Life on the Fly

By John Schreiber

Broadcast on the evening news . . . Hillcrest English teacher and former football star was shot in the back while fly-fishing. David Browning leaves behind a wife and two young children. Authorities have ruled it a hunting accident.

Matthew Blake has only one purpose left in life: to find who murdered his best friend. At the time of his death, David Browning had a loving family and successful career. What does Matthew Blake have? Nothing. Matt Blake is an ex-athlete, ex-husband, and ex-angler . . . a guilt-driven alcoholic and professional failure.

To uncover the murderer, Blake must journey back to his hometown, Hillcrest, where he will be forced to face his past, make new enemies, and learn the meaning of love . . . if he can live long enough.

Life on the Fly is another suspenseful, poignant, and compelling novel set in Schreibers richly imagined Ironwood County.

The first novel in the Ironwood County series is the young adult novel, Hillcrest Journal. The second is the adult novel Passing Through Paradise.

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What others are saying about the Ironwood County novels:

Skillfully told . . . very realistic. West Concord Enterprise

Tough to put down. The themes are masterfully interwoven. Byron Review

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Helpful Link:

Schreiber has posted some of his published articles, essays, and poems along with book group discussion questions for Life on the Fly at John Schreibers Books

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 23, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469111728

John Schreiber

John Schreiber grew up in Saint Paul, Minnesota, reading science fiction and fantasy novels. At Hamline University he was awarded departmental honors for his study of science fiction, and he later wrote his master’s thesis on the modern epic fantasy. Today he lives in southern Minnesota, where, in addition to being an award-winning teacher and theater director, he has written three novels set in the Midwest (Hillcrest Journal, Passing Through Paradise, and Life on the Fly) and the short story collection, Tales from 2 A.M. He now returns to his literary roots with the epic fantasy Heartstone.

Book preview

LIFE ON THE FLY

John Schreiber

Copyright © 2005 by John Schreiber.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

AUTHOR INTERVIEW

Many fish their entire lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.

—Henry David Thoreau

Life is a daring adventure or nothing at all.

—Helen Keller

PROLOGUE

Man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue.

—Eugene O’Neill

Every once in a while you get an invitation to a place where you don’t want to go, and you make up excuses quicker than a collegiate star athlete caught plagiarizing on his freshman paper. When you get that invitation, you should tell your mind to shut up, put your feet in motion, and go. Or it might be too late.

For years I kept putting off David Browning. Each spring he’d invite me down to his favorite trout stream. He wanted to teach me how to fly-fish, he said, fully knowing that I already knew how. Or at least I once did, when we were kids. A lifetime or two ago.

I first touched a fly rod when I was eight. I found two old bamboo rods in my grandfather’s house—down in a pile of boxes my parents were setting aside for the estate sale. I grabbed the rods partly as a fond reminder of my grandfather and partly because the bamboo rods fascinated me. I’ve always been intrigued with gadgets, and these rods were in perfect shape, each with a simple reel and spooled line.

When I got home, I gave one of the rods to Davy, my best friend who lived in the white house next to my white house. That afternoon we rode our bikes over to the nearby football field and cast line for hours until we finally had to stop and go home for supper.

A few times we fished on a muddy creek near Hillcrest and caught a few chubs. Once I hooked a two-pound carp that took fifteen minutes to land. But we weren’t interested in chubs and carp—the rough fish that anyone could catch with a hook, worm, and bobber. We wanted to catch trout, those colorful fish that need the coldest, purest water to survive. However, most southern Minnesota trout streams are too far away for a young Hillcrest boy without a driving license to reach. So, instead, we enjoyed the vicarious thrill of casting our lines down the football field. Our targets were coffee can lids we set on the grass, and our flies were small pieces of yarn. Whereas I could shoot my fly line out like a bullet, Davy controlled his casts with a measured, even, flowing motion, exercising a grace my hurried casts lacked. He could land the line anywhere he wanted—at least at short distances. He could name the second coffee can lid’s left rim, and then hit it with his yarn. But whenever we went for distance or speed, I could beat him cold.

