by Paula Munier
For a moment she stood there in silence as she watched his snowmobile slip in and out of view as it ploughed through the snowy mists across the buried lake, away from her, away from capture, away from justice.
She had forgotten about Elvis. The shepherd charged across the frozen lake after the snowmobile. She yelled at him to stop, to come, to come back to her. Now.
But Elvis either didn’t hear her or didn’t care to hear her. The determined dog raced on, his howls echoing across the ice. She had to follow him on foot. Unzipping the storage compartment on the back of the seat, she reached in and grabbed a couple of ice picks and a tow rope, thankful to the game warden service, which took the Boy Scout motto “Be prepared” to a whole new level.
She set out across the ice, proceeding very carefully, one cautious step at a time. She didn’t trust the lake or the ice or the spring. Beware the Ides of March.
Mercy hoped that Troy had contacted Thrasher and that backup was on the way. She tried to text him but the message did not go through. She whistled for Elvis and then yelled for him, and still he paid no attention. Whistling and yelling, whistling and yelling, whistling and yelling—but he ignored her. The stubborn shepherd was fixed on nailing the sledder no matter what she said.
She heard the ominous cracking before she saw it. She stared as the snow machine in the middle of the great pond skidded and the ice fragmented in crazy fractals all around and the path forward dissolved into water.
The man on the snowmobile leaned back, forcing the front end of the sled to rise in a desperate attempt to skip across the water like a stone. But the last-minute wheelie did not save him. The snow machine shuddered and plunged into the depths of the lake.
“Elvis!” she screamed again. This time the shepherd angled toward her, but he was too late. The ice fissured around him and he fell into the freezing water.
The hell with caution. Mercy ran lightly across the ice on foot as far as she dared. When she was within ten feet of the hole in the ice where Elvis had gone in, she lay down on the ice and stretched out to her full length, rolling like a log to the edge.
She peered into the murky water, but Elvis was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the snow machine or its racer.
The lake was too cold for anything but fish to tolerate, too deep for anyone to stand up, too dark to reveal the hidden secrets within its depths. Neither the man nor the dog could survive for long in that wet deep freeze. She didn’t know where either of them was lost in that bitter body of water, or if she could find them in time.
She’d save the first one to surface. God help her, she hoped it was Elvis. What would Martinez do, she thought. He’d pray to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things.
“Okay, St. Anthony, do your thing,” she whispered, and then she screamed Elvis’s name once more.
Like the answer to her prayer—Martinez would say it was the answer to her prayer—the shepherd’s black shiny nose broke the surface, followed by his dark muzzle and his eyes and his ears, until his entire head had emerged. Sodden and shivering, he paddled with his paws, flailing in the water.
Mercy scooted closer to the edge of the ice and reached for the dog, but he was too agitated.
“Stay,” she warned.
Elvis did as he was told. He stopped moving and started to slip beneath the surface again. She grabbed his collar just as he went under. She jerked him up, holding his head above the water with one hand and wrapping the rope awkwardly around his chest with the other.
“Hold on, boy,” she said. “Hold on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The dog looked at her with those dark brown eyes full of trust, and she prayed she was worthy of that trust. Her arms were damp with chill as the frigid water seeped under her sleeves and her gloves. It was so bitterly cold that she knew within minutes her hands would be too numb to function properly. She needed to move quickly.
One end of the rope held three carabiners, and she hooked all three of them to his collar. The other end held one carabiner, and she wrapped the rope around her waist and secured it with the remaining latch hook. “Okay, Elvis, now I’m going to pull you out.”
Her arms ached as she grabbed him by his collar with both hands and rolled way from the edge of the water. The rope tightened around her torso and tugged the shepherd up onto the ice. As soon as his paws and belly felt solid ground, Elvis struggled to stand up.
“Down,” she commanded.
Elvis collapsed onto the ice. He needed to stretch out over the ice as she had done, to distribute his body weight more evenly across the frozen surface. The better not to crack the ice again. But he simply lay there. Not moving. Not panting. Barely breathing.
