DEPTH FINDER
Terry Paul Fisher
Copyrighted Material
Depth Finder Copyright © 2019
Cover Design by Terry Fisher – Copyright © 2019
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (alive or deceased) is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be produced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or physical, without permission from Terry Paul Fisher.
www.terrypaulfisher.com
First edition.
Editing completed by Raw Book Editing
http://www.rawbookediting.com
This book is dedicated to my brothers,
and to all the memories we share fishing on
the Racquet River.
CHAPTER 1 / The Canadian
The Canadian rode in the passenger seat, uncertain of the young driver’s ability to sneak him across the international border and into New York State tonight. He wasn’t sure how they were going to cross, but after paying the owner of the truck five-thousand dollars, he was hopeful that it was money well spent. The fee had left him broke, but if everything went according to plan, he’d be a millionaire by this time tomorrow. If he could cross the St. Lawrence River, make it past the U.S. Border Patrol, and keep from being spotted by State Police, he could pull off a three-million-dollar heist with no witnesses.
They traveled in the cloak of darkness with the moon occasionally bouncing some light their way, but a winter storm was bearing down on the entire region and would soon obscure the moon and its glow. Some snowflakes were arriving early, bouncing off the windshield, as the western wind pushed the storm closer. The Canadian would use the storm for cover and take advantage of the quiet roads, as most drivers would be reluctant to be out.
The young Native-American driver lit a cigarette and cranked the window down a few inches. The wind sucked the smoke out of the truck as he exhaled.
“You running away from something, bro? Maybe a woman? A job?” the driver inquired.
“Does it matter?” the passenger answered.
“Hell no, it don’t matter. You paid me good money to get your ass across the border, so I’m gonna get you across the border.”
They rode the pothole-filled roads for another 15 minutes and entered the front wall of the storm. Large flakes, the size of dimes, drifted in the air and the driver was forced to turn on the wipers.
The truck smelled like motor oil, duct tape, and pizza. It reminded the Canadian passenger of his uncle’s truck and the times he and his brother would sit on the bench seat, and they would all ride into the woods to go deer hunting. The V-8 engine under the hood had the same smooth purr, the interior vinyl was the same dark red, and the duct tape running front to back on the cracked seat was nearly in the same place. He would’ve bet money this was the same old Ford if he hadn’t seen his uncle’s truck after the wreck that killed him. Of course, the drunken asshole that hit him walked away from the accident with only a sprained wrist and bloody nose.
The truck was dark except for a few dashboard lights that shined blue on the young driver’s face. An occasional draw from a cigarette illuminated the cab a little more.
“So, what’s in the bag, bro?” the driver questioned.
The Canadian stared into the darkness beyond the hood and headlights of the truck without answering. His instincts forced him to keep a sense of direction, so he used the lights on a cell phone tower in the distance as a reference point. The falling snow had a dizzying effect on both the driver and the Canadian passenger, but it would obscure their entry into New York State.
The driver forced the conversation. “It don’t matter to me. That’s a pretty big bag in the back. I mean, if the cops see ya huffing with that, they’re gonna run you down.”
The passenger looked out the back window of the truck, but it was too dark to check on the bag.
“You best keep to the woods and back roads once I drop you off.”
The Canadian knew the driver was right. Once they arrived in New York, he would need to acquire a vehicle. Staying on foot would draw attention from Border Patrol or State Police, and land him in jail or deported—probably both. Stealing a vehicle would be easy, but first, he needed to get across the border, which was no simple task in this area.
Northern New York was heavily populated by Border Patrol agents scouring back roads, highways, and parking lots in pursuit of illegal immigrants and drug dealers. Well-equipped agents were a curse to anyone trying to smuggle drugs, weapons, or people across the U.S./Canadian border, but the local smugglers were masters at evading the authorities. That’s why the Canadian enlisted the services of this local twenty-two-year-old from the St. Regis Mohawk Reservation.
