“Okay, thanks, Bobby. Let Mom know I’m home and that I’ll be seeing to the goose in a minute,” Brad instructed as they walked into the house, and Brad saw the piece of paper on which Bobby had scribbled the information. He picked it up and studied the name. Alistair Renault. Beside it, a three-letter, four-digit number. Brad had no reason to be familiar with big-city telephone exchanges. Rural telephone codes were simpler. He felt a small quiver of apprehension when he lifted the receiver to give the operator the number. He would recall the feeling much later when he realized that if he had not returned the call, the rest of his life would not have been the same.

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER TEN

At eighteen, desperate to earn extra cash, Brad had followed the advice of a friend of his father’s who’d loaned him enough money to advertise his intimate knowledge of the White River and Meeker’s lakes and trout streams in the classified section of Field and Stream magazine. In the month the ad ran, he had garnered three clients, one from as far away as California. After that, his expertise at leading anglers to trout habitats had been spread by word of mouth. He would have made his occasional weekend job his full-time occupation if he could have put some capital behind it and offered the boat, tackle, and amenities of his better-heeled competitors that allowed them to operate for most of the year. Brad’s clients had to bring their own fishing gear and special weather attire and make do with his family pickup truck, True Blue, for transportation. He provided only the essentials for survival: tents, food, water, first-aid kit, ponchos, flashlight, and knives, booze if required, but the client had to pay for it. Consequently, the work was not steady and confined only to late spring and fall. Nonetheless, by twenty-two, Brad had talked to a sufficient number of telephone callers inquiring about his services to become quite adept at sizing up each client.