Chapter 3 / The Marten Brothers
Jack Marten stood in line at the counter of the little convenience store in the heart of Higley. It was a humble little store with narrow rows of canned goods, junk food, camping supplies, and even a couple shelves of hardware items. Two outdated gas pumps occupied the small parking lot where campers, hunters, and loggers, would wait in turn to fill their vehicles with the most expensive fuel within a 20-mile radius.
The building was built when Jack’s father was just a boy, and he would tell stories about the original owner who operated a poker tournament in an empty storage room at the back of the building. The local authorities were regular players in the games until the town supervisor’s intoxicated daughter was taken there and raped one night. The owner went to prison, and the building was abandoned for nearly 30 years. No one living in Higley could afford to purchase the commercial building until years of abandonment had taken its toll on the value of the property. A local kid, who had flunked out of community college, bought the property with his inheritance money and was now building a second store on the south side of town.
The store opened at 5:00 a.m., which wouldn’t make sense in most neighborhoods across the state. But, the little store catered to the loggers, and they started their workday by 6:00 a.m. Today, the store would be open early for the fishermen. Some were there for snacks and beverages; some were shopping for fishing supplies and minnows; a few were there for lottery tickets and cigarettes, but almost everyone was purchasing gas.
The store would normally be booming on a Saturday morning, but today was quieter than usual. Jack figured most of the fishermen were running late and dealing with their hangovers.
Jack tapped his right thumb against his thigh as he stared impatiently at the clock. He was an impatient man, especially when it came time to go fishing or hunting. This morning, he and his brothers would drive south 45 miles to their favorite ice-fishing spot. The earlier they arrived, the better their chances of catching the northern pike that dwelled in the bays. He adjusted the groceries in his left arm while waiting in the short line at the counter. The customer in front of him was a mountain of a man. He stood about six and a half feet tall with broad shoulders and thick forearms. He was venting to the cashier about his stolen jeep. His voice was hoarse and deep from years of screaming over the sound of chainsaws and wood chippers. He spoke loudly with a raw tone and a frank manner. Jack was anxious to get out of the store and get back on the road. He wanted to tell the other customer to hurry his ass up. He would have, too, if Paul had been on time. But, as usual, Paul was running late.
Jack’s thumb tapped a little faster.
“Com’on,” Jack thought to himself. “Nobody gives a shit about your piece-of-shit Jeep. Some of us have plans today.” He stared at the back of the big man’s head, trying to will the thoughts telepathically so the man would leave. It didn’t work.
“…and then, when I came out of the bar,” the tall customer was explaining to the cashier, “my damn Jeep was gone, and I had to call the ol’ lady to come get me. Talk about an ass-chewing.”
The cashier laughed, “Holy shit, man. And she didn’t even know you were at the bar?”
“Nope. She thought I was still working downstate where they had the ice storm.”
“So, did you call the sheriff?”
“Hell yeah, I called the fucking sheriff,” the mountain continued. “They found a stolen truck in the parking lot, too. They figure some guy stole the truck from the Reservation, drove it this far, then ditched it at the bar and made off with my Jeep.”
The cashier shook his head in disbelief. “Oh man, you never friggin’ know these days. I hope they find it in one piece.”
“I hope I find the little bastard first. He’ll wish he’d never even looked at my Jeep.”
The cashier handed him his bag, “Good luck, Toady.”
“Toady?” Jack thought to himself. The name suited the man with the croaky voice.
Jack was starting to feel some sympathy for Toady. Losing your vehicle in this part of the state would be like living on an island with no boat—you’d be stranded. He checked on his truck sitting in the parking lot. Still there.
“Good morning, Jack” the plump cashier faked a smile.
“Good?” Jack asked. “It’s a great friggin morning.” The excitement and anticipation of the day were too much for Jack to hold back. No work today, just a full nine or ten hours on the ice. He set down a package of cheese curd, two soda bottles, and some beef jerky. Door chimes diverted Jack’s attention in the direction of the entrance as Paul entered. He was 12 minutes late, but that was no surprise to Jack.