Our goals were simple then. Our motives pure. Our competition clear. Our fun healthy.

When we were older and finally able to drive, Davy—or David, as others began calling him—went fishing almost every Saturday morning. He invited me each time. I sometimes went with him to Prince Creek, a clear, spring-fed stream teeming with small brook trout and a few larger browns. But I had my license too. I had places to drive. Rochester was far more inviting. People—well, certain people—wanted me to drive them. Girls were far more enticing than fish. Life seemed full of possibilities, and I didn’t want those possibilities limited to a narrow stream.

But that was years ago. Several lifetimes ago. Before we graduated with teaching degrees and unattainable dreams. Before I played for the Chicago Bears. Before my marriage crumbled. Before my long dance with alcohol.

When we both got e-mail addresses, he sent me regular updates. On his children. On their family trips. On his fishing. Each Christmas Davy sent me a card, usually with a picture of his family. Some years I returned a card of my own. A few years I was too drunk to know. Or care.

He wrote during my brief pro football career, through my turbulent teaching profession back in Minnesota, and throughout my aborted attempt as the manager of Bobby Jo’s Grill, a second-rate restaurant in Maplewood.

I rarely replied.

Then I turned down one invitation from David too many.

A few weeks after I left the restaurant business, I got a phone call from David. I was shocked to hear from him. I hadn’t heard his voice in several years. He told me that he wanted to talk to me about something important and he needed to see me in person. Not over e-mail. Not over the phone.

I put him off. Told him I could come down in a week or so, fully intending to delay that meeting for years. I didn’t want to see him, because then he’d see me, and see how far I’d fallen.

It hadn’t been that long since I had left the treatment center in Minneapolis. Though I was thoroughly dried out, I had aged a lot. I was a recovered. Recovering. Always a process.

A few days after his phone call, I saw it on the news.

David Browning, Hillcrest English teacher, age 33, shot—apparently a hunting accident.

Shot while fly-fishing. Someone hunting wild turkey, the authorities were surmising. Shot in the back. David fell forward into the stream. Drowned. An accident. The hunter didn’t even know David had been there.

Maybe. David Browning had wanted to tell me something. Now it was too late. Too late for him. Perhaps for me as well.

Sometimes you take action because you know it’s the right thing to do. Sometimes it’s because if you don’t do something, you know you’ll be haunted by the knowledge that you could have prevented something bad. Sometimes it’s because you already feel as guilty as Judas Iscariot. For me, it is all three.

Image278.JPG

CHAPTER 1

When wading, be careful of the streambed. Silt—like the expectations of others—can pull you in.

—from an early draft of David Browning’s Life on the Fly

As I drive down to Hillcrest for David’s funeral, I keep thinking that maybe this is all a bad dream, that maybe this is some sort of elaborate hoax, that somehow this isn’t really happening.

I keep hoping that. But I keep driving.

I pull into the Hillcrest Motel on the north edge of town. It’s a light green, slightly run-down six-room motel that was built in the early 60s. A thin, middle-aged manager takes my credit card. He’s about six feet tall, shorter than I am. His narrow eyes are bloodshot and his moustache needs trimming. He hands my credit card back along with a key.

Do you wanna see the room first?

I fill out the registration card. I just need a place for the night.

He looks at my name, seems as if he’s going to say something but doesn’t. It’s just as well.

I don’t take time to unload my bag in the room. I drive over to the Hillcrest Community Church on the east edge of town. The small parking lot is full, so I park on the street.

Two old maple trees arch up and over the church bell tower. It’s an old building, one of the first churches in town. White clapboard. Large, stained glass windows. Imposing front entry. When I was a kid, that church bell would ring through town on Sunday morning and cause the neighborhood dogs to howl.