The reservation, locked between both nations, was the perfect place to cross from Canada into the United States illegally. But, it wasn’t easy. Traveling at night meant risking your life. Traveling during the day meant risking your freedom. The smuggling routes were dangerous in the dark and varied from season to season.
High-speed boats could be heard crossing the St. Lawrence River during the early hours of spring and summer. They would ferry passengers or cargo through the waves, from one country to the other. When ice started covering the river in winter, snowmobiles were the vehicle of choice. Light and fast, the snowmobiles could cross the river in a few minutes. This was usually the most dangerous time to cross since it was difficult to tell where the ice was thin. Several people died every year trying to cross the ice on snowmobiles, determined to find a better life in the United States. Sometimes they made it—sometimes all they found was a terrible death, and their story was forgotten within a few days.
Once the ice had thickened to five inches, it would support a light truck and some cargo. A local gas station would advertise the thickness of the ice right in plain sight of the police and the public. The Fox Shop had an electronic sign to promote a cigarette brand that did not exist. If the price was three dollars per pack, then the ice was three inches thick. Once the price rose to five dollars, local smugglers knew it was safe to take their trucks across the ice-bridge. The false sign minimized conversations and questions about ice conditions but kept everyone informed.
Travis “Moonie” Swamp puffed on a cigarette as he drove the black F-150. He turned right and fishtailed down the snow-covered dirt road. Though the tires had lost their traction, Moonie maintained his composure and kept the vehicle on the road. He had driven this road at least once or twice a week for the last five years, often in winter conditions much worse than this. The Canadian was no stranger to the inclement weather himself and was unfazed by the truck’s commotion. Moonie let off on the accelerator pedal, killed the headlights, and slowed the truck as they descended the dark, meandering road. They followed the fresh track from a snowmobile, barely visible by the ambient light of the night, letting it guide them like they were on a monorail. Six inches of fresh snow hid the gravel road that led them to the vast river ahead.
The sky had become completely overcast in the last ten minutes. Now, they were shielded from the light of the moon—invisible to the world. The only life watching them now was a thick row of white pines on each side of the road.
They rode the darkness for another two miles until the tall pines ended abruptly. The truck braked momentarily as they entered a vast clearing. The snowy field seemed to extend for eternity, fading into the abyss of the night. The Canadian could not see anything in front of him but darkness. The truck crawled from the woods, like a lion stepping into a field of zebras. Moonie eased the gas, and the truck crawled forward with a low growl. They turned to the right thirty-fiv
e degrees and came to a halt. Moonie turned off all the dashboard lights and tossed his stubby cigarette out the window. Then, he flicked his headlights on and off once. Five seconds passed, and he repeated the signal.
Finally, a light flashed back at them on the horizon.
“Here we go,” Moonie said.
“This takes us to the river, eh?” The Canadian asked. He looked doubtful that Moonie meant to arrive at such an opening when they were trying to stay undetected.
Moonie smiled a goofy grin, shifted the black truck into four-wheel drive, and stomped the gas. Tires spun with a whirring sound that echoed through the truck bed. Once the Goodyears achieved traction, they accelerated across the open field.
“This doesn’t take us to the river, bro,” Moonie shouted over the roaring of the powerful V-8 engine. “This is the river!”
Four wheels clawed through white powder, ardently trying to grab the ice that supported the old Ford, thrusting it forward across the massive St. Lawrence River—forward in the darkness toward the state of New York. The ice below the wheels provided a smooth ride in contrast with the gravel road in the rearview mirror, but it came at the sacrifice of safety. As thick as the ice was, it still cracked and popped as the weight of their vehicle caused its brittle surface to bow. The Canadian’s heart pounded, nervous from the speed and the noise, but anxious to keep their forward momentum, outrunning any cracks that may be forming in the vitreous road.
