“We need to get out of here,” Paul said to everyone. As he said the words, the man in the shadows of the pines stepped into clear view. He was still 200 yards away, but Paul could see he was a big man. The new arrival wore dark clothes that didn’t appear to be a uniform or appropriate winter apparel. He was tall and broad-shouldered, although his legs were thin as stilts. The Canadian still kept his focus on the fire, not wanting to reveal himself to whoever was approaching from behind.
Though his eyes were open, the Canadian’s mind was elsewhere. He was standing on the green grass looking down at that same tombstone that had been haunting him for days. The flowers were different this time—taller, brighter, and whispered an inaudible sound to him. Then ice began to form over the granite and blood trickled from the sweet flowers. The hummingbird returned to sip the sweet nectar but hummed angrily at all the blood.
“Is he carrying a gun?” Jack asked.
The Canadian’s attention snapped back to reality. “Eh?” He turned around slowly. Blankenship was now 75 yards away and stopped right in the middle of his step when he recognized the Canadian mechanic. The Canadian recognized Blankenship, too. The two stared at each other for a moment. The three brothers looked at each other in confusion and assumed the Canadian’s partner had just shown up.
“You sonovabitch!” Blankenship yelled. “I knew you were behind this!”
“Blankenship, you lucky asshole,” the Canadian swore. “I should have put a bullet in you before this plane left.”
The brothers were more confused than ever. The Canadian turned his head but kept his eyes on Blankenship. “Boys, you best head to Andy’s cabin now. Shit’s about to get real. I’m keeping my promise to let you go. When I’m done killing the hell out of this bastard, I’ll be on my way, too.”
Paul threw Eric’s jacket to him so he could put it on. Andy helped Jack stand up, and they all started walking toward shore as fast as they could. They knew they needed to hurry. As crazy as the Canadian seemed, the new man on the scene may be even crazier, especially based on the way he looked.
“What’s the matter, fellas?” Blankenship shouted. “Don’t you want to stay for the party?”
“Leave them outta this, eh?” the Canadian grunted. “This is between you and me, Blankenship.”
The afternoon sun was reflecting off the silver case and clearly in Blankenship’s view. It satisfied him to see the case was not in the plane, and saved him the trouble of diving after it.
“Drop my money and go with your friends and I’ll consider saving the ammo,” Blankenship offered.
“You want it, come and get it,” the Canadian snarled.
“You know how this is going to end, so why don’t you do yourself a favor? I’m leaving here with that money or neither of us is leaving.”
“I promise, Blankenship, you’re not leaving this bay alive.”
“Better men than you have tried to kill me.”
The Canadian was a former Special Forces officer with the Canadian military. Trained to be one of the most elite soldiers in the country, he could easily take Blankenship in hand-to-hand combat. However, this was not hand-to-hand combat, and Blankenship’s gun was better suited for mid-range shooting. The Canadian could see Blankenship’s face was bloody and the way he kept his elbows close to his body indicated his ribs were badly bruised or broken, which would affect his aim. If he could keep moving, he should be able to out-shoot the bodyguard. He needed Blankenship to keep shooting, too, and more importantly, keep missing so he’d exhaust all his ammunition. Once Blankenship ran out of bullets, the Canadian could move in and finish the fight with his SOG military knife.
Blankenship noticed the pistol was the only weapon in the Canadian’s possession. Sure, he probably had his SOG, with the five-inch blade, sheathed in his belt, but he’d never be close enough to use it. He knew his years of martial arts training and physical size could overpower the Canadian if this were hand-to-hand combat. However, this was not hand-to-hand combat. The Canadian’s gun was more suited for close range, so Blankenship needed to keep some distance between them. If he could keep moving, the Canadian would soon run out of ammunition. Then, he could move in and finish him with the .22 caliber pistol strapped to his ankle.
Paul, Eric, Jack, and Andy were on the shore as the stand-off continued. They left their fishing gear behind, along with four northern pikes they had caught that morning.