“Elvis.” She cuddled closer to him, hugged his chest, tried to feel his heartbeat. Nothing. His eyes were closed now. “Elvis.”
She looked over at the dark pool in the ice where Elvis had gone under. The man and his snowmobile were still under there somewhere. If backup didn’t get here soon, the sledder and his sled might be gone for good.
The frozen lake didn’t seem so frozen anymore. She had to get Elvis to shore, before she lost him forever. She didn’t want to risk standing up. And she didn’t think Elvis could stand up even if he wanted to. But she had to get him moving.
They were going to have to crawl back. The poor shepherd was shaking from the cold and crawling was no dog’s favorite position but she needed to get him back to shore as quickly and safely as possible.
“Crawl,” she said firmly.
Elvis opened his eyes. His pupils were dilated, which couldn’t be good. He tried to move his legs, but he was too weak. He shuddered, and his limbs splayed across the ice.
“It’s okay, boy.”
She’d have to push him.
Pulling the dog in front of her, she steered him forward along the ice, crawling on her belly behind him. Seesawing across the frozen lake, nudging his limp body ahead, hitching along after him. “Hang in there, Elvis.”
It probably only took ten minutes to scoot across the frozen lake with Elvis, but it seemed like a lifetime. When they finally reached the stand of cattails, signaling the beginning of the frozen marsh, she nearly cried in relief. She got up on her hands and knees and rose to her feet.
Elvis lifted his head. He seemed better now, or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
“Can you get up? Up?” Her arms and hands were aching with cold now and she wasn’t sure if she could carry him. He pulled his legs under him, and staggered to a standing position, only to fall again. Not a good sign.
“It’s okay.” She squatted down to his level and gathered the freezing dog into her exhausted arms.
He weighed about sixty pounds, so she grunted as she picked the dog up and straightened her legs. He was so cold and so wet. Striding as quickly as she could, she huffed across the frozen marsh to the snowmobile. She put Elvis down and retrieved the thermal blanket from another one of the pockets on the seat and wrapped him up in it, holding him in her arms as she knelt beside him.
She heard the roar of another snow machine and looked up. When she recognized Troy’s solid figure on the sled, she could feel the tears gathering the corner of her eyes.
“It’s all right, boy.” She rubbed his wet head with the top of the blanket. “Vermont Fish and Wildlife to the rescue.”
Troy swung the snowmobile up to her and Elvis and jumped off.
“Are you alright?”
She nodded. “It’s Elvis I’m worried about. He fell in and I got him out.”
He retrieved another thermal blanket from a zippered pocket on his snow machine. “What about the perp?”
“Two snowmobiles, three perps. The one with two guys veered off-trail and crashed. Elvis charged after the solo rider who tried to escape over the lake. The ice was too thin. He didn’t make it. He and his machine went down and they took Elvis in with them. I looked, but I didn’t see him or his sled. Elvis finally surfaced, but he never did.”
“You take Elv
is back on the big snowmobile to the truck. Your grandmother is there.”
“You were supposed to take care of her.”
“She insisted I come after you. And it’s a good thing I did.” He took Elvis from her and wrapped him in the dry blanket. “Besides, I left Patience armed with a gun and Susie Bear.”
“She’s a very good shot.” Mercy switched snowmobiles with Troy.
“So I’ve heard.” He helped her onto the larger snowmobile and handed Elvis over to her. “Backup is on the way.” He took off his parka and bound the shepherd to her with it.
“You’ll freeze,” she said.
“I’m not the one who’s wet.” He placed the helmet on her head. “And it’s going to start snowing again any minute. Go.”
Mercy hightailed it back to the truck, going as fast as she could without disturbing Elvis any more than she had to. She was terrified for him. He was still listless and lethargic, common symptoms of hypothermia. Snow was falling again now. She needed to get the shepherd out of the elements and into that warm Ford F-150.
The snowmobile purred along, the only sound in a forest silenced by snow. Fat wet flakes made it harder to see and even harder to steer, especially with a dog on her lap. Still, as she sped along, she stayed on the lookout for the sledders who’d crashed into the bramble. But there was no sign of them. The only other tracks she saw were hers and Troy’s as far as she could tell.
