. “Take a look at this.”
Blake said, “Treble hook.” The three-pronged hook was laid alongside a ruler. “What size is that?”
Russell reached a hand for the picture, frowned at it, and said, “That’s a No. 1. Got to be. Rolled-in point. Could be a salmon hook, yeah. That’s for a good-sized catch, and one that puts up a fight. What’s that in it? Feather dress, or what’s left of it?”
“Hair,” Sawyer said. “Torn out at the roots.”
Dakota put a hand to her head. “Oh,” she said faintly, looking white again. “That’s why… my scalp hurts at the front here.”
A catch that puts up a fight.A woman, caught in a net made of nylon fishing line, hard to see, impossible to tear. A woman hooked by the hair, by the shirt, every twist and turn of her body catching her more securely, like a salmon set on the hook.
Russell’s mouth twisted as if he were imagining the same thing. “How many of those in the net?”
“Almost ten hooks,” Sawyer said. “Most of them trebles. About six feet of ripped-up gill net, caught between the chain and the log in a couple spots, weighted at the bottom.”
“That’s not an accident,” Blake said. He kept his voice level, because his hand was still on Dakota’s, and Dakota didn’t need to see his rage. She needed to know this was getting taken care of. She also needed to see whoever had done it caught.
Or maybe that was him.
“No,” Sawyer said. “Of course, gill nets aren’t legal in the lake, or anywhere around here except on the reservation. The Indians… they make their own rules.”
“Doesn’t mean nobody uses ’em,” Russell said. “And all those hooks in there? No. Were those tied with knots?”