Funny how odd memories come back from simple images. As I walk toward the front steps, I see the Hillcrest water tower standing over the middle of town.

We’ll meet at midnight and climb it, Davy says.

I’ll bring a marker and we’ll write our initials on the side so other kids’ll know it was us.

Not too big.

Naw. Just big enough to see with binoculars.

I walk into the church: large stained-glass windows, a balcony in the back with an oak railing, and a dark wooden cross in the front. Except for being a bit musty and growing a few long cracks in the plaster ceiling, it is exactly as it was when I attended with Davy. The church is packed with adults, a few high school kids too. Maybe a teacher is finally appreciated at a funeral.

An usher hands me a memorial service program, and I follow the line of people down the aisle toward Davy’s coffin. I look at the pictures beside the memorial bouquets near the casket. Some pictures are of Davy with his family, some at school, and one fishing. There is even one of him as a gangly kid, standing next to another gangly kid, both holding bamboo fly rods. I stare awhile before I recognize myself in the photograph.

Davy looks pretty good lying in the casket. Life has been kind to him. Even in death he has the same ever-so-slight grin, the clever upturn of the lips that I remember. His light brown hair is as curly as ever. He always had a knack for bouncing back, whether it was from a failed test, a girl’s rejection, or a dropped pass. I half expect him to sit up, open his brown eyes, smile, and say, Hey, I knew this was one way to get you down here!

His hands are folded on his chest, left hand with wedding ring on top. I stare for a moment at his long fingers—so good at catching footballs.

I walk back along the church’s second aisle and climb the steps into the balcony. I sit in the front pew. Others continue to stream into the church: school must have been dismissed early—many newcomers are high school students. I recognize some former teachers—now gray-haired—but I can’t always put names with faces. Most newcomers are directed to the basement—an usher says they placed TV monitors down there.

My old football coach shuffles in. Mr. Warner’s lost most of his hair, gained more weight, and leans on a cane. An usher leads him to a chair that’s quickly added beside the fourth pew. Mr. Warner sits, pulls out a handkerchief, wipes his bald head.

Two ministers step onto the platform. The first one to stand at the pulpit is a young guy, probably just out of seminary, with blond hair and an air of piety that life hasn’t rubbed off yet.

The family is ushered to the front pew. Davy’s mother, stooped-shouldered and gray, is in a wheel chair. I check the memorial service program, then recall that Harold, his father, died a few years ago. Rachel, his wife, walks between their two children, her hands on their shoulders: one boy, about eight years old, and a younger girl. The girl is sobbing hard. The boy has the stoic face and gritted jaw I’ve seen on many men over the years. It isn’t healthy.

I don’t remember their names: I check the program—Neal and Erica.

Davy’s much-older brother and sister and their families sit in another pew. His brother and sister move slowly, as if in shock. Because of the wide age difference between Davy and them he often felt like an only child growing up. Like me. That was something else we had in common.

Pastor Jim Thorsen, also blond but with liberal doses of gray, delivers the eulogy. He speaks as if he knew Davy well, and some listeners sniffle and dab their eyes.

Pastor Thorsen lists Davy’s volunteer activities in the community, the school, and the church. While I wasted my time mourning a botched career and a failed marriage, Davy patiently attended to all the details that knit meaning into life.

The pastor continues down the list of his contributions to the community, and, as he finishes, there seems to be a crescendo of sobs from the audience. Following the pastor, a petite brunette stands and sings Amazing Grace beautifully. Most are now wiping their eyes. Me, I don’t cry. I begin to get angry, mad at myself for not accepting Davy’s invitation, mad at myself for letting our friendship die, and furious at some unknown hunter who took a life so simple yet so meaningful.

Even from a distance, I can see Rachel Browning’s shoulders tremble. I don’t know anyone who will cry at my funeral.

Jealousy? No. I envy the fact that he was loved, but I have no reason for jealousy. I made my choices. I threw away chances time after time.