The Canadian’s eyes adjusted to the low light. He gripped the handle above the door with enough strength to crush a tennis ball—his other hand on the dash and stiff legs braced him for the impact he thought was sure to come. He was not so much frightened for his life, but of the notion that an accident now would completely sabotage his agenda, and he would return to Canada as poor as when he awoke this morning.
The Canadian’s tired eyes peered through a smoky windshield, searching for some structure or landmark he could lock onto as a reference to their navigation. A small light appeared in the distance. Moonie lightened his foot on the accelerator as he turned a couple of degrees to the right to correct his course. The Canadian’s heart rate slowed with the decreasing speed of the truck. Both driver and passenger fixated on the light. The beacon waved back and forth, guiding the truck like a lighthouse guiding a ship on the Great Lakes.
When they arrived at the other shore, the Canadian was not happy to see a person standing on the edge of the river. He hoped there would be no witnesses to his illegal entry to the States. A young girl, presumably in her late teens, waved a small flashlight in their direction.
Moonie slowed the truck to a crawl as he approached the teen. The window of the truck descended into the door, letting the cold winter air enter.
“Good morning, sweetheart. Staying warm?”
The Canadian looked at the clock on the dash. ‘Good Morning?’ he thought. It was 11:00 p.m. They parked the truck on the solid ground, just 20 feet from the edge of the river. Moonie turned off the engine, and both passenger and driver got out.
The Canadian could barely see the girl in the night. She kept her head down even as she poked a small fire with a dry beaver stick. The fire grew a little with each taunting poke as air fed the hot coals. She smiled as the fire flared, and it brought her some security to shed light on the stranger’s face. She had been there for five hours, alone in the dark, waiting for traffickers to pass. The dark was not her source of discomfort. Though she knew and trusted the locals that passed on her watch, she worried about the strangers that came through here seeking freedom, fortune, or glory. Sometimes they were rude or just crazy. Often, they were violent people who were fleeing from persecution. She had no shelter, no company, and no weapon, other than her phone with a nearly dead battery.
This was a job few were brave enough to do.
The Canadian looked around as they exited the truck. The fire was irresistible to both he and his guide. They both removed their gloves and gathered around the small fire, allowing the heat to penetrate their skin and warm chilled blood.
The girl did not make eye contact with the passenger. She talked softly, holding her arms close to her body, sheltering herself as young girls do while in the presence of an unfamiliar man. The Canadian dismissed the posture as just someone trying to keep herself warm, but Moonie could sense her discomfort immediately. She was uneasy about the red-bearded man’s presence, so Moonie decided that as much as he wanted to stay and talk with the pretty girl, their stop would be brief.
There was no imminent danger, but she had heard stories of girls gone missing while performing this duty in the past. Being the beacon on the “Ice Bridge” was a dangerous occupation. Hypothermia, drowning, and being murdered were all very real consequences of guiding unlawful travelers across the vast darkness of the St. Lawrence River. But it was also a necessary job that paid very well. One night of standing in the dark, flagging smugglers across with her flashlight, paid more than any minimum wage job could in a whole week. The reward outweighed the risks, save for the half-dozen people who’d gone missing over the years. Most were never found and existed now only in memory. Those who were found had an autopsy report that listed the cause of death as either hypothermia or a gunshot wound.
“How’s the border looking, Kim?” Moonie asked the young girl.
Kim looked up from the orange flames. For the first time, the Canadian could see her face. Kim’s smooth skin seemed to glow in the firelight. Her brown eyes, almost as warm as the fire itself, glanced at the Canadian and then back to Moonie.
“Everything looks clear on the U.S. side. Brian and Otter came through about an hour ago with no trouble. Friend of mine said there was a bad accident that had most of the badges busy for the night. Maybe a fatality.”
“Brian and Otter? What are those bozos up to?”
“Don’t know, but they did say the south side is breaking up close to shore. Sun was too warm today. Be careful, Moonie. Hate to see that nice truck drop in the drink.”
