Depth Finder

by Terry Paul Fisher

  “Look at Mr. Tough Guy,” the Canadian belittled. He squatted next to Blankenship’s head, even though the pain of his wounds protested. “Super bodyguard, bad-ass black belt, can’t be killed by anybody—taken out by a 120-pound pregnant woman.”

  The Canadian was enjoying the sight of the helpless man who tried to kill him.

  “I made you a promise,” the Canadian reminded Blankenship. “I promised you weren’t getting off this ice alive.” He grabbed Blankenship by the collar and dragged him with the last ounce of his strength toward the wrecked plane. He pulled so hard, that when he let go, Blankenship slid across four feet of wet ice. Blankenship briefly screamed, and then the river swallowed him.

  The Canadian fell to his knees, exhausted, relieved, and remorseful.

  “Who is he?” Stacie whispered. “Is he the man the police are looking for?”

  “It’s a long story. Let’s go,” Paul grabbed the arm of the Canadian. “Com’on. There’s a retired doctor a few miles down the road. If you give him cash, he’ll take care of you.”

  “I won’t make it, Paul. You and your wife take this money and split it with Andy—I trust he’ll know what to do.” With that, he passed out on the ice.

  Paul hustled across the ice to reach his Jet-sled, dumped all of his fishing gear out, and ran back to the Canadian. Eric grabbed the mechanic under the arms and Paul lifted his feet as they set him in the sled. Stacie explained what happened to Uncle Ernie as Paul and Eric dragged the sled. They moved as fast as they could across the bay and through the woods. Paul and Eric took turns dragging the sled loaded with the unconscious man. By the time they reached Garrison Road, they were all sweating from the exertion, despite their wet clothes.

  Chapter 25 / That Wasn’t Blood

  Paul and Eric dragged the sled all the way to Haystack Rock. When they arrived, they found that Andy had walked from his cabin to the famous landmark. Andy was talking into his walkie-talkie, but no one was answering on the other end. Then he realized Paul wasn’t dragging his fishing gear in the black sled. Andy peered into the sled and saw the lump of a man with blood all over him. The unconcious man’s breathing was almost nonexistent and his eyes were closed.

  “Is he dead?” Andy worried.

  “Not yet, but, if we don’t get him to a doctor soon, he will be.”

  “Doc Butler lives just down the road…,” Andy started.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Paul offered. He was breathing heavily and had to force the words. “If we can get him there quickly, he just might make it, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Paul picked the silver case out of the icefishing sled and turned the tumblers. “What the hell year was that mustang? 1979?”

  “Sixty-nine,” Eric corrected.

  Paul turned the four dials until the numbers read the correct year and the case popped open. He could sense Stacie’s surprise and almost heard her mouth drop when she saw the contents of the case. Paul extracted one bundle of cash and reclosed the case. “This is for Doc Butler,” he was holding the money up for Andy to see. “I’ll give him this to take care of your brother-in-law and Jack’s leg.”

  “I’ll follow you down to Doc’s as soon as I get my truck running,” Andy stated.

  Paul set the case of money at Andy’s feet. “Take the money, Andy. Take the money and take care of your niece. We’ll drop your brother-in-law off at Doc Butler’s house, but he’s your responsibility after that.”

  “We don’t need the money,” Eric said. “We have everything we need, and I think you do, too.”

  Andy picked up the case like it was a bomb. The responsibility seemed like such an enormous burden to the simple man. A burden that should not have been his. Andy wondered if he had gotten in over his head. Find the wrecked plane; that was his part of the plan. Now, he needed to take care of the wounded Canadian, keep the money safe, and drive them both to Mexico—all while avoiding police and who would be out looking for the wanted Canadian. He thought about dropping the case and just going home. Then, he thought about Sophia’s smile and how long it had been since he had seen her or his sister.

  “You could buy a new truck and drive to Mexico this week,” Paul offered. “Three million dollars should go a long way.”

  “There are three million dollars in that case?” Stacie choked. “Where the hell did it come from?”

