Depth Finder

by Terry Paul Fisher

  “Fuck, Eric,” Jack said. “If this plane had been reported missing, the search parties would be here by now.”

  “Only if they knew where it went down. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and these are big woods to search. We’re surrounded by 19 thousand acres of state forest.”

  “When was the last time we saw anybody out here other than Andy? We’ve got plenty of time to check this thing out before anyone comes along.”

  Eric looked at Paul for back-up. Paul, lost in thought, peered into the water as if he could will the case to him. His brain was burning with ideas. There were so many ways he could benefit from the money that could be inside that case. If the case was full of money, all of his and Stacie’s financial problems would be resolved. They could pay off her student loans and both vehicles. They’d have to be careful not to deposit the money in a bank so the I.R.S. wouldn’t be aware of their new found fortune that fell out of the sky, almost killing him.

  “Let’s think about this,” Paul finally said as Jack and Eric argued. Paul pulled the camera’s tether and reeled the little camera hand-over-hand until it emerged from the dark water. They worked to put the camera back in its case while they weighed their options. Then the four of them huddled around the camera case. Jack pulled out a pack of menthols and offered one to everybody. Paul accepted.

  “Two of us want to retrieve that money,” Paul said.

  “We don’t even know if it is money in the case,” Eric interrupted. “For all we know, it could be a box of Playboys.”

  “Hehe, might be worth getting after all,” Andy chuckled.

  “It’s not worth risking our lives,” Eric continued. “I’ve been down there, remember? There’s a current that will drag you right under the ice.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm that ended with his index finger pointed toward the middle of the bay. “Even you can’t swim that well, Paul. I don’t care how much money might be down there—it’s not worth your life.”

  “Maybe we can jerry-rig something to fish it out,” Jack said.

  “Maybe a fishing line and a depth-finder,” Paul added. “If we can get a hook through that window…”

  “Window looked too small,” Jack said, holding his hands about 18 inches apart. He realized that Paul could not see the monitor since he was manning the tethered camera. “I think the case is wider than the window. We’ll have to, somehow, bring the case through the cargo doors.”

  “There’s only one way to get it,” Eric said, “And I don’t think it’s a good idea. Somebody would have to swim through those broken cargo doors, and it sure the hell isn’t going to be me.”

  “Andy?” Paul looked at the mountain-man. “If I retrieve that case, would you mind if we go back to your cabin to dry off and warm up?” Paul and his brothers knew Andy’s cabin was only a half-mile from the bay. They just needed to cut through the woods and get back on the Garrison Road. They could be at his cabin in 30 minutes or less.

  “Absolutely,” the jolly man replied. “I got a fire going and a little Jim Beam to warm your ass. We can even fry up one of them fresh pikes to eat.”

  Paul looked at Jack questionably. Jack looked at Eric reassuringly. Eric looked concerned, and Andy looked at his cheap watch.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” Paul said. “I’ll swim down there and grab the case, then we head straight to Andy’s cabin and warm up.”

  “And split the money,” Jack added.

  Eric knew there was no sense in arguing the matter any further. Paul had made up his mind, and Jack was committed to the plan. Instead of arguing further, he thought about how he could help.

  “Let’s get our gear packed up, so we’re ready to go as soon as I come out of the water,” Paul said. They all nodded in agreement and headed back to the dying fire to get their jet sleds and start picking up the tip-ups scattered throughout the bay.

  “You trust Andy?” Paul asked Jack as they made their way to shore.

  “Yeah. Andy’s a good guy. He’s whacked on homegrown most of the time, but he doesn’t talk to anyone. He’ll keep his mouth shut about this.”

  “We’ll have to explain to him about not spending it lavishly; keep it out of the bank and don’t make any big purchases.”

  “You think Andy’s the type to buy Cuban cigars, a fancy yacht, and a vacation home in the Keys?” Jack laughed.

  “No, but he is the type to go to town and buy a new truck, some rifles, and a few rounds at the bar.”

  “That’s my plan,” Jack said. “You should, too.”