“Good morning,” Paul nodded to his brother and the cashier.
“Good morning,” replied the cashier. His head was tilted down so he could see over the thin reading glasses resting on his nose.
“You’re late,” replied Jack to his sibling.
“Yeah, I had to make sure Stace could get out of the driveway. She needed to go to work this morning.”
“She still works on Saturdays?” Jack asked. “I thought she was going to quit that job.”
“She’d like to, but she can’t until I get back to work,” Paul said. “That might be months away since the economy’s going to shit around here.”
The 20-something-year-old cashier nodded in agreement.
“Hey, you need anything? I’m buying,” Jack asked his younger brother.
“Just some hot dog buns,” Paul responded.
“And a bag of hot dog buns,” Jack said to the cashier.
The cashier rang up the groceries, stuffed everything in a paper bag, and took a 50 dollar bill from Jack’s hand. “Don’t forget your buns,” he reminded as he handed back the change.
The two brothers left the store after grabbing the bag of buns and made their way to the trucks. A tall, lanky figure was standing at the back of Jack’s truck. He was taller than Paul and Jack, with longer hair and a three-day beard. His face had many of the same characteristics as Paul’s and Jack’s. Eric was the youngest of the three brothers. Barely old enough to drink alcohol legally, he was six years younger than Paul and nine years behind Jack. Paul hadn’t noticed Eric was sitting in Jack’s truck when he pulled into the parking lot. He was happy to see his younger brother and glad he was joining them for the day.
“Hey, what’s new?” Paul asked Eric as they shook hands.
“Not too much. I start my new job on Monday—working at the college,” Eric replied.
“Finally going to college, huh?” Paul joked.
Eric laughed, “Well, until they kick me out.”
Eric had never gone to college but was as smart as anyone Paul knew. When Eric finished high school, he had several scholarships to attend various technical schools. Instead, he opted to go to work in their uncle’s garage, working on foreign cars. He preferred to learn by getting his hands dirty. Eric could take an engine apart and put it back together by the time he was fifteen. He learned everything their farther could teach them about engines and mechanical devices. While most kids were off with friends on the weekends, Eric spent Friday and Saturday nights in the garage. Sometimes he was joined by a few friends, but usually, it was just some father and son time.
“Did you get into the maintenance department?” Paul asked.
Eric nodded. “I’ll be working on all of their trucks, lawnmowers, and other vehicles. I’ll miss Uncle Floyd’s garage, but this job has full benefits and retirement. I can’t pass that up.”
“No, you can’t,” Paul said. He was happy for Eric, but deep down felt a little jealous. Paul had been searching for a good job for weeks. He and Stacie were burning through their savings, and things were starting to look bleak.
Eric’s new opportunity came from one of Floyd’s satisfied customers. The customer happened to be the maintenance supervisor at Clarkson University. She was impressed by the service she received when her Toyota 4-Runner lost its transmission, so she offered Eric a job
the next week.
“I tried calling you Wednesday,” Paul nodded to Eric.
“Oh, I was probably at a meeting,” Eric replied.
“I didn’t know you were still going to those,” Paul noted.
“Well, I don’t have to anymore. Now it’s optional, so I go once in a while,” Eric explained. “It just helps me when I’m stressing out and feel like I need a drink.”
Paul wanted to change the subject. He knew Eric felt bad about his former drinking problem and didn’t want to upset him. They were supposed to enjoy the day, just three brothers hanging out in the remote Adirondack wilderness, catching some fish—hopefully.
“Enough chit-chat. Let’s hit the highway, boys.” Jack urged. “Can’t catch anything in this parking lot.”
Jack transferred his fishing gear to Paul’s truck. They moved large plastic sleds, a couple of pack baskets filled with tip-ups, an ice auger for drilling holes, a small chainsaw, and a cooler. The brothers climbed in and buckled up. Their destination was another 40 miles south, and the sky reminded them that they were running out of darkness.
