He leaned, touched it, turned it gently.

It was Matthew, his glasses still set on his face. Behind his glasses, his small eyes were staring up, surprise still holding in them.

TWENTY

By nine o’clock, the sun was over the trees, bright, building heat. The body of Matthew Reynolds had been carried from the lake, shouldered by strong men taking turns up the incline to the pull-off, and what would be known about Matthew’s death—the guesswork of it—was being talked about by those who had returned to the lake to make their judgments.

Matthew had caught his fish at John’s Creek, the guessing said, and had rushed away with it, taking only his rod and the fish, and somehow had found his way to the shack in search of Noah. Had tied the fish to a tree at the shack and had believed he would catch another in the lake, forgetting the tales about the lake having no fish. Somehow, he had got in the water, maybe out of excitement, and not knowing how to swim, had stepped off over his head and drowned.

It was the only sensible answer, the guessing said, and the men who gathered at the lake offered agreement, adding they had been wrong in spending all their time searching the river. Should have thought about the creek earlier, since it was closer to Howard’s house. Should have called Whitlow to bring in his dogs sooner than they did, but there had been so many of them out looking it hadn’t seemed necessary.

“I wish you would of,” Whitlow said softly. “I surely wish you would of.” He had a tired, old look etched into his face as he scanned the lake. “Ought to blow this dam up,” he added. “Too much dying down here. Too much of it.”

“Last place I ever thought he’d come was down here,” Moody said, “since nobody comes down here no more, not with all them tales about ghosts. Guess we should of thought about it, though, since he said he wanted to catch a fish to give to Noah. I guess he must of heard Howard or somebody say this was where Noah was staying.”

“Lord, God, I feel bad about this,” Peavo whispered. “If we’d just fanned out more, maybe we could of found him before he got here.” He looked at Noah. “Hope you don’t go putting no blame on yourself,” he added. “Nobody here thinks you was at fault.”

Noah did not respond. The talk meant nothing to him. He knew he was the reason Matthew was dead.

He also knew something the other men did not know: he knew about Hoke Moore’s fish, and in his mind he had watched pictures of Matthew at the lake, mind-pictures so clear it was like seeing them take place on the silver-pale screen of a movie theater.

Matthew coming up to the shack with the fish he had caught in the creek, happy over it. Calling out. No answer to his calls. Tying his fish to the trash tree. Walking the lakeside, studying the water and seeing in it the rolling of the fish. Finding a grasshopper and piercing it on the hook and then going to the dam, to the place for fishing, and throwing the line out into the water. Doing little dance steps of joy as he waited for a catch.