At least he hoped he was under the radar.
There were a couple of other trifling legalities for Justin to worry about.
Each canoe, rented or privately owned, had a license sealed in a waterproof double sheet of plastic and taped to the inside of the craft. The four-digit number was also written on the license. Plus, anyone canoeing the waters needed a permit, which the outfitters issued when the boat was rented.
Justin possessed a fine selection of permits. People conveniently stored them in packs. They had expiration dates, which he altered. Surprisingly, the information on the permits did not include the number of the boat.
There were theoretically rangers patrolling the waters, but Justin had encountered them only once, at the start of his trip. He had been on a stretch of popular water, near the outcrop of thirty-foot rocks that overlooked Fire Lake, where kids dared each other to jump and parents sat in their canoes and worried about injuries and liability.
The rangers were the only people on the lake permitted to use power.
Justin was approached almost before he realized they were there. He hadn’t heard their engine. Which was nearly impossible given the silence. They had been lurking in a secluded bay, hidden in a drowned marsh of lilies, a matter of feet from where he had paddled past.
They signaled him to stop paddling, which he quickly did. He was asked for a permit. He handed one over. It was expired but the ranger barely looked at it. Instead he smiled at Justin.
“You’re doing a fine job paddling solo,” he said.
Justin smiled and thanked him.
“You camping here alone?”
Justin shook his head.
“I left my wife making our lunch.”
“Where you camped?”
Justin pointed vaguely toward the further shore.
The ranger nodded approvingly. “That’s a great site. Did you jump?”
Justin did his best to look embarrassed. Then he shook his head.
“Chickened out.”
The ranger laughed and handed the permit back. He told Justin to have a good trip.
After returning the bandana and the boat to their rightful owners, Justin paddled and portaged back to his latest remote campsite where, equipped with a knife and an eraser and a thick black Sharpie, he got to work.
The numbers were a solid black. His canoe was four-eight-eight-nine.
He thought for a while before he started.
He scraped part of the first number away with his knife, then used the Sharpie to fashion the four into a two. Justin removed half of the first eight and left the second one alone. He now had a three and an eight in the middle. The circle at the top of the number nine was badly scratched and came away easily when he applied the knife. He left the rest of the last number alone.
When he was finished, he admired his handiwork. From across the water his tampering would be difficult to notice. From a distance of three feet, it was less impressive.
But he was pleased; his customized Kevlar canoe was now number two-three-eight-one.
Justin next completed the remainder of the forgery. The license came out easily from between the two pieces of transparent plastic. He used an eraser to rub away at the letters. The paper had previously gotten wet and the numbers were already faded. He wrote the new numbers as thickly as he could with the Sharpie and slipped the license back inside the plastic.
His boat and his license now matched.
Justin moved his newly falsified canoe into its hiding spot and considered his options.
He knew he should cut down on his requisition sorties for a while. They were risky. Plus, he had stockpiled all he needed.
He had an abundance of food, a dazzling variety of packages with different pictures on the front. With few exceptions, the meals required boiling water and a lot of stirring, and tasted remarkably similar, whether advertised as Hungarian goulash or chicken with dumplings. They were, however, edible, nutritionally balanced, and would remain usable well into the next century.
He was able to catch fresh fish often. So far. He even had a fishing license. Which had expired.
He remembered fondly, from his first trip, that the outfitters sent out a selection of cheeses and summer sausage, packaged in small green refrigerated bags and meant to be consumed during the first days out.
Justin sighed. He had yet to score any of that particularly tasty booty.
Nowadays, Justin winched two food-filled packs into the air and tended to leave them suspended there day and night. He had recently decided to pull the bags up even higher than twenty feet. While he had yet to receive a bear visit (as far as he knew), he had come across more than one shredded carcass of a pack that had either not been lifted or had been lifted lower than a bear could reach. Either way, it wasn’t pretty.
Two nights back, the first cold morning delivered a nasty preview of what the autumn would hold. His guaranteed all-temperature sleeping bag was easily zipped all the way up, and he was snug. By the time the sun was up, it was another warm summer day.
He drank his morning coffee cocooned inside his sleeping bag and tried to study his maps. What looked like an everlasting series of small portages would get him far north to Frost Lake.
The spring had been especially wet, and the water was still high. Justin knew this from paddling over the exact point where he knew a campsite should be and looking down into the depths, where he could plainly spot the metal remains of a firepit under four feet of water. He hoped that at least a few of these five- and ten-rod portages would be submerged enough to allow him to canoe over.
As he paddled north, Justin considered money, which was a matter of some irony, given where he was. In a place where you couldn’t use money, he was running out of it.
As a matter of principle, Justin had elected to pay his way in the wilderness and to return any money he came across.
For example, if he found a newly purchased towel that he intended to keep, he made a guess as to its value and placed a Ziploc bag with the amount in the pack when he switched it out for the next one (he would never face a shortage of Ziploc bags).
