After supper, when I finally mustered up the courage to ask if I could sleep over at Eric’s again, they both said that was fine.
“But,” Dad said, “you’ll miss out on movie night.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I forgot it was Wednesday.” Normally, once a week, we had a family movie night where we all watched a movie together and ate popcorn.
“Maybe I’ll get to watch something intelligent for a change,” Mom said with a laugh.
Dad groaned. “Oh, no!”
Mom nodded to herself and mumbled, “I’ll finally get to watch a movie without killer robots, explosions, aliens, or zombies.”
Dad reached out and playfully punched me. “Thanks for abandoning me, Cody. Looks like I’ll be watching a melodrama with lots of talking and no car chases.”
CHAPTER
5
“ALL SET?” RACHEL asked.
I nodded and hopped off my bike.
“You’re late,” Eric said. “Any complications?”
“Yeah, two,” I said, pushing the bike—which was pulling the wagon—behind the shed.
“What happened?” Rachel asked.
“Well,” I said, “it took forever for my mom and dad to get settled. I didn’t want to risk leaving the yard with the wagon and sled and have them see me from one of the windows. But they both finally sat down to watch the news, so I said goodbye and made my escape.”
“Oh,” Rachel said, “that’s not so bad.”
“But then,” I continued, “Brad cornered me when I crossed Pine Street.”
“Really?” Eric said. “What’d Jerkface want?”
“Not much,” I said. “He just wanted to know what that was for.”
We all stood and stared at the sled sitting on the wagon. Rachel looked like she was going to be sick. I guess she figured there was no logical explanation for hauling around a winter sled in the middle of summer.
“What . . . what did you say?” she mumbled.
“I told him we needed it to get firewood from the bush for the fire pit.”
“Did he buy that?” Eric asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“Nuts!” Rachel said. “Maybe we should cancel and forget—”
“But then,” I said, “I explained that our wagon was too wide for the trail we were going to use, which was why we needed the sled.”
“And . . . ?” Eric said. “What did he say then?”
“Nothing,” I said. “He just scowled and walked home.”
“Hmmm,” Rachel said, looking anxiously at the sled on the wagon.
“Don’t worry about Brad,” Eric said. “He’s probably already forgotten about us.”
“You know what would make me feel better?” Rachel said. “If we did what Cody said we were going to do.”
Not sure exactly what that was, I said, “Remind me again what I said.”
“I think we should go into the woods behind the Subtelnys’ house and collect some twigs and branches. Then we can make a fire and sit around for a while.”
“Good idea,” I said.
The Subtelnys lived one street over, in the very last house, and where their backyard ended, the forest began. All we had to do was follow the trail beside the Subtelny house and we’d have access to all the branches we could carry.
“And if Jerkface does go for a walk,” Eric said, “he’ll see our fire and know we weren’t trying to pull a fast one. Plus, we’ve got a lot of time to kill, anyway.”
Rachel and I nodded. It was only 7:30, and we had to do something until it got dark enough to make our escape. So we dragged the sled across Birch Street, through the empty lot beside the Roberts’ house, and into the pine forest beyond the Subtelnys. There were lots of dried branches scattered all over the place from a spring windstorm, and we were able to pile the sled high in twenty minutes.
When we got back to Eric and Rachel’s yard again, we dumped the sled next to the fire pit.
“I can see this is going to be a s’more situation,” Eric announced. “You guys get the fire going, and I’ll scrounge up some marshmallows, chocolate bars, and Graham crackers.”
Rachel, who was already piling twigs in the centre of the fire pit, paused to look up at her brother. “You’re seriously going to eat s’mores?” she asked. “You just had supper like an hour ago!”
“Yeah, but I didn’t have dessert,” he shot back. “Did I?”
“You couldn’t eat dessert,” she said, striking a match on a stone. “You ate three plates of spaghetti!” She touched the dry kindling, and flames quickly engulfed the other branches.
Eric laughed and headed for the house.
