“Thanks, lad,” Ozzy mumbled. He gulped down a quarter of the mug’s contents, set the beer on a high-top, and then studied the scattered billiards on the green felt. Ozzy lined up for a shot while the Canadian continued his interrogation.
“What’s your schedule look like for the next couple of weeks, Oz?” the Canadian asked the pilot.
“Nine-ball in the side pocket,” the pilot said. He ignored the stocky mechanic to focus on a bank shot. The nine-ball dropped in the intended pocket, and Ozzy chalked up his cue stick for the next shot.
“Skiff has me doing a ton of work on the Beechcraft. Making sure it’s in top-notch condition,” the Canadian said. “She’s in good shape to make it to Sudbury if that’s where you’re headed.” The Canadian knew all-to-well, that was not where the plane would land. He took a swig of lager, waiting for the pilot to correct him.
“Sudbury? I ain’t going to no frickin Sudbury. Five-ball, corner pocket.”
“Oh, sorry, I just assumed…”
“No, fuck that place, eh?” The five-ball dropped in the corner pocket. “I hope I never go back to Sudbury. Last time I was in that shit-hole, a goddamn fisherman nearly shot my ear off. Course, I was out in his boat, with his wife, so can’t say as I blame the guy.”
The Canadian chuckled at the story.
“No, I’m headed down to Schenectady,” Ozzy finally revealed.
“The States? New York, eh?” The Canadian’s face twisted at the thought of the plane leaving the country. On the other hand, getting away with the money would be easier if he was in another country. Factor in that he was going to head south with it anyway, and it might actually make his plan easier to pull off.
“Seven in the corner.”
The seven dropped in the intended pocket.
“Aye, I’ve got to go to New York, then I’m leaving there for Burlington,” Ozzy’s Irish accent always came out when he talked about flying. Usually, it was in the company of pretty women. The prettier the woman, the heavier the accent became.
New York was going to be a problem. With his criminal background—a DWI and some charges for an unlicensed weapon—getting into New York would be impossible—legally, anyway. He needed to find someone to get him across the border, and he needed to do it soon.
“You sure about that, Oz?”
“Sure, I’m sure. Just like I’m sure I’m kicking your ass in this game, lad.” Ozzy chalked the cue stick again. “Three in the corner, off the eleven.” He drew the cue stick back, carefully aiming at the three-ball. He imagined the ball ricocheting off the eleven and into the corner. When he was happy with the angle, he drew back the cue stick and then launched it at the intended target. Like a firing pin of a rifle, it struck the three-ball and knocked it across the green table. The three-ball bounced off the eleven, just like he’d planned, and into the corner pocket. The eleven-ball was knocked across the table, and struck the black eight-ball. The momentum from the eleven set the eight-ball into motion and Ozzy watched with disgust as the eight-ball fell into the opposite corner pocket.
“Aww, bloody hell!” Ozzy protested as the black ball dropped into the angular pocket. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“No, you didn’t. You never know what’s coming, Oz’,” the Canadian smiled in victory. “Sorry ol’ buddy, you lose.”
****
After dumping Ozzy in an Uber and paying the driver himself, the Canadian went home and fired up his laptop. He searched the plane’s path on Skyvector, an application that tracks flights and maps flight paths. Skyvector showed the plane’s path from Ottawa to Schenectady went directly through the Adirondack Mountains in New York.
The Canadian couldn’t believe his luck. The flight path passed over the perfect place for him to complete the heist.
Chapter 5 / Bear Bay
Paul Marten pulled a large plastic sled down the river bank and onto the ice. The hike from the truck was a quarter of a mile, and he and his brothers were making good time. The trail had a solid base from a group of snowmobiles that had traveled through here weeks before, and only a couple of snowdrifts slowed their hike. He looked at the contents of the sled to ensure nothing had fallen out or spilled. When he was sure his gear was still secured, he continued across the frozen river bay. Jack and Eric weaved through the pines, following Paul’s tracks. Their pace quickened when they reached the open ice.
