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Summary
Will sketched loops in silver with the fly line against the burnished orange of the deep morning, reading the water. Early summer meant trying to imitate golden stones with a bright red and yellow Stimmie, which he’d tied last night out of goose biot feathers for the tail and gold tinsel for the body. The best casting spot for the lure today lined up with an old tree, its gritty bark jagged with tongues of pale fungus, its boughs still cradling an old bird’s nest, abandoned for over a year now and still structurally intact.
“Any luck?”
“Not so far,” Will said. He reeled in the line and turned, picking out the dark, broad-shouldered man in a suit by his kit. Sharp-eyed, square-jawed, pugnacious curiosity: the man had to be a cop of some breed or other. “Can I help you?”