I helped Rachel snap branches, and then we leaned them around the burning kindling, forming a teepee shape. The fire pit was surrounded by half a dozen thick logs cut into stumps. We wiggled three of the nicer pieces so they were out of the smoke’s range and sat down to wait for Eric.
It was a warm, late summer evening, and no one was cold, but it was always fun to make a backyard fire. And as long as our fires didn’t get ridiculously large, no one in Sultana seemed to care or complain.
Rachel took a quick look around the yard, then said, “You think we’re doing the right thing?”
“Going back for the statue?” I said.
Rachel nodded.
I shrugged. “I know we have to break the law and trespass to get it. But getting it out of the lake still seems like the right thing to do.”
She nodded again. “That’s kind of how I look at it too.”
I picked up our fire-poking stick—a broken paddle—and poked the fire.
Rachel continued, “I wouldn’t even be bringing it up again if it weren’t for all the other crazy things that have happened this summer.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “If we mess this up, or get caught, people aren’t going to be happy. Everyone is going to think we’re the biggest troublemakers in the province.”
“Eric and I will be grounded forever.”
I stopped poking the fire and said, “But I still want to get it.”
“Then let’s not get caught.”
Eric returned to the fire pit and spread the s’more ingredients on top of a stump. He turned to Rachel and said, “I told Mom you were going to stay by the fire with us until it got dark.”
“Okay,” she said.
“She’ll probably go to bed around 10:00,” Eric continued, “so it might be good if you went in then too. She’ll be less likely to worry if she thinks you’re upstairs in bed.”
“Okay,” Rachel said again. “I’ll sneak out of the house at exactly midnight, and we’ll go.”
Eric rubbed his hands together. “I love it when a plan comes together.”
“Nothing has come together yet,” I reminded him.
Rachel and I watched as Eric carefully roasted a marshmallow. The white mass was browning nicely on all sides, but then he became impatient and held it too close to the fire. It flared up and blackened a second later.
Eric laughed and said, “I had a feeling that one was going to be perfect.”
Rachel and I giggled, because Eric had never made a s’more without a burned marshmallow.
Eric ignored our teasing and slid the puffy black lump onto a square of chocolate. He then sandwiched that mess between two Graham crackers and ate it. He had barely finished swallowing the first s’more when he started cooking a second.
“Just be patient this time,” Rachel said.
I nodded. “Nice and easy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Eric grumbled, rotating his stick slowly. “This one’s going to be seriously awesome. You watch!”
Rachel and I watched the marshmallow catch fire a minute later.
“Rats!” Eric said.
Rachel grabbed the stick from her brother. “I can’t watch you eat another lump of charcoal.” She scraped the burned lump of sugar into the fire, harpooned another marshmallow, and carefully toasted it for Eric.
&nbs
p; My mouth was watering as I watched her slip the puffy brown treat onto another piece of chocolate.
“Would you like me to make you one too?” she asked.
I nodded. “Please.”
“You guys all set?” Rachel whispered.
“Yeah,” Eric said. “Were you quiet leaving the house?”
“Like a church mouse,” she said.
“What does that mean?” Eric said.
“Church mice are considered to be quieter than regular mice,” I said helpfully.
Rachel grinned, her white teeth flashing in the night.
“Whatever,” Eric said. “Let’s go.”
It was exactly midnight now, but we’d stuck to the plan. Rachel went inside the house when the sun set, and Eric and I crawled into our tent. We read comics using our flashlights for two hours, and then, just before 12:00, we slipped outside and waited for Rachel behind the shed.
My bike was already tied to the wagon, so we decided I would take the first shift pulling our gear.
Eric pushed his bike across the yard and onto the street. I followed him, pushing my bike, and Rachel brought up the rear, as she was assigned the responsibility of making sure nothing fell off the wagon. And that wagon did not roll very efficiently on the grass. In fact, I was huffing and puffing pretty good by the time I caught up to Eric on Birch Street.