Although he understood that his payments had little chance of finding their rightful recipients, he endeavored to be both fair and scrupulous.
Some things were too incidental; trial-size toothpastes and toothbrushes embossed with a dentist’s name, a dozen Band-Aids rubber banded together, innumerable joints in—wonder of wonders—little Ziploc bags. Those he categorized as spoils of war and hung onto them.
The more substantial pieces of camping equipment he had determined were more in the nature of being a loan. When he was done, he would return the tent and the canoe and the pots and pans and the other major pieces of hardware to the outfitters.
Which raised another concern: When would he be done?
Justin had given some thought to how long he could stay in the area. This was June, the beginning of the summer. In July, the water would be warmer, and the fish would be harder to find and catch. The first two weeks of August might be the best time to be here. The water was even warmer, the air temperature was moderate, the nights were shorter, the mosquitoes died down. Edible wild mushrooms could be had.
By the end of August, the number of campers would thin dramatically.
In September, he would begin to have the place to himself. Loons in couples would make tentative plans for the flight south to the Gulf Coast. Maple, aspen, and tamarack would shift colors for the fall. It would be a place of stillness and beauty.
Justin thought he could survive until October. The ice-in would clamp down in November. By then, he would have to be long gone.
On the plus side, there would be far fewer people in the fall months. On the minus side, the pickings would diminish markedly. Would his stockpile last? There were apocryphal tales of wilderness warriors hunting and trapping their way through the cold dark months. But Justin was realistic. He had never hunted, and staying the winter would be suicidal.
He wondered
if any of the outfitters staff stayed through to the spring. The gravel roads to the camp would be difficult to navigate. Was there enough cross-country skiing and snow-boarding business to keep the places busy?
He thought there might be. Perhaps a few rugged souls stayed and the outfitters remained open for business. But they would have heat and shelter and power and the internet, and he would have none of these things. He conceded that a brisk hike across ice, following the path of a frozen river with the help of experienced guides sounded like fun.
For now, his concerns remained unanswered.
COLIN
Colin left the empty urn and the canoe stranded on the raft as he threw himself into the water and swam hard back toward the house.
He was halfway there when he heard the second shot.
The sound was close and behind him. He tried to calculate where the shots were coming from. He had no idea. He dived under and kept swimming.
He made it back to the shore and looked frantically around. Should he stay in the water? He could see no one. There had been two shots. He told himself it was hunting season for something. He had no idea for what. But it was always hunting season for something.
He emerged from the water and ran for the back door. It was locked. Angie must have locked it. Good. But what could he do? He pounded. He waited. He pounded a second time. The door opened.
For a moment Colin was confused. Did it open by itself? Then he looked toward the floor. Angie was on her hands and knees backing away from the door.
She hissed at him, “Get down and crawl.”
He did as he was told.
They both crouched behind the sofa on their knees. Colin was soaking the floor around him.
He asked her, “Are you alright?”
Her response was tense and short. “I’m alright.”
They waited for ten slow minutes. Colin could see the clock on the kitchen wall. He was starting to chill. Angie sat with her legs pulled up to her face and her eyes tightly closed. He assumed she was furiously calculating something.
“Get up,” she told him. “We’re leaving.”
“Can I ask?”
“Camping trip.”
They stood up together and began moving slowly. They were both scared. They were both suspicious.
His question was a single word. “Hunting?”
She shook her head emphatically. “What do you think?”
He also shook his head.
“Another warning?” he suggested.
“That would be my guess.”
It took them both no time to pack.
Colin was quicker, which left him time to explore. One bullet was embedded in the passenger door of his car. The second took longer to find.
When he rowed his other canoe out to the raft, he discovered that the urn was safe and unharmed. His abandoned canoe had sprung a bullet-size leak. He tied the canoes together and paddled back to the cabin.
Angie was ready to go.
As usual, Colin drove. Angie typed.
“Where am I going?” he asked.
“Duluth.” There’s an auto-detailing shop. There’s a car rental. There’s a coffee shop near both.”
“Anything else?” he asked, although he knew the answer.
“There’s a post office box for the Natural Boundary Foundation.”
“How will that help us?”
Her response was what he expected. “It won’t,” she admitted. “Not remotely.”
He checked his rearview mirror repeatedly, and Angie smiled for the first time in a while.
“I don’t think you have to keep doing that,” she told him.
“You don’t think—”
“You’ve been looking the whole time.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ve not seen anyone yet.”
Angie sighed. “I don’t think you will. We got our warning. Now they’re hoping we go away.”
Colin drove for three minutes without checking the mirror.
Angie stopped typing.
“Have you heard of Alfred Fisher?”
Colin admitted that he hadn’t.
Angie took a deep breath. “He’s the best link to anything that I have so far. The NBF doesn’t divulge who works for them. But they do host the occasional fundraiser. Guess where these take place?”
