The Devil's Code

stretched.
    “Sure,” Bleak said. “That’s why you chewed your fingernails down to your armpits.”
    The pilot was in a hurry. He taxied up to the rickety dock, pushed along by a gust of snow. Bleak and I threw our gear onboard, and we were gone, bouncing across the whitecaps and into the air. The pilot didn’t bother to check that the boats had been rolled or that the fire was dead in the potbellied stove; he took our word for it. Ten minutes after takeoff, we broke out of the snow and he said, “Good. I always land better when I can find the lake.” Then, to me, “You got some woman calling about every ten minutes.”
    “Yeah? Did she say what her name was?” I was thinking LuEllen because she was the only woman I knew who might want to get in touch in a hurry. But the pilot said, “Lane Ward.”
    I shook my head. “Don’t know her.”
    “Well, she knows you and she’s hot to talk,” the pilot said. We were half-shouting over the noisy clatter of the engine. “She didn’t say what about. She says she’s traveling and doesn’t have a call-back number.”
    He didn’t have much to say after that. We all concentrated on the lakes and canyons flicking by eight hundred feet below. In three weeks, the pilot would need skis to land. A few miles out of the base, as the pilot slipped the plane sideways to line up with the long axis of the lake, Bleak leaned forward from the backseat and said, “We were getting a little worried about you, back there.”
    “Had a little trouble with the plane, getting off this morning,” the pilot said. “I was warming her up and the prop come off.” We both looked out at the prop and then over at the pilot. He just barely grinned and said, “That joke was old when Pontius was a pilot.”
    The pilot’s wife’s name was Moony. She was a leftover hippie with a toothy grin, paisley shifts, and a little weed growing in the window box. After thirty years of cooking for fly-in fishermen, she still couldn’t put together a decent meal. Clients would take her flapjacks down to the lake and skip them off the water like rocks. When they sank, the fish wouldn’t touch them.
    Moony offered to throw together a quick lunch, but we hastily declined, jumped in the rented station wagon and drove down to Kenora. Six hours later, we were walking up the stairs at the local-carrier ramp at Minneapolis–St. Paul International.
    I been on worse trips, I guess,” Bleak said.
    His way of saying he’d had a good time. Bleak was a furniture maker, who got a thousand dollars for a chair and fifteen thousand for one of his hand-carved, ten-place craftsman-style walnut dining sets. He gave most of the money away, through the Lutheran Social Services. Bleak believed that craftsmen who got rich got soft, a sentiment I didn’t share. Not that he was a religious fanatic: he was on his fifth wife, and all five of them had been excellent women. And as we walked up the stairs into the terminal, he spotted a dark-haired woman standing at the top and said, quietly, “Look at the ass on this one, Kidd.”
    “Jesus, Bleak, you can’t talk like that in Minnesota,” I muttered; and looked.
    “Intended purely as a compliment,” Thomas said, under his breath.
    The woman turned, and was looking us over as we climbed the steps, taking in the duffels and gear bags and rod tubes. She checked Bleak for a minute, the way a lot of women check Bleak—he had long black hair and was bronzed like an Indian guide—then her eyes drifted back to me. As we crossed the top of the steps, she asked, “Are you Kidd?”
    “I am,” I said.
    “I’m Lane Ward.” She looked like her father might have been Mexican. She had the black hair and matching eyes, and the round face; but she was pale, like an Irishwoman. She stuck out her hand, and I shook it, and picked up the faintest scent: something light, flowery, French. “I’m Jack Morrison’s sister.”
    “Jack,” I said. “How is he?”
    “He’s dead,” she said. “He was shot to death a week ago today.”
    That stopped me. I looked at Bleak and he said, “Yow.”
    T he parking garage at Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport is under permanent reconstruction, a running joke perpetrated by the Metropolitan Airports Commission. Since parking is impossible, we’d all taken taxis in. Bleak would take a cab down south of the cities to his workshop, and Lane and I got a cab to my place in St. Paul.
    “How’d you know I was Kidd—that Bleak