Pastor Thorsen speaks again, trying to put Davy’s life—and death—into perspective. My mind wanders: how can Davy’s death have any meaning?

Death has no meaning. For years I have refused to think about death. I don’t plan to start now.

I don’t think Davy was afraid of death. He wasn’t afraid of anything. Except once. He told me shortly before we left for college that he was afraid to leave Hillcrest, that he’d forget his roots. He asked me to pray for him. I don’t think I did. Davy didn’t need any prayers. I was always the one needing prayer.

My attention is pulled back by Pastor Thorsen who praises David. He weaves in a variety of Bible verses and concludes by saying it isn’t David’s death that we need to remember, it’s his life. His life among us, and his eternal life now.

He then quotes something David wrote: A funeral doesn’t mean that time ran out; it’s the opening kick-off.

That sounds like Davy.

After the funeral service, I drive out to the cemetery beyond the east side of town. A small group has gathered there, mostly close relatives. After the short graveside ceremony, I introduce myself to Rachel. Her straight, light brown hair is pulled back, accentuating her narrow face. Her blue eyes are rimmed with red. Her hand is warm, her fingers long.

My name is Matthew Blake. I was a friend of David’s and I wanted you to know how highly I thought of him.

Her eyes are glazed, uncomprehending. Matthew Blake?

I was an old friend. We grew up together. You and I only met a few times. The last time was a brief encounter: I almost missed your wedding.

Her face suddenly breaks into a wide smile and her eyes brighten. Matt Blake? Of course I remember now! You were David’s Best Man and arrived at the last second. You’re the Matt that David always talks about. You have to come by the house and visit. David would love to talk— She catches herself, doesn’t breathe for a moment, looks away.

Her eyes mist and she doesn’t say anything.

Davy was a great, caring guy, I say.

I am instantly corrected by a voice below me: He is. This comes from his daughter who clutches her mother’s left hand.

Of course, I quickly agree. David is a great, caring guy.

He’s with Jesus now. The girl states this with absolute assurance. Then she starts to break down, But I—

I kneel down, face her, and for the first time choke up. I know. Your father often mentioned God in his letters.

Rachel Browning puts her hand on my shoulder. You really must stop out and visit. How long will you be in town?

I leave tomorrow.

Do stop out in the morning.

You have too much—

We want you to stop in. David would want you to.

Minnesotans are raised to be overly nice, so nice that they invite you into their homes when sometimes they really don’t want you over.

No, I—

I don’t make invitations I don’t mean. She then looks at me with an urgency that goes beyond nice: Please.

I pause, somewhat puzzled, and say, Okay.

Another person comes up to express condolences. He’s short with broad shoulders, big hands, and a wide face. He looks vaguely familiar—someone I must have known growing up—but I don’t know who he is.

Thank you, Walter, she says, then turns to me: Around 10 tomorrow morning.

No one in the crowd seems to recognize me. That’s just as well.

I leave the cemetery and I drive over to the high school.

The main building is smaller than I remember. Memories often do that to us. Things haven’t shrunk—our experiences have expanded. Since I left Hillcrest about fifteen years ago, the school has added to the south side a wing of classrooms and a large, square addition with a higher roof: I assume a gym complex. I drive around to the back, to the east side where the parking lot is, and beyond that the track and football field.

I stop the car and look across the grassy field. The wooden bleachers have been replaced with metal ones. A lot of memories run through my mind as I stare at the goal posts. The scoreboard has big white letters painted on it: Home of the Hillcrest Rangers.

I roll down the window.

Time’s running out. Section finals. Fourth quarter. For the first time this season, we’re behind. Davy missed the field goal but he recovered a fumble on Prairie Creek’s next drive.

The coach calls our special play. I’m scared—we’ve only used it in practice—the play depends on my throwing with my left hand—few know I’m ambidextrous. If I get the ball off before I cross the line of scrimmage, I’ll be a hero; if not, their entire line will flatten me.