They crossed Bear Bay and parked their sleds on the south shore. There was a strategy to their location. The tall pines would protect them from the west wind if it began to blow and they could keep their backs to the sun most of the day as they watched their tip-ups—although, there wouldn’t be much sun today. The sun’s rays reflecting off the snow were harsh on an ice fishermen’s eyes and capable of burning the retina. The Martens needed to be cautious of developing snow-blindness, so they wore sunglasses and faced north.
After deciding where to set up their tip-ups, they started to work. Jack pushed the rubber bulb on his ice auger, forcing fuel into the carburetor, and primed the engine. He set the choke, pulled the start cord 4 times and the 52 cc engine sputtered. He opened the choke back up and tried again. The little engine came to life, spewing exhaust fumes as the sound of the two-stroke engine disrupted the silence of the forest. Jack pushed the throttle gently with his thumb to allow the engine time to warm up. Cold oil inside the crankcase was heating up, losing viscosity, and lubricating the interior engine parts. Jack was too impatient to wait any longer—it was time to drill holes and get fishing.
He swept his boot from side to side, revealing the hard ice that supported him. The auger growled, and the eight-inch-wide drill spun faster. The aggressive blades chewed a hole through the ice in seconds. When the auger finished boring through the hard ice, Jack eased off the throttle and lifted it out of the hole, pulling a gush of water with it that flooded the ice. The gush of water was intentional. Jack knew it would freeze the snow in a four-foot radius around the hole and prevent the wind from blowing snow into the hole and covering up the tip-ups.
“Fourteen more to go,” Jack thought. He paced off 15 yards to drill the next hole. He would continue drilling until he had three rows of five holes—one row for each fisherman.
Paul carried a sweetgrass pack basket containing six wooden tip-ups. Although he could only use five by law, it was always a good idea to have a spare. He knelt at the first hole and unfolded the wooden tip-up. The base swiveled to resemble an inverted cross; then he loosened a wing-nut which allowed another wood piece to swivel and form an X for a stable base. The spool on the side of the tip-up held a 25-pound test fishing line, braided for extra strength and flexibility. An Octopus hook adorned the business end of the line, which allowed for easier removal and less harm to the fish.
Paul peered into the dark water, wondering about the depth. The lead weight clipped to his jacket—a depth finder—would give him the answer. He attached the orange depth finder to the hook. The lead weight was molded around a large alligator clip to bite and hold the hook. Once secure, he lowered the combination into the river water and let it sink until it reached the bottom. His thumb and index finger pinched the fishing line at the top of the water, and then he pulled the rest of the line up by hand and let it coil neatly on the ice. He looked at the unspooled line and ascertained that the river was about 12-feet deep in this area.
“Twelve feet!” Paul shouted to Eric. Eric responded with a thumb pointing upward.
Paul removed the depth finder from the hook and replaced it with a three-inch long minnow. He forced the hook through the minnow’s back, just behind the dorsal fin, careful not to hit the spine, and dropped it into the water. The minnow was shocked from the cold water at first, but once his body temperature adjusted he sank toward the river bottom. Paul wound a few feet of line back onto the spool to ensure his bait would not loiter at the bottom of the river.
“Now, we’re fishing,” Paul thought to himself. He moved hurriedly from hole to hole, repeating the process and completed his s
et in about 12 minutes. Eric had set one of Jack’s tip-ups at each of the first five holes and was working on his own when Paul finished. Paul hauled his gear back to the shoreline and cleared an area to start a fire. The three brothers worked fast and efficiently, leaving little time to converse until they were set up for the day. By the time Jack had finished drilling holes and setting up his tip-ups, Paul’s fire was glowing with life under the thick pine trees. The smell of burning pine drifted with the gentle west wind.
They didn’t need the fire for warmth. The temperature was just a few degrees below freezing. The fire was like having another soul fishing with them—a soul that was warm and energetic. Its constant dance was entertaining, and its energy was contagious. They watched the fire while waiting for a fish to trigger the flags on their tip-ups. Gathering wood was something to keep them occupied, and eventually, they would need it to cook their lunch.