Moonie laughed. “Thanks for the love, sweetheart. Don’t worry, we’ll get through. We best be going before you start falling in love with me or something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bundle of cash, separated a couple of $20 bills and gave them to Kim. A tip, the Canadian guessed.
Kim smirked as she took the money. “Thanks. I’ll see you on the way back.”
“Don’t start missing me and try to follow,” Moonie joked.
“Hold me back, eh,” Kim joked. She looked over at the impatient Canadian. Kim’s smirk vanished as she turned from his cold demeanor to face the warm fire. Moonie placed a log on the fire, relieving Kim of the burden. The fire sparked, and smoke drifted into her face, forcing her to close her eyes tight and hold her breath. When she finally looked up again, Moonie and his fare were back in the truck.
“What did she mean by the ‘south side is breaking up?’” the burly Canadian asked while Moonie lit a cigarette.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, bro. She just meant the ice is breaking up a little by the shore. We’ll have to drive through a little water on the other side of the river.”
“Didn’t we just cross the river?” the Canadian asked.
“That was the first part of the river. Right now, we’re on an island. The next section of the river is just ahead.”
They didn’t take long to cross the short stretch of land, and the Canadian was surprised to see a few house lights in the area, indicating that people lived on this little island. The lights gave him a sense of direction, and he welcomed that. The snow around the lights illuminated, giving the lights a beautiful glow that reminded him of the hockey rink he used to skate on as a child. The road descended, and within minutes they were putting the tires on the ice again.
The Canadian peered through the frosty windshield and noticed the trees gave way to another opening of snow as flat as a sheet of paper. The only trace of the path they were to follow was faded tire tracks from Brian and Otter’s truck that traversed the
river just 60 minutes prior. The relentless snow falling had already made the tire tracks difficult to see.
Moonie’s truck set sail across the opening, accelerating over the ice. The distance between the two shores was shorter than the previous. Moonie drove slower this time, perhaps because this stretch of the river seemed to be hidden. There was a sharp curve in the riverbank that obscured the view from shore, hiding them a little more than the previous river channel. The tall pines on the other side gave them cover and muffled the sound of the engine as they drove south and then turned 20 degrees to the west, cutting across the frozen river diagonally. They made it across in less than two minutes.
Moonie slowed the truck to a crawl as they approached the open water that appeared between them and the U.S. shore. The truck tracks in the snow dropped off the ice and into the open water near shore. The Canadian ran a hand through his red beard while he studied the broken ice. He turned to Moonie. “Think it’s safe, eh?”
Moonie studied the broken ice himself. “No problem, bro. The water’s only about two feet deep there.”
“You sure about that?” the Canadian asked.
“Sure, I’m sure. My brother and I fish for walleye on this part of the river. We always stay away from this area, so we don’t break the prop on his Jon boat.”
The Canadian felt no safer. He closed his brown eyes and let his mind drift for a moment. He envisioned a large headstone amid a green field with flowers adorning the sides. The surface was polished like the marble counters in the bank to contrast with the engraved letters which were course and deep. A lone figure stood weeping, as still as a tall oak tree adjacent to the plot. The oak cast a dark shadow over the fresh grave. The Canadian reached out and started to whisper a name…
Moonie interrupted the thought. “No turning back now, eh, bro.”
He shifted the truck into first gear and crept up to the edge. The front tires dropped into the water—more ice broke—then Moonie hit the gas hard. The rear wheels spun on the glassy ice while front wheels pawed at the bottom of the river. With the headlights pointing down and the rear of the truck elevated, the Canadian could see the water turn cloudy with mud. The truck lurched forward, dropping completely into the river, submerged to the running boards. The distance was only 15 feet from broken ice to shore. They ascended out of the cold water and up the steep embankment. The tires slung mud in every direction while the engine spewed steam. The Canadian relaxed his grip on the dash and noticed the satisfying smile on Moonie’s face.
Depth Finder Page 1