  They fed the fire. Paul could use its heat when he emerged from the bottom of the river to stave off hypothermia. Then they’d make their way to Andy’s cabin and dry out in his shelter by the fire. A couple ounces of Jim Beam sounded like an added bonus.

  They dragged their jet sleds to the center of the bay and began pulling tip-ups out of the holes they had drilled. Paul noticed that one one of his tip-ups was already out of the water and smashed beyond repair. The remaining half of the right wing of the plane had annihilated the wooden fishing instrument. He lifted a couple of larger pieces of the splintered wood to inspect the damage. A total loss, he tossed the remnants into the bottom of his sled.

  His thoughts drifted to the conversation he had with Stacie that morning. Could he start his own business if he retrieved the money? Would he need to? The thought of being his own boss became more appealing when he knew the risk was lower. But, if there were enough money in that case, maybe he’d never have to work again. That seemed impossible.

  The ice popped under his feet, sounding like a Coke bottle breaking, and a crack opened up leading to a hole in the ice. For a second, he thought his plunge into the water would come earlier than planned as he felt the sheet of ice move under his weight. He side-stepped a couple of times until his feet hit slushy snow. Water was flooding the ice where he was standing. The plane had punched a hole through the ice when it first crashed down. For some reason, the ice was thinner here, perhaps the result of a sandbar pushing the current upward.

  Paul backed up, putting some space between himself and the compromised ice.

  He checked to be sure no one else was coming in this direction. Jack was further out toward the open water of the main channel. Eric was closer to shore on the south side. The broken tip-up was retrieved from the sled, and Paul set the flag near the hole to mark the danger. If anyone stepped too close, they would surely plunge into the river.

  Andy was on his two-way radio again. He hadn’t walked more than 12 feet from the plane, his conversation not audible to Paul.

  “Hey, it’s me,” Andy spoke softly into the mirophone. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the Canadian replied. “What’s happening there?”

  “Looks like they are going to dive in and get the money. One of the brothers has volunteered, and then we’re going to my cabin to dry off and get warmed up. And we’re going to drink some Jim Beam.”

  “Do you think they can do it?”

  “Get the money? I think so. They seem pretty determined, but it is going to be dangerous.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there soon. I’ll make sure one of those boys goes after that case, whether they want to or not. Over and out.”

  Andy turned off the walkie-talkie and buried it in his pack basket. He hung his head for a moment with guilt. He thought about what was going to happen after the money was brought up from the bottom of the river. He thought about how much he enjoyed the company of the three men. He thought about what he could do with the money and honestly couldn’t come up with much. He had everything he needed in life, didn’t he? A cabin on the river, a dependable old truck, and a view of the Adirondack Mountains from his front porch.

  He didn’t have a woman in his life—never really had. Would money change that? Probably not. Maybe he’d just forfeit his percentage to the Canadian. Maybe he’d just give it to the Marten brothers. His head hurt from thinking about all of this as if his skull were cracked like the ice only 12 feet away. He
didn’t know what to do, so maybe he’d do nothing at all. Maybe he’d just leave.

  Andy thought about why they were doing this. Their purpose was important—more important than money; more important than the Martens; more important than all their lives. He was convinced that this was for the greater good and that they must stick to the plan no matter what the outcome.

  “All packed up?” Andy shouted to the three.

  “Hell yeah,” Jack shouted back. He was beaming with enthusiasm.

  “Almost,” Paul replied. “Eric? Whattabout you?”

  Eric was pulling fishing line off the spools of his tip-ups. Each tip-up reel held about 100 feet of 20-pound test Spyder Wire fishing line. “Almost ready.” He tied three of the lines to a small tree on shore. Each strand had been doubled up, and now he was braiding the three lines together. The braiding increased the tinsel strength even further, and when he finished, he had a 20-foot long rope with a tensile strength of 120 pounds. It was lighter than paracord, but Eric figured it would be enough to hold Paul’s weight.

