Crash: Northwoods, Book 2

by Grant C. Holland

  Crash

  Grant C. Holland

  Copyright © 2020 by Grant C. Holland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  1. Gabe

  2. Hal

  3. Gabe

  4. Hal

  5. Gabe

  6. Hal

  7. Gabe

  8. Hal

  9. Gabe

  10. Hal

  11. Gabe

  12. Hal

  13. Gabe

  14. Hal

  15. Gabe

  16. Hal

  17. Hal

  18. Gabe

  19. Hal

  20. Gabe

  21. Hal

  22. Gabe

  23. Hal

  24. Gabe

  25. Hal

  26. Gabe

  Epilogue - Hal

  About the Author

  1

  Gabe

  “You’ve got the location?”

  Gabe Peligo’s truck bumped along in the darkness of the Minnesota Northwoods while he spoke with a team of EMTs 30 minutes away in Ely. It was a chilly, early-spring night with the air temperature hovering about ten degrees above freezing.

  Gabe didn’t know what he would find in the darkness of the pine forest, but it wasn’t the first time he’d faced the unknown. He took some comfort in listening to the animated voices of fellow first-responders on the other end of the call.

  “Yes, we’ve zeroed in on it. That plane went down smack-dab in the middle of the wilderness. I understand we might lose satellite reception at some point along the way. We downloaded the maps as a precaution. We won’t get lost.”

  “Shit, I hope not. You know what the dark is like out here. Even if we can’t save those two in the crash, someone might need to find me and bring me home.”

  “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”

  Gabe puffed out his chest as he leaned forward and peered over the steering wheel into the inky blackness just beyond his headlights. He needed a sharp eye to catch anything along the side of the pavement that might suddenly jump into his path. “I’m fearless. Please tell the wendigo that.”

  “That legend?”

  Gabe’s grandparents were natives of the Northwoods, and they taught him a healthy respect for everything that could go bump in the night. “It’s only a legend until the hairy beast is breathing down your neck.”

  Amid laughter in the background, one of the Ely EMTs said, “Listen, Gabe, we’re signing out, but if you need anything, call. We’ll do our best to help. Otherwise, expect us to be trailing about 30 minutes behind you.”

  As soon as his colleagues cut the line, Gabe felt the darkness close in. It sometimes made it hard to breathe. Gabe did his best to blast concerns about the unseen from his head. Somewhere out there in the woods, two men might have survived the crash of a turboprop plane. Gabe could have waited for help from Ely instead of setting out alone, but he knew that minutes sometimes saved lives.

  Gabe worked as an all-around first responder out of the small, primarily tourism-oriented, outpost of Arrowhead Falls, Minnesota. He was EMT, firefighter, and sometimes police presence, all rolled into one. Hiring Gabe to do three jobs at once saved the community cash. Fortunately, they also paid for quality training in all of the duties.

  Born and raised on the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA), Gabe was proud to serve his home. He grew up in the woods, and he considered it one of the few remaining glimpses of paradise on earth. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  Ely, counting somewhere under 3,500 hardy folk as year-round residents, was the big town of the region, three times the size of Arrowhead Falls. It was the location of the nearest hospital, a decent grocery store, and even a couple of excellent restaurants. Anything more required a trip to Duluth two hours down the road.

  Pounding on the truck’s dashboard, Gabe grumbled, “C’mon, play a decent song. A little 80s would be nice. Upbeat, too. None of those goopy power ballads.” No one could hear him, but a human voice, even his own, helped tame the darkness.

  The plane went down about five miles northwest of Iron Crossing, a hamlet even smaller than Arrowhead Falls. The surrounding territory was pristine, rarely touched, wilderness. Ahead of Gabe was land claimed only by the most intrepid tourists in canoes and the local population of bears and raccoons.

  Gabe didn’t want to think about what he might find when he reached the plane. He’d only worked at one other crash site in his young career. There, he provided backup to a crew out of Duluth. A family of five perished when the father made the fateful decision to fly in thick fog. Gabe considered himself fortunate that he didn’t have to view the bodies.

  The first smile since he’d left home suddenly spread across Gabe’s face. As if in answer to his request, the radio station played the Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me.” Gabe loved 80s pop. He knew that if he didn’t have a seat belt strapped across his body, he’d be dancing. He loved to bust a move and slide across the hardwood floors of his apartment, Risky Business-style.

  Brandon, Gabe’s best friend, always moaned when the dancing bug struck. That was because Brandon had the misfortune to be born with two left feet. Matching body movements to a thumping beat was one of the few skills that eluded the blond-haired wonder.

  Gabe knew that there was a silver lining to everything, no matter how dark the cloud looked at first. His grandmother taught him that lesson when he was a small boy. In the case of the downed plane, one glittering, shiny hem stood out at the edge of the storm. It was the fact that Gabe didn’t have to go to the Larry Liston concert at the Lost Loon in Arrowhead Falls.