  “From the plane that crashed on the ice. This guy took it down somehow because he knew it was on board. Things didn’t quite work out the way he planned though.”

  “Drug money,” Stacie said. Her eyes resumed their normal size and even squinted a little now. “I knew there was something fishy about that plane. The Border Patrol agents that did the inspection took a bribe to let it enter the country without an inspection.”

  “It stopped at the airport this morning?” Paul asked.

  “Yes, it came from Canada.”

  “We know,” Paul and Eric said in unison.

  They were interrupted by the sound of an engine. Paul’s truck came spinning around the corner with Jack behind the wheel, working the gas and brake with his left leg, while Ernie occupied the passenger side. He pulled up next to them and rolled down the window. “Let’s get the hell out of here before someone else shows up looking for that plane. I think we’ve been shot at enough today.”

  Ernie exited the passenger side. Jack had bandaged his head, and he favored his bad hip. He only took a few steps, grabbed the open door for stability, and decided to wait for Stacie.

  “Uncle Ernie!” Stacie broke from Paul and Eric and ran toward her uncle. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you forever.”

  “Hell, it’ll take more than a shot to the head to kill me, girl,” he chuckled.

  “But the blood…your chest was covered in blood. It was all over the snow.”

  She stared at his chest, still stained red.

  Ernie grinned and pulled the metal flask from his snowmobile jacket. He rattled it to hear the small .22 caliber bullet still inside.

  “That wasn’t blood; it was cinnamon brandy,” Ernie said. His grin turned to a scowl. “That bastard put a hole in my good flask. Your Aunt Marie bought me this for our second anniversary.” He rubbed the pea size hole with his thumb, then showed Stacie how the hole was only on one side of the metal flask. “I got lucky, but damn, I sure could use a swig of that brandy right now.”

  Stacie admired his sentimentality and hugged him again; harder this time since she knew he had no wound to his chest. She could smell the brandy, and it transferred to her coat, but she didn’t mind.

  Andy interrupted. “You guys get out of here. I’ll pick up your tip-ups and fishing gear and leave everything in your sleds. You can come back when you feel like it and pick them up. I’ll leave everything on my front deck—in case I’m, uh, not around.”

  “We’ll be back in a few days,” Eric affirmed.

  “Sounds good,” Andy said. “I only ask for one favor…”

  “Handing you three million dollars isn’t enough?” Paul joked.

  “Nope. Promise me that you guys will come back this spring and do some walleye fishing with me, hehe.”

  “You got it, Andy,” Paul smiled, and reached out with his left hand since the right hand was bleeding from the bullet hole. Andy shook his hand and started the walk back to his cabin.

  Paul and Eric hoisted the sled like a gurnie into the back of the Dodge. The Canadian’s eyes opened for a moment, and Paul thought he heard him say, “Daddy’s coming, Sophia.” Stacie pulled a wool blanket off the backseat that Paul kept there in case the old truck broke down in the winter. She handed the blanket up to Paul, and he doubled it over and then covered the wounded Canadian. The edges of the blanket were tucked under the sled to ensure it stayed in place.

  “It’ll be a little cold on the ride, but it shouldn’t take us more than 10 minutes,” Paul advised, not sure if the Canadian was listening. He slammed the tailgate shut and clim
bed behind the wheel. Eric occupied the front passenger seat, while Stacie sat in the back between Ernie and Jack. Paul punched the accelerator pedal and spun the Dodge 180 degrees. Snow spit from the tires and they heard the sled in the back slide a little. Paul eased off the gas but raced down the road as fast as he dared go.

  He began explaining everthing that had happened to Stacie and Ernie. He was talking as fast as he was driving, stopping every 30 seconds to catch his breath. He put his injured hand over the heater, allowing it to warm his blood and stave off the hypothermia. Eric copied his brother, but with both hands. When Paul finally finished telling the story of the day's events, everyone fell silent. They were exhausted and still in disbelief.