  Paul and Jack were on their way to meet Eric by the fire. They watched Eric work on the makeshift rope and admitted it was a great idea. They arrived before Eric could finish the task and helped him with the last remaining braids. Eric took a lighter and burned both ends of the rope to melt the fibers together to prevent fraying.

  “Ready,” Eric said. He held the little rope up with a sense of pride, then coiled it around his left elbow and the palm of his hand, making a neat circle to prevent tangles. He tucked the coil in the large pocket of his jacket.

  “Let’s go,” Eric said to the rest of the fisherman. The threesome started for the plane, but Eric stopped as if his boots had frozen to the ice. He pushed his sunglasses over his head. Young eyes scanned the pine trees, picking up movement within the shadows. He watched the figure walk toward them and onto the ice. “Change of plan,” he announced. Paul and Jack saw his gaze fixed on the woods, and they followed Eric’s eyes to the trail that had led them to Bear Bay.

  “Is that Ernie?” Jack asked Paul. They could tell the man in uniform was from the Department of Environmental Conservation and Jack hoped it was Stacie’s uncle.

  “No,” Paul said. “Ernie’s taller. I don’t recognize this guy. He might be a new officer.”

  Paul didn’t know whether to feel relieved or upset as the figure approached them. Jack swore under his breath, visibly disappointed by the intrusion. Paul wondered if Andy had radioed someone from town who then called the authorities. That seemed unlikely, but it had been over an hour since the plane had crashed down.

  The Canadian approached them with a fake smile on his face. His boots squeaked on the ice, sounding like a broken windshield wiper. His hands hid in the pockets of the jacket, which made him seem guarded and unsure of himself. The officer observed his surroundings, taking mental pictures of each fisherman and their actions. His eyes fixed on Paul and Jack, and he walked directly to their location. Eric continued on; making his way to the crash site and left Paul and Jack to explain everything.

  “Watch that hole in the ice,” Paul said, pointing to the first spot where the plane had punched through. The Canadian walked around the four-feet wide hole. Squeaky boots were silenced by the wet snow for a moment but commenced their squeaking when he exited the flooded area. His face was red as if he’d been out in the cold weather for some time. His red beard had tinges of frost which blended with the gray growing on his chin.

  “Good day, gentlemen. How are you?” the Canadian asked.

  “Good,” Jack replied. “Nice day, ain’t it?” Jack would have asked that question in a blizzard. To him, every day was nice, especially if he wasn’t working.

  “It’s a gorgeous day. Storm in the north is pretty bad, but it looks like it’s missing you guys,” the Canadian said. “How’s the fishing been?”

  “Great,” Paul said. “Until we were almost killed by a plane dropping out of the sky.”

  The D.E.C. officer did not seem amused. He nodded his head as if he’d heard all about it. “Yeah, I got a call about that. Thought somebody was pulling a joke on me or something. I gotta check it out though.”

  Paul shot a dirty look at Andy. He suspected he was right and that Andy was calling someone on the radio to report the crash. But, why didn’t he just admit it? Andy didn’t see Paul’s glare since he stared down at the ice and at the plane’s tail protruding from the water.

  “Don’t suppose there were any survivors by the looks of it,” the Canadian observed.

  “No. We tried to check,” Jack admitted, nodding toward the fish viewer.

  “We think the pilot was the only person on board,” Paul added.

  The fish viewer was still sitting on the ice, so the Canadian knew they had been trying to see the wreckage below. The men investigating the crash must not have seen Blankenship’s body in the back of the plane. Maybe the big man was taken by the current or blown out of the plane by Cordelia’s blast. His disdain for Blankenship had him hoping to see the bodyguard dead. Killing Ozzy was regrettable, but knocking Blankenship off was a bonus to the job.

  “You guys have your fishing licenses?” The imposter asked. The question came out on its own. It was a sudden idea he had to acquire the Marten’s names and addresses. Paul and Jack retrieved the requested documentation, and the Canadian filed the information mentally. “Thanks. Let’s go see what kinda mess we’ve got, eh?”

  The three of them walked to the plane, where Andy and Eric were already waiting.

