by Dave Balcom
As I arrived where I could see the chalky white beach that is the hallmark of marl lakes. I stopped in a clump of sumac which still had its leaves, but they were all brown and dying. I immediately saw activity on the far end of the lake.
It was actually more like a large pond; I guessed it at maybe 10 to 15 acres. I could see two vehicles at that end, one was the pickup I’d seen Decker driving the evening before; the other was an ATV, like a Gator. I could see two men sitting on the ground and two others were attending to some chore in the back of the ATV. I could see an old jon boat pulled up on the beach.
I hustled back to the Suburban, turned around and headed the way I had come. When I came to the original split, I was on the southern loop, and came almost immediately to another trail to the right. I stopped the Suburban in the intersection, effectively blocking it. Checked for more ammunition and then hurried down the trail to where I thought I’d find Miles.
I came around a curve in the trail at a trot and nearly collided with Paul Ralph who was standing looking back to the beach.
I hadn’t made much noise, and he probably didn’t hear me coming. I put my hands out to keep from toppling him just as I realized he was holding a shotgun of his own. I instinctively allowed myself to clasp my arm around his and drag him to the ground.
I quickly and easily overpowered him, taking his weapon, and pinning him face down in one movement.
“Don’t make a sound, Paul; I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You already have. I think you broke something in my ribs,” he gasped. “Why are you here?”
“I’ve come for Miles and the deputy. Now you stay still, and I won’t hurt you any further. You raise your voice, and I’ll probably kill you; understand?”
“I’m as good as dead already.”
“Shush, and maybe I can keep from killing your kids.”
That quieted him. I got up and headed down the track, carrying both our shotguns. When I got to the beach, Miles was sitting in the jon boat, and Mark Decker was lifting a 5-gallon pail into it. Tony Ralph was sitting on the tailgate of the pickup truck. Deputy Schmidt was sitting cross-legged on the ground before him.
I walked directly across the open ground behind Ralph and towards Decker. I had my shotgun in my left hand, safety off; my revolver was in my right hand, pointing directly at the middle of Decker’s back.
Decker was wiring the 5-gallon bucket to the ropes that bound Miles’ ankles. I was about six feet from him when he must have heard or sensed my presence. He came out of his crouch like a striking snake, spinning and raising a weapon at the same time. I shot him in the face with the 20-gauge Benelli semi-automatic weapon. He flew out of the boat backwards, landing spread eagled in the chalky beach fluff.
I spun and raised the handgun in Ralph’s direction. He was still sitting on the tailgate, his mouth open in surprise.
I walked straight to him, and pointed the revolver in his face. “If you have a weapon, leave it there and come down. If I see it, I’ll shoot.”
He hadn’t moved other than to turn his head at the sound of my shot. “I, I d-d-don’t have a weapon.”
“Come down.”
He slid off the tailgate and I had him turn around and lean against the truck. I kicked his legs apart and, putting my pistol in my belt and the shotgun inside the bed of the truck, I quickly checked him for a weapon. I found nothing.
I turned to the deputy who was gagged with his arms behind him, cuffed with what I figured were his own cuffs. “You got the key?”
He shook his head and nodded towards the truck. I went back to Tony and felt of his pockets, but I didn’t find a key. “My shirt,” he said.
I took the key and unlocked Schmidt. I handed my weapon to him, and walked back to the jon boat. I checked on Decker. He was breathing, but he was no threat. I found his weapon in the fluff a few feet away from him, and then I went to Miles.
His hands were tied behind him, and I used my pocket knife to cut the rope. Then I found wire cutters in the bottom of the boat next to his feet, and freed them.
When I straightened up, he was taking the gag out of his mouth. He just started to say something when the sound of a helicopter interrupted him.
“I called Bromwell before I came out here. You all right?”
“Just pissed as hell; how’s Schmidt?”
“He seems okay.”
“Where’s Jan?”
“She’s in the farm house with Betty. Are there any others involved in this?”
He shook his head, “Not that I know of.”
