Depth Finder

by Terry Paul Fisher

  “Holy shit!” Stacie exclaimed, the words muffled by the mitten she held with her teeth.

  “What is it?” Ernie asked.

  “This plane…,” She removed the mitten. “I think it’s the one from the airport this morning.”

  Ernie looked at the screen, “Hmm, I listened to the scanner all morning. I never heard anything about a plane going down.”

  “I didn’t hear anything about it, either,” Stacie agreed. “The pilot would have sent a mayday, don’t you think?”

  “Not if he was unconscious. Sometimes the stress of flying can cause a heart attack. Or, they could have had mechanical issues or ice build-up when he came through that storm to the north. Was there anyone else on board?”

  “Yes, just one.”

  Ernie shook his head. “That’s a shame. Poor guys probably on some business trip thinking they’d be home for dinner with their wives tonight, and then BAM! They’re dead.”

  “I don’t think they were on business—legal business, anyway.”

  “Still a shame. Shitty way to meet your maker.”

  “Well, it looks like someone from the D.E.C. is there. Look at this picture again,” Stacie took her thumb and index finger and placed them on the screen. She spread them quickly to zoom in on the man wearing the state issued uniform. Ernie squinted at the screen, moving it closer to his eyes then further away, struggling to get his old eyes to focus. Finally, he tipped his head back as if he was wearing his reading glasses. His mouth contorted in confusion.

  “Ain’t got any idea who this fella is,” he admitted. “I know every person in the D.E.C., but I’ve never seen him before. I think we better go check things out—see if they need some help.”

  Stacie took a closer look at the picture. The man in uniform had a red beard and matched the description on the BOLO she had received and pinned to the bulletin board that morning.

  “No way. It can’t be. Uncle Ernie, are you sure this guy doesn’t work with you?”

  “Sure, I’m sure. I’d remember him,” Ernie replied.

  “I think this could be the guy that killed the smuggler. He fits the description, and it can’t be a coincidence that there’s a green Jeep sitting here that might be stolen.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right,” Ernie said. “I’ll bet he stole that Jeep and is posing as an officer. Question is, what is he doing here? What is he after? We need to go warn Paul and his brothers. If this guy is who we think he is, they could be in danger.”

  “I’m not sure, Uncle Ernie,” She slid the phone back in her pocket. “I think we’d better go back to town and report this.”

  “Sure, we can report a plane has crashed into the river, but do you know who they’re going to call to go investigate?”

  “You?”

  “That’s right. I’ll have to turn around and drive all the way back up here. So let’s go check things out from shore. If it looks like a dangerous situation, we won’t approach them, and we’ll get our asses out of here.”

  Stacie pulled the bulky helmet over her head. “Okay, as long as you’re sure.” She was a little scared of what they might find at the river, but then she convinced herself that she was being paranoid. She tightened the helmet’s nylon chinstrap. “Okay, let’s get going then.”

  Ernie climbed on the Yamaha first and turned the key. The engine turned but refused to fire. He tried again, but the result was the same. “Oh come on, you friggin piece of—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Not sure. I put fresh gas in it yesterday, and the spark plug is practically new.”

  Stacie approached the machine and removed her helmet again. A familiar odor filled her nostrils. “Is that gas I smell?”

  Ernie raised his visor and lifted the cowl that covered the engine. He, too, could smell the gas and put his face closer to the engine. A few drips caught his attention and then he could see the little hole in the snow where the gas was dripping on the ground. He placed his fingers underneath the engine and waited for a few drips to trickle on to them. Then, he lifted his fingers to his nose and confirmed what they were both fearing. “Yup, that’s gas. Looks like there’s a crack in the intake line. The engine’s sucking air instead of gas.”

  “Can you fix it?” Stacie asked.

  “I was hoping you could.”

  Stacie looked at him with a “Don’t fuck with me” look.

  Ernie smiled. “Yes, I can fix it. But not here. I need a new gas line. The crack is right in the middle of the hose, so I can’t cut it, or it will be too short.”