Rachel rolled up beside me. “You want me to pull the wagon for a while, Cody?”
“It’ll be okay now,” I said. “The wagon rolls great on hard surfaces. Sultana should be deserted, so we can take the streets all the way to the main trail. Then maybe you or Eric can haul it for a while.”
We retraced our route from the night before, following the bush trail all the way to the Smoke Lake Golf and Country Club. We stopped only once on the trail to drink some water and switch the wagon to Rachel’s bike.
When Smoke Lake was in sight, we stopped and quietly surveyed the area for a long time, looking for anything that might indicate a trap. I didn’t see any vehicles, flashlight beams, or glowing cigarettes in the distance. Eric rolled his bike to the fence, and Rachel and I nervously followed.
The mosquitoes from the nearby ponds swarmed us fast. I lowered my bike and groped around in the wagon for the insect repellent. I squirted a bunch of globs onto my arms and legs and then passed the bottle to Rachel.
“It’s all those bananas Cody eats,” Eric said, taking the bottle from Rachel. “Mosquitoes are attracted to the smell.”
“I suppose I could shower once a month like you,” I said, smearing around the last gob of repellent. “Then I’d have the same impenetrable barrier of filth on my skin.”
We giggled nervously in the dark, and then with Rachel’s help, we efficiently lined up our snorkelling gear by the fence.
Eric and Rachel hopped the fence, and I passed everything across to them. Rachel packed the equipment on the sled without help from us, and in less than a minute, we had the wagon unloaded and the sled loaded. Eric and I pulled our barge across the grass toward Smoke Lake, while Rachel patrolled the rear, still tasked with making sure nothing fell off. We couldn’t risk dropping anything and having to waste time searching the fairway in the dark.
At the lake, Eric immediately struggled into his wetsuit. This part of the plan was pretty simple. Eric and I would swim out to the statue holding one end of the rope, while Rachel held onto the other end. Then, when we found the statue, we would tie the rope onto it, swim back to Rachel, and all three of us would pull it out together.
Like I said: a simple plan.
“You guys be careful down there,” Rachel said.
Eric paid no attention to his sister. He was already slathering his mask with a healthy coating of spit.
“Don’t worry,” I said, zipping up my wetsuit, “we will.”
We plodded down the bank and slipped into the water. Eric popped his snorkel into his mouth and led the way to the centre of Smoke Lake. Holding only our flashlights, we swam to the middle in only a few minutes. I slowed down near where I thought was the right area.
I spit out my snorkel. “How does this look?” I whispered.
Eric squinted at the shoreline of the lake around us. “Pretty close. Let’s take a look.” He took a couple of deep breaths and kicked for the bottom. I sucked in a lungful of air and dove after him.
I caught up to him near the bottom. The sediment we kicked up last night had settled, and we could see for two or three metres again. We dove what we thought was a grid pattern. For five metres we swam side by side, scanning the bottom, then we headed up to catch our breath. With our lungs filled again, we went down, turned right, and searched another five metres. We surfaced, dove, and turned right again for five metres. It was easier than collecting golf balls. I just had to stay clear of the rope Eric had tied to his wrist.
Twice we noticed the lake bottom getting shallower as it approached the shore, so we had to kick back to the middle and start again in a different direction. Our neat grid pattern quickly became a mess, so we abandoned it and relied on our instincts. If Rachel hadn’t been keeping the rope taut, we wouldn’t even have known which direction we had come from.
I was just starting to feel panicky when I suddenly saw something important—something really important. There, on the bottom, was a three-metre-wide swath free of golf balls. All we had to do now was follow the ball-free trail from the night before until it bumped into the statue.
At the surface getting air, Eric punched my shoulder to congratulate me.
Yup, I’m a genius.
He refilled his lungs and kicked enthusiastically for the bottom, heading for the statue. I followed him, and seconds later we were both hovering over our prize. We knuckle bumped and headed topside again.
