“Good. What’s your location?”
“I’m on the river. Follow the road for a couple of miles until you see a giant rock, like 12 feet high. Its shaped like a big haystack. Cut into the woods on the right, just past the rock. You’ll see my tracks in the snow. Follow ‘em to the river. You can’t miss it.”
“Great, give me about 45 minutes. Grab the money if you can, but be careful, just in case the security guard survived. You don’t want to mess with him.”
“Uh…see, that’s gonna be a problem.”
“Why? What the hell are you talking about, eh?”
“Well, hehe, the plane landed on the bay, and then it went into the bay. So the whole thing is in the drink.”
“Its in the water?”
“Yup.”
The Canadian wanted to scream. He balled his hand into a fist, looking for something to punch, but there was nothing. Of all the places the wreckage could have smacked down, it had to be in the friggin water. He shook the fist loose and took a breath. “Can we get to it somehow? You must have some equipment at your cabin we could use.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not the only problem. I’m not alone. There’re three brothers here, too—local boys. They’ve been ice fishing this bay all morning, and now they’re going to look at the plane.”
“Sonavabitch! Did they report it?” the Canadian asked.
“No, no, there’s no cell phone service out here.”
“Okay. Good. Okay. I’m on my way. Don’t let them leave if they get that money. Over and out.” The Canadian hastened his organization, packed up the quadcopter case—minus the quadcopter—snuffed the fire, and folded a white tarp he’d strung in the trees for camouflage.
He had prepared for this contingency, knowing he might cross paths with some snowmobilers, hikers, or fishers while he and Andy searched for the downed plane. He unzipped the large backpack he was lugging around and rummaged through the contents. He thought about Moonie’s words. “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.” He realized the kid was right, but fortunately, he was not spotted during his illegal journey.
He pulled out his pistol to check it. Three men were all that stood between him and his money. Hopefully, they would leave the scene and go home to their normal lives without incident. Hopefully, they were smarter than Moonie and wouldn’t fuck with him. If they became suspicious or problematic, he would have no choice but to end their existence.
He racked a .357 caliber bullet into the chamber of his SIG 226 pistol and peeked down the sights. He holstered the pistol to his right hip. The holster was attached to a heavy utility belt that encircled his waist and was also home to a small flashlight, an empty canister of pepper spray, and a set of toy handcuffs to make the costume more believable. He retrieved a heavy green coat. Not the green of grass or a color similar to the Jeep he had driven here, but an earthy color that reminded the Canadian of his days in the Army.
He studied the patches embroidered on the coat’s shoulders for the first time. The patches were black with yellow text, reading “New York State Environmental Conservation/Police.” A couple of women wearing robes were embroidered on the patch. The woman on the left was armed with a spear while the other held a set of scales—Liberty and Justice. Justice, holding the scales, wore a blindfold to cast her judgment fairly and without prejudice. The Canadian laughed at the image, realizing he could sneak a stack of cash on one side of those scales without her noticing, to tip the scales in his favor. They stood next to a scene of a ship sailing a river with an eagle displayed above. A banner across the bottom held a single Latin word which he read out loud, “Excelsior.”
He stood on the ridge and scanned the horizon to the north where some dark cumulus clouds were dumping two inches of snow per hour. The storm was predicted to stay north of his location as it traveled from west to east. Lake Ontario had not frozen over this year, causing the wide storm to pick up moisture and carry it to the mountains. As the clouds rose higher into the Adirondacks, the moisture dropped in the form of snow. The weather was working in the Canadian’s favor—slowing any rescue vehicles on their way to the crash. The weather was also forcing most people to stay home and forego any recreational activities today, so he wouldn’t have to worry about hikers snowshoeing, cross-country skiers, or automobiles. It was possible that he would encounter some snowmobilers out riding—they were die-hards that wouldn’t give a shit about the storm. Most fishermen would skip going to the ice today—most, except for three.
“Excelsior.”