  “What about that Jeep?” Stacie asked. “Think it will make it up the road with all of this snow?”

  “Sure it will. Paul drove his truck in further, so this thing oughtta make it.” He brushed some of the snow from the top rail and opened the driver’s door. He looked above the visor, in the center console, and even on the floor. After a thorough inspection, he determined the keys were gone and broke the news to Stacie.

  “Well, it’s only about two or three miles to hike it from here. Whatta ya think, kid, feel like walking?”

  “Well, it’s too far to walk back to your house,” Stacie said. She set the helmet on the snowmobile’s seat and patted him on the back, “Sorry, Uncle Ernie. I shouldn’t have dragged you out here.”

  “Nonsense, kid, I was just looking for something to do today. Besides, it’s too nice a day to be riding that thing anyway. I’d rather be walking. We’ll just hitch a ride out of here with Paul.”

  “What about your hip?”

  “Oh, it’ll feel better after a half-mile. Walking helps it loosen up. I’ll be sore tonight, though, so don’t expect me to be out dancin’.”

  Ernie went to the snowmobile and retrieved the walking stick that was strapped to the foot rail. Then he removed his heavy snow pants that were restricting his movement. Lastly, he went to the back compartment of the snowmobile and lifted out a small cooler with eight Busch beers inside. “Can’t celebrate without a few brews, right?”

  Stacie left her skipants on but shed her heavy winter coat. She knew she’d be a little chilly as they started out, but by the time they reached Haystack Rock, she’d be sweating. A hair tie was retrieved from her coat pocket and she held it in her teeth while she formed a ponytail in her blonde hair. Then she slid her right hand into the hair tie and transferred it to the ponytail.

  They marched south down Garrison Road, following the river and the footprints that were recently made by another person. They knew it had to be the unidentified D.E.C. officer in the photo that made this journey before them. They talked while they walked, trying to piece together the complicated puzzle and figure out the Canadian’s motive.

  Chapter 14 / Time to Get Your Ass in the Water

  The Canadian directed Andy to start a fire next to the hole in the ice, so the big man fetched some wood. Once Andy had a satisfied amount of kindle, sticks, and some larger logs, he lit the tinder bundle he had created from a handful of pine needles. The fire climbed the pile of wood as Andy blew into the base. The fire seemed like a hopeful sign to the Marten brothers, who stood at gunpoint waiting for the next move.

  Andy had done well not to reveal himself to the Marten brothers, which surprised the Canadian. He never asked Andy to stay incognito, and there was no reason for Andy to keep up the charade. He assumed that once this was over, Andy would stay in Higley and go about his life as if this had never happened. Andy wouldn’t want the Marten brothers to know he participated in this crime so he could just go back to a normal life. The money wouldn’t change Andy. He was an island in the waves of society; anchored to the ground while the rest of the world flowed around him with big houses, fancy cars, and debts that controlled their lives. Andy would get a share of the money, but he wouldn’t change his lifestyle. He loved this area; this town, and the people in it.

  The Canadian knew the Martens trusted Andy, but if the truth came out, they might do something radical. For now, they’d keep up the ruse in case they neede
d to play that card later.

  “You go down and get the case,” the Canadian addressed the whole group. “I’m sure you saw it on your fish-finder. It’s silver and about this big,” he held his hands about two feet apart. “It should be the only thing on the plane. Once I have the case, you get to warm up by the fire. If we don’t have any problems, everybody walks away alive. Try something funny, and only I walk away. Understand?”

  The Martens said nothing. They wouldn’t give the Canadian the satifaction of being scared or nervous and their stoic demeanor was in protest rather than fear.

  “Yes, sir,” Andy responded.

  Paul kneeled on the ice, breaking up some wood while a fire of his own flared inside him. He’d have to risk his life fighting the current while trying not to go into shock from the freezing water. Then he’d have to turn the money over to this asshole. All the ideas he had for the money sank to the bottom of the river to join his ill-fated phone. He thought about ways to get out of the situation and turn the tide on the fake D.E.C. asshole with the pistol. Their options were limited and time was running out. One idea kept running through his mind; if the case was unlocked or open—which it appeared to be since money was floating in the water—then maybe he could stash some in the plane and come back tomorrow to retrieve it.

