Depth Finder

by Terry Paul Fisher

  “See, bro? No problem. Welcome to New friggin’ York,” Moonie said.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” the Canadian muttered under his breath. He had enough of the rough ride, the blackness, and of his uneducated companion. This is where they would part ways. Moonie drove the truck for another two miles before stopping along a row of thick cedars. Towering over the cedars were large utility structures that carried electricity from the St. Lawrence River to New York City—a journey of approximately 300 miles. The towers hummed as the electrical current traversed the copper wire at the speed of light.

  The Canadian realized why this place was so barren of homes or businesses. The powerful electrical lines were not only an eye-sore, but most likely the cause for a lot of cancer in the region. Why would anyone want to live close to these?

  They both stepped out and listened for approaching vehicles. Silence.

  The Canadian stood with his face in the wind. He felt the snowflakes pelting his cheeks and eyelids. The cold was like a fresh cup of coffee, awakening his senses. The first leg of his journey was complete, and nothing should stop him from reaching his goal. He could almost smell the dirty money and imagined how it would feel to hold it in his hands.

  The storm that was forecasted was bearing down on them now. The wind became noticeably stronger, and the snow began to form drifts.

  He moved to the back of the truck, lowered the squeaky tailgate, and pulled on his large backpack. It slid across the plastic bed liner with ease. He turned to hoist the pack onto his shoulders but stopped when he realized Moonie was pointing a 9 mm pistol at his forehead. He let out a quick, short sigh as if the young Native American was annoying him. The Canadian stayed calm, not wanting to make the nervous young man react.

  “What the hell, Moonie?”

  “I said I’d get you across the border. Now…whatever’s in that bag seems pretty valuable, bro. Leave the bag in the back of the truck and start walking.”

  “Seriously? You’re going to rob me after I just paid you five grand?”

  “Sorry, bro, but a man’s got to make a living,” Moonie responded. “All you gotta do now is keep walking south. Follow these power lines until you get to a smaller river. Follow the smaller river upstream until you meet the highway. Where you go from there…well, I don’t give a shit.” Moonie laughed. “Good luck.”

  “I’m not leaving here without this backpack,” the Canadian assured him.

  “Dude! Do you not see the fuckin’ gun in your face?” Moonie tightened his grip and turned the gun sideways for effect. The Canadian realized Moonie had no idea how to handle the weapon and was imitating some shit he’d seen in the movies. Turning the gun was a big mistake. Moonie’s wrist was no longer supinated, which reduced mobility in the joint.

  “Set the bag down,” Moonie ordered. He pushed the gun within inches of the Canadian’s forehead—another big mistake.

  The Canadian’s hands moved in a blur, timed perfectly with a head feint to the right. Before Moonie could realize what was happening, the Canadian’s right hand came left, grabbing the slide of the pistol. His left forearm came up as the right hand pulled the gun down. The force of the burly forearm against the thin wrist broke the pistol from Moonie’s hand instantly, and a half-second later Moonie was staring down the barrel of his own gun.

  “Whoa, bro, take it easy. I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. The thing’s not even loaded, okay?”

  “Then why are you about to piss your pants?”

  There was nothing for the Canadian to say. His stare was colder than the northwest wind blowing in Moonie’s face. The wind gusted up to 30 miles per hour as if the Canadian’s rage controlled its speed. Moonie’s eye’s watered from the stinging cold, but he was too scared even to blink. The wind gust dissipated, and the Canadian took a deep breath. “How much gas is in the truck?”

  “Uh…gas…I think…I don’t know…maybe…”

  “How much fucking gas is in the truck?” the Canadian interrupted.

  “Quarter of a tank. May…maybe more,” Moonie said.

  “Is there a road out to the highway?”

  “Yeah,” Moonie replied. He was starting to get his hopes up. Maybe the Canadian would have him drive him to the highway. “This road goes all the way. It’s a private road, but the owner keeps it plowed,” he was talking as fast as the gust of wind. “We can make it to the highway in about ten minutes.”