  Paul thought about how lucky they all were to be alive. Then, he realized, luck had nothing to do with it. They were alive because they had each other; because they were family and they loved each other, and because they didn’t give up on one another.

  Paul peeked at Stacie in the rearview mirror. She was beautiful, even covered in blood and brandy. Her hair was wet and falling flat, and her makeup had worn off, but Paul thought she looked amazing. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have such a strong, loving wife who would give him a child and be the best mother ever.

  He didn’t care that they had little money in their bank accounts or the fact that their credit was declining. He had everything he needed in this truck, and he’d do anything to protect it.

  He thought about what he’d done to Blankenship—taking aim across the ice and putting a bullet into his arm, willing to shoot him dead if he had been a better marksman. The Canadian’s advice stuck with him—how he spoke of reaching deep down within yourself, pushing past your fears to do what was necessary. That’s what Paul would do from now on. That’s what he would do for Stacie, himself, and his baby. He’d move, if necessary, to find work. He’d take a shitty job, or he’d start his own business.

  He was going to reach deep.

  He was going to make things work.

  Chapter 26 / The Investigation

  It had been over a week since the plane crash was investigated by the authorities. No one could explain how the Beechcraft ended up in the Raquette River or what kind of device could have done so much damage to the plane.

  They never found the Canadian’s homemade drone. Cordelia was blown into pieces when she exploded. The debris fell into the blackberry bushes. The stalks of the plants were an inch thick and covered with thorns strong enough to pierce winter clothing, and walking through them was impossible, so the search party that was investigating the scene avoided the area completely.

  The plane’s pilot—still floating in the cockpit—was identified as Ozzy Sullivan, and the missing passenger was presumed to be lost under the ice. A dive team wouldn’t find Blankenship for several more weeks. His autopsy report listed his cause of death to be from drowning—drowning because he broke his neck in the crash. The body was decomposed enough that the coroner identified the bullet holes as wounds from the bomb that destroyed the plane.

  Evidence of Andy’s involvement with the scene was covered by a snow squall that hit the area that same night. Heavy snow covered his tracks that led away from the crash site. The snow also covered up any evidence that the Marten brothers had been at the scene.

  The official report stated that a saboteur had planted a bomb onboard the private plane. The motive was unclear, but it was assumed that a disgruntled mechanic was to blame. The mechanic fled the country, killing Travis “Moonie” Swamp who assisted him crossing the border, and was at large somewhere in New York. The news channels reported him as a homicidal outlaw, a senseless killer, and extremely dangerous—and whatever else they could come up with to entertain an audience.

  Paul cursed the news channels and the papers. They didn’t truly know anything about the Canadian or his motivation.

  Stacie insisted that Ernie be taken to the emergency room, where he made up a story about his head injury, telling the doctors that it was caused when his dog, Alphie, jumped up on him while rabbit hunting. The dog inadvertantly knocked the rifle and it fired, striking him in the head and causing him to spill his flask of brandy. He was released after a catscan and a few pain killers, then went home with Aunt Marie.

  Paul, Jack, and Eric drove up to Andy’s cabin after the investigation was closed. Andy was nowhere to be found, but just like he promised, the Marten’s fishing gear was neatly organized in the two sleds that were left behind. The sleds were parked on Andy’s porch, mostly protected from daily snowfall, except when the wind blew the white flakes horizontally.

  Jack opened the front door of Andy’s cabin and walked inside. It was cold inside—the woodstove had been shut down for days, maybe longer.

  “Think he’ll make it…to Mexico?” Jack asked.

  “I hope so,” Paul replied. “If not, well, I guess he’ll be a very rich man.”

  “Until he does something stupid and gets arrested,” Jack laughed.

  They were interrupted by Eric, “Hey guys?” He was pawing through his fishing gear to be sure everything was his.

  “What is it?”

  “You might want to check your pack baskets,” Eric called.

  Paul and Jack exited Andy’s cabin. Eric was holding a stack of one-hundred dollar bills.

  “It was in the bottom of my basket.”

