He had to take the chance. Had to try.
Paul didn’t look back. He stepped completely onto the ice and spoke to the man that was now to his back. “I’m sorry.”
Blankenship and Stacie were now 60 yards away.
The Canadian pulled the pistol from its holster and switched the safety button to the firing position. “Paul, drop the case.”
“You won’t shoot me,” Paul said. He took one more step onto the ice without even turning around to see the threat behind him.
“Paul! Paul, don’t give him that money! I will shoot you!”
“Bullshit,” Paul said. “You’re not willing to spill anymore blood. You did what you had to do, now I’m doing what I have to do.” Even though he said the words, Paul couldn’t get his legs to work.
The wind blew from the west, carrying a whisper across the pines, and into his left ear. He couldn’t make out the words or decipher the language, but he was sure the whisper was telling him to save his wife. Paul felt as though another presence was with them on the frozen bay. He looked through the boughs to his right only to see the uninhabited forest. He wished he had Eric’s keen eyes now. Someone else was there; but where?
“He’s going to kill you both, Paul,” the Canadian said. “Once he has the money, he’ll kill any witnesses.”
“What can I do? If I give it to you, then he’ll shoot my wife. I can’t live with that. I’d rather die than be without her!”
Paul’s world went silent. His breathing became shallow. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead. What would Stacie want? Would she be ashamed of Paul for choosing her over a young girl with cystic fibrosis? Would she want Paul to run and take the money? Or would he be the husband he vowed to be and stick with his wife “for better or worse?”
Blankenship decided for him when he yelled again, “Bring me the fucking money, or I shoot her and the baby she’s carrying!” He was pointing the pistol at her abdomen now.
Stacie must have seen the look of confusion on Paul’s face. She forced a little smile and peered up at Paul with watery eyes. She nodded to reaffirm that it was true. “I’m sorry, honey. I came up here to tell you, but I pictured it to be a much more beautiful moment than this.” She made a little gesture with her hands, like a magician. “Surprise.”
Paul squeezed the shotgun stock even harder.
Blankenship was now 45 yards from Paul.
Three men. Three guns. One outcome.
Paul felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around with the barrel of the shotgun shoved under the Canadian’s chin and ready to blow the Canadian’s ass back to Ottawa.
“Give him the money and save your wife and baby. I can’t let one innocent kid die to save another.”
“I’ll give him the money, but that doesn’t mean he has to get away with it. Once Stacie and I are clear, put a bullet in that asshole,” Paul said.
“You read my mind,” the Canadian smirked. “I’ll tuck back into the trees so he can’t see me. Once you’re out of the way, he’s history. I’ll get the money back from him somehow. One way or another, Blankenship’s not getting off this river alive.” He sat back down in the snow. The loss of blood was starting to take its toll on him. His eyes grew heavy, and blackness invaded his sight.
Paul stepped away from the bleeding man on the river bank and started out toward his wife and her captor. The wind whispered once more, and Paul felt a storm building inside him. He could see the smug look on Blankenship’s face, and he wanted nothing more than to remove it with the 12-gauge turkey-load chambered in the shotgun.
“Leave the shotgun,” Blankenship directed.
Paul took to one knee and gently set the gun on the ice. He moved slow, not wanting to startle Blankenship and cause him to pull the trigger. Blankenship held Stacie in place and waited for Paul to come a little further. The ice cracked under Paul’s weight, and he realized he was just eight feet from the hole where the plane rested.
He walked straight toward Stacie, placing his steps carefully on the frail surface. Their eyes were locked on each other. Neither could look away. It reminded Paul of their wedding day when Stacie made her way down the church aisle, and he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Only now, he was the one walking toward her, and their eyes were not locked in love, but in fear. It took all his strength to keep from running to her, but he kept his restraint.
When he was 12 feet away, Paul set the case on the ice. His unblinking eyes were still locked on Stacie’s.
Blankenship kept inching forward. “Move back.”
Paul followed his instructions and backed away from the money. Blankenship advanced and ordered Stacie to pick up the case. She squatted and lifted the prize and Blankenship began tugging on her collar in the reverse direction. His arm was straight, and he hunched to try and hide behind the pretty blonde.