“Duluth.”
“Who goes to the most NBF fundraisers?”
“Elliot Devine.”
“Good try,” Angie conceded. “He did a few over the years, not so many recently. On account of being dead. But you’re wrong, anyway.”
Colin waited. He used his free time to once again check the rearview mirror.
“Mr. Alfred Fisher. He’s often there. Mostly looking very uncomfortable. In a cheap tuxedo that looks rented but probably isn’t. In the pictures, he’s usually in the center. He’s usually shaking the hand of someone very rich. Fisher smiles a lot without looking happy. His teeth are horrible.”
“What does he look like? Colin asked.
Angie tilted the computer screen briefly toward him.
“Is he rich?”
“He is decidedly not rich.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s the owner of Lauder Lake Outfitters. Guess where his business is located?”
“In the Frontier Waters?”
“Can you be more specific?”
“In the Frontier Waters on land owned by the foundation.”
It was starting to rain by the time they arrived in downtown Duluth. Ted’s Custom Detailing was one of three businesses sharing an empty parking lot. His shop was a two-car garage. There was a car under a huge sheet and an empty space where Colin was encouraged to park his injured vehicle.
Ted was looking at pickup trucks online. He had been expecting Colin. Angie had thoughtfully texted ahead.
His inspection of the car was cursory. “Your door will look just fine. It’ll take a couple of days. I need to match the paint. You want the bullet back?”
Colin declined.
“Can I find you a loaner?”
The other two business on the lot were a U-Haul and a car rental, and they both belonged to Ted.
He checked his inventory as he spoke. “I won’t charge for a beater. If you want something fancy, it will be a little extra.”
Colin asked. “Will a beater get me to the Frontier Waters and back?”
Ted didn’t look offended. “Sure will. All my vehicles run fine.”
Angie was in the coffee shop when Colin pulled up outside and entered.
“Did you want a red one?” she asked as she looked out the window.
“Ted says it’s his fastest beater.”
“Very impressive. Can he fix your door?”
“He seemed confident.”
She changed the subject. “If you ever need to hide something, get yourself a post office box.”
“You’re having no success.”
She shook her head, then said, “Lauder Lake Outfitters expects us tomorrow.”
“What about today?”
“Too late. Tomorrow is their changeover day. It’s easier to get a rental then. They’re providing everything we need. I used your credit card.”
“I thought we were using cash.”
“That’s worked so well for us so far,” she sneered.
“They don’t know we have a different car.”
“Did you reserve it with a credit card?”
“No,” he stormed back. “It’s thrown in as part of the repair.”
“So, we might have a mystery ride for now.”
“You’ve been pretty free with my money.”
“You’re dying soon, and I didn’t have much choice.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“My credit has been temporarily frozen,” she said.
“Why?” he asked her.
She answered, “I presume for the same reason my credit was checked. It’s another warning. Don’t worry. I still have lots of cash. And I
have other accounts they don’t know about.”
“Which you’re not going to access.”
She nodded, “Which I’m not going to access. So, the rest of the trip is on your dime. Speaking of which. We have a hotel room for tonight.”
That night, Angela Rennie’s added herself to the short list of women Colin Tugdale had slept with. Angie was only the second. Colin had been shy as a youth, to the point where his parents were resigned to his bachelorhood. Thankfully, Ruby had been certain she wanted him and was willing to do all the legwork to secure her reticent Romeo. Colin’s parents breathed a collective sigh of relief; they were hoping for grandchildren.
Colin’s postcoital good humor evaporated at the sight of his loaner car in the hotel parking lot. It was still dark, but the lot was brightly lit, and he could see the car clearly. On the plus side, he was returning it to a man with recent experience repairing bullet holes. He noted that this one was located on the driver’s side door.
On the negative side, Colin was now facing a repair charge well in excess of the car’s value, retail or wholesale.
He was standing and stewing when his latest conquest arrived, carrying both of their bags and her computer.
“We’re clearly not hard to find,” was all she said.
“What will they do when we get to the waters?” he asked.
“Maybe they’ll kill us.”
“It’s a good place to do it,” he observed.
She looked thoughtful. “But they haven’t done it yet.”
“Too messy?”
“We’re still being warned.”
“We must be out of warnings by now,” Colin said.
“Maybe we are,” Angie said softly. “Maybe we are.”
They said nothing else as they got in the car.
They drove most of the way in silence. The big lake was at their side, lurking on the right, invisible in the predawn gloom for most of the journey north. They stopped once and bought coffee. The road was quiet as the sun finally came up, and they made good time.
At Lauder Lake they were shepherded efficiently through orientation. Their Kevlar canoe was made ready. Their two Duluth packs were filled. They had answered all the important questions: Were they decaf drinkers? Did they have any dietary requirements? Would they like bacon to fry with their eggs as part of their first morning’s breakfast?
Conclusion Page 13