Finally she caught sight of Troy’s truck, a beacon of headlights and taillights in the blur of flurries. “Almost there, boy.”
Patience opened the door and climbed out. Susie Bear followed. They waited as she drew the snow machine up alongside the vehicle.
“He fell through the ice,” she told her grandmother. “I think he’s hypothermic.”
“Get in here, both of you.” Patience helped Mercy load Elvis into the truck. Susie Bear sniffed and licked her cold, wet friend. “Backup is on the way. Where’s Troy?”
“He went after the ones who got away.” Mercy slipped into the front seat next to Elvis. Stripping off her wet gloves, she drew him up on her lap. The toasty cab felt warm and cozy as a tea shop after the frosty ordeal on the lake; she could only imagine what a welcome relief the heat was to Elvis, who still shivered in her arms.
Patience grabbed another thermal blanket from the back and handed it to Mercy. “Swap that out for that wet jacket. He needs heat. Lots of it.”
As she bundled up the shepherd once again, she told Patience about the snowmobiler who went down into the water and the ones Troy was looking for, the ones who’d crashed their snowmobile into the bramble.
“Who were they?” Patience slipped into the driver’s seat and dialed up the heater full blast.
“I’m not sure.”
“Troy’s going to need help. Go after him.” She handed Mercy her own gloves.
“He can take care of himself.” She was not leaving her grandmother or her dog.
“There are two of them,” insisted Patience. “He needs Susie Bear and he needs you.”
“I’m not leaving you and Elvis alone.”
“I called for backup. They’re on the way.”
“That’s what they always say. You know better than anyone it doesn’t always work that way.”
They stared each other down in a standoff of familial will. Patience won when the sound of sirens blared in the distance.
“Okay. But keep that gun at the ready.”
“Troy told me not to shoot anybody.”
“He didn’t mean it.” She transferred Elvis from her lap to Patience’s lap and put on her grandmother’s gloves. “I know you’ll take good care of him.” She got out of the truck and shut the passenger door. “Don’t let him die.”
“Go.”
Mercy let Susie Bear out of the back cab. “Find Troy. Search.”
The Newfie plowed off through the snow.
She climbed onto the snowmobile and followed Susie Bear into the silver blur of snow flurries. She couldn’t see much, but the one thing she could see was the dog’s shiny black coat against all that white. She knew that the snow couldn’t keep Susie Bear down; snow was no deterrent to a Newfoundland.
The Newfie took a sharp right into the woods on an old trail just wide enough for the snow machine. She could only drive the snowmobile as fast as Susie Bear could run. Which was faster than seemed safe.
The trail forward grew narrower and narrower. The snow was still falling in a thick curtain and visibility was poor. No sign of Troy or the man he was pursuing. No sound of snow machines other than her own. Nothing to guide her but Susie Bear and her sensational nose. And blind faith.
The trees grew thicker here, crowding the slender path, tightening their grip until the path disappeared altogether, dissipating into a stand of hemlock. Susie Bear hustled into the trees. She was on the scent, tracking it as the crow flies, no consideration for snowmobiles and trails and humans who couldn’t keep up. Susie Bear didn’t need no stinkin’ trail.
Mercy knew that once Susie Bear found Troy, she’d come back to lead her to him. At least she hoped that’s what would happen. But she couldn’t wait for that. She dismounted, grabbed her gun, and followed the dog’s paw prints through the woods.
All was quiet. Nature seemed to stop in silent homage when a snowstorm descended on the forest. But there was no stopping the Newfie. Susie Bear was in a hurry, and the tracks reflected that: the prints were bigger and you could see where she’d slipped along the way.
Mercy trudged along as quickly as she could, careful not to trip on dead wood and rocks and tree roots buried under the snow. She wondered how far afield the men on the snowmobile had taken Troy, and what she’d find when Susie Bear led her wherever she was leading her. Maybe she should have stuck with the snowmobile, she’d be more help to Troy with wheels.