  “We? You’re going to have a nice walk home, asshole.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll just walk, bro. You take my truck,” he was backing up to the driver’s side door, which he’d left open the entire time. “Let me grab my coat, okay? I’ll freeze to death if I don’t take it.”

  The Canadian’s stare was frigid. “Get your coat then, and get the hell out of here.”

  Moonie went into his truck halfway. His feet stayed in the snow as he leaned into the F-150. The Canadian finished buckling the straps on the backpack when he heard a noise come from within the truck—metal on metal—the distinct sound only a former commando would recognize—a shotgun barrel.

  The Canadian’s hand rocketed upward, popping off the safety of the pistol, as Moonie spun with a 12-gauge shotgun in hand. The young smuggler had to step back so he could swing the shotgun around, but the movement to let the gun barrel clear the truck was slow and clumsy. The desperate act took far too long and was no match for the speed of the trained former soldier. The Canadian shot without even looking down the pistol’s sights. The force of the lead knocked Moonie against the truck door, which sprung a little, and pushed him back. He fell forward and sideways and landed in a puff of snow.

  “Sonovabitch!” the Canadian blurted. “Why the hell didn’t you just go? How could you be so stupid?”

  Moonie gasped to catch his breath. The ballistic force of the bullet had knocked the wind out of his lungs. He felt little pain; just the cold of the snow on his shoulders and neck. The Canadian pulled his gloves from his pockets, wiped off the pistol, dumped the magazine, and gave it a toss like a broken boomerang.

  “I’m sorry, kid. Really, I am. It didn’t have to be this way. You’ve got balls; I respect that. But this time, you fucked with the wrong guy.”

  The thin Mohawk lay on the cold ground unable to move, looking to the sky. He was fully aware of everything happening around him. The bullet had mushroomed on impact, tearing a golfball size hole in his liver before severing his spine. The last thing he heard was the door of his truck slam closed and the tires spinning frozen gravel.

  His breath came back to him, but not for long.

  Chapter 2 / Paul & Stacie

  Snow had been silently accumulating for the last six hours at a rate of an inch an hour. It had stopped now. The Arctic jet stream had finished dumping the white precipitation and quietly advanced to the East. The moon’s light sparkled off little crystals in the fluffy snow, illuminating Paul’s driveway enough that he could shovel without any artificial light. He stopped shoveling the snowdrifted driveway to admire the early morning sky populated with too many stars to count. His lungs filled with the cool winter air as he sucked it through his nostrils and held it deep for a few seconds. The rush of oxygen energized him, and tired muscles were revived and ready for the second half of the 70-foot long drive. His shovel dug in, pushing snow to the outer edges. The work was arduous but necessary. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, as his body temperature rose. There was only one place he would have rather been, and he would be there in about two hours.

  Normally, the highway department would have been out clearing the streets at this time. Their massive plows made short work of the plugged streets, pushing snow in waves of white powder. However, today was a holiday—the first day of the year, and all the town employees were home sleeping off the previous night’s celebration. Paul Marten had skipped the ball dropping and booze to get some rest. It was 4:00 in the morning, and he was to meet his brother Jack at 6:00. Only the waxing gibbous moon watched him work until the light mounted above the gar
age flashed on, illuminating the ground almost all the way to the road. A curvy silhouette stood in the window of the front door. She peeled back a curtain and gave a little wave. Paul waved back to his wife.

  She disappeared, and then the bathroom window lit up. Paul knew she was hitting the shower and getting ready for work.

  Paul pushed and scraped until all the snow had been piled high on each side of the driveway. Then he cleaned the snow from around his mailbox, even though there would be no mail service today. When his chore was complete, he put the shovel in the garage and headed back into the house. The curvy silhouette brought him a hot cup of coffee as a reward.