He began his two-mile hike to the bay to meet up with Andy and retrieve his money—“my money” as he called it now. He felt he had earned it. He traveled from Ottawa, braved the ice of the St. Lawrence River, took the life of Moonie Swamp, stole two vehicles, climbed this ridge, and sacrificed little Cordelia. Now, he just needed to put the prize in his hands.
He descended the ridge, weaving through the deciduous trees and back-tracking his way to the gravel road. The backpack was lighter without Cordelia in her case. Soon, he would be free of its bulk, and stash it in the woods near the stolen Jeep. He could return later to retrieve the pack, if necessary.
He finally hit level ground and could see the bright green Jeep 90 yards away. It stood out like a pea on a wedding cake. Snow had accumulated on the stolen Jeep’s hood, roof, and bumpers, making it almost impossible to see from the air. Surely, the Jeep had been reported stolen by now, but the snow-covered trees had swallowed it up, concealing it from the rest of the world.
Snow started falling again. Large flakes, the size of dimes gliding on light currents of air. It was not a deluge of white, but a beautiful display of occasional flakes, like each one took its turn jumping from the clouds above. They were misguided wanderers from the edge of the storm. The air temperature was slightly on the rise as well, causing the flakes to stick together as they collided in mid-air.
The Canadian looked to the sky, allowing some of the large flakes to cool his face. He felt warm from the hike down the hill, and for a moment, he was lost in the precipitation’s hypnotic influence, even sticking his tongue out like a kid to catch a few in his mouth. In his mind, he was nine again, ice-skating on the Rideau Canal with his brother and mother. He could smell the hot dog stand and hear the kids laughing. The sound of hockey pucks slapping against hardwood sticks echoed in his eardrum. He could feel the vibrations as he skated over thousands of little fissures made by thousands of sharp blades. He and his brother would skate for miles on the canal, often leaving their mother on her own to gossip with vendors and other moms. She didn’t mind. She wanted them to go far, follow a path of their own, and be brave. They always returned to find her in the same warming room, rubbing her feet that were sore and swollen from the tight figure skates, but she never complained about the discomfort or the cold. She made whatever sacrifices she had to for her children. She was a good mom.
What would she think of him now?
The image of the canal morphed into a snowy field, and the hotdog stand and benches were replaced by hundreds of tombstones. The skaters were now mourners, scouring the cemetery politely as they read the names engraved in stone. Snow covered the headstone at his feet. Yellow daffodils peeked through the snow, defying the winter weather. A hummingbird sipped the nectar of the yellow flower, then froze in place—stuck there forever as if the headstone was his.
The Canadian opened his eyes wide, ingesting the visual reality that was. He smelled moss and bark and wet gravel, but no daffodils. The sound of the hummingbird disappeared. It was refreshing to be back to reality.
He was thirsty. The exertion of the hike had exhausted and dehydrated his body, so the Canadian rummaged through his backpack for a bottle of water. The ice-cold liquid soothed his raw throat and revitalized his muscles. No more daydreaming. No more visions.
Time to go.
He stashed the backpack beside the road, rather than in the Jeep. If the Jeep were re
covered, then he would still have his pack. He opted not to drive up the road, so he went to the vehicle and pulled out the keys. He didn’t want anyone to recover the stolen vehicle or drive it up the road to catch him. He stuffed the keys in his pocket and began hiking. Stealth and surprise were on his side. He would give the fishermen a chance to retrieve the money and then take it from them. That was the plan. Andy could give him a ride later to pick up his backpack.
The walking was so much easier on the road than it was while tramping through the woods. Until this morning, the gravel road had not been used in months, except for a few snowmobiles that packed a solid base that would last until the next thaw. It was a four-mile hike to the bay where Andy was waiting, and he needed to get there before the three interlopers retreived the money and got away. He headed south on Garrison Road; just himself and a set of tire tracks from earlier this morning. He followed Paul’s tire tracks, like a hobo walking along the railroad, and hoped he wouldn’t be too late.
