Tsunami Connection by Michael James Gallagher

her
oiled body, licking her, searching for erogenous zones. Aroused a second time,
she murmured languidly and fell into his movement, climaxing slowly. She cried
out, spent. Both of them succumbed to a deep, dreamless slumber.

LAKE MASSAWIPPI
    February
26,2012
    Just two days previously, the ice of
Lake Massawippi had cascaded upon itself, screeching its death throes in almost
Wagnerian-sounding austerity. The MacAuley house was nestled at the head of a
peninsula, stretching into the coldness of the earliest spring melt in over a
century of record keeping, a full sixty days ahead of the normal time. It was a
grey cedar saltbox. On the upper floor, dormers popped out of a
round-the-house, screened-in porch on the first floor, giving the house the
look of a jack-in-the-box.
    Over-protective locals, looking to maintain lucrative upkeep
contracts, had stonewalled all inquiries in the area about MacAuley's country
residence. Locals had even refused bribes, such as a proffered twenty-dollar
bill in the local depanneur , a Quebec French expression for corner
store. Finally, an older man took a liking to Sarah. During a breakfast chat,
overlooking the lake at the Ripplecove Inn, he not only gave up the location of
the MacAuley cottage on Murray Bay, but also offered her a boat taxi.
    "Everything is written in French here unless you find
an old map predating the so-called La Révolution Tranquille , or the
Quiet Revolution, referring to the on-going struggle for a French-speaking
country in Quebec, independent of Canada. Before that, everything was written
in English," said the gent in high, black rubber boots accompanied by a
whole-body yellow slicker, perched precariously in the second chair at his
table.
    "We went up every road off highway 208 and got close on
Rue des Hirondelles, but we are at a loss for what to do next. We promised to
drop off these wedding pictures and we know that Michael can't abide cell
phones. Here, look. We have pictures of the place, but we never imagined it
would be so hard to get to," said Sarah.
    "I'm Bill Enright, my friends call me Fish. I'm sort of
a fixture around here. I've been fishing greys; grey trout that is, since you
was knee-high to a grasshopper. The greys only really bite at this time of
year, just after the ice breaks up. Then they are near the surface and are easy
picking. I use a live walleye skewered on a steel rod with hooks attached. It's
the live fish-like movement that gets 'em. Anyway, I guess you're not
interested in that. I was trolling today by the MacAuley place, just this
morning. I noticed a light and chimney smoke. Never took a liking to that one,
though he's a great voice on him. Anyway, I can drop you on his dock just by
his boathouse on my way home, if you like. I'm leaving in a few minutes."
    "That would be wonderful. Don't you think, Aden? How
rude of me. This is my husband, Aden."
    "Pleased to make your acquaintance," replied Aden,
unknowingly slipping into local intonation patterns out of habit, not mockery.
    "You're a sorry one for mocking me like that,"
answered Fish, acknowledging the slight with a burlesque of his own intonation
patterns.
    "Sorry," said Aden. "I didn't mean any harm.
They say mimicry is the sincerest form of flattery."
    "He could use a hair of the dog," filled in Sarah,
smiling warmly at both men.
    "That's a problem an old bachelor like me can relate
to," said Fish, as he pulled a worn, silver flask from under his red and
black checkered wool work clothes. "Have a snort on me."
    Aden sniffed gingerly, and then smiled deeply, showing
newfound respect for their friend. "Glenfiddich Single Malt. I'd recognize
that anywhere. Here's to ya," said Aden, tipping the brim of an imaginary
hat with the snout of the flask and nodding his head before he took a deep pull
on the flagon.
    "A man after my own heart, I see," nodded Fish.
    "Do you know where the place is exactly?" asked
Aden.
    "I'd say I do 'iffen′ I heard myself say I'd take
you thaere," replied