I removed my snorkel and said, “Excellent. Okay, let’s cut the carpet free from the statue. And then we’ll tie the rope around its feet.”
“No problem,” Eric said, heading right back down again.
At the bottom, we tried to cut back the carpet carefully, so as not to disturb the fine sediment. But as soon as we touched the thing, years of accumulated silt bloomed from its surface. Our visibility instantly dropped to zero again.
Kneeling on the muddy bottom, I sensed Eric sawing through the ropes with his knife. His body jerked with each section of rope he sliced through. I peeled back the last flap of rug and frantically tied the rope around the exposed bronze boots. Eric headed up for another breath of air, but I was still good, so I stayed down.
I waved my arms over the statue’s face, trying desperately to wave away the suspended grime. But that didn’t help at all. In fact, it seemed like I was making the visibility worse, and somehow drawing in more cloudy water. I wanted to sneak a quick look at the statue’s face—was it a man or a woman?—but now my lungs were beginning to twitch for fresh air.
Darn! I guess the answer to that question would have to wait.
Eric was suddenly beside me again, pulling me up and away from the statue. At the surface, he said, “Okay. We’re all set.”
I nodded, rolled onto my back, and kicked for the shore.
When I reached the muddy bank, Rachel stretched out her arm and offered me her hand. Exhausted, I grabbed her wrist and let her help me up to the fairway. “Thanks,” I mumbled, always surprised by her strength.
Eric peeled off his mask and said, “Must be nice to have an assistant.”
Rachel ignored her brother and started reeling in the rope. We took up positions behind her and helped. The rope tightened quickly, and then with only slightly more effort from us, we felt the statue move. It was heavy work pulling it in, but the slick silt and clay did seem to help lubricate the statue’s trip along the bottom.
Rachel was in front of me, pulling steadily on the nylon rope. We quickly found a rhythm that allowed us to pull in unison, and the rope piled up behind us a metre at a time.
I grinned to myself. Maybe we can get this done without any complications.
Then everythin
g stopped.
I turned back to look at Eric. Why had he stopped pulling?
My heart jumped. Eric was pulling. In fact, he was leaning back on the rope with all his weight, like the anchorman in a game of tug-of-war. I grabbed the rope and threw my body back too. Still, nothing happened.
“Rats!” I said, panting to catch my breath. “It must be caught on something.”
“Let’s try a different angle,” Rachel said, walking to the right with the rope.
The three of us lined up again and pulled hard. The statue moved a bit, and then stopped with a thud that we could all feel through the rope. Stuck again. We moved to the left and tried the same strategy. This time, nothing happened.
“You guys wait here,” Eric said, already climbing down the bank with his mask and fins, “and I’ll go down and see if I can free it.”
“We’ll give you a bunch of slack,” I said. “Then, when you think you’ve got it free, give the rope a couple of yanks, and Rachel and I will try and pull it in.”
“Okay. I’ll stay in the water and follow it all the way in. In case it gets stuck again.” Eric sat in the mud, put on his flippers, and dipped below the surface.
Rachel and I sat on the grass beside each other and waited. We nervously tracked Eric as he moved away from us. When he stopped swimming, we knew he was over the statue. He disappeared below the surface, and seconds later, the water above him churned and rippled. Poor Eric, I thought. He must have been struggling like a wrestler to free the thing. We stood up to get a better view of the battle.
“It must be jammed up pretty good,” Rachel said.
“If he doesn’t free it fast,” I said, “I’ll jump in and give him a hand.”
The slack in the rope was picked up suddenly, and the nylon jerked twice as Eric gave the signal. We pulled the rope tight and continued to bring it in. It was a million times harder without Eric, but we managed to bring it closer, centimetre by centimetre.
I glanced up and saw Eric’s head pop out of the water. His snorkel cleared like a whale’s blowhole, and he disappeared again.
After four metres of rope lay beside me, my arms burned from the effort and my hands felt raw and blistered. Poor Rachel. We should have brought gloves.
In Too Deep Page 4