The tracks stopped at the edge of a partly frozen stream but indicated that Susie Bear had simply plunged across it without hesitation. It was fairly shallow and just wide enough that Mercy couldn’t jump it. She crossed by way of the big flat rocks that lined the bed.
She spotted more of Susie Bear’s prints on the other side of the stream, tailing the tracks to a small clearing. The purr of a snow machine alerted her and she hid behind a couple of trees, gun drawn. She peeked out and saw Troy pinned under his snowmobile. Susie Bear was trying push her big pumpkin head under the snow machine to get to her wounded friend.
Across from Troy was another snowmobile, this one crashed into a fallen log nearly obscured by a snowbank. One of the riders had been thrown clear. He appeared to be injured; his pants were torn and his arm hung limply at his side. He was crawling on his belly across the clearing toward Troy, a pistol in his good hand. The other rider was nowhere to be seen.
Mercy stepped out from behind the tree, rifle pointed right at him. Susie Bear backed out from under the snow machine and lifted her head in Mercy’s direction. The man on the ground followed the dog’s gaze and spotted her. He raised his gun.
And she fired. Shooting the gun right out of his hand. He was lucky, she’d been aiming higher but he’d moved just in time. He was still moving, edging toward his gun, which had spun a couple of feet to his left.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said. How he thought he’d manage to shoot with two bad wrists, even if he could retrieve the gun, she wasn’t sure. “Stay,” she told Susie Bear.
Rifle still trained on him, Mercy strode over toward the sledder, kicking his gun farther away. “If you move, I’ll shoot you again.”
The man closed his eyes in what she hoped was resignation, if not unconsciousness. She backed up, one eye still on the perp, until she could see Troy. His chest was pinned between a boulder and the snowmobile, so he couldn’t move, but his arms were free and he had a clear view of the suspect.
“Where’s the other guy?”
“He took off running,” said Troy. “I doubt he’s coming back.”
“Are you okay?”
“Secure the suspe
ct.” His voice was firm, but she could hear the effort in it. She knew he carried handcuffs on his belt, but she couldn’t get to them without hurting him.
“Hold on, backup’s on the way.” She shrugged her pack off her back and pulled some heavy-duty nylon cable zip ties from an outside pocket.
She put her rifle in Troy’s hands.
“Got you covered,” he said. But his voice was less firm this time. Susie Bear whimpered.
Mercy went back to the suspect. He was sprawled out on the ground, head to one side, eyes still closed. She sank down, kneeing him in the back, and grabbed his injured hands and cuffed them. He moaned and twitched, but that only exhausted him, and he fell silent again.
She pulled off his balaclava. Revealing an older, sadder, meaner-looking version of the man who’d killed her grandfather. George Rucker.
Mercy fought the urge to kick the man’s face in, leaving him before she succumbed to that dark impulse. She went back to Troy. “We need to get this thing off you.” She knew snowmobiles could weigh as much as six hundred pounds. Moving it might be dangerous for Troy. He could have broken ribs or even a punctured lung. No room for error.
Two uniforms crashed into the clearing.
She smiled at them. “Just in time.”
* * *
AS THE EMTS carried Patience to the first ambulance, Mercy sat in Troy’s truck with a terribly silent Elvis, rubbing his coat with a plaid woolen camp blanket. Patience had called Claude, who’d only gone as far as the nearest hotel. She asked him to drive the mobile veterinary unit to the Rutland County Medical Center, where they were taking them all to get checked out.
Susie Bear fretted from the back seat, whining her worries about Troy, Elvis, and Patience. Her grandmother would be fine, if her vehement insistence that she did not need to go to the hospital were any indication.
Mercy was more worried about Troy, whom they’d carried out of the woods on a stretcher after freeing him from the snowmobile. Troy was not happy about it; like Patience, he insisted he was okay. But his rescuers were as worried about broken ribs and punctured lungs as she was and didn’t give him a choice. Susie Bear never left Troy’s side, trotting alongside the EMTs, whining all the way, which only intensified Mercy’s worries.