Built at the turn of the century, there was space for a dozen boats inside, each with its own slip and double doors opening out into the lake. The building stood at the end of a wide twenty foot dock and cantilevered out over the water yet another thirty feet. Because it was in a bay on the northeast side of the lake, it was protected from winter winds and ice floes. This year, the summer rains had been so plentiful that the lake was much higher than usual. So much so that the floor inside the boathouse seemed to float a bare two to three inches over the lightly lapping waves.
“Why is this water so black?” asked Wayne, standing at the edge of one of the slips and looking down.
“Tannin from the pine trees,” said Osborne, “plus we’re in the shade. This lake has a mucky bottom, too, which doesn’t help.”
“How deep do you think it is?”
“Right here? Five feet, maybe deeper.” Osborne studied the water, “this dock was built for a water level a good six inches to a foot lower than what you see. This is so high they may have winter damage when it ices over.”
“Do fish swim in here?”
“Oh, sure. Rock bass, suckers—you’ll hear them jump. They come after any insects the wolf spiders haven’t eaten.”
“Wolf spiders,” said Wayne. “So you get those up here, huh.”
“Oh yeah, hundreds of ‘em under a dock like this and big as a puppy,” Osborne teased. He relented when he saw the distress on Wayne’s face. Funny what reduces a tough guy to jelly. “Don’t worry, Wayne. You’ll get fair warning. From tip to tip, a wolf spider measures four to five inches—you won’t miss one,” said Osborne. “They aren’t poisonous, but they are a very good reason to watch where you put your hands when you work around a dock.”
Wayne shook his shoulders in a mock shiver. “Ee-yuck. Give me a car thief any day, Doc.”
By five-thirty, they had almost all the boats outfitted. Outboard motors were hooked in and tilted high, fuel tanks readied, locators and acqua cams plugged in, tested and operating. Ray assigned one final chore: remove all the packing tape from the storage units and fill the livewells with fresh water.
Osborne was just uncoiling a length of hose, when Wayne shouted from where he crouched in one of the boats, “Hey, wait a minute. Doc, you better take a look at this.”
“Got a problem?”
“Somebody’s got a problem.” He held open a livewell, and Osborne looked down. It was full, neatly packed with packages wrapped in white freezer paper. Wayne had slit open one of the packages with his jackknife. He pointed with the tip of his knife: “Ever see bulk cocaine before?”
They checked the next boat. That livewell was empty. The next one was full. In all, four of the ten boats had livewells that needed emptying.
“Ray—get out here!” shouted Wayne.
“Ho-o-ly Cow! So that’s what old George was up to—he was waiting for his connection,” said Ray two minutes later. He was standing in one of the boats, staring down at the cache in front of him. The look on his face changed from amazement to chagrin.
“Now what do I do?” He threw his hands up in disgust. “Next you’ll tell me you have to put everything in quarantine or something stupid like that? That’s it, y’know. That wrecks the tournament. We’ll have to cancel. Thank … you … George.”
“Not so fast, my friend,” Wayne put a comforting hand on Ray’s shoulder. “You pulled some strings for me, I can pull a few for you. You got that camera of yours in the truck? Go get it. While you do that, I’ll call in. I want someone on George Zolonsky’s butt right now.
“We’ll shoot photos of these for evidence. Since you and Doc are deputies for Chief Ferris, you can unload. But we have to get her out here right away. We need her to document the unloading, and, of course, she needs to take possession. She and I can handle the paperwork on this.”
“What do you think, Wayne?” asked Osborne. “Is this what you came up here for?”
“We hooked a big one, boys,” said Wayne. “No catch and release on this mother,” he looked at Ray and Osborne with a wide, wide smile of satisfaction. “This is a career-maker, men, this has to be one of the biggest coke busts north of Milwaukee. Ever.”
“Ever?” said Ray, starting to lighten up. “Jeez, I may be on TV again.”
“I guarantee you’ll be on TV,” said Wayne, “but we need to hustle if you want to be on the lake in the morning.”
“Okay, okay,” said Ray, jumping up onto the dock from the boat.