“Those assholes are going to kill each other,” Andy said. He seemed worried.
“Who cares?” Paul responded. “Let ‘em, and then we’ll get the money.”
“Jesus, Paul, there’s already one person dead down there,” Eric said. “Don’t you think that’s enough? You act like you’d kill both of those men if you had a gun.”
“I just might,” Paul said. They kept walking and wouldn’t make eye contact as they argued.
“You’re telling me that money’s worth taking a man’s life?”
“No, but these assholes brought this on. All I wanted was to spend the day fishing with you and Jack. I didn’t ask for this shit. I didn’t expect something like this to happen.”
“None of us did, but it’s happening, and we’re going to get ourselves killed.” Eric stopped and looked back at Jack. “How are we going to explain all of this when we get out of here?”
Paul stopped, too, and waited for Jack and Andy to catch up. “We tell the truth. We’ll leave out the part about the money.”
“Let’s keep moving,” Jack suggested. Paul could sense his anxiety and knew he must be in excruciating pain. If Blankenship killed the Canadian, he’d probably come after them. Following their tracks in the snow would be easy, and he’d have no trouble catching up. Paul couldn’t believe it, but he was rooting for the fake D.E.C. officer who almost killed his brothers to win this fight. He had let them go; kept his word and seemed like he’d disappear now. The newest stranger to arrive seemed dangerous and unpredictable.
Paul peered through the trees and down to the ice. They had put 100 yards between themselves and the two men circling each other. Paul watched the case in the Canadian’s left hand. He reflected for a moment on the things he could buy and do with that money. He remembered the overdue bills waiting for him at home and thought about Stacie having to leave for work at 4:30 every morning. Why did she keep doing that? Because she felt she had to; because she felt obligated. The answer to all their financial problems was right there in front of him, but now he needed to walk away, keep from getting shot, and tend to his brothers. He turned away from the bay and, unknowingly, away from his unconcious wife.
They climbed another 15 yards and crested the hill. Now, they were out of sight. As the foursome reached the top, they could see Garrison Road winding through the trees. The road curved around the bay, copying the river’s shape almost perfectly. In the late 1800s, it was a horse and wagon trail that loggers used to haul pulp-wood from the area. Now, it was an access road for the power company and hunters. The only maintenance it received was from the hunting clubs and Andy, who was the only person to reside here year-round.
“It will be a lot easier walking once we hit the road,” Andy offered. “Almost there.”
Jack’s leg was bleeding again, and Eric could feel his wet clothes stiffen from the freezing temperature. They had to keep moving and get to Andy’s warm cabin as fast as they could. They weaved through the hemlocks, the smell of pine drifting on the wind until they were almost to the road. The road ran through the hardwood trees, which gave an open view of the forest. Somewhere nearby, a pileated woodpecker chipped away at a dead tree. Other than their boots scuffing the ground, it was the only sound they could hear.
Once they were on the road, the drumming of the woodpecker was replaced by the sound of gunfire from the river. The sound was muffled by the fluffy whiteness that surrounded them, clinging to every tree branch, rock, and stick. It was like being inside a giant sound studio with bright lights and no door.
Paul felt some relief whe
n he heard the shots ring out. He envisioned both men shooting each other to death and laying dead on the ice with no one to care except the crows that would come to feed on their carcasses. He would sneak down after the blood stopped oozing from the bullet holes in their torso’s and claim the case of money for himself, Stacie, and his brothers. He wouldn’t know the outcome of the duel unless he came back later to investigate the scene. He checked the position of the sun and guessed it was around 1:30 in the afternoon, so that gave him plenty of time to return before dark.
Chapter 17 / Stand Off
Both Blankenship and the Canadian circled clockwise, sizing each other up and thinking about each other’s weaknesses. The Canadian began sprinting as fast as he could while trying to maintain traction on the snow-covered ice. Blankenship mimicked the older man’s move by sprinting as fast as he could, but his battered body slowed him.