  Andy’s fire burned hot now.

  “Time to get your ass in the water,” the Canadian said while staring down into the dark river.

  Paul removed his jacket and started working on his overalls. “Oh no, not you, buddy,” The Canadian smiled. “Him,” he pointed the gun at Eric, the youngest of the brothers. “I want you right where I can see you,” he nodded to Paul.

  “He doesn’t swim well,” Paul cautioned. “Neither of them do. I’m the only strong swimmer here, and with the current in this spot, I’m your best option for success.”

  “No, you’re my back up plan,” the Canadian said. “Besides, you’re going to be addressing that wound.”

  “What wound?”

  “This one.” He swiveled the pistol to Jack and pulled the trigger. The slug from the .357 ripped through Jack’s thigh, missing his femur by an inch. Jack whirled 90 degrees and collapsed from the shot. He grabbed his thigh and rolled from side to side in agony. The pain was like a million hot needles were just shoved into his skin at the same time. He wanted the burning to stop, so he grabbed handfuls of snow and began pushing it on the wound. The snow was pooling red as it absorbed the warm blood seeping from the hole.

  The Canadian spun the gun on Eric. “Get in the fucking water and get my money, or you’re next.”

  Paul realized the Canadian wasn’t going to work with the Marten brothers’ strengths, but on their fears. He could see the terror in Eric’s eyes as he watched his oldest brother bleed on the ice. Now Paul had a dilemma; big brother is bleeding from a gunshot wound on his left, little brother ready to drown on his right. He knew as bad as Jack’s wound was he would survive. “Take a hell of a lot more than that to kill that tough sonavabitch,” Paul thought to himself.

  Paul made a stop motion with his hand, asking for the Canadian to give them a moment. Paul turned to Eric. “Where’s the rope you made?”

  Eric pulled the thin line of braided fishing line out of his pocket. Paul snatched it out of his hands, unhooked the straps on Eric’s overalls, and wrapped the rope around Eric’s chest. While he tied the line, he looked at Jack laying on his back and tried to estimate how much blood he’d lost. He finished the knot and straightened the rest of the line on the ice to release any tangles. He worked as fast as he could, breathing heavy from the exertion and the stress of the situation. Now he needed something heavy to hold the line.

  “Andy, take the other end of this line. Don’t let go! I need you to help Eric get back up with that case,” Paul directed Andy. “Don’t pull too hard, just keep a little tension on the line. If the current starts to take him, pull slow and steady—like you’ve got a 186-pound fish on your hook.”

  Paul now turned his attention to Jack. He knelt in blood and started peeling back fabric to get a visual of the bullet hole.

  Eric slipped off his boots and overalls. He walked in wool socks to the edge of the ice.

  Eric hesitated at the edge of the ice. Under his breath, he muttered, “No way this is worth a few million dollars.” He looked back to check on Jack and grabbed some mental motivation. His eyes met with the Canadian’s. The Canadian knew Eric was still hesitant to enter the water, so he raised the gun, pointing to the back of Paul’s head. Eric’s heart jumped into his throat, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Watching Jack’s leg burst from the bullet was bad enough, but when he imagined Paul’s skull reacting to the bullet with the same destruction, the image was more than he could bear.

  Eric stepped off the ice, and the world went black for two and a half seconds.

  The 47-degree water was colder than he had imagined. It felt as though the water was squeezing his entire body, like ice and cement were burying him. The sensation was coming from the muscles of his body contracting all at once from the temperature. He opened his eyes and could see better than he expected. This world seemed surreal with the flightless plane parked in an environment more suited for a submarine. The plane was resting at a 40 degree angle with its bent propeller buried in the sand. It tilted a little to the right, supported by the one wing still attached. Fish darted around the plane for protection. Perch, bass, and some river shiners all took refuge around the fuselage and even darted through the open cargo doors to hide within the confines of the Beechcraft.

