A few more minutes’ rowing brought the boats within hailing distance of an elderly angler who was expertly laying a fly beside a massive boulder that protruded from the lake’s surface. He looked up and tipped his fly-festooned hat at Pitt’s greeting.

“Having any luck?”

“That’s not very original,” Steiger mumbled.

“Business is a mite slow today,” answered the angler.

“Do you fish Table Lake often?”

“Off and on for twenty-two years.”

“Can you tell me what part of the lake eats the most bait?”

“Come again?”

“Is there a section of Table Lake where fishermen frequently lose their lures?”

“Over toward the dam there’s a submerged log that does a pretty good job of it.”

“What depth?”

“Eight, maybe twelve feet.”

“I’m looking for a spot that’s deeper, much deeper,” said Pitt.

The old angler thought a moment. “Up toward the big marsh at the north end of the lake there’s this big hole. Lost two of my best spinners in it last summer while trolling deep. A lot of the big fish swim deep during hot weather. I don’t recommend trying your luck there, though. Not unless you own part interest in a tackle shop.”

“Much obliged for your help,” Pitt said, and waved. “Good luck!”

“Same to you,” said the old angler. He went back to his casting and within a few moments his pole arched with a strong bite.

“You heard, Al?”

Giordino looked longingly at the dock and then at the lake’s north end, a quarter of a mile away. Resigning himself to the chore, he raised the camera to keep it from creeping into the lake bed and then adjusted his

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VIXEN 03

gloves and took up the oars again. Steiger gave Pitt a four-letter stare but raised the white flag.

A half hour of fighting a gusting cross chop passed with agonizing slowness. Steiger and Giordino went about their labor in silence; Giordino on blind faith in Pitt’s judgment, Steiger because he was damned if he’d let Giordino outendure him. Pitt stayed glued to the monitor, every so often calling out depth adjustments to Giordino.

The bottom of Table Lake began to rise the closer to the marsh they rowed. Then, abruptly, the silt and weed began dropping away, and the water darkened. They halted to lower the camera and then resumed the stroke.

They had moved only a few yards when a curved object edged onto the screen. The form was not sharply defined; nor did it have a natural contour.

“Stop rowing!” Pitt ordered tersely.

Steiger slumped on his seat, grateful for the break, but Giordino looked piercingly across the narrow distance separating the two boats. He’d heard that tone of voice from Pitt before.