Hook, Line, and Homicide

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “Are you out of your mind?” Ian asked.

  Paul smiled. “You never played chicken?”

  Fenwick put his hand on Turner’s shoulder and said, “No fear.”

  “Fuck fear,” Turner said. They could certainly be outrun. In such a large lake the faster boat could play games with them all day. Paul was not about to put up with this. He gripped the wheel, checked the GPS for possible shoals and rocks, saw none, gazed at the other boat, kept his hand full on the throttle, and didn’t swerve.

  Ian said, “He’s not going to turn.”

  “Bets?” Paul said. He and Fenwick grinned at each other for a second, old friends at a supreme moment. Turner hit the houseboat’s horn again. The wind blew the cacophony of the blasts back at them.

  At the last second the faster and more maneuverable boat turned aside. Paul let go of the throttle. Immediately their houseboat began to slow.

  Paul turned the boat toward Jeff, Brian, and Kevin. Turner saw the two boys working quickly with Jeff ’s wheelchair. When they were next to the motorboat, he jumped aboard and helped them finish getting Jeff unhooked. In minutes they were all safely on board.

  “Go, Dad!” Jeff exclaimed.

  Paul scanned the horizon. The cigarette boat was circling back. Paul said, “See to your brother.” Brian took up a position next to Jeff.

  Paul was not so certain now that he wanted another game of chicken. His sons were on this boat. Should they try to anchor and get to shore? That would leave Ben, Madge, and the girls out on the lake facing this menace. He steered the boat at a much lower speed toward the open water of the lake. Turner suspected now that the other boat was toying with him. They weren’t going to hit him, but they could keep this up all day, or at least until everybody’s fuel ran out.

  Once again the enemy was bearing down on them. Ian and Fenwick were at his side. Paul looked back where Kevin and Brian flanked Jeff.

  “We gonna hit him?” Jeff asked.

  “Probably not,” Paul said. He saw the Fenwicks’ houseboat, Madge at the wheel, chugging up far behind the cigarette boat. Now the charcoal gray threat was sandwiched in. He saw several people near the wheel of the other boat, but he was still too far away to make out any faces.

  The two houseboats began to converge. The cigarette boat picked up speed and was once again heading straight for them. Paul held on steady, sure they would swerve.

  They did. Paul tried to see who they were, but the other boat turned half-sideways as it veered off. In the middle of the rush of noise from the other boat, Turner saw several small flashes. There were two booms. He felt his ears ring. A third flash went off in front of his eyes. He staggered back. Brian caught him. He felt someone brush past him. “I’ve got the wheel.” It was Fenwick’s voice but coming as if from a far distance.

  He felt breath next to his cheek. “Are you okay, Dad?” This was Brian. The voice was dim. Paul realized he had his fists against his eyes.

  He felt strong hands cradling him against the deck. “I’m okay,” he said. Even to himself his voice sounded disembodied.

  “What happened to your eyes?” This was Ian.

  Paul opened his eyes behind his fists. They were watering profusely, but he could see. He felt the boat gently swaying in the water. They were almost at a full stop. He heard the hull scraping.

  “Did we hit something?” he asked.

  He heard Fenwick’s voice. “The boat’s fine. Is everybody okay?”

  Paul pulled his fists away from his face. “Can you see?” Brian asked.

  “Yeah,” Paul said. “Where’s Jeff?”

  “I’m here, Dad. Are you okay? Your face is all red.”

  Paul’s eyes were watering. Brian said, “You’re bleeding.”

  Paul sat up. He shook his head. It was painful to open his eyelids. Squinting through his left eye, he saw Ian handing him towels. He realized it was Brian holding him up. Fenwick was at the wheel.

  The houseboats bobbed next to each other in the slight swell. Paul heard thumps on the deck. Seconds later Ben was next to him. He saw Kevin and Madge placing the hooks between the boats so the two wouldn’t drift apart. Madge hurried over.

  “Are they still out there?” Paul asked.

  Fenwick said, “I can’t hear them.”

  “They could be hiding,” Madge said.

  Brian took a washcloth and began dabbing at the left side of Paul’s head.

