Spider Lake

by Jeff Nania

  “You bet, Doc,” and Bud took off.

  Doc concluded his inspection, and in a few minutes we heard the truck pull up to the overhead door. We turned to find Bud standing there holding the black toolbox with one hand.

  “Doc, I figured I would bring this in here where you could get at the tools easier.”

  “Jeez, Bud, I hope you plan on sticking around. I don’t think I can even lift that thing back in the truck unless I empty it out first.”

  Bud laughed. “Yup, I’m stickin’ around.”

  Doc used a meter to check the battery and test the charge.

  “Still in the okay range but not one hundred percent. I better put the charger on for a bit,” he said more to himself than anyone else. He checked all the fluid levels and then sent Bud after the gas can in the shop. Once everything was checked, the battery charged, and gas in the tank, O’Malley stepped back and gave the jeep the once over again, eyeing everything. He reached under the hood and removed a black wire.

  “Coil wire. I figured we would turn it over a couple of times and get things loosened up before we actually try to start it. Taking this wire off cuts off the juice to the spark plugs. No juice, no fire.”

  He got behind the wheel, pulled the floor shifter into neutral, and turned the key. After a brief hesitation, the engine spun freely and sounded like it wanted to start.

  Doc reconnected the wire and said to John, “You want to do the honors?”

  “I think you should do the first run-through, Doc, if you don’t mind,” I responded.

  Doc hit the key and the engine fired and quit. He tried again and it caught. O’Malley kept it at idle and gave it a little gas as needed. Thick exhaust filled the building.

  “It’s gonna be smoky until that top-end oil burns off. It needs a real gentle warm-up to get everything lubed before we move it. The gauge panel will tell us how things are going. Oil pressure’s up, so that’s good. Temp gauge is still on the low end. That’s good too,” Doc explained.

  Bud slid open the big end doors of the building, and a light breeze helped clear the air.

  The jeep did not bark like one of those straight pipe hotrods. Instead, it had a throaty mellow rumble. The engine didn’t run smooth, and Doc explained that was because of the high-performance camshaft, one of the “more horsepower” additions.

  Doc checked the air pressure in the tires, and ten minutes later we mounted up with him at the wheel, me riding shotgun, and Bud squeezed into the backseat. Doc put it in gear, and we drove out the door and past the house. Julie was sitting on the front porch reading her kids’ papers as we cruised by. She gave us a slight smile and shook her head.

  The jeep ran well, and after a few miles Doc was convinced all systems were working, so he pulled over to the side of the road and said, “Well, John, time for you to give it a try.”

  I got behind the wheel, put it in gear, and slowly let out the clutch. Even though I was light on the gas, the jeep jumped right up and took off. The tachometer let me know when to shift, and before I knew it, we were cruising at sixty-five miles an hour. The jeep was tight, with no rattles and no unwanted vibrations.

  A brown sign marked 231 with an arrow indicated an unpaved national forest road. I swear the jeep turned on that road all by itself. I can’t recall being any part of the decision.

  “This is the road to Ghost Lake,” Bud said. “It’s pretty rough but you can get through. I used to come fishing back here in the spring right after the season opened in May. Lots of big northern pike in the weeds. They’re pretty boney, but if you fillet them right, you can cut the bones out, and they are good eating. Julie can make ’em perfect.”

  Traveling down a two-track forest road is a journey into the heart of the north country. If you travel far enough, the road ends, requiring hiking boots and a pack to explore farther. While it doesn’t make much sense, the deep woods can seem spooky. Maybe it’s the towering trees that block the sun or the absolute quiet we rarely experience. Maybe it’s the fairytales about witches in the woods snatching small children to eat or the mad trapper waiting to hack you up with his double bit axe. In reality, the woods are much less dangerous than the streets of any major city where human wolf packs roam.

  I was lost in the feeling of mystery and danger at that moment when Doc yelled, “Look out!” I slammed on the brakes and went into a slide. Turning into the skid brought us around, and we eventually came to rest crossways in the road.

  The obstacle that had blocked our path was up and moving, closely followed by a newborn calf.

  “That was really cool,” Bud said. “Elk were reintroduced to this area about ten years ago, but you hardly ever get to see them, especially with a calf. Good thing you didn’t hit them, John. That cow probably weighs close to five hundred pounds. That would have put a dent in your jeep for sure.”

  Having had enough excitement for the day, we cruised back home. I offered to pay Doc O’Malley, but he refused, saying, “John, I am glad to see that jeep back on the road. If you bring it into the shop someday, I may have to charge you, but today is on me. I’d like to hang around for a while, but I better get back to town and get some work done.”

  Bud closed up Doc’s toolbox, picked it up, and easily set it down in the bed of his truck. We watched him drive out as we walked up to the house.

  Most of the folks I had met up here in the north country were good folks: down to earth, real. People seemed proud of their work for the most part, but not bragging proud. Bud could fix about anything. Doc O’Malley was a top mechanic. That was who they were. It never crossed their mind ever to do less than their best, and they took pride in their work. Too many people judge their success by their possessions and how much they have rather than by what they do and what they contribute. I asked myself, what

  will I contribute to the world? My physical recovery had taken center stage, but I was getting better and was ready to start figuring out what direction I would head. My résumé was pretty short: former cop, former investigator, the end. A pretty girl’s voice brought me back to the world.