I opened my phone and called Bromwell who answered immediately. I could tell he was in the chopper. “We’re at the lake, Rick. We need an ambulance down here.”
Then I saw the helicopter break out over the woods a half a mile or so to the north, heading west. Just as I saw it, they saw us, and the pilot turned right at us.
Seconds later, he set the craft down in the clearing. We had moved away as far as we could, but we still got stung by the flying crusty calcium carbonate stirred up by the rotors.
As Rick climbed out of the helicopter, I ran to him. “Did you call for an ambulance?”
“Pilot did; you couldn’t hear us, but we had no trouble hearing you. He piped your call into our headsets. What have we got here?”
I filled him in as we walked to the pickup truck. “Andy,” Bromwell said to his deputy, tossing him a small first aid kit, “Go see what you can do for Decker.”
“Where’s Jan?”
“At the farm house; we should move up there.”
“How far?”
“My vehicle is just up the trail there,” I said as I started in that direction. Miles had Tony Ralph by the shirt collar and was pushing him ahead.
I was leading the way and when I came to where I had left Paul’s shotgun, I pointed to it, but Rick snapped, “Leave it for CSI.”
I hurried on and came to where I’d left Paul Ralph, but he was gone. I picked up my pace and heard the others running to catch up. When we got to the Suburban, I was wasting no time.
I started the engine just as the three of them arrived, and Bromwell jumped in the passenger seat, Miles pushed Tony into the back seat and followed him. I jerked the vehicle into reverse, spun the wheel and backed into the shrubs, then powered my way through the u-turn and raced back up the trail.
I saw no sign of the elder Ralph but as we emerged from the forest, I saw squad cars in the front yard of the farm house, their lights flashing, and I settled down. At the barn, I pulled to a stop.
“You stay in the vehicle,” Bromwell said to me in his command voice. “Keep our friend back there company. Miles?”
“I’m with ya.”
The two officers started toward the double doors and then disappeared into the murky barn.
I was watching for them to reappear when my phone went off. I flipped it open and heard Jan’s voice, “You okay?”
“I am. Where are you?”
“Upstairs with Betty and a state trooper named Shields. They took my Colt away from me.”
“You probably don’t need it any longer; there’s plenty of fire power on hand.”
“I heard shooting.”
“Yep, I’m just fine. Miles is fine, Schmidt is fine; Decker not so much.”
“What’s next?”
“Miles and Rick are looking for Paul. He didn’t stay where I left him.” At that point, the sheriff came out into the sunlight with his phone to his ear. Miles was right behind him, and they walked up to the car. “The deputies down at the lake have him. He hid until we were gone, then he tried to use the ATV to make a getaway, but they had no trouble putting him under arrest. They’ve called one of the troopers up here... there he goes now,” and I saw a trooper getting into his cruiser and start towards us.
“I’ll show him the way,” Miles said and stepped around to wave at the trooper who skidded to a stop. They left at a slower speed after Miles was on board.
“Let’s go on up to the house,�
�� the sheriff said. “You drive, I’ll walk.”
I parked at the house just as a deputy came out the front door and approached me. “I’ll take the prisoner, Mr. Stanton.”
“He’s all yours.”
He took Tony out of the car, and walked him to the only remaining squad car, reading the lawyer his rights as they went. “Do you understand these rights as I explained them?” I heard the deputy say as I went into the house.
Another deputy was sitting on the stairs as I walked in. “You have a weapon, Mr. Stanton?”
“I do.”
“Surrender it, please.”
I pulled it out of my belt, turned it butt first and handed it to him.
“Thank you, sir. Is this your weapon? Did you fire it today?”
I shook my head. “No. I gave my pistol to Inspector Lawton. I fired my shotgun at the lake; it’s still down there in the bed of a pickup truck. This weapon, I think, belongs to Mark Decker.”
“We’ll untangle all that. Your wife’s upstairs with Mrs. Ralph.”
“How’s Mrs. Ralph?”