  “That dumbass,” Jack said. “He should have taken the entire amount.”

  Paul and Jack searched their baskets, and sure enough, they, too, found a wad of bills. They rushed to count the stacks and found that Andy had left them each 20 thousand dollars.

  Epilogue

  The old truck bounced down the dirt road, rattling like a bag of empty paint cans that made it difficult to hear each other speak. The driver was hard on the clutch and ground the gears with a terrible sound which reminded the passengers in the back of a garbage disposal. They were tucked away among boxes and crates of medical supplies that shifted occasionally and reduced their hiding space within the cargo area. Dust poured in from a large crack in the floorboard, and the smell of exhaust was nauseating.

  The driver slowed the truck, the garbage disposal grinding on and off as he down shifted and finally stopped. The deisel diesel engine continued to rattle, and the two passengers could hear the driver speaking to someone in Spanish.

  The driver and the man outside laughed about something. The truck lurched forward, gears ground again, and they began to accelerate. The speed of the truck blew more dust into the cargo box and covered the passengers and the medical boxes. After another 30 minutes of traveling, they slowed and came to rest again. This time, the engine was killed, and the driver exited the Mitsibishi cargo truck. The back door rolled upward, and the fresh air cooled the interior slightly.

  The driver climbed into the back, pulled on a dolly, and rolled a large crate toward the back of the truck. The Canadian and Andy arose from their hiding place behind the crate.

  “Are we here?” Andy asked the driver.

  “Sí, yes. We are in Mexico. You are safe to come out,” the driver assured them. He stepped off the back of the truck and kept his eyes on the two stowaways. “I can bring you no further, Mr. Andy.”

  The Canadian had a green canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He limped forward and struggled to step down from the truck. He looked around to verify they had reached Mexico, but the morning sun wasn’t bright enough to be sure. “This is Mexico?” He asked just to be sure.

  “This is, yes. We crossed the border 30 minutes back,” The driver said as he pointed back down the road.

  The Mexican driver was short and fit, but his belly carried an extra 25 pounds. The sides of his hair were gray, and his face was like leather from years in the sun.

  “Boy, thanks for doing this, Charlie,” Andy smiled at the driver. “I know you were taking a big risk, hehe.”

  “Where are you going to go, Mr. Andy?” Charlie asked.

  “We’re going to find my sister and my niece. Haven�
��t seen them in a few years.”

  “You need to go back to the U.S. after that?” Charlie asked.

  “Not for a while—maybe in a month or two. There might be four of us next time.”

  The Canadian removed the canvas bag and set it on the back of the truck, then extracted a bundle of cash from the bag and handed it to Andy, who passed it to Charlie.

  “Here’s the rest of your money, buddy,” Andy offered as he handed Charlie five thousand dollars. Charlie looked at the money in disbelief. They’d already given him five thousand at the start of the trip, and now he was ten thousand dollars richer. The side of the bag flopped over to reveal the rest of the cash that filled the duffle. Greed krept up Charlie’s back and consumed him. He felt his heart begin to race as adrenaline spiked inside his veins. His next reaction was a surprise, even to himself. His hand retrieved a Browning BDA-380 revolver that had been tucked behind his back. He pointed the barrel at the Canadian and Andy, swinging side to side with jittery movements.

  The Canadian studied the gun for a moment, noticing the rust and pits in its nickel finish. The grip was small, more suitable for a woman’s hand, but it seemed just right for the Mexican weilding it with a shakey right hand. The four-inch barrel was engraved, but not professionally, and the frame was small, which made it perfect to tuck in one’s belt. The middle-aged Mexican must have had it behind his back, tucked into his jeans. He had his finger on the trigger, but the nervous man who’d brought them across the border forgot to switch the safety button into the firing position. Charlie’s voice shook more than his hand.

  “Please, set the bag…set the bag down on the dirt,” he directed his request with the pistol.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Charlie,” Andy startled. “I thought we had a deal. You smuggle us across the border, we give you 10 grand.”