  Paul touched his own face then squinted at his fingertips. “Not much blood.”

  “You can see,” Brian said. He sounded very relieved.

  Madge brought a water bottle. “You should flush your eyes.”

  Paul didn’t object. He leaned back and let her pour water carefully over his eyes. He blinked, shut them hard, reopened them.

  People’s voices were beginning to come in more clearly.

  Brian said, “Those fuckers are going to die if they ever get near us again.” Paul looked at his son. He had never heard such fury in the sixteen-year-old’s voice. Obscene language wasn’t banned in their home, but it wasn’t encouraged. He didn’t correct the older boy.

  “Who was it?” Ian asked.

  Kevin said, “I couldn’t see the faces of the people driving it.”

  Ian said, “You drove straight toward them.”

  Paul said, “Now is not the time for second guessing.” He was trembling as much from the shock of the explosions as from the actual encounter. He was glad Brian was still supporting him.

  “What were the explosions?” Jeff asked.

  Fenwick said, “Firecrackers. Big damn ones.” He held up a bit of paper that had landed on the deck. “Not big enough to kill you on their own, probably. Enough to scare you, maybe cause an accident and get you killed. If they hit close enough, blind you.”

  Paul was still resting on the deck. Jeff put his hand on his dad’s shoulder. Paul hunched himself up so he could hug the younger boy. Jeff clutched him fiercely. “I’m fine,” Paul whispered, “I’m fine.”

  When he felt the boy’s arms loosen, Paul eased back. He looked into Madge’s and Buck Fenwick’s faces. “You should see a doctor,” Madge said.

  “I can see okay.”

  Ben said, “You’ve got some small cuts and abrasions and your left ear is bright red.”

  Paul said, “My hearing seems to be all right now.” He leaned up and looked over the side. “Any sign of them?”

  Ian was at the prow. “Nothing.”

  Paul frowned at the western horizon. Several of them followed his gaze. Half the sky was dark gray. The wind rushed past them and the lake surged and heaved. Paul stood. The time taken up for the chase, rescue, and attack had been nearly an hour. The storm was closer than he would have liked. The wind was up and the waves were lapping at the houseboat. He said, “We need to get everything tied down, and we need to get to shelter. The storm is coming earlier than anyone predicted.”

  The Fenwicks returned to their boat. The two craft were quickly unhitched. Ben took the wheel. Everyone else set to tying down anything that could be tied down and making sure all the gear was stowed tightly. Then they all returned topside to watch the approaching storm.

  Madge called across the way, “Your boat is riding too low. Something is wrong with it.”

  Waves occasionally sloshed nearly up to the deck. The boat pitched. Ian said, “Are we sinking? Tell me we’re not sinking.”

  “We’re not sinking,” Paul said.

  Kevin said, “We shouldn’t be this low in the water.”

  Turner rushed to the bilge pump and pushed the button to get it working. Back on deck, he searched the shore for a cove to hole up in.

  “We can’t get under the boat to check out what’s wrong,” Paul said. “It can’t be too bad, or we’d have been sinking sooner. Going fast like this might be making it worse.”

  “Water is getting in?” Ian asked.

  “Yes,” Paul said. “We won’t sink. Not as long as the bilge pump keeps ahead of the water being taken in. We
’ve got to find a place to tie up.” For fifteen minutes they raced north-eastward, rounding islands and trying to keep ahead of the storm. The Fenwicks followed close behind the Turners.

  Ian said, “I’ve never been this close to a storm.”

  Jeff said, “You never went camping as a kid?” He and Brian were playing a game of chess on Game Boy.

  “Never,” Ian said. “I think I’d rather be in the middle of this storm in my apartment in Chicago.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Kevin said. “These are fairly common. There’s a marina around the next island.”

  “You sure?” Ian asked.

  Kevin didn’t bother to look at him. Ben said, “If the kid says there’s a marina, there is one.”

  Thunder roared. Lightning danced on the lake surface. They watched in awe as the rain shield swept toward them, then overtook the boats. The fat drops thudded and thrummed on the roof. The poor visibility caused them to slow their speed.