The brothers convened at the fire, poking the ashes and retelling stories of their past fishing trips. Jack lit a cigarette and sat in a nylon chair he had brought with him. He looked at Eric and smirked, “Hey Eric, remember to stay away from the brook today.”
Eric peered to the southwest corner of the bay. It was an area that rarely froze over because of the rushing water from a large brook that merged with the river. Any ice that did form was too thin to hold the weight of a man. Eric recalled his experience two years prior when the brothers were fishing this bay for the first time.
It was colder than they had expected that day, and the 20-miles-per-hour wind blew steady. Even so, they decided to stay and fish until after lunch.
Eric was pulling dead branches from a hemlock tree when he noticed something sticking out of the ice about 30 yards from the shore. He walked out onto the ice about 10 yards to get a better look. He recognized the shape but was baffled by its presence. Marching through eight inches of snow, he made his way out until he was close enough to reach down and grab the antler of a white-tailed deer. The antler was frozen in the ice, but he gave it a little tug. It would not budge. He thought about fetching his ice spud to chip away the ice, but the snow was deep, and his legs were already tired from exerting himself all morning. He pulled harder, trying to force the antler to break free of the ice’s frozen grip.
The force of his pull put increased weight on his feet—a weight that the thin ice was not capable of supporting. Eric crashed through the ice without warning. He felt the icy water flood his clothes and leech into his boots. A flurry of bubbles rose around him, disorienting his sense of direction. Half of his breath was forced out of his lungs as the cold water shocked his body. Now, nearly out of oxygen and stuck in waterlogged boots, he began to sink to the bottom of the Raquette River. That was not something he had expected to happen that day. That was not how he thought he would die, but there was little he could do. His body had no buoyancy, and he would go unconscious in minutes. Had Jack and Paul seen him go through the ice? He looked up at the jagged opening he had created. He could not see his older brothers—brothers who had protected him his whole life from neighborhood bullies, vicious dogs, and dangerous situations. Brothers who helped him learn sports, finish his homework, finish his chores, and took the blame when he shot Mr. Graham’s car with a BB gun. Where were they now? Where were they when he needed them most?
Eric gave up looking for his brothers and was nearly ready to give up on his life. He felt something bump on his back and spun in the water to see what was there. Even though he had only sunk about seven feet, it was dark this deep down. Still, he could see the silhouette of a deer against the ice above. The deer was still attached to the prize antler that had caused this situation. His numb fingers reluctantly grasped the deer’s hind leg. Eric’s arms were weak and tired of trying to fight the current. He pulled himself upward and grabbed the deer’s front leg, then reached further to grasp the one antler that was below the surface of the ice. Now his head was almost to the top, but his body wanted to drift back to the bottom. Blackness began to creep into his vision, and it seemed as though he was peering into a tunnel. He closed his eyes tight, not wanting to watch the blackness take him.
“Perhaps,” he thought, “It would be easier to just stop fighting. Let the blackness take over and end this.”
He opened his eyes. He was staring eye-to-eye with the deceased deer. This magnificent animal, once strong and exuberant, had been taken by the ice, and Eric decided they would not share the same fate. The deer’s death reminded Eric how precious life was, and worth fighting for. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he pulled his feet up and hooked them into the deer’s hind-quarters. It gave him enough of a boost that Eric could stick his face out of the water. He sucked in the wonderful oxygen which forced the darkness to retreat. He was too busy trying to catch his breath to yell for help. But the cold was working on his muscles and nerves. He wanted to pull himself out of the water, but his body would not cooperate. Something broke—but Eric wasn’t sure what it was. More ice maybe? Whatever it was, it had been supporting his weight. The river began to pull again and would soon have its second victim. He saw the buck’s eye again, which seemed to look at him with empathy. Eric closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable until he felt a tug on the back of his jacket.
Paul’s long arm grasped his brother’s coat with a grip like a pit bull's jaw. Every muscle in Paul’s body pulled. Jack held onto both of Paul’s boots to anchor him in place while he retrieved his little brother.