“You’ve got the money,” Paul yelled. “Now let her go!”
Blankenship’s smile was maniacal. He kept moving backward with the .22 still trained on Paul’s torso. “She’s coming with me—for insurance purposes. If you try to follow me, I’ll put a bullet in her pretty skull.”
The bodyguard and his hostage were 30 feet from Paul when a shot rang out. Blankenship cried out and grabbed the right side of his neck instinctively with the same hand holding the gun. The Canadian had fired his last bullet and put a groove in the side of Blankenship’s neck that just missed the carotid artery. Stacie saw the opportunity to throw a reverse elbow into Blankenship’s abdomen. She tried to bolt, but the powerful left arm never released its grip.
Blankenship took aim at the conifer forest, but couln’t find the elusive target that had just put a chunk of lead through his collar. He screamed at Paul and decided to fire at the only target in sight. He pulled Stacie tight against his body, took aim and fired. The first bullet whizzed by Paul’s left ear. The second came right behind it, but Blankenship over-corrected his elevation and caught Paul in the left leg. The bullet grazed flesh, avoiding muscle or bone.
“Run!” Stacie screamed at her husband.
There was nowhere for Paul to run. He was caught out in the open, standing on a frozen river with nothing to hide behind. His instincts kicked in and he dove to his right as more bullets sailed past. Paul rolled with his momentum and back onto his feet again. He stayed moving and headed for the one thing that had always given him a sense of security—water. He sprung off the edge of the ice, dove toward the wrecked plane, and prepared for the shocking cold that was sure to come.
As Paul hit the water, one bullet found its target and nailed his right hand, fracturing a metacarpal bone. The icy water hurt almost as much as the gunshot wound as he skewered the surface and went deep enough to avoid another bullet. He pointed his fingers straight down to ensure the dive was deep and to avoid hitting the wrecked plane. The rounds hitting the surface were the only sounds Paul could hear. He knew the small caliber bullets would skip off the surface of the water—something he learned in his teen years when he would shoot frogs at the pond behind his parent’s house.
He was safe, for the moment.
Paul wasn’t sure what would happen when he resurfaced, but he needed to go back up and fight. Hopefully, Blankenship had used all of his ammunition. Paul studied the plane and thought about where he would surface. He pulled himself down the length of the plane, plunging to the bottom. From here, Paul could see Blankenship and Stacie—two blurred shadows through the translucent ice making there way toward the hole. Blankenship still had his arm around Stacie, holding her so she could not run. Stacie was still alive, and that was all that mattered.
Stacie knew Paul could stay submerged for several minutes. She used to marvel at his swimming abilities which sometimes scared the hell out of her when he wouln’t resurface for some time. She bit down into Blankenship’s right arm and threw more elbows. She thought about Uncle Ernie and what the monster grasping her had done to him. She wished she had his strength right now and could beat the life out of Blankenship.
&nb
sp; But she did not.
Blankenship flung her to the side. Stacie spun, slipped, and fell on her back. Blankenship pointed the pistol at her chest and pulled the trigger.
Click. Click.
The gun was empty, and it infuriated him. He threw the pistol aside and checked to see if Paul was coming back. The water was black and void of any life. It appeared the ice fisherman was gone for good; drowned in the river or taken by the current.
Paul heard the pistol hit the ice. What happened? Was the gun empty? He could see Stacie’s silhouette through the ice. She was crab-walking away from Blankenship who stared down into the dark abyss of the river. Satisfied that Paul was not coming back to the surface, Blankenship turned his attention back to the woman on the ice.
Paul needed a weapon. A rock from the bottom, glass from the plane’s broken window—anything that would give him an advantage against the skilled bodyguard trying to kill his wife. He swam into the plane, searching for a loose tool or steel part to aid his assault. The plane was empty. He swam to the cockpit and searched the co-pilot seat. There was nothing there of use.