The Canadian drew a bead on the bodyguard and fired two shots with the SIG .357. The first shot whizzed by Blankenship’s right arm and the second grazed his waist. Blankenship returned fire with his HK-417. When he squeezed the trigger, four bullets blasted from the muzzle almost simultaneously. The Canadian knew Blankenship’s weapon was capable of firing over 700 rounds per minute, so he fired back immediately, even though 2 lead bullets had just ripped through his skin. The first bullet went into his thigh, almost exactly where he had shot Jack. The second bullet went through the muscles of his left forearm, causing him to drop the case of money.
The Canadian’s second round of shots missed Blankenship completely as the pain in his arm dulled his focus. Blankenship opened fire again, this time with a burst of seven shots, which landed mostly at the Canadian’s feet. One passed through his left bicep, rendering his left arm completely useless. They both fired at each other simultaneously. Blankenship emptied his magazine, but the Canadian saved one round as any experienced soldier would.
Blankenship’s last two bullets had torn through the Canadian’s jacket and punctured his ribs. Blankenship took two slugs to the chest as well. The Canadian knew the bullets landed solidly on Blankenship’s torso and watched the bodyguard drop to the ice.
The Canadian’s legs wobbled, but he fought the pain and stumbled back to the silver case. He tucked the .357 into its holster and lifted the money with his good arm. Tired legs carried him toward shore where the Marten brothers and Andy had exited the ice, and he collapsed on the river bank. He dropped the heavy case on the ground and fell on his ass into the snow. He stared at Blankenship’s body, then cursed as he watched him get to his knees.
“Bulletproof vest,” the Canadian said. “I should’ve friggin known.”
Blankenship rose like an old man with arthritis. His breathing was labored as he struggled to inhale and regain his wits. The two slugs hit him like a sledgehammer, breaking a few more ribs on impact. He knew the Canadian had been seriously maimed and would probably bleed to death while he sat on the bank. This satisfied him. Blankenship knew there was one more bullet in the Canadian’s pistol and rather than test fate, he began walking back to the woods from where he came—back to the unconscious Stacie. He’d take cover beyond the pines and wait like a vulture, until the Canadian died from his wounds. Then, he could safely move in and acquire the coveted silver case.
Chapter 18 / A Swallow of Courage
The cabin smelled like wood smoke and fresh-cut cedar. Andy fetched a few logs of maple from the porch and fed them to the Ben Franklin woodstove in the corner of the small living room. The living room was to the right of the doorway and the kitchen area to the left. A loft with a rustic railing overlooked both rooms, and Paul assumed that was were Andy slept.
The décor was mostly made up of old tools and some pictures framed from barnwood. There was no TV, phone, or even electric lights. Andy walked into the living room, opened the valve on a couple gas lights, and lit the mantles. The glow from the lights illuminated the wood paneled walls and the bearskin rug that hung from one. Once the blinds were drawn up on two windows, the living room was well lit.
“Make yourselves at home, fellas,” Andy said.
Paul pulled a wooden rocking chair close to the fire for Eric, but he preferred to stand so he could be closer to the heat radiating from the stovepipe. Jack sat down in Andy’s recliner, pulled the lever to open the footrest and propped his injured leg up. Andy fetched a blanket for Eric and a first aid kit for Jack. Andy took a needle and thread out of the first aid kit and struggled to get the thin line through the eye.
“The Jim Beam’s on the counter,” Andy pointed toward the kitchen with the needle.
Paul retrieved the bourbon whiskey and handed it to Jack. “Here, you look like you could use a swig.”
“Thanks.” Jack took a drink and set the bottle on an end table next to the recliner. “You know what you’re doing?” he asked Andy.
“Hehe, of course I do. I have to stitch myself up once in a while. I would never be able to get an ambulance out here. Have to take care of yourself when you live in the woods.”
Paul perused the cabin visually when his eyes fell on Andy’s gun cabinet. “Hey, Andy, mind if I look at your guns?”
“Sure, sure, go ahead. Not much of a collection, though.”