  “Thanks, hon,” Paul said as he took the cup.

  Stacie knew that he was shoveling the driveway for her sake since his four-wheel drive truck would easily escape the snow’s depth. The kiss on the cheek was all the thanks he needed, but the coffee was nice, too.

  “Thank you,” Stacie smiled. She was wearing nothing but a white bath towel.

  “Don’t thank me…it’s my job,” Paul replied as he hugged the bath towel. Stacey’s warm body gave into Paul’s grasp, letting herself be squeezed until his right hand caressed her bare left shoulder.

  “Agh…you’re freezing!” Stacey shrieked. “Keep your cold hands to yourself.”

  She pecked his cheek and marched back up the stairs to dress for work. Stacie usually left for work before Paul was awake. Her job as a security screener at Bettinger Airport required her to clock in at 5:30 a.m. and it was a 30-minute commute. She would be leaving in 40 minutes to make it on time, which was just enough time to do her hair and makeup.

  When she came back down, she was wearing dark blue slacks, a medium blue shirt adorned with badges, and a name tag that read “S. Marten.” She then slipped on a bulky winter coat that hid her figure much more than the towel had.

  “Not having breakfast?” Paul questioned the spunky blonde. She held up a banana to answer his question and slid it into the coat’s pocket.

  “I hate going out in this cold,” she complained as she struggled to wrap her arms around Paul. The coat restricted her movement, but she pushed the seams close to breaking to feel him close. “Why don’t we sell this house, and move someplace warmer? Someplace where there’s night life, and jobs, and more people than cows.”

  “Maybe someday,” Paul said softly. He knew, financially, they may have to sell the house anyway, before they were forced into foreclosure. They were late on this month’s mortgage, and he’d been out of work for six weeks. The financial strain had been taking its toll lately. Paul seemed to be agitated all the time, trying to find a decent job as an I.T. Manager.

  Stacie knew it was a moot discussion. She had been making the suggestion every winter for the last four years. She glanced at the top of the hutch and saw a half dozen swim trophies Paul had won in college. The other eight were packed away in the attic. He was a gold-medalist swimmer and only lost the state championship by five-hundredths of a second. “We could find a place with a nice pool, and you could swim every day,” she propositioned, trying a new sales pitch.

  “Would you swim with me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Hmmm, might be worth it to see you in a bikini every day.”

  She laughed and finally ended the embrace. “Maybe if I keep going to the gym every week, but since we can’t afford that, I’ll just stick to my one piece.”

  Paul reached for his coffee sitting on the kitchen table and nearly spilled the cup. He shuffled through a half-dozen bills that laid on the table with his other hand. Stacie had paired several checks and bills with pink paperclips and adorned their envelopes with left-over Christmas stamps. Three of the bills were overdue and were absent of the pink paperclip and the accompanying check.

  “Do these need to be mailed today?” Paul asked.

  Stacie saw the concern on Paul’s face. It crushed her that they could not pay their bills on time. Since he’d been laid off from the paper mill, they’d only received one unemployment check. “No mail today, remember? It’s a holiday.”

  “Oh…. Maybe I shouldn’t go fishing, today. I could make a few phone calls and—”

  “No, don’t you dare back out on your brothers. You guys have been planning this since Thanksgiving. Go. Have fun. Your brothers are good at making you laugh, and you need to have a little fun,” she demanded.

  “I know, but I should be—”

  She cut him off again with a hand gesture.

  “Stop it,” she demanded. “Don’t feel so guilty about taking a fun day. You’ve been looking for work for four weeks. You’re not going to find a job today. Besides, no one else is working today, so why should you? What about the other option we talked about last week—starting your own business?”

  “I’d love to do that,” he leaned back on the counter and stared at the ceiling. “But, I’d need start-up capital. I would need money for software and equipment, a business license, business cards, a web domain, and advertising.”

  “So? You could get a small business loan.”