Just then the door to the boathouse swung open. Osborne saw the barrel of the shotgun before he recognized the figure holding it. By the time, his brain had registered the face, the force of the deer slug had blown Wayne over the back of the boat and into the dark, oily water.
Osborne never did remember making a conscious decision to do anything. All he knew was he was flying, too, over the edge and down into the murky blackness.
Opening his eyes, he strained to see through the dark water. Even though the afternoon sunlight lent a brownish glow to the surface, he could see less than twelve inches in front of him. Reaching down he pulled at the laces of his fishing boots. Up he went for a quick gulp of air, then down again. Boots off, he thrust his hands out and around, desperate to find Wayne before the detective’s boots and sodden jeans would drag his unconscious form down to the muddy bottom.
Arms flailing through the dark water, he searched until he couldn’t stand it any more. He burst through the surface for air. A slug thudded into the water by his right ear. Down, down, he pulled his arms furiously. Looking up, he could see the bottom of the boat but no sign of a floating body, no Wayne. Nor could he touch bottom, it was so deep. The muffled crack of two more slugs hit the water over his head.
He kept kicking, reaching around him, hoping to make contact with something. His foot hit a piling. Quickly, he grabbed the slimy timber. Grasping desperately with both hands, refusing to let his fingers slide off, he pulled and kicked until he knew he was under the dock, then eased up slowly, slowly. He had to breathe, but he didn’t want to die doing so.
Struggling to keep all movement minimal, knowing that the slightest change in the sound of the lapping waves would give him away, he let himself float up and up. Just when he thought his lungs would burst, the top of his head bumped the underside of the dock. Easing back, he raised his chin, letting his face break the surface. There couldn’t be more than two inches of clearance but it was a life-saving two inches. Silently, he hoped, he exhaled, then inhaled, then waited.
Submerging his mouth and tipping his head back and forth to breathe through his nose, he looked around between breaths. Cracks in the boards overhead let light sprinkle through. A wooden lip along the edge of the dock made it impossible to see into the slips, but he could hear the nearest boat rocking.
Heavy feet shuffled as someone banged their way through the boat.
Osborne backed into the black recess under the dock, pushing overhead with his hands. The soft body of a wolf spider moved beneath his fingers, and he felt cocoons that he would have avoided any other time, crumbling as they dropped into the water around his face and eyes.
With a sudden roar, the outboard motor in the slip beside him revved up, churning the water with such force that it put anyone within a fifteen-foot range at risk of being sucked into the powerful blades. It also churned a wake that would have drowned Osborne if the ledge along the edge of the dock weren’t there to break the wave action. As it was, the water lapped up against the undersurface of the dock, forcing him to take hasty breaths between the swells. The swells were a blessing: their steady rhythm helped Osborne force down the urge to panic.
The outboard stopped as suddenly as it had started. Silence. Osborne tried to remain perfectly still, pumping only his legs to tread water, hands loosely circling the piling. He waited and hoped to hell Wayne had regained consciouness and was out of danger. In his gut, he knew otherwise.
“George … take it easy, George …” he heard Ray’s voice, steady, reasonable
.
“Shaddup, Pradt. You’re next,” the boots clumped on the boards directly over Osborne’s head. “I see one floating out there. Where’s the old man? Where’s he, huh?” said George, speaking so fast Osborne could barely understand him.
“I think you took ‘em both out, George,” Ray drawled evenly. “That last slug, I saw blood, you got ‘em.”
“Yeah? Nah, you’re foolin’ with my head, Pradt. That sonofabitch is down there.” George’s boots clumped along the planking. Osborne could see him through the cracks in the dock. Or rather he identified him from the waist down: bow-legged in Levi’s worn low on his lean frame. A white band of Jockey shorts showed above the waist of the Levi’s.
“I don’t see any blood.”
“I saw the hit, George, you can’t see blood in this dark water. You know that.”
“But I don’t see his body. I oughta see two floating out there …”
“Doc was wearing my tool belt, George. I guarantee he went straight to the bottom.”
