Page 52 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

He hung the gun on a hook he’d sewn inside the left front of the long duster coat he’d worn against the chill. He put the sheet, the tablet, and the ski mask into a deep, wide pouch pocket he’d sewn inside the jacket’s front right panel.

The man buttoned a single button on the duster, donned the gloves, and limped across the road. He relied on scouting he’d done earlier online with Google Earth, found the boundary fence, climbed it with some difficulty, and dropped over into the national park.

He skirted around the closed ticket office, saw the expected paved walkway ahead, and stopped. The park was closed, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

And there was the fish, shuffling in the shadows beyond the single security light, a good fifty yards back from the entrance. The fish was nervous, wanting to be cautious but failing.

How could he be in control?

Filson knew the fish was trapped in a trance of longing and obsession, unable to resist coming to the surface to see if the fly was something real and satisfying.

Filson tugged the ski mask on, put the computer tablet under his arm, and stepped out where the fish could see him. He walked directly toward him, mindful that there were probably security cameras. Although at this point, Filson was almost past caring. Besides, they wouldn’t see much of him with the ski mask on.

But the fish noticed him and stopped shuffling.

“I hoped you’d show,” Filson said. “This is a rare thing I’m offering you.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” the fish said. “Show me.”

Medium build, nervous voice, and now that Filson was getting closer, he could see the guy was soft-handed. He figured the fish for a desk jockey — an accountant or an actuary or an IRS agent. Someone with a soul-sucking job like that.

Filson reached the shadows and stopped a good ten feet from the fish. He got out the computer tablet and called up a video he had ready. “You’re not a cop, are you?” Filson asked.

“No,” the fish said sharply. “You?”

Filson laughed. “Hardly. Even if I were, being in possession of what I’m about to show you would get me crucified.”

“I know what it’s like. Now show me.”

Filson flipped the tablet around to face the fish and pressed Play, but he also started recording a new video with the camera. He tuned out the squeals of terror, struggle, and bondage on the video and focused on what he was seeing in the light thrown from the tablet screen: the fish’s goggling eyes, his flaring nostrils, the thin lips slightly apart and gulping for air.

Filson waited for the big scream, then turned the video off. He placed it on a tree stump so the camera could keep filming. He wasn’t surprised when the man stepped toward him and said breathlessly, “You said it’s close. This place.”

“Twenty minutes away, tops.”

“And that’s the one? In the …”

“Or your money back.”

“How much?”

“How long?”

“Two, three hours?”

“Six thousand for three hours.”

“Six thousand?”

“It’s the going rate when they’re that age.”

There was a long silence as the fish fought the line and the hook. Then he said, “You take Bitcoin, right?”

“I do,” Filson said and got out his phone. “Here’s my Venmo. You’ll pay before you play at the site.”

“After inspection.”

“After inspection.”

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