  “Maybe, but with all of the bills being late for the last month. What bank is going to take the chance of giving me a loan? Even if they did, my interest rate would be sky high.”

  “Talk to the bank and find out what they can do for you. Then we’ll make the decision.”

  Paul knew how much faith Stacie had in him. It could take years to make a profit with his own business. Still, it was his dream. He pushed the dream aside and straightened forward. “You’re going to be late. You should get on the road.”

  With that, the conversation was over. Paul knew she was right. He’d done all he could to find work, and there was little he could do today to improve their situation. Today, he needed to take his mind off their problems and go fishing. Monday afternoon he’d go to the local bank and talk to them about a possible loan.

  “Be careful driving into work,” Paul advised as he turned toward the coffee maker. “The state highway might be plowed, but I know the town boys have the morning off. Secondary roads won’t be plowed until this afternoon.”

  Paul poured another coffee into a travel mug for his hour-long drive while Stacie laced on her boots. He then started packing a small cooler from the garage. Four bottles of water, two beers, a package of Glazier hotdogs, an apple, and a few protein bars filled the cooler. He needed buns for the hotdogs, but he could purchase those at the store where he was meeting Jack and Eric.

  Stacie finished lacing her boots and stood up to greet her husband one more time. The boots made her seem two inches taller now. She picked up a lunch bag and a laptop and made her way across the kitchen to give her husband one more kiss. He took the kiss, and the laptop bag from her hands and walked her to her car parked in the garage.

  “Okay,” commented Paul. “I won’t be home until after dark—maybe around eight.”

  “Take your time and have fun. And be careful,” Stacey demanded.

  “I’m always careful.”

  Stacey rolled her eyes as the corners of her mouth turned upward. “You are the complete opposite of careful, Mr. Marten. Do you have everything you need?”

  “Yes, Dear,” replied Paul. “I’m even wearing clean underwear just in case I’m in an accident.”

  She punched his arm. “Good luck. See you tonight.”

  “Thanks. Have a great day.”

  Stacie climbed into her car, pushed the button to open the garage door and drove out into the cleanly shoveled driveway. Her commute to Bettinger International Airport would take 35 minutes. The morning flight was scheduled to depart at 5:50 am, and she needed to be there early enough to screen its seven passengers. She didn’t like her schedule. She liked her job even less. Safeguarding passengers and planes since 9/11 lured her to work for the Department of Homeland Security several years ago. However, at an airport this small her impact was minimal. Stacie dreamed of working in a place where she could make a difference in people’s lives, and she knew an airport with only 30 passen
gers a day was not that place.

  “Why am I doing this?” she thought to herself. “Why do I keep working this fucking job?” She was talking to the pretty girl in the rearview mirror, but over her shoulder, standing in the driveway, was the tall, handsome answer to her question. Her smile returned momentarily, and she forced a positive thought to extinguish her doubts. She thought about how much she loved Paul. She thought about how much she was looking forward to their lives together. She thought about how he would react when she told him she was pregnant. She placed her hand on her belly, imagining what she would look like in a few more months.

  Paul watched his young wife accelerate out of sight. He needed to finish loading his truck with gear and looked to the sky once again. The stars were still shining, and the moon was setting over the neighbor's field. Three deer were silhouetted in the moonlit snow. They shuffled toward an old oak tree, poking their noses in the white fluff looking for Fall’s remaining acorns. None to be found, they turned north and walked toward a neighbor’s apple orchard, hoping a few winter apples had finally lost their hold from the upper branches. The smallest of the three limped on his rear leg but managed to keep up with the other two. Paul watched until they ducked into the shadows of the basswood trees. His eyes scanned the sky one more time. A yellow ray of light on the horizon was starting to lift the dark sky. The sun would be up soon, and Paul had to meet Jack and Eric before sunrise. He loaded his sled full of gear into the back of his Dodge, cranked the engine, and spun out of the driveway.