“Is that a 30-30?” Paul was pointing at the only hunting rifle in the cabinet. It was a lever action Marlin with open sights and mahogany finish. The blue had been almost completely worn off, showing its age.
“Sure is, but I don’t have any bullets for it. I ran out last Fall trying to sight it in.”
“Got any shells for the twelve gauge shotgun?” Paul asked.
“Oh, I got lots of shells for that. I reload my own. They’re in the bottom of the cabinet.”
Paul opened the unlocked cabinet and pulled the Mossberg pump shotgun out to admire the beauty of its hardwood stock. The woodgrain was fine, like looking at the side of a ream of paper, but with little waves of imperfection that made it perfect. Some of the wood was dark and some light, but the balance of the two seemed as though it had been planned. Paul imagined a woodworker going through hundreds of pieces of timber until he finally found the one with a grain pattern that suited this weapon.
Jack pushed Andy’s hand away from his leg, leaving the needle hanging from the thread that weaved in and out of his skin. He sat straight up. “Paul, don’t get any friggin ideas about going back down there. Jesus, these guys are nuts, and you can’t go alone.”
“Why not? The last thing they’re expecting is for one of us to come back. They think we’re too afraid to show up and claim that money.”
“If we were all in shape to go down, I’d say let’s go for it,” Jack admitted. “But I can hardly walk. Eric has hypothermia, and Andy…” he paused, trying to think of an excuse for Andy.
“Andy’s not going,” Paul interrupted.
“I know he’s not going…”
“No,” Paul interrupted again. “Andy’s not going because he’s a part of the Canadian’s plan.”
Jack looked at Andy, and then at Eric, and back to Paul. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Tell him, Andy,” Paul insisted. “Tell them how you’re working with this guy who was pretending to be a D.E.C. officer. Tell them how you were part of his plan to bring that plane down.”
Andy stood up and stared at the hardwood floor. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, Paul. I…I don’t’ know that guy.”
“Bullshit!” Paul stepped toward him and cross-checked him with the shotgun like a professional hockey player. The passive survivalist fell backwards, but his legs caught the coffee table, and he fell onto his back, nearly crushing the furniture under his weight. He sat back up but stayed silent with guilt.
“What makes you think Andy is working with that guy?” Jack asked.
“I’ve been watching Andy all day,” Paul started. “First, I noticed Andy and the Canadian are carrying the same two-way radios. Andy was on that radio several times this morning until the plane crashed. Once the plane cr
ashed, he put the radio away. Then, there’s the fact that Andy came to fish but never put a single tip-up in the ice, and he didn’t keep any of the perch he caught this morning.
“I also noticed that while he was pretending to be a D.E.C. officer, the Canadian stuck his gun in all our faces several times, but not Andy’s. He never pointed the pistol at him once.”
“Jesus, Andy, do you know this guy?” Eric asked.
Andy stayed silent.
Paul continued, “And why did he ask for all of our I.D.s, except for Andy’s? You were the lookout, weren’t you? Once the plane went down, you’d help him find it. Nobody knows these woods and this land better than you, so you were the tracker.” The questions turned to statements because Paul could tell by Andy’s reaction that he was right.
“Okay, okay,” Andy said. “You’re right. I’m sorry, nobody was supposed to get hurt. I didn’t think there would be anyone else around here today. I wish you guys hadn’t gotten involved. I’m so sorry about your leg, Jack. And I never thought the plane would actually crash into the river. We were sure it would go down sooner and land on dry land—in the pines, you know.”
“Fuck!” Jack said. He grabbed the thread dangling from his leg and tied it into a knot, stood up, and carried the Jim Beam to the woodstove. He took a long drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “So what do we do now?”
“We need to know who we’re dealing with,” Paul replied. He walked over to the gun cabinet and started loading shotgun shells into the tubular magazine. He pumped the gun, racking a shell into the chamber. “Andy, who the hell are those guys down there?”
Andy took a moment to collect himself. He gestured for the bottle with an open hand, and Jack obliged him by handing it over.
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