They preferred drilling holes before the sun came up to increase their odds of catching a morning walleye. When the walleye stopped feeding, the northern pikes would awake and stalk the shallow bays to satisfy their voracious appetites. The Marten brothers would be there, too, with fresh minnows, metal hooks, and steely determination.
They drove through town, waving to a few elderly gentlemen out shoveling their driveways and sidewalks, wondering if that would be them someday. Would they stay here and tolerate the long winters and the icy economy? Or, would they ever be compelled to make a life somewhere that had a traffic light? Only time held the answer to that question.
They loved their hometown. Higley was a place where everybody knew your name—perhaps even your middle name. It was a residential town, with no college, no factories, no big office buildings, and few jobs. Most adults had to commute to neighboring towns for employment.
Higley was nestled in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains and was the largest town —in square miles—in the entire state of New York. It was also one of the smallest towns based on population. The town was formed around a furniture factory and a sawmill in the early 1800s. The logs were cut by hand along the mountains and floated down the river to the sawmill. Once cut, the lumber was taken to the furniture factory or shipped downstate for a price. All of that was put to a halt when the state decided the river would be a perfect place to install three hydroelectric dams. The dams caused the river to flood roads, homes, and some businesses, and the town was restructured around the river.
The Raquette River, which flowed north into the St. Lawrence River, split Higley right down the middle. The west side of the river was more developed than the east. Traveling on the east side of the river was only possible in a four-wheel drive vehicle, snowmobile, or ATV via a vast network of gravel roads and trails. Hunting camps were sporadically located along the river and throughout the vast boreal forest, with limited access, dependent on the season and the weather. Only three bridges spanned the Raquette River, allowing vehicles to traverse from one side to the other. The bridges were not close in proximity to one another, but rather, spread over 60 miles. The Marten brothers would drive to the most southern bridge and fish in an area they called Bear Bay.
Paul leaned on the driver-side door, steering the Ram truck south on Route 56. Jack had jumped in the back seat of the crew-cab truck, allowing Eric to occupy the shotgun seat, which gave him access to the tuner on the radio. He started thumbing preprogrammed buttons, dissatisfied with his choices.
“Don’t like my stations?” Paul asked Eric.
“Sorry, but your hard-rock gives me a headache. And, who listens to NPR?”
“I do. So do a lot of people. It’s informative and educational,” Paul retorted.
“It’s boring.”
“It can be,” Paul started to explain to his younger brother, “but it can help you think about things…look at topics from a new perspective, and sometimes make you change your mind about important stuff.”
“Maybe I can find the weather.”
“I caught the weather last night,” Jack said. “Light snow shower on and off all day. It’s going to be overcast all day. High around 30 degrees.”
“Sounds perfect,” Paul said. “What about the storm that’s coming?”
“That should stay north of where we’re going, but it will hit town in about an hour or two. It’s only expected to last until early afternoon. Should be clear by the time we get off the ice.”
“Awesome. Let’s go get some fish,” Eric exclaimed. He spun the tuner dial until the digits on the screen read 99.5. A Jason Aldean song came through the speakers, and soon, all three brothers were quietly singing along.
They drove south for another 11 miles. The road meandered up and down the foothills, increasing their elevation to 1,600 feet. If they had driven another eight miles, they would have come to the lake where the Raquette River was born. They turned left and crossed the last bridge that spanned the river. Once on the east side, they turned right onto Garrison Road and maintained their journey along the opposite side of the river.
Paul powered off the radio that now seemed to be stuck between stations. The radio waves were lost in the vast Adirondack forest, and the sound was more static than music. Then he switched off the truck’s headlights.
“Look’s like someone beat us here,” Paul stated.
Jack sat up and leaned between the two front bucket seats. He could see tracks on the snow-covered road that were made after last nights squall. He studied them for a few seconds. “Those tracks are a few hours old. Narrow vehicle. Aggressive tread.”