The body of the skinny pilot occupied the other half of the cockpit. Paul wanted to avoid the morbid image and did his best not to look. Ozzy’s head was crooked against the ceiling while his legs seemed to be stuck under the plan’s yoke. The weightless body drifted back and forth in the current as the water swirled through the broken windshield. The pilot’s seat was the last place to look. Paul reluctantly grabbed the body and gave it a little pull to clear his view in his desperate search for a weapon.
There it was. Not a broken piece of the plane, or some tool that fell free during the crash, but a gun—a friggin gun.
Paul’s hands shook from the excitement of his find. He no longer cared what Ozzy’s battered body looked like or feared to disrespect the deceased pilot. He spun the body around, unbuckled the holster, and took the Taurus .38 Special revolver from Ozzy’s side.
“Please, have bullets,” Paul thought. He opened the cylinder to see five rounds nestled inside. He’d have four shots to kill Blankenship and one for the Canadian if necessary—although Paul didn’t think that was likely.
He almost smiled at the luck of finding the pistol. He jerked, put his feet on the dashboard, and pushed away. He glided through the plane and out the cargo doors.
“I’m coming for you, baby,” Paul thought with the image of Stacie in his mind. “I’m coming for you, too, asshole,” as he thought about Blankenship.
Paul’s optimism was cut short after he exited the plane. He could see the two silhouettes above had merged into one. Blankenship was attacking Stacie. Paul began to rise when the current from the nearby brook plowed into him like a truck. He wasn’t holding onto the plane, and the pistol in his hand hindered his swimming. He was being pushed downriver—the opening above him began to look further away. A younger Paul could have fought through the current, beat the river in a shoving match, but his heavy winter clothes hindered his grace. He felt clumsy and uncoordinated, unlike the streamline swimmer he used to be.
“No!” he screamed, though no one could hear him underwater.
Paul could see Stacie’s legs flailing on the ice as Blankenship’s attack endured. Paul fought the river, fought his emotions, and fought for his family. As powerful of a swimmer as he was, he was no match for the the current. He pulled his hands frantically through the water, but the river pushed back. The river current was steady and unyielding like a train with no end. Paul could not get back to the surface. He would drown—an ironic death for a championship swimmer—and the last thing he would ever see was the murder of his wife.
Chapter 22 / Hurts Like Hell
Andy Kessler turned the key, but the stubborn old truck refused to start. The starter seemed to engage but wasn’t cranking with enough speed to turn the engine and fire the cylinders. The truck’s battery was too weak. He exited the vehicle, popped open the hood, and then went to his tool shed to retrieve a trickle charger. Then he went to the porch on the back of the cabin and started a generator. A long extension cord was plugged into the generator and the charger. It would take a few hours to revive the battery with the charger, so Andy went in to give the Marten’s the bad news.
“Battery’s dead on my truck, fellas,” Andy said as he entered the cabin. “Give it a couple hours to charge, and then I can drive you down to Paul’s truck.”
Jack and Eric both knew they didn’t have a couple of hours to wait for a ride. Paul could be in danger, and they needed to leave. They could walk to Paul’s truck in 25 minutes if Jack’s leg didn’t slow them down too much.
“We need to get to Paul’s truck,” Eric remarked. He was buttoning the heavy flannnel shirt he was wearing—a donation from Andy’s closet. The shirt was too large in the chest and shoulders and fell four inches short at the wrists, but it would keep him warm on the walk back to the truck. He finished with the bottons and helped Jack out of the recliner.
Andy watched the two brothers slip back into their boots. They seemed to do everything in unison, like it was a rehearsed act. Their moves always seemed to be syncronized, and Andy realized that it was because the siblings knew each other so well, and thought so much alike. Andy had no brothers and had very little contact with his sister. He envied the relationship the Martens had and wished he had brothers of his own. If he had brothers, he might not live such a reclusive life. Would anyone risk their life to help him? No, he assumed.
“You fellas sure you’re ready to go back out there?” Andy asked them both.
“We have to,” Eric responded. “That’s our brother out there.”