The river finally relinquished the youngest Marten brother from its icy bowels. They stayed on their bellies to distribute their weight and prevent a repeat of the event. Jack pulled Paul, Paul pulled Eric, and Eric pushed himself along. It wasn’t until they were 10 yards from shore that they felt safe and could stop. Eric climbed to his knees and realized he was holding one of the deer’s antlers in his right hand. He smiled in victory, elated to be alive.
Jack looked at Paul and back at their young brother. He was gasping for breath from the exertion and the fright of the situation. “Well, let’s get you to the fire to warm up.” He pointed at the antler, “Or, did you wanna go back and get the other one?”
The trio burst into laughter, and they never went near the brook again.
When they finished reminiscing about Eric’s near-death experience, their attention turned back toward the tip-ups spread across the bay. The weather was so much nicer today than the day Eric almost drowned. They scanned their tip-ups, looking for any flags that might have been triggered by a fish during their reminiscing.
“Flag!” Paul yelled. “Jack, it’s one of yours.”
They jumped to their feet and jogged across the ice. The clunking of their heavy winter boots was as loud as their smiles were big. The clunking went on for 70 yards as they made their way to the hole. Jack slid to his knees just inches away from the hole. His breathing was heavy, and sweat was now beading on his forehead. The 70-yard jog had warmed him even more than the fire. His bare hand reached into the icy water to scoop out the slush forming at the top of the water. He gave his hand a shake to expel the cold water from his skin. Now, he had a clear view of the tip-up’s spool. The submerged spool was spinning slowly as a northern pike swam away with the bait.
“Fish on,” Jack whispered when he saw the moving spool. “I’ll let him take a little more line. Let him swallow it.” The line began to slow—a sure sign the pike was swallowing the bait and planning his next move. Once he decided, the spool spun wildly as the pike raced away.
“Now!” all three exclaimed in unison.
Jack pulled the tip-up out of the hole gently with his left hand. His right hand let the line glide through his thumb and index finger. Jacks hand clamped onto the runaway line, and in the same motion pulled backward, setting the treble hook deep into the pike’s hard palate. The eldest Marten reeled in the line hand-over-hand, as the slack coiled in a pile on the ice. At first, the pike pulled and yarned on the line, trying to break free. Jack could feel the weight of the freshwater bruiser fighting b
ack like a wild dog on a leash. Jack skillfully let the fish have his way on occasion, allowing the fish to flee with the taut line and the hook embedded in his jaw. The harder the pike pulled, the more exhausted he became—then it was Jack’s turn. He pulled back again, spinning the fish 180 degrees and bringing him closer to the hole. It was back and forth this way for several minutes until finally, the fishes gills could not replenish the spent oxygen within his body, and he gave in to the human commanding the line.
A large eye came to the eight-inch hole drilled in the ice. Jack reached down with a gaff-hook and aligned the fish with the exit. Jack gently guided the gaff-hook through the opening in the fish’s bottom jaw. The gaff-hook lifted like a crane, pulling the cold-blooded animal out of the water completely and laid it on the ice. From nose to tail, it measured 42 inches.
“Yahoo,” Eric shouted. “Damn. She must be 12 pounds.”
“Pretty close,” Jack said as he carefully worked the Octopus hook out of the toothy mouth. When he finished, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Paul took the phone and snapped a couple of quick pictures.
“Keepin’ him?” Eric asked.
“Nope. She’s a good a breeder,” Jack answered. “Too big to eat. Let’s try to get some around twenty-four inches.” He held the fish under the head, careful to avoid touching its gills. His other hand clenched the tail and gently guided the trophy fish home. “Go on girl,” Jack encouraged her. With a couple of slow kicks, the pike swam away looking for a place to rest and regain its strength.
Paul waited for Jack to rinse his hands in the water and pat them dry on his overalls before handing back his phone. Jack re-spooled the fishing line, attached his depth finder and dropped it into the water. He then pulled the line back up and rebaited the hook with a minnow from the bucket Eric was carrying. A small flag, the size of a business card and mounted to a 20-inch long piece of thin steel, was bent downward and locked into place. When a fish took the bait, the spool would spin. The spinning spool would release the flag and allow it to spring upward. The bright orange flag, in contrast to the snow, could be seen from 100 yards away.
Depth Finder Page 5