“She’s terrified, and somewhat addled, I think.”
“Aren’t we all this day?”
CHAPTER 49
It took until nearly four in the afternoon to clear the scene. Decker was flown in the Forest Service’s Helicopter to the hospital in Traverse City; Paul and Tony were taken in separate cars to the Kalkaska County jail.
An Antrim County health services nurse took Mrs. Ralph into her custody and transported the elderly woman to a home for the elderly in Traverse City. Speculation was that she would soon be returned to her residence on Torch Lake and reunited with her loyal house keeper, Maria.
Every time Rick or Miles tried to talk to me or Jan about the whole episode, another level of bureaucracy interrupted, from the Kalkaska County DA’s office to the Antrim County prosecutor, to the State’s Attorney and finally, at about four, three very nattily dressed suits with hundred-dollar haircuts showed up in their own helicopter and, flashing federal credentials, shut the whole thing down.
Sitting with Jan and me, one of the suits took great pains explaining how we’d be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law if we so much as mentioned this event to someone lacking appropriate clearance.
Finally, Rick came to the kitchen where we’d been sitting for hours and suggested we could go back to the hotel in Bellaire. Then, as if in an afterthought, he said with an evil grin, “Of course, don’t leave town...”
After seeing to Judy’s needs and cleaning up as much as we could, we left town and went to Stoney for some of Annie's comfort food.
She was curious as to what we’d been up to, but it hadn’t hit the news cycle as yet, so we just said we’d been keeping busy and left it at that.
We were back in our room at the hotel by eight-thirty, and I was sound asleep by eight-forty-five.
I was stretching in the side yard of the hotel at seven the next morning in preparation for taking a walk to clear my cobwebs. Judy was anxiously waiting to join me just as a Sheriff’s cruiser pulled up.
A deputy I’d never met before climbed out of the car and walked over to me. “Pardon me, sir? Are you Jim Stanton?”
“I am,” I answered, looking at this giant of a man. He was at least three inches taller than I, and I guessed he had me by twenty or more pounds of muscle.
“I need you to come with me, sir.”
“I beg your pardon? Why would I do that?”
“I was just told to come over here; I’d find you either walking your dog or getting ready to walk your dog, and to bring you in. Now, let’s go.”
I started to obey, and then on an impulse, I drew my phone and flipped it open and hit the speed dial button for the sheriff. I wasn’t watching that carefully as I did that, and suddenly the phone was back-handed out of my grip. I looked up just in time to catch the forward slap on the side of my head, and it felt as if I’d been hit with a ham – a frozen ham.
I rolled with the punch rather than absorbing the shock, and felt myself instinctively going into automatic mode; letting my years of training take control. I came out of the roll in perfect form, balanced and prepared to react. The bruiser wasn’t impressed with my agility. He looked to me to be in his twenties, and without any kind of technique, he just waded in on me. He threw a roundhouse right that I caught in my standard technique and felt it drive its way through my crossed arms and break my nose in passing.
I dodged the next punch and side-stepped away from another, but I was being backed into a corner where the hotel entrance joined the main wall of the building.
This guy was in no hurry; he was just wading in, looking to take whatever I might offer, confident in his superior size, skill, and strength.
As he prepared to throw another punch, I stepped inside his arc, hit him twice in the throat, then skipped right into his left and felt myself airborne until I collided with the brick wall of the building.
I felt the air explode out of me, and before I could even check with my center, I realized I had fallen to the ground. I wasn’t seeing very clearly, and I couldn’t hear anything out of the ear that had absorbed the first slap, but from what seemed a long ways off, I could hear this guy gagging.
It hadn’t stopped him, however. He was walking to me, his face turning purple, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, but walking with steadfast determination to stomp me if I didn’t make some kind of move.
I kipped to my feet, lost my balance and tilted to my left and caught myself with my left arm, which freed up my right leg, and I unleashed, powered by shoving my arm and releasing my leg, a straight kick to the inside of his left knee with satisfying results.