We line up. Davy doesn’t doubt me. Never doubts anything.

Life seemed so simple then.

A breeze is coming from the east, blowing across the field. The air—full of April pollens and the scent of moist dirt—reminds me of so many Hillcrest springs and summers: taking the bike down from the garage rafters, throwing the baseball to Davy on the sidewalk, running late at night through neighbors’ yards, stealing an apple from Miss Holt’s tree.

I roll up the window and park in a visitor’s spot outside the office.

As I thought, school was dismissed early for the funeral, but there are a few cars in the parking lot. Some custodians and secretaries are probably on duty.

I walk down the terrazzo hall to the office and open the door. The layout of the office hasn’t changed much. Facing me is a very long counter with two work areas behind it. On the left is the imposing desk of the superintendent’s secretary; she guards the inner sanctum: a small waiting area and a door to the superintendent’s office. To the right of the counter is the door to the principal’s office. A hall leads back to some storage areas, the business manager’s office, and a small conference room. Directly behind the counter is the high school secretary’s desk.

The secretary during all my school years—Miss Angela Dodge—retired the year I graduated. The only person in the office is a short, plump brunette who sits at the left desk, intently working on her computer. I guess her to be in her late thirties, but she wears younger makeup. She raises her eyebrows, surprised to see someone enter.

May I look around the building? I’m a graduate.

She’s clearly puzzled. An alumnus? Of course you may walk around.

She hands me a visitor’s pass as I sign the school’s logbook. She glances at my name.

So, Mr. Blake, are you in town for any reason in particular?

It seems like a dumb question, but Minnesota pleasantries are sometimes like that.

David Browning’s funeral. We went to school together. Thought I’d take a nostalgic tour before going back to Saint Paul.

Mr. Browning’s loss hit us all hard.

I’m sure.

An awkward pause: Well, enjoy your visit. Turn in your pass before leaving.

Thanks.

The halls are lined with the same gray metal lockers that I had. The Hillcrest custodians do a good job of maintaining the school. I wonder if Alan Brandt, the head custodian, is still alive.

In the center of the building is the cafeteria. I stare at the long tables, several chipped along the edges. A few tables look like the same ones I used. Soda and candy machines stand along the far wall. They weren’t allowed when I was in school.

Sitting at the lunch table in the middle of the cafeteria, I am bragging about being picked up for speeding. Good thing he didn’t give me a Breathalyzer test, I say.

Davy, sitting across the table, isn’t smiling. Matt, why do you live so recklessly?

I speak glibly. I’ve a hunch that I’m going to die young, Davy, so I’ve gotta take advantage of the moment.

I don’t flirt with death, he says in all honesty. I don’t want to leave before my time.

I turn quickly from the cafeteria and walk down the east hall, where my locker was during my senior year. I touch the cool metal door—it’s been replaced: the slight dent near the top is gone.

Hey, Davy! I tease him, I saw you talking to Sarah Webster. He opens his locker. So? A sophomore? I laugh. Can’t you find a date for Homecoming in our class?

I push him good-naturedly.

He pushes back, laughing too, and my elbow flies up and back, denting the locker.

Ouch! I groan. I think you broke my elbow.

Really? He’s actually worried.

No, I smirk, grabbing him in a friendly headlock. You fall for anything.

I stare at the spot on the locker: But maybe that had been a different year, a different locker.

So many memories tumble through my mind it’s hard to sort them.

I wander down the hall and find a door plastered with sympathy cards. We’ll miss you, Mr. Browning. That sort of thing. I hadn’t consciously meant to find his room, but then realize that I do want to see it.

I try the knob: it’s unlocked—the custodians haven’t cleaned it yet. I step in.

The room is dark, musty. The blinds are shut. The windows weren’t opened today. I turn on the lights.

The bulletin boards are filled with inspirational posters and computer-generated placards. Quotes by different writers, including Robert Browning. Davy always claimed Robert Browning was a distant relative, but no one ever believed him. I don’t think he believed it either.