  “How was your drive?” Julie asked. Bud was eager to answer.

  “The jeep ran great, Julie. John turned down Road 231, and guess what was in the road soaking up the sun. A big mother elk and her little calf! Thankfully John stopped in time. They were really something to see and didn’t seem too worried about almost getting hit. They just walked off.” Bud recounted the story with childlike joy.

  “John, what do you think of the jeep? Is it going to work for you?” Julie asked.

  “It’s actually perfect. I love it. That longer wheelbase gives it plenty of room if I have to haul a couple of people or some gear. It has a lot of zip and handles well. I think this is a keeper. Doc O’Malley wants me to bring it in for a thorough check over, but so far so good.”

  “Well, boys, I was emptying the freezer, and I found a big package of frozen walleyes. Cornbread, walleyes, and lemonade sound good?”

  “Julie, you are up to your ears in schoolwork and don’t need to be cooking,” I said.

  “John, everyone has to eat, and as you may have noticed, Bud requires regular large quantities of food to keep going. So, get out of here, and let me cook.” Julie sent Bud and me out to the porch with two cold beers, further claiming that it was a “one-butt” kitchen. Useless others must vacate the space during food preparation.

  We sat on the porch and looked out on the lake. The serenity was perfect, and nothing could destroy this moment, at least so I thought. At certain times, thinking is something I should do less of.

  An unmarked black Suburban pulled in the drive and stopped. Two men occupied the front seat. When they exited the car, I recognized them as the federal agents who had interviewed me after the incident. Both had close cropped hair, one bristle gray and the other dark. One agent looked about a decade older than the other. Both faces were adorned with small, but noticeable scars that had their own stories. They approached where we were sitting, looking every
which way, unconsciously doing a threat assessment. More confirmation that they had been there, done that. They knew danger was a second away and showed up when least expected. I had seen it in my life. I remembered a young patrolman riding the next beat over from mine who stopped a car for speeding. He approached the driver’s window and asked for his driver’s license. The driver, a wanted felon, pretended to go for his wallet, but instead came up with a 9mm handgun and shot him four times. The kid’s vest caught all the rounds and he lived. The driver took off. A beat cop makes untold numbers of traffic stops in their career. Ninety-nine percent of the time it is nothing. One percent, the devil shows up.

  The men reintroduced themselves as agents Street and Chandler. We shook hands, but their looks remained stoic.

  Street started, “Mr. Cabrelli, the last time we talked, I told you we may have some additional questions, and you said that it would be fine to contact you. We were in the area and thought we would stop by for a minute.”

  “In the area? I live twenty miles from town,” I replied.

  They ignored my comment.

  “Mr. Cabrelli, as I was saying, when we last spoke, you referred to evidence you had recovered from a vault Nick Cabrelli had hidden on these premises. Is that correct?”

  “Correct, Agent Street.”

  “We have been detailed back here to continue an ongoing investigation regarding the whereabouts of a missing federal agent. We have reason to believe that the agent’s disappearance may be tied to the death of Nick Cabrelli. We know that you turned over some of the evidence you uncovered. We are here to get the rest of it,” Street said as an order, not a request.

  “There is no rest of it,” I responded.

  “Mr. Cabrelli, we believe there is, and we are here to recover anything and everything you may have that will aid us in our investigation,” Street said.

  “I don’t think I have anything that will help you,” I replied.

  “Mr. Cabrelli, we will determine what may or may not be of value. As I am sure you can understand, this is a top priority for us. We are going over every bit of information again with a fine-tooth comb and re-interviewing anyone who may have a connection to the investigation. If we have reason to believe there is someone holding back information from us, we intend to get that evidence even if it requires going to a federal judge and getting a search warrant. If we determine that you are the one withholding this evidence, we will come back with a team of agents and turn this place upside down. Eventually, we will find what we are looking for. We are not going away. So, cooperation would benefit all parties concerned.”

  I hesitated before answering, too long for agent Chandler’s tastes. He stood up and approached me, close enough to be threatening but hands off.

  “See, Cabrelli, you are lying. We know you have something, and we are going to get it. Make no mistake about it. We don’t give a shit about your ‘local hero’ status. If we find out that you are withholding evidence that may help us locate this agent, I will personally make sure you spend the next ten years in Stillwater Prison. You get it, Cabrelli? Give us what we want, and we will be out of your hair. Screw with us and we will become your new best friends.”

  I held my tongue for the moment. Sometimes I can do that, sometimes not. When faced with the real thing, it’s best to stand by and see how it’s going to play out.

  “Honestly, Mr. Cabrelli. Can I call you John?” the other agent started.

  “John’s good.”

  “John, excuse my partner here. It’s just that a missing agent, well, you can imagine how we all feel. One of ours goes missing, and the rules change. We are all under a lot of pressure. As a former cop, a decorated one at that, I am sure you share our concern for the missing agent.”