  Eric flipped his body and started pulling at the water with his hands. His descent was slow with all the clothes he was wearing, but he made progress. Then, he seemed to stop as if Andy wasn’t giving him any more slack in the line. He turned around and looked up to check the line and realized he had plenty of slack, but the ice above seemed to be moving past him. The ice was not moving, but Eric was. He realized the current had control of him now. He began to panic. His eyes scanned around looking for something to grab. Why couldn’t there be a trophy buck frozen in the ice like before? He remembered the look of death in the eye of that deer. He remembered the look of helplessness and fear frozen in time, and it scared the shit out of him—again.

  He clawed at the water with open hands, reaching for something that wasn’t there. He saw the familiar blackness start to creep into his vision. The rope around his chest pulled taught, removing all slack. He flailed like a caught fish that had just taken the wrong minnow for breakfast. The rope pulled back as the fisherman above the ice reeled in the drowning man. If the rope broke, he’d be swept out toward the main channel of the river. The water was open there, but the distance was too great for anyone to survive underwater that long. Even Paul, the championship swimmer, couldn’t make it that far.

  “Pull faster, Andy. Pull faster,” Eric thought. The rope held intact, keeping Eric from being taken by the mighty Raquette River.

  He turned over in the water, belly to the sky so he could look up at the ice. He wasn’t sure if he was looking through the gates of Heaven or the hole in the ice that led to the surface—to oxygen. It turned out to be the latter, and the tense rope was pulling him there. Breaking the surface of the water, he gulped for the much-needed oxygen. Fresh air returned to his lungs as Andy stood smiling down at him. The two locked arms by grabbing each other’s wrist and Andy lifted the young Marten out of the water as easily as the perch he had hooked earlier that day.

  “Hey, buddy, see any fish down there?” Andy asked the waterlogged Eric.

  Eric was breathing heavy trying to recover from the ordeal. Panting lungs refused to speak, so Eric just gestured to Andy with his middle finger. The Canadian’s head twisted, looking to see if Eric had completed his mission. No case.

  “Did you forget why you went down there?” the Canadian asked.

  “No, asshole, I didn’t forget. The current caught me and started taking me out to the channel.”

  “Catch your
breath, then get back in there.”

  Eric looked at Paul to see how Jack was doing. Paul was squatting by the fire holding a gaff hook in the hot coals. He’d removed the handle and was heating the straight end until it almost glowed. Then he removed it from the heat and returned to Jack’s side. Paul pulled back the material around the wound and snaked the hot metal into the bullet hole with a hiss. The blood vessels began to cauterize, and the bleeding stopped almost completely. Jack grimaced and grunted a little, but wouldn’t give the Canadian the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He stared at the Canadian as if to say, “You’ll have to do better than this to stop me, motherfucker.”

  Once Paul removed the hot steel, Jack sat up and then made a motion to stand, but Paul held him down. It took little effort since he couldn’t put his weight on the wounded leg. Jack decided to sit a bit and started packing cold snow on the leg again to sooth the burning.

  “I’ve got the bleeding under control,” Paul said. “Now let me dive after the money, and then we can all get the hell out of here.” He stood and started for the hole in the ice.

  “No, youe brother’s going to give it one more try,. The words seemed to be coming from the pistol.

  “Dammit, he’s going to drown!”

  The Canadian smirked. “No, no he won’t. You see, he’s afraid to go down there. I don’t know why, but he’s not giving it his best effort. Maybe he doesn’t care if you all die.”

  “I’m scared, asshole!” Eric blurted. “Scared to drown. Scared to die. You would be, too, if you’d ever fallen through the ice and almost drowned.”

  “So, that’s it, eh? You’ve had a bad experience. This isn’t your first time under the ice.”

  “No. Unfortunately, it’s not.” Eric was kneeling by the fire. His skin flushed red, and it was impossible to determine if it was from anger or if the light from the flame was illuminating his face.