In the center of the room is an oak lectern. Taped to the top is David’s daily schedule. Two classes of British literature, one class of advanced composition, two hours of computer technician time, a class of American literature, then an hour of prep time. Not an easy schedule. I knew he taught English. I didn’t know about his computer work.

I walk over to his desk, sit down in his chair. The cushioned seat is comfortable. The metal desktop is cold. Textbooks stand in a line across the top of his desk. A picture of his family is propped next to his black plastic penholder. On the left side of his desk sits a computer. Everything is efficiently placed. That was David. Meticulous.

I open the drawers. Well-organized. Neat. Just like David.

I look across the room, imagine the desks filled with students. I never liked teaching in a classroom—too intimidating. Too liable to become uncontrolled. I preferred the gym and the playing field where everything ran according to strict and easily enforceable rules.

In the back of the room on a small table are two computers, partly disassembled. David didn’t get a chance to finish fixing them.

I’ve always been impulsive. Those impulses sometimes backfire on me, but I have never learned to ignore them.

I turn on his computer. While it is booting up, I shut his door and turn off the classroom light. I’m not sure what I fear, but I feel suspicious. Of someone. Of anyone.

The computer finishes loading its software. David has a desktop picture scanned in of himself teaching his son to fly-fish.

I quickly look through his hard drive, but I see nothing out of the ordinary. Lots of notes for classes, tests, some memos.

I go on the Internet and access my Internet storage site. I begin uploading all of his documents. Since the school has a fast Internet connection, each document takes only a fraction of a second.

I am done in five minutes.

I shut down the machine just as someone enters the room.

Mr. Blake?

He is a tall man in a dark suit with a deep bass voice. I recognize him from the funeral: he sat near the front, behind Davy’s family. He is barrel-chested, square-jawed, with a gold and emerald ring on his right hand and a wedding ring on his left. He has a dark complexion with black hair combed to the side and back.

I stand. I was a friend of David Browning’s. I was just—

His tone is threatening. Just what?

I step away from the desk. Just seeking some closure. We were old friends. Went to this school together. I wanted to sit in his room for a bit.

With the lights off?

Better that way, don’t you think? I don’t know why, but I feel the need to divert the conversation. Were you at the funeral?

Yes, but—

Nice, wasn’t it?

Yes, but—

Very moving. You are—?

J. P. Conway, superintendent.

I offer my hand. Nice to meet you, Mr. Conway. Matthew Blake. Class of 1982.

He shakes my hand. He has a gold bracelet on his wrist.

I glance around the room. David was quite the teacher, wasn’t he?

One of our best. Students loved him. Teachers respected him.

Administrators?

He is momentarily taken back. He flushes. He speaks candidly, perhaps more candidly than he wants. Well, we had our differences at times.

Oh?

He recovers quickly. He negotiated for the teachers. Naturally, things get heated in those situations. But I had the highest respect for him.

Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Conway. Thanks for letting me stop in.

I walk out the door, leaving him in the dark. Glancing back, I notice that he checks over the desk to see if anything was disturbed. Fortunately, he doesn’t touch the computer’s monitor and discover that it’s warm.

On my way back to the school office, I stop by the custodian’s room, a dimly lit storage closet with paint and light bulbs on shelves, brooms in the corners, and a scratched wooden desk pushed up against one wall. Sitting on a crooked, wooden office chair at the old oak desk is a stoop-shouldered, thin, gray-haired custodian. He is jotting a few notes on a yellow notepad.

Mr. Brandt, how are you?

He spins in his chair, grabs a pair of glasses off the desk, puts them on his thin nose, and stares at me for a moment through dusty lenses.

Yes?

Do you remember Matthew Blake?

He mouths my name, then cracks the hint of a smile. Of course. He rises and shakes my hand. How have you been?

Fine, I lie.