  Liston was a local celebrity who recorded the most ridiculous songs Gabe could imagine. Still, he was popular with hardcore regional fans even in the twilight of his career. All of Gabe’s best friends were there cheering Larry on.

  For a moment, Gabe thought about the night he had to check Larry Liston for bumps and bruises after a highway collision with a wayward moose. Gabe shuddered at the memory. The stench of alcohol on Larry’s breath was unmistakable, but apparently, the cops decided to avoid controversy. The small-time celebrity escaped all legal peril.

  The road was narrow at the closest point to the downed plane. Gabe eased his truck onto the shoulder and set the emergency flashers. He didn’t know how long he would be gone, but he was confident that a run-down truck battery would be the least of his problems. The flashers would last long enough to make sure the crew from Ely wouldn’t miss the truck.

  Slinging his bright orange backpack over his shoulders, Gabe shined his high-lumen flashlight into the woods. It was dark, pitch black, in there. The light would help, but Gabe couldn’t stop thinking about what might lurk just outside the beams.

  In the daylight, it would take about 40 or 45 minutes to make it to the crash site. That involved moving at a reasonably brisk pace. The dark would slow Gabe down, but he knew he had to walk as fast as possible without putting himself in unnecessary danger. If he arrived in under an hour, he’d know he made good time. Even at a quick pace, the men on the plane would have to survive almost two full hours without help.

  Always the optimist, Gabe whispered, “Hang on. Help is coming.”

  Five steps from the road, Gabe stepped on a dry stick that cracked like the shot of a BB gun.

  “Holy shit! You’d make such a piss-poor
Indian.” Gabe scolded himself, but he also smiled at the thought that his noisy steps might scare off any but the most audacious night predators. He swung the light from side-to-side to alert all of the forest beasts that he was on his way.

  The scent of pine was almost overwhelming. A recent rain combined with the mist lingering in the air intensified the smell. It was at least twice as pungent as in the daytime. Gabe mused that his heightened awareness of the aroma must have been due to the darkness taking away so much of his eyesight. Everyone agreed that the remaining senses grew stronger when you lost the use of one of the others.

  Gabe tried to think about as many ordinary, boring topics as possible to counteract his worries about marching alone through the darkness. He attempted to remember what he knew about the passenger on the plane, Hal Brentwood. Before setting out, he didn’t learn much of anything beyond the fact that Hal was a politician, and Gabe hated politics.

  The political discussions Gabe witnessed always ended with one of two possible results—either those engaged in the debate instantly disliked each other, or they made a quick pact to band together in fierce opposition to other people. For Gabe, politics was too often a shorthand way to dehumanize strangers, and he couldn’t afford to do that in his line of work. He saw politics as a cudgel too commonly used for destructive purposes.

  Saving the lives of other people was not only Gabe’s line of work, but it was also his reason for living. If he spent time coming up with excuses to condemn others, he knew that it would impact his performance at the crucial point of contact. Despite all the rumors Gabe heard to the contrary, Hal Brentwood was a fellow human being, and he deserved the best attempt to save his life.

  “Damn--cold, cold, cold!” The early spring growth on the forest floor hid a shallow water hole in the darkness. Warmer weather was on its way, but the water everywhere, in open lakes, or deeper woods, wouldn’t heat up until early June or later. It was only April.

  As he gingerly took steps to try and exit the swampy spot without wading into deeper water, Gabe heard the splat of large water droplets falling onto his red Gore-Tex jacket from above. They were more substantive than mist. Instinctively, he rolled his head back and looked up and shined his light through the canopy of towering pines. He didn’t know whether it was water sliding off the needles of the trees or the start of a new round of rain.

  “Please, no. Hold off for just two more hours. No rain. No more water.”

  Gabe fought to keep his mind active while he trudged through the woods. If he let his thoughts slip, he knew that it would be too easy to shift to autopilot and lose his way.

  He thought again about the information he looked up before heading for the truck. Gabe tried to remember the picture of Hal Brentwood’s face. He didn’t have time to focus on details. All that he could remember was that Hal was handsome--and young. He couldn’t be much older than Gabe’s 25.

  Brandon’s words about Hal suddenly came back to Gabe’s mind. Brandon liked to talk politics, and he often added a derisive sneer to his comments. He called Hal Brentwood, “the Boy Wonder of Northwoods politics. Except this one fights on the Joker’s side.”

  Gabe heard a sudden rustling off to his right. He froze in his tracks and swung the light sharply. His heart thumped fiercely in his chest, but the furry, black-masked face staring back relieved him. The defiant raccoon raised his front paws for a moment like he was attempting to showcase his ferocity. A few seconds later, the beast scuttled off into the part of the forest not yet pierced by the flashlight beam.

  “Keep moving. It’s only a raccoon.” It was important for Gabe to urge his body onward. Saying the words out loud helped.

  Gabe pulled his phone out and glanced at the screen. He’d been on the move through the woods for just over half an hour. Unfortunately, the satellite reception was gone. The map gave a reasonable estimate of less than a mile to go, but he couldn’t completely trust it without a connection to the cell network.