  “Got your fishing license?” the Canadian asked Eric. Eric complied, as his brothers had, and pulled his license from the front pocket of his Carhart overalls. “You guys brothers?” the Canadian asked as he handed Eric’s license back.

  “Yes, sir,” Eric replied. “Except for Andy here. He lives just up-river.” The Canadian nodded at Andy and turned toward the wreckage. He kicked a piece of debris that was sitting in the snow.

  “Damn. What a friggin mess, eh? Might have to wait until spring to get that sonavabitch out.”

  “Might be easier while there is ice on,” Jack said. “The ice is thick enough to drive a tractor on, as long as you don’t get too close to this area. Is anybody on their way? Fire department? Police? Or just you?”

  “No, I’m it for now. I’ll have to call in for help when I get closer to town. Radio won’t reach that far from here.” He tapped on the red two-way radio fastened to his shoulder. “Guess there’s no big rush since there are no survivors.”

  “Guess not,” Paul said. He turned and walked away as if he’d lost interest in the whole situation. He took his phone out of his pocket, willing it with his mind to pick up a signal. Nothing. He tried to remember where he was standing before when he had a weak signal and was able to send a message to Stacie. He followed the plane’s skid marks through the snow while studying his footprints. As he backtracked, he kept his phone raised above his head, hoping to see a bar light up on his phone to indicate reception.

  “What’s he doing?” The D.E.C. officer asked the others. He watched Paul wander away and keep his phone toward the sky.

  “I think Paul had a signal out in the middle of the bay,” Eric said. “Just before the plane crashed, he was able to send a text.”

  Paul stopped walking. He spun 90 degrees right, then 180 degrees left. Two bars lit up on the phone; then one; then back to two. The phone had picked up the elusive cell service again. With his arm out stretched, he held the phone with the camera pointing back at him—in ‘selfie’ mode. He could see himself, the plane’s tail sticking out of the ice, and the group of men encircling it, on the phone’s screen.

  Click. Click. Click.

  When he finished taking the selfies, he perused the photos, trying to decide which one to send to Stacie. He selected his choice and sent it with the message,“Hi Hon. Been a crazy day here. Check this out. Leaving soon. Love you.” He stayed in the same spot like a snowman, being sure not to move or lose the cell service. The weak s
ignal would be slow to upload the file and send it through space, so he waited patiently. Squeaky boots approached him from behind.

  “You can’t be taking pictures of this crash,” The D.E.C. officer said. His face turned redder, and there was a tone of annoyance in his voice.

  “I just took a couple,” Paul said. “Thought I’d send them to my wife while I’ve got cell service. She can call to report the plane crash.”

  “I’ll need to see those pictures. This crash is still under investigation, and we can’t leak anything until I notify the authorities.”

  “Well, my wife works at the airport for the Department of Homeland Security, so technically, she is an ‘authority,’” Paul said. “She can run the serial number and identify the pilot for you.”

  “May I see the pictures?”

  “Sure, I guess,” Paul was the type of person who respected law enforcement. Even though something seemed off about this guy, Paul abided his request and scrolled through the last three pictures on his phone. They stood next to each other, shielding the screen from the glare of the sky.

  “See, just a couple—"

  The Canadian’s powerful hand grabbed the phone and ripped it from Paul’s grasp. The phone was tossed through the air and into the hole in the ice. With a splash, it disappeared, drifting to the bottom of the river with all of Paul’s messages and photos. Paul was furious. He imagined the water dissolving pictures of Stacie from the phone’s memory card. He had pictures of family, friends, ex-co-workers, and trips they had taken. There was a picture he’d taken of Stacie with some dolphins, that he wanted to print and frame. There was a picture of he and Dale Earnhardt, Jr. from a race at Pocono Speedway. There were pictures of their dog that died last summer. His rage snowballed as he thought about all the pictures, contacts, and messages he just lost.

  He stared in disbelief at the watery hole that had just swallowed so much information. The phone lay at the bottom of the river now, and it would be impossible to retrieve. He would have an easier time getting the case from the plane than acquiring his phone back.