Heard you were out in New York.

Chicago. I lived there for a few years. Back now in Minnesota.

You came to your senses.

How are you? Still keeping the place spotless, I see.

He seems pleased. I do what I can. Though young punks still leave graffiti.

I grin. You’re not still holding that against me, are you?

His eyes narrow. Only slightly. Then he smiles too and shows some missing side teeth.

I am amazed that he still remembers my knack for minor vandalism. How did you ever discover it was me who wrote the graffiti? I ask.

You told me. He chuckles. Not directly, of course, but when I pulled you out of class and brought you in here, I said someone wrote smart-aleck messages in the boy’s north restroom. And what did you say?

I don’t recall. Probably I said they weren’t permanent markers.

See? You did it again. He reaches up and pats my shoulder and winks. I never said anything about markers.

You should have been a detective. I glance about the dark room. The ladder, the paper towels, the cleaning supplies—everything is in the same place.

I suppose you came down for the funeral. He states the obvious, feeling the need to say something, I suppose.

I don’t reply. He still uses the old chalkboard on the wall to note things needing to be done.

Lots of people at the funeral, he says. Just got back from it myself a little bit ago. Had to sit in the basement. He looks down, shoves his hands in his pockets. Thought I’d get caught up on loose ends around here.

I clear my throat. How’s everyone taking David’s death?

Pretty hard. He was well-liked.

By everyone?

Of course. He scratches his thin nose. But you don’t teach nearly ten years in a small town without making some enemies.

Such as?

He sits down. The wooden chair creaks. He cleans his glasses with a nearby rag. You haven’t changed, have you? He leans toward me, frowning, and puts his glasses back on. Don’t go snooping around trying to dig up trouble. David Browning was a great guy. It’s a tragedy. Life is brutal. Sometimes you have to accept that.

I nod. Thanks, Mr. Brandt. I turn to go, then stop at the door.

Mr. Brandt, It’s good to see you, but I thought you would have retired by now.

He shrugs. What else would I do? Someone’s gotta keep these young janitors on task.

He returns to his paper work. Secretaries and custodians always know better than anyone else what’s going on in a school. He is hiding something. Or protecting someone.

I drive south toward the sheriff ’s office. When I called the Hillcrest Police the day of Davy’s death, I was told Ironwood County would be handling the investigation since his death occurred outside the town limits. Not that the two-person Hillcrest police force could handle it anyway.

From my brief talk with the Hillcrest cop, I learned that intra-county squabbling continues. Not enough men. Not enough money. The sheriff is a large fish in a mighty small pond, and so on and so on until eternity. Small towns have long memories. Maple Valley still resents the fact that Hillcrest became the county seat back in 1872 in a contested election.

The

Reviews for Life on the Fly

[englishteacher-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The third novel in the Ironwood County series . . . another masterpiece. Schreiber again changes his style to match the theme and character--this time an obsessive/compusive narrator who has a good heart but has more issues than National Geographic. A wonderful novel.

[ssands-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A great thriller that maintains Schreiber's stylistic flairs that add to the theme of the novel. The novel jumps right into the action, then in a series of flashbacks, develops one of the characters who is dead. At the same time, the plot races along as the narrator (Matt Blake) tries to solve his friend's murder(?). What sets this apart from other thrillers? Simple: the fully realized characters and relationships. You come away from this novel believing that you've actually known (and care) about these characters. You also come away knowing more about yourself.

[ironwoodbooks · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Matt Blake returns to his hometown of Hillcrest because he believe his best friend was murdered while fly-fishing. Blake, a failure at everything he has tried--including marriage--is forced to face his past and learn the meaning of love--if he can live long enough. This novel brings together characters from previous Ironwood County novels, yet it isn't necessary to have read the others before reading this one. Each of the Ironwood County novels has a unique style of its own, matching the narrator.Hey, you didn't think I'd give this less than a five, did you? Let me know what you think.