“Huh.” George had stripped off his shirt, and Osborne could see the sweat stream off his shoulders and run down his back. Zolonsky was a wiry, small-boned man, well-muscled across the shoulders and down his back from years of working home construction and tile laying. But it wasn’t that warm in the boathouse. The profuse sweating was a bad sign. Knowing what he knew about pharmaceuticals and knowing George may have been doing cocaine for days, Osborne figured the man’s paranoia level had to be so intense that the slightest sound, the most minimal movement would set him off.
Osborne gritted his teeth and held on, expecting the worst. Nothing like a paranoid psychotic with a shotgun.
George loped back towards Ray, who stood on the dock just inside the doorway, his back against the wall, his hands held conspicuously high. Suddenly, a fish jumped, the soft plunk breaking the silence of the boathouse. George spun around, shotgun waving wildly towards the lake through the open doors of the boat slips, “They’re coming! They’re coming! Where are they!” he shouted.
“George,” said Ray, his voice soothing, almost singsong, as if he was telling one of his over-long stories at the bar late on a Saturday night, “that was a bluegill. A tiny bluegill. An unarmed bluegill, George. Besides, they aren’t after you, they are after me. You called the cops on me, remember? You called and said I stole your rig. So settle down, George. You, my friend, are in the driver’s seat.”
“Yeah?” George’s highstrung voice was doubtful as he stood waving the shotgun towards the open doors to the lake.
“Say, Georgie—did you get a tax stamp for this crap?”
George swung back around to level the shotgun at Ray.
“Just kidding, just kidding.” Right or wrong, Ray was doing his best to act naturally, to calm George down. Osborne was not at all sure it was working. The one factor in Ray’s favor was the simple fact he was well-liked by most North Woods men, no matter what their economic status. Osborne knew, too, that Ray had spent more than a few hours in the musky boat with George when they were younger. Maybe the sharing of secret fishing holes would count for something.
Stopping in front of Ray, George nudged the muzzle of the shotgun under Ray’s chin. Osborne had a full view through the cracks in the dock flooring. He could see the man’s entire body vibrating so violently that the gun shook where it pushed into Ray’s neck.
What did that say about the trigger finger? Osborne tipped his head back for a quick exhale and inhale. Moments like this made him glad he still attended Mass, that he covered his bets just in case there was a Greater Power. He ripped off a series of Hail Mary’s like he hadn’t since he was a kid with a bad report card. Ray needed all the help he could get.
“George … what happened fifteen years ago?” With the gun against his throat, Ray’s voice sounded a little strained.
“Shuddup, Pradt. The last thing I need is one of your stupid jokes.”
Osborne couldn’t agree more.
“Now listen, I’m serious, George. We got caught smoking weed over on the Willow Flowage ice fishing. You, me, and Patty Boy Vinson, remember that?”
“What’s the point? This ain’t weed I got here, dumkof.”
“I’m trying to tell you. Remember how you and Patty Boy got away? But Smiling John collared me, remember?” said Ray referring to the former Loon Lake police chief renown for his lack of humor.
Ray’s voice was steady again, smooth and soothing, reminding Osborne of the day they were scouting beaver dams and found a red fox with one leg caught in a trap set for fishers.
Staying in full view and moving with graceful slowness, for an hour Ray had advanced on his hands and knees, his voice low and singsong, lulling the fox until, trusting, it lay still long enough for Ray to reach over and release the trap. Expecting the fox to leap and run, Osborne had been amazed to see the animal lay back, lick its wound, then sit up on its good haunch to stare at Ray with a long, measuring look before limping slowly off into the brush.
“I never squealed on you, George. Remember that? My dad wouldn’t bail me out, and I had to stay two weeks in the slammer, but I never gave Sloan your names. Never did, remember?” Ray’s voice pressed on, as mellow as if he was in his musky boat chatting in a muted drone so as not to disturb nearby fishermen.
“Okay, okay, what’s the point?” George dropped the muzzle from Ray’s neck.