  No sign of human habitation appeared as they spotted the outline of the island through the downpour. The wind buffeted their boat. Turner did a quick check of everything. The bilge pump chugged away.

  9

  Five minutes later they rounded the island and saw the sign for Sam’s Marina flying in the wind. They hustled into the more sheltered spot. Several other boats had pulled up to the piers leading to the marina. Brian and Kevin leapt out and helped secure the boat. They were immediately soaked. Paul found himself letting out an extended breath. The much lighter swell was a comfort.

  The wind still buffeted the boat. Turner did a quick check of the interior. Brian’s gear was all over the space he slept in, whether from the storm or teenage negligence. The rest of their gear was safe and solidly stowed. The bilge pump labored at its task. Thunder and lightning crashed almost continuously.

  For a while they sat and watched the rain. The sky blackened further. One bolt of lightning hit a tree limb fifty feet from them. The roar was enormous. At times the rain swept by horizontally.

  Ben said, “We should try to get ashore. The storm’s getting worse, and I think the boat is settling.”

  Paul agreed.

  When the storm eased slightly and the wind was down for a moment, they dashed to the marina. Paul carried Jeff. Brian hefted the younger boy’s wheelchair. The Fenwicks followed.

  Inside, people stood in clumps. Ferns, wood, and heads of dead animals filled every inch of wall space. Near the front door a particularly annoying tune emerged from the mouth of a stunningly unattractive sculpture of a singing deer. They could hear the lodge’s electric generator humming despite the continuing maelstrom outside.

  After they shook off the rain and took off damp outer clothing, Ian asked, “Who were those people? Do you get a lot of attacks on fishermen on the lake?”

  “No,” Kevin said.

  Ben said, “This couldn’t have something to do with those kids from last night?”

  “What happened last night?” Jeff asked.

  While the Fenwicks went to see about food, Paul gave a brief version of the break-in and events in the parking lot. When he described the twenty-somethings, Brian said, “I think I’ve seen some of those guys.”

  “Was it a big blond guy?” Kevin asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Him and four buddies? Hot car? Ugly girlfriend, kind of big and hefty?”

  “She must be a prize to someone,” Ian said.

  Turner said, “That’s how many there were.”

  “That’s Scarth Krohn,” Kevin said.

  “Who is Scarth Krohn?” Jeff asked.

  Kevin said, “The town bully.” He sipped from a can of soda pop.

  “Do you know this guy?” Paul asked Brian.

  “Not much. Only what I’ve heard around town.”

  The Fenwicks returned with snacks and soda. Paul gave the Fenwicks the news that Kevin had been able to name the people in the red Mustang.

  “Scarth Krohn?” Fenwick said. “Sounds like a particularly unpleasant refugee from a Star Wars movie.”

  “What’s the deal with this guy?” Jeff asked.

  Kevin sighed. “He and his buddies are the resident assholes. He was four years ahead of me in school. When they were teenagers they were the pranksters in town. At least they referred to themselves as pranksters. Other people thought they were mean-spirited jerks.”

  Ben said, “We saw them going after some of the First Nations people.”

  Paul said, “The police seemed ready to take the side of the white kids even though we told them exactly what happened.”

  Kevin said, “There’s been hassles for years between the First Nations peoples and a few racists. You know how it is with teenagers. They get bored. Gang warfare isn’t unique. Neither is prejudice.”

  “It’s warfare?” Ben asked.

  “That’s probably too strong a word,” Kevin said. “It can get serious. A few years ago a kid in Kenora was killed. The police who handled the investigation screwed it up, got officially reprimanded. But the killers got away with it because of the screwup. Scarth and his buddies have done a ton of stuff over the years. Although I don’t think they’ve killed anybody, yet.”

  “How would they think they would get away with what they did last night?” Ben asked. “I thought the prejudice in Canada wasn’t as bad as it is in the United States.”

  Kevin sighed. “Scarth is the nearest to fame this town has ever gotten. He was going to be bigger than Cathura’s most famous hockey great, Cranston Broulee, a guy who was on the Canadian junior hockey team. Hockey is an obsession up here. Scarth thought of himself as greater that Gretzky. He was going to eclipse all the Great One’s records.”