“We’ve got to go check on him,” Jack implored. “We all might be dead by the end of the day, but we’ll be dead together,” “We’ll make our way to Haystack Rock. If Paul’s not there soon, we’ll go back to the bay to find him.”
“If you make it to the ice, there’s a .22 magnum rifle in my sled,” Andy offered. “The magazine is full—should be six rounds in it, plus one in the chamber. I keep it in there for shootin’ grouse or coyotes.”
“Thanks,” Eric opened the door, and the two Martens headed out into the winter. The snow had stopped falling, and the air temperature had pushed up three degrees.
Jack and Eric made their way north on Garrison Road and passed where they had exited the woods. “Let’s stay on the road,” Jack advised, “It’ll be easier walking.”
“How’s the leg feel?” Eric asked.
“Hurts like hell. I don’t think Andy and Jim Beam are very good doctors.”
Both men wished they had transportation, but they were only three-quarters of a mile from where Paul had parked the truck. The road curved around the bay with a 300 yard buffer of forest in between. They could almost see the bay from their location since the trees were void of their foliage, but a thick row of evergreens grew along the river, hindering their view.
“Are you still cold?” Jack asked Eric.
“Not too bad.As long as we keep moving, I’ll stay warm enough.”
The two brothers persevered down the unplowed road. The sound of their boots scuffing along was the only noise they could hear. They weren’t sure if the silence was reassuring, or cause for concern. Jack leaned against a cherry tree and cinched his bandage tighter. His sharp ears listened before the two brothers resumed their hike. Another quarter of a mile and they would be at Haystack Rock, and hopefully, Paul would exit the ice from that side.
Snow began to fall again, but the warm temperature caused it to mix with light rain. Jack and Eric continued their march in the unwelcome sleet.
Haystack Rock came into view as they crested a knoll. The snow around the rock showed footprints that were too fresh to belong to the Marten brothers. Although his adrenaline was high, Jack needed to stop and rest his leg. He lit a cigarette. “Why don’t you go ahead and bring Paul’s truck up here. I’ll wait to see if he comes out.”
Eric watched Jack for a moment. Jack was studying the footprints that ci
rcled Haystack Rock. Something caught Eric’s attention, and he walked over to a stump and picked up a small cooler that lay beside it. He unzipped the top, surprised to find six cold beers inside.
“Someone else has been here.” Eric held up the cooler for Jack to see.
“And their tracks lead into Bear Bay, but they never came out,” Jack mused.
Eric turned his head over his left shoulder. “Probably hunting rabbits. Or, maybe someone came to investigate the plane crash.”
“Maybe. Those aren’t D.E.C. or State Police boots. The tread looks more like snow boots. And one set is either a kid’s or a woman’s.”
Eric looked closer at the two distinctly different tracks. “I think you’re right. Let’s follow them in and see if we can find out who it is. Maybe they can help.”
They followed the tracks off Garrison Road, which lead them back toward the river. Eric followed as Jack studied the prints. The sleet continued to fall with a sound similar to someone playing with cling wrap. Jack kept his head down as he studied where the man and woman trekked. Eric’s eyes scanned ahead in case they encountered Blankenship on his way out of the woods.
They hadn’t gone more than 30 yards when they were halted by a faint voice.
“Over here,” the voice whispered.
Jack held up a fist to stop. Eric had been trained at a young age to recognize the hand symbol from years of tracking deer with his brothers and their father.
“Did you hear that?” Jack asked. He held his breath as he listened for the sound again.
“Over there! Someone’s on the ground!” Eric pointed through the trees.
Their hearts raced with the horrible thought that it might be Paul, but they realized the color of the clothes was different from what Paul was wearing. They hopped over a couple logs and pushed through some snow-covered hemlocks to reach the stranger, only to realize that it was no stranger at all.
Ernie Bates had crawled out of the thick evergreens where he’d been investigating pieces of the plane and was attacked by Mason Blankenship. He collapsed 20 yards from the trail that led to the bay. Blood covered the side of his head. He grabbed for a small beech tree to pull himself off his knees but collapsed again. His hip was impeding his progress to make it out of the woods, and he was fighting with the loss of blood and hypothermia.
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