“That’s what I’m tryin to tell you. Take your stuff, and get outta here. I won’t say a word. I can tell the cops some jabone I never saw before rolled in here and hammered us.”
George dropped the gun and turned sideways so Osborne could see his expression. Zolonsky’s face was pale beneath his reddish tan. His eyes bulging more than ever. With his left hand, he pulled a packet of Camels from the back pocket of his jeans, shook a cigarette into his mouth, reached for a lighter in his front pocket and lit the cigarette. Cradling the shotgun in his right arm, the barrel still pointing at Ray, he inhaled deeply, spit, then stuck the cigarette between his lips and leveled the rifle in both hands. He seemed a little less shaky.
“I don’t know, Pradt. You’ve been bugging the hell outta me—calling my house, hassling my daughter. I had a big deal going down. You almost made me blow it—”
“I know, I know, and I’m sorry about that. But me, too, George. I have the biggest deal of my life. I’m on ESPN for chrissake. Look. George. We’re just two guys trying to do business, trying to make a living, y’know?
“And it’s damned hard.”
“You betcha. We’re in the same boat, man. So let me help you outta here. Then you get your money, and I get mine. Deal? I got a dolly right over in that corner. I can help you load up.”
“Yeah? Yeah, okay … wait, how do I know you won’t call the cops after I’m gone?”
“See that roll of duct tape over in the corner? Just tape me up after we get you loaded. No one shows for the tournament until four-thirty in the morning. That’s more than eight hours from now. You got a long drive to make delivery?”
“Long, long drive. None of your business how long a drive.”
“Of course not. But you can be across the Canadian border before anyone finds me.”
“That’s true,” George tossed his cigarette into the water. “Gives me time for the pick-up at my other place, too. Yeah, that’s good. I didn’t want to shoot you, Ray. You know that. You helped me catch that 52-inch musky what, six, seven years ago? I got that musky on my living room wall. No, this is good. You I don’t want to shoot.”
It took less than ten minutes for the two men to pull out the bags, load them onto the dolly and wheel them out. George had pulled his truck right up to the door, making it easy to load. It also indicated to Osborne that he must have bided his time earlier, waiting for the marina staff to leave for the day.
The loading completed, Ray sat down on a bench near the entrance to the boathouse. Holding the roll of duct tape in his right hand, he started to wind it over his pant legs and around his ankles.
&n
bsp; “Gimme that,” said George, stashing another cigarette between his lips and squatting in front of Ray.
“So, George,” said Ray casually as his knees and ankles were being bound, “that you taking those big bucks off the back forty behind The Willows?”
George threw the roll of tape down and jumped to his feet, “That’s it! You want my business. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it. Damn you, you crumb bum!” He stomped over to grab the shotgun from where he had set it on its butt against the wall. Osborne’s pulse accelerated.
“Georgie, Georgie, Georgie,” Ray spoke rapidly but still with a cool calmness. “Settle down, pal. How much coke did you do! You must’ve blown your sensors out your ears. No, I don’t want your business. Why would I want your business? I got my hands full with my minnow operation. I intended a compliment.”
“Whattaya mean?” demanded George, cigarette bouncing between his lips. He set the gun down and walked back over to Ray.
“I mean you have a very nice set-up. Very nicely hidden, very efficient. Just a compliment, George.”
“Hands out,” George demanded, wrapping the tape around Ray’s wrists, “what took you back in there, anyway?”
“I was looking for beaver dams. You know how I break ‘em down and seine for minnows.”
“Yeah, you sonofagun,” George started around Ray’s mouth with the duct tape, “when was the last time you took a legal minnow, huh? Hee, hee, hee.” He laughed at his own nonsense as he ripped the tape, slapping one end against Ray’s cheek. The sound of Zolonsky’s wheezy signature giggle came as a positive omen to Osborne. It meant Zolonsky was his usual self, at least with Ray.
“Hee, hee, hee,” Zolonsky chortled again as he stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Sleep tight, Pradt.” Then he reached for his shotgun, gave Ray a friendly pat on the shoulder, and headed towards the doorway.
Dead Angler Page 26