I had collapsed to the ground from the kick, but I saw his leg bend in an unnatural way, and I heard him try to scream through the throat that was swelling shut from my two punches. It felt like a movie I’d seen of logging in the Pacific Northwest as I watched this guy just lose his ability to keep himself upright. In slow motion, but gaining momentum, he crashed to the turf, and bounced once like a giant, unconscious fir tree.
I think I was down for more than a minute when I realized the guy was no longer gagging. I got to my hands and knees and dragged myself over to him. He was turning an ugly shade of blue, and his eyes were bulging out of his head.
At that moment another guest of the hotel walked out and found us. “Good God!”
“Call 911, please. This guy’s gonna die.”
“What happened?”
“No time; he’s got very little.”
The little guy calmly walked over to the giant and knelt on his chest; then, with total aplomb, he pulled a ballpoint pen out of his pocket, took it apart, and then, with a knife he pulled from his trousers, he made an incision in the guy’s throat, down near the collar bones, and inserted the barrel of the pen into the incision.
The big guy’s breath wheezed and gurgled, but he was breathing. The little guy held the pen in place as he opened his phone and dialed nine-one-one. “Hello, my name is Timothy Wallace. I’ve just performed an emergency tracheotomy on the lawn of the Bellaire House, and I need an ambulance. I’m keeping this guy’s airway open with an ink pen; I’m not going anywhere.”
By then I had gained my feet, and walked to the prone giant, took the revolver he had worn to a fist fight out of his holster, and then slumped against the building. The sound of the ambulance siren piercing the frosty Michigan morning seemed far off to my battered ear.
The ambulance crew wasted no time loading the monster headed for the hospital, but just before he was aboard and gone, another sheriff’s cruiser pulled up.
“And you won the fight?” Deputy Schmidt asked with a grin.
“It wasn’t easy. You know that lug?”
He was studying the guy, “No, never seen him before. Man, you’ve pissed somebody off badly.”
“I have no idea who or why.”
“How did it go down?”
I laid it out for him. He had a recorde
r in his fist and was watching the EMTs working on my attacker. “I think that guy saved his life,” Schmidt said.
“Mr. Wallace,” I said. “I heard him make the 911 call. Timothy Wallace.”
The little guy heard his name and stepped over. I stuck my hand out, “Jim Stanton, Mr. Wallace. That was some pretty slick work on that guy. You a doctor?”
“No,” he said, watching the responders working on his patient. “I was a Navy Corpsman. That wasn’t my first battlefield injury; it wasn’t even my first tracheotomy. Working with the grunts, I had real, sterilized equipment, but the pen trick worked ’til the pros arrived. What was this all about?”
“We won’t know until we can talk to that guy,” Schmidt said. “If you hadn’t come along, I don’t think we would have ever known.”
“I gave my contact information to those guys. I’ll be in town ’til Friday. Can I go clean up and go on with my workday?”
“Sure,” Schmidt said, handing the Samaritan his card. “If you think of anything I should know or if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call. I’m sure the prosecutor’s office will want to talk with you.”
Wallace handed over his own card, “My cell number is on this.” He then went back inside, and as he turned away, I noticed for the first time that he had the giant’s blood all over his clothes.
“That’s a man,” I said in a hushed tone.
“Absolutely,” Schmidt agreed. “You want to clean up and meet me at the office?”
I turned to put my good ear next to him, “I didn’t quite catch that, Andy.”
“He clout you upside the head?”
I nodded. “You better meet me at the Emergency Room.”
He cocked his head to one side, and then, “Hell, why don’t you sit here, I’ll go up for Jan, and I’ll take you over there.”
And that’s what happened.
When the doctor had checked my hearing, he said there was no perforation of the drum, but that it wasn’t functioning properly because the canal was swollen nearly shut. “I think that if you are still finding it difficult to hear by this time next week, you should seek an ENT specialist. In the meantime, I’ll have a nurse in here in a few minutes to clean and dress those scrapes and cuts on your face and arms. Were you hit by a car?”