  Putting one foot in front of the other, Gabe whispered, “Don’t let me get lost. Don’t. Please, don’t.”

  The odds were against survival for victims of small plane crashes. Gabe heard dire statistics quoted in a Patsy Cline documentary. Night decreased the chances even more.

  The guys out of Ely suggested that Gabe wait for them instead of proceeding alone. Their underlying, but unspoken, rationale was the likelihood that both the pilot and his passenger were dead. Gabe didn’t give up so easily. He’d already helped save a severely burned highway accident victim that statistics said should have died. An experienced paramedic responding to that scene whispered to Gabe that life was ebbing away, but sometimes the likely outcomes didn’t happen. Against all the odds, the burn victim was back teaching his 2nd-grade class less than six months later.

  The phone’s satellite connection returned, and it told Gabe that he was less than a quarter-mile away from the crash site. He did his best to quicken his march through the woods. Unfortunately, the forest fought back, and he tripped over a small log. After two flailing steps forward with arms flung outward to try and maintain his balance, Gabe pitched face-first into the damp muck of the forest floor.

  It wasn’t the time to whine and complain about a pain in his knee or a twinge in his ankle. He had to scramble to his feet. Someone who needed his help might be out there. Gabe cast the light around, and he thought he could see an opening in the trees ahead. He walked as quickly as possible, just short of a jog, in the direction of the clearing.

  The hooting of an owl startled him, but Gabe’s reaction was only a brief break in his step. Ahead, he thought he spotted the white tail of the wreckage of a plane. He yelled out in a deep, resonant voice, “Help is here! Help is coming!” Gabe practiced pitching his voice forward as far as possible. The exercises ultimately lowered the tone of his speaking voice. His friend, Elle, described the new tone as a rich baritone.

  More details about the crash revealed themselves as Gabe approached. When the plane came down, it skidded across the tops of pine trees and sheared some of them in half. It came to a stop with the wheels of the turboprop sunk only halfway into the forest floor. The tail pointed up at an angle, and the nose dangled only a foot or two from the ferns and leaf litter below. It was almost as if the trees collaborated to form a makeshift baseball mitt to catch the flight and bring it to a halt.

  Gabe didn’t see any signs of fire. That was positive. Blazes were a top danger that contributed to the deaths of many crash victims. Gabe thought the descent of the plane happened long enough in the past that any likely explosions would have already taken place. He gingerly picked his way through the last of the trees that separated him from the scratched fuselage of the plane.

  The scene was eerily silent. Gabe listened for the tell-tale crackling noises caused by any hidden, smoldering flames. The stench of leaking fuel hung in the air. It was a flame hazard, but any errant sparks would likely have already ignited the raw fluid mixture if it were going to happen.

  Gabe saw that the door on the nearest side of the cockpit was flung open. The wing, knocked awry by the impact of the collision with the trees, obscured the view inside. A branch of one of the pines that caught the plane penetrated the windshield.

  “How could they survive that?”

  Gabe spotted the scorch marks on the nose and recognized that the turboprop’s propeller was missing. Either a fire in flight or an explosion on the ground caused that damage. Gabe raised one foot. It felt like it weighed thirty pounds. He discovered that his boot was halfway submerged in muck.

  Standing next to the wreckage, Gabe grabbed the smooth metal edge of the wing and lowered his head slightly to look into the cockpit. He’d never become immune to the psychological impact of physical carnage, but he learned how to steel himself, so the sight of blood and twisted limbs didn’t impact his work.

  It was immediately apparent that the pilot of the plane likely didn’t survive the crash. He was pinned to the rear of the cockpit by the branch that pierced t
he windshield. His broken body was like a tea sandwich impaled by a fat toothpick.

  The dark wave of blood that washed over the seat told the rest of the pilot’s story. Gabe pulled himself up into the cockpit with the strength of his upper arms. The body of the man was already cold. I hope for his sake that the death was instant.

  Gabe raised his head to look past the body in hopes of learning the fate of the second occupant of the plane. He saw nothing but debris, some of it personal clothing, scattered into the woods beyond. It was time to begin scouring the area under the plane and the wooded perimeter surrounding the crash.

  Seconds after beginning the search that promised to end in another tragedy, Gabe heard a sound. At first, he thought it might be another owl, but the sound was more unsteady than that. Gabe froze in place to listen again.

  It was a voice—a human voice. Gabe didn’t recognize specific words, but the muted cries did come from a person. The passenger of the plane?

  Gabe waited for a moment and listened to try to hear the sound again. He heard it again, noted the direction, and he set out to chase down the voice. As Gabe took three steps due east of the crash, the weak cries formed into one intelligible word.

  “Help!”

  2

  Hal

  Hal’s father loaned his favorite private pilot, Boyd “Hunter” Andrews, to his son’s election campaign. The official filing date was more than a month away. Still, most of the northeastern quadrant of the state of Minnesota knew that Hal Brentwood would be a candidate for U.S. Representative in the summer primary.