  “What happened?” Ben asked.

  “He got injured. His last game in school. They’d won the local championship. He was thumping everyone, hugging everyone, shoving everyone, jumping on everyone. There was one of those big pileups of celebrating high school kids. His leg got caught. He twisted the wrong way to stand up. A clot of his clueless teammates tottered and toppled over on him. He tore up tendons and cartilage and who knows what-all in his knee.”

  “Hell of a thing,” Ben said.

  “The year before,” Kevin said, “he’d played in the world junior championship. He had the most goals of anybody ever in the tournament. I’m told he had blinding speed on the rink. I never saw him play. Supposedly scouts for all the hockey teams came through town drooling over him.”

  Ian said, “I’ve always wanted to be drooled over by a whole town.”

  Turner said, “Is that an appropriate crack in front of kids?”

  Ian said, “Depends who’s doing the drooling.”

  Kevin said, “After the incident the whole town was in mourning. You’d think the Queen had died. It went on for weeks. Of course, there isn’t a whole lot going on in this town anyway.”

  “But he gets away with bullying the whole town?” Ben asked.

  “Yep. Besides the athlete crap, his dad is rich. He owned the paper mill. He sold it just before it closed. A lot of good jobs just disappeared. This town hasn’t recovered from that yet. It was five years ago. Four hundred jobs gone in less than three months. Rumor was his dad sold it and made a fortune. Then the new owners just shut the place down.”

  “How do you make a profit doing that?” Ben asked.

  Kevin said, “The forest industry has been in trouble for years. They’re always talking about getting the provincial legislators to do stuff about it. Nobody ever does.”

  “People hate his dad?” Ben asked.

  Kevin said, “Yeah. He didn’t actually close the mill. Evil eastern people did, but they still hate him.” Kevin paused. “Now that I think about it, Scarth’s dad owns the same kind of boat that was after us, same color, too. I never got a good enough look to tell who was in the other boat. Things were going too fast. I can’t even tell you if it was the exact same boat. Sorry.”

  Turner noted that the thunder and lightning had eased. The wind had died an
d rain now poured straight down.

  Kevin said, “The worst was when I was in seventh grade. Scarth and his buddies terrorized everyone.”

  “Why?” Ian asked.

  Kevin shrugged. “I could never figure it out. One day it might be because you wore the wrong color T-shirt, or it had a slogan they didn’t like, or it pictured a rock band they looked down on. It was stupid, stupid stuff. Maybe somebody got a haircut they thought was weird. Finally, one of the kids had had enough. He used to wear his hair spiked, and he’d dye it different colors.”

  “Teenagers can be intolerant of someone different in the best of times,” Turner said.

  “It was the worst time for that kid. He brought a gun to school. It shocked the town. I knew the kid who was being terrorized. A fat, homely, unathletic guy. Poor kid got hell every day. Funny thing was, when he took the gun to threaten people, he didn’t go after Scarth and his buddies.”

  “Why not?” Ian asked.

  “Maybe he was too afraid of them. He threatened a bunch of his fellow seventh graders in the boys’ locker room. I was one of them. Kid’s name was Oliver McBride. He got off two shots. He wounded another nerdy, hopeless kid and a showerhead. Our coach was great. He got McBride to give him the gun.”

  Turner said, “When there’s a shooting, often there are specific kids who have been making another kid’s life hell, but when the shooting starts, it’s other defenseless kids who die. I don’t understand that.”

  Ian said, “And sometimes it’s the tormentor who dies.” He proceeded to give them chapter and verse of several incidents in the States. Turner figured he hadn’t heard of this one in Canada because no one had been killed.

  “Who was the woman with them?” Fenwick asked.

  “That’s Scarth’s sometime girlfriend, Evon Gasple. According to the teenage rumor mill, she gives head but only to the toughest boys or to the ones Scarth wants her to. Nobody I know is really sure or cares that much. I do know she clings to him, sometimes for weeks on end, and then sometimes you don’t see them together for the longest time.”

  As they finished their snacks, they talked about filing an official complaint. Turner took a few minutes to check himself in the bathroom mirror. Ben was with him. “You okay?” he asked.