Jack worked for the town highway department and drove hundreds of miles every week in conditions similar to this. He had followed almost every kind of vehicle track on these dark, snowy roads. He and his wingman, who operated the plow’s height and angle, would play a guessing game whenever they saw tracks in the road. When you had nothing else to look at for hours during a plow run, playing “Guess the Tracks” was the only way to occupy your mind and pass the time. Usually, the tracks turned into someone’s driveway, and the make and model of the track-making vehicle would be revealed.
“Those are Jeep tracks,” Jack stated plainly. Paul and Eric knew better than to question his deduction.
“Well, looks like we’ll have company today,” Eric mused.
“I don’t think so—look,” Paul pointed out the windshield to a green Jeep Renegade parked in the middle of the road. He stopped the truck 30 yards from the vehicle, blocking the access road. Jack could see a custom decal on the back window—a cartoon frog wearing a plaid shirt and holding a chainsaw.
“Toady,” Jack mumbled.
Paul and Eric looked at their older brother with skewed eyebrows. Jack could feel their confusion.
“There was a logger in the store this morning. Someone stole his Jeep last night from the bar,” Jack explained. “I heard the cashier call him ‘Toady.’”
“Shit,” said Eric. “Well, it’s probably some teenage kids screwing around.”
The back door of Paul’s truck opened, and Jack jumped out. Paul and Eric looked at each other and decided they better follow. Jack was already halfway to the abandoned vehicle. The windows were frosted over, indicating that the vehicle was cold and had been turned off for about two hours. Jack approached from the driver’s side, using the side mirror to look inside. Paul and Eric jogged up from behind to catch up to their older brother.
Jack knocked on the side of the Jeep to get the attention of anyone who might be sleeping off a hangover. No response. He knocked one more time. Nothing.
The vehicle was abandoned, and a set of footprints led away from the parked Jeep. The tracks indicated that someone had exited the driver’s side, gone to the back of the Jeep, and then hiked straight into the woods.
“Think it was someone grabbing their ice fishing gear?�
� Paul asked.
“No,” Jack answered, rubbing his beard. “They headed uphill.” He pointed to a high ridge to the left of the road. “If they were going fishing, he would’ve gone west, toward the river.”
Eric nodded his head in agreement. “Well, we can’t wait for him to come back.” He opened the creaky door of the 4x4 and looked inside. “Ha! Keys are in the ignition.” He climbed inside and started the six-cylinder engine, let out the clutch, drove it forward, and parked to the side of the road, giving Paul enough room to get his truck past. Before he exited the vehicle, Eric peeked at the backseat. There were piles of empty energy drinks and fast food wrappers on the floor. A snow-scraper on the seat, a muddy pair of work boots, and a chainsaw wrench.
Half folded on top of everything, was a geographical map of the area. Red marks had bled through to the back side of the map, and Eric’s curiosity got the best of him. Maybe this would explain where the mystery driver went. He unfolded the map completely and studied it for a moment. The road to this point was highlighted all the way down from the Canadian border. A black line, drawn with a straight edge, was drawn on the map. It started somewhere in Canada, which was not certain since this was a New York map. Little arrows were drawn on the black line that pointed south. The black line went straight to Bellinger Airport, turned south and went straight through the Adirondacks. The only form of transportation that could follow this route was an airplane. Why would the driver need to know an airplane route if he was driving a stolen Jeep?
A red X was drawn on the map in nearly the same location that he was sitting. Another mark on the map was made on the ridge that Jack had pointed to moments ago. There was nothing on that ridge except a nice view. It seemed to be almost a mile from the parked Jeep and would have been a steep, arduous climb through thick briar patches and dense woods. Hiking up the hill without snowshoes would be an exhausting journey.
“What the hell?” Eric asked himself. His thoughts were interrupted by the blue Dodge pulling up next to him.
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