Chapter 11 / A Gut Feeling
Bettinger Airport was eerily quiet after the white plane with red wings departed. The next flight for the day, scheduled for 12:50 pm, was canceled since the plane that was supposed to make the flight became stranded in Burlington, Vermont. The storm coming off Lake Ontario inched its way across the state, looking like a pink slug on the radar screen. It lumbered its way from west to east, leaving its cold white slime covering the ground between the airport and Bear Bay—dividing Stacie and Paul.
Stacie had called Border Patrol 30 minutes ago to report Officer Greene’s strange transaction with plane C-FBZA. The grumpy woman on the other end of the call informed her she could only report a problem to the supervisor, who was attending a crime scene on the reservation. She left her name and number and awaited his return call.
Stacie was scheduled to stay at the airport until 5:00 p.m., whether or not there were passengers or flights. Her phone blinked silently in the quiet break room where she was reading a book on her kindle about pregnancy. Normally, she preferred a good paperback book with its distinct smell, tangible pages, and the satisfaction of seeing how much she’d read in a day. But for this topic, she could discretely bone up on topics of morning sickness, unexpected bleeding, and baby’s first night home, without anyone knowing about her little secret.
She finally noticed the phone beckoning her to read its message. She thought she’d missed a call from the Border Patrol supervisor but was happy to see it was a text message.
Paul’s message brought a smile to her face. She hadn’t expected to hear from him all day since there was no cell service where he was fishing. She typed in her response and hit the send button.
Message not sent.
“Dang.”
Her delicate thumb pushed the send button again. The result was the same.
A noise from the other side of the office stole her attention. It was the chirp of an incoming email. She opened the email from the Sheriff’s department and then clicked on the attached PDF file. The file opened, and Stacie printed it at the printer adjacent to her desk. When the printer finally spit out the document, she walked into the breakroom and pinned it on the bulletin board for all the employees to see.
“Be On the Look Out:
Male / Possible Canadian citizen.
Name: Unkown
Height: 5’ 11” / Weight: 210lbs
Hair: Red / Red Beard
Eyes: Blue
Wanted for questioning related to a homocide on the St. Regis Mohawk Reservation.
Warning: Considered armed and dangerous. Do NOT approach.
Call the Sheriff’s office, SRM Tribal Police, or 911 if located.”
Stacie stared at a crewd sketch of the man on the BOLO report. It was based on the description Kim had given the police after she had found Moonie’s body. Kim wished she hadn’t been so shy around the Canadian and had gotten a better look at his face.
Stacie read all the details but knew she wouldn’t see the Canadian today since there were no flights. She wondered if, somehow, the Canadian was aboard the plane that Greene had lazily inspected this morning. Then she realized that didn’t make much sense. The man on the BOLO report was already in the country before the plane landed. But still, she couldn’t help but think the two events were related.
She stretched, reaching for the ceiling with interlocked fingers. For the first time, she felt a tightness in her lower abdomen that wasn’t there a few days ago. Her delicate fingers caressed the little bump forming below her navel.
She smiled.
Then, she smiled some more.
Forgetting about the BOLO, Officer Greene, and work, she snatched up her computer bag, stuffed the Kindle into it and headed for the door. When she passed the ticket counter, Daryl was polishing the granite counter to keep himself occupied.
“Bye, Daryl. I’m taking personal time for the rest of the day.”
“Might as well. No more flights today,” Daryl responded. “I’m gonna leave at noon. See you Tuesday.”
“See you Tuesday.”
Stacie drove out of the parking lot and headed down Route 37. The stop light at the intersection of Routes 37 and 56 turned red, and she braked hard to heed its command. Straight would lead her home. Left would take her to Higley, to Bear Bay, and to Paul.
She thought about Paul’s message. He seemed to be happy for the first time in weeks, and she couldn’t wait to see his reaction when she finally told him the news.
“Aw, fuck it.”
The car’s left signal light came on, flashing as fast as the images in her brain of the two of them starting a family.
Family. The word seemed foreign to her. She had no family to share this news. Her parents, both deceased, would have turned this into a negative situation. They’d tell her how irresponsible she was, and that they couldn’t afford to have a baby right now. They’d tell her how expensive diapers and formula would be, and ask who was going to watch the baby when she worked so much.
Uncle Ernie and Aunt Marie were all she had for family. They still resided in Higley but were planning to move to Georgia this spring, when Ernie retired from his job. They adored Stacie and treated her like a daughter. Stacie had even lived with them for a couple of summers as a teenager. Since they had two grown boys, she was the only girl in their lives and had always kept in touch.
Her sister lived in Florida. “Somewhere” was the only address she had for her. They hadn’t spoken in eight years unless she counted the time her older sister called to see if mom and dad had left her anything in their will.
No. No, they had no will. They had no money, and they had no fucking will. Stacie paid off their debts and paid for their funeral expenses. She dropped out of college to work full time to cover the expenses. It took her four years to recover from the downturn and start saving money again. You’re all very fucking welcome.
She turned the car left when the light turned green and drove south instead of west. The thought of her parents and sister upset her. Driving to Higley, seeing the man she loved and the aunt and uncle that adored her was just what she needed. She couldn’t wait any longer to tell Paul her news. The day was still young—she could be there before noon—and she knew her way to Bear Bay. Paul was going to be so surprised to see her and to hear the news.
The Subaru steered toward the thick dark clouds on the horizon. They looked like the offensive line of a football team, in dull gray and white uniforms, waiting at the line of scrimmage. They were ready to block her with their curtain of white snow and blowing wind. Most drivers avoided the route today, except one pregnant little linebacker who was determined to push through.
She cautiously drove the all-wheel-drive car toward the storm. The window was down an inch to let the fresh winter air circulate within the car. She turned the volume up just as the local news started to broadcast. The news anchor reiterated what the BOLO report had announced, but a new development had occurred in the last few minutes that wasn’t on the report. Police had found
Moonie’s truck, which they knew the killer had stolen, at a bar in Higley. They were now searching for a stolen green Jeep.
Chapter 12 / Officer Dumbass
After finding a few $100 bills and fishing them out of the water, the Marten brothers jockeyed the fish viewer around to the other side of the downed plane. They ignored the two flags that had popped on their tip-ups. The bright orange flags beckoned them to come to the hole and reel in the cold-blooded fish hooked below the ice. The fish viewer made its way around the plane continuing its investigation. Darkness swallowed the lens momentarily as the battery neared the end of its life and Jack and Eric stared a blank screen.
“The battery is dying,” Eric said to Paul. “We might as well pull the camera out.”
Paul raised the camera a few feet when the lights kicked back on. The camera stopped, stuck on the broken glass of the copilot’s window. Paul gave the camera a little tension, trying to free it from the glass shards. He needed to avoid slashing the tether against the broken window, so he kept the tension on the line. The camera flickered back to life, and the monitor’s pixels illuminated again.
“Whoa!” shouted Jack. “Pull a little bit more, so the camera tips downward, Paul.”
Paul followed his brother’s command.
“There it is. Jackpot,” Eric said.
“Whatta ya see?” Paul asked.
Andy was hovering over their shoulders. He was quiet until now, watching the brothers work the little camera gingerly around the wreckage. “Looks like a case sitting on the floor in the cockpit.”
“A case of money? Or a case of beer?” Paul asked.
“Well, if it’s a case of money, we can buy all the beer we want,” Jack replied.
“So, now what?” Andy asked. “That may not be money, and that dag-gone thing is in 12 feet of water…maybe more.”
“Andy’s right,” Eric said. “I think we just need to head back to town and report this. Somebody’s got to be looking for this plane.”
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