  Agent Street the good cop, Chandler the bad. Good cop, bad cop: an old and effective technique. It works pretty well most of the time. When offered a carrot or the stick, people usually grab the carrot. Usually, but not always. Sometimes the stick is the only thing that works.

  “So, John,” Street continued, “if you have something that can help us out, please give it to us. At least, let us take a look to see if it ties anything together. We aren’t here to cause anyone any grief. We’re only trying to find our missing agent. You of all people should understand.”

  “Give me a clue, guys. What is it you are actually looking for?”

  “We know that you want to find the person or persons that killed Nick Cabrelli. We understand your motivations. I can’t say we wouldn’t feel the same. But there are a couple of things you need to consider. One, you are not a cop anymore, and you know you should leave the investigation to those who still are. Two, we think the person responsible for Nick Cabrelli’s death and our missing agent might be one in the same. We are bringing all our resources to bear here. Chances are better that we will catch your killer and find our agent instead of anything you could muster,” Street said.

  I didn’t say a word. Mostly, I didn’t know what to say at that moment. It was not conclusive that Uncle Nick had been killed by one of the crooked cops who were now rotting in the ground. I had thought about it a lot. Both those cops were stone-cold killers, and it stood to reason that one of them killed Uncle Nick. At least it stood to reason until now. These guys knew something, and getting them to share was probably not possible, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

  “If we are going to share, let’s start with Uncle Nick’s killer. You have information that the perpetrator or perpetrators are yet unaccounted for? Is that what I am hearing?” I asked.

  In a blur, Chandler leaped at me, and his hand stopped an inch from my throat. His face burned with anger, but he didn’t touch me. Street grabbed him and gently pulled him away.

  “Take it easy, Chandler. Take it easy,” Street implored.

  Chandler was hot, but the best he could do in front of a witness was curse me out.

  “You sonofabitch, Cabrelli. Our agent is missing. She may be dead. You sit here with that smartass look on your face. I will haunt you the rest of your miserable life if you are holding out on us.”

  No one spoke. The air was calm. Bud was standing up, staring at the two agents. I have no doubt that if things got any hotter, he would have jumped in with both feet. But as big and strong as Bud was, Chandler was the real thing. He didn’t know how to play fight. For him it was always for keeps. He stopped before he touched me because once he made contact, the fight would be on, and there would be no going back.

  But he was right. If I did have something, they deserved to have it. Finding their missing agent was priority one. My uncle Nick was dead, and although I wanted to find his killer, I had to help if I could.

  “Alright, guys. I may have something, and I am going to give it to you. I didn’t know it was important to your case, but I thought it might be to mine. Whether you believe it or not, I wasn’t intentionally holding out on you. Answer one question, and I will get you what I have. Is my uncle Nick’s killer still out there?”

  The agents looked at each other. Street broke the silence. “There is a strong possibility that your uncle was not killed by either of the two now-deceased former law enforcement officers. That is all we can tell you.”

  The agents tried to follow me when I walked over to Uncle Nick’s shop. I told them to stay put. The lower drawer in a heavy-duty file cabinet had been converted to hide a small vault. The drawer pulled out, I tripped a latch, and it swung away. I flipped on the hidden light and opened it. The truth was that I had no idea what value, if any, there was in the contents. But I was curious, so I had held on to it.

  I pulled a stack of photos from the safe. Most were of an area of forest taken by two trail cameras Uncle Nick set up trying to get photos of a previously endangered bird, the Kirtland’s warbler. Pictures showed several birds, deer, even a black bear. There was one other picture of a man. Maybe a hiker, maybe something else. His back was mostly to the camera slightly at an angle, but it made his face unrecognizable. From what was visible, the
guy in the picture looked big with dark hair and maybe a scar along the shadow of a jawline. He had a blocky head that sat on a short, thick neck. The date record and timer on the camera showed he visited that spot just prior to Uncle Nick being run down.

  The agents took the picture and stared at it. For a second, I saw a spark of recognition in Chandler’s eyes.

  “Know him, Agent Chandler?” I asked.

  He was a little slow to answer. “No.” After a pause he added, “Is this all you have, Cabrelli?”

  “That’s it, boys—nothing else. For the record, I am telling you the truth. Not that you will believe me, but I am. You see, I’m one of the good guys, one of the guys that wants you to find your agent. Even though you come and treat me like shit, I still want to help you.”

  “Is that right, Cabrelli?” Chandler snarled. “Help us by staying out of our way. Get rid of any hotshot notions about hunting down your uncle’s killer. You know, bring him to justice and all. Put those ideas out of your head. You muck around and screw up our case, and you’ll find your ass sitting in a cell with no key.”

  “I got it, tough guy. Stay out of your way; let the real pros do their job. I would not think of interfering. Nope, you are the first guy that ever threatened me, and you have scared me to death. Now if you don’t mind, could you jump in your car and leave? We are about to eat supper, and there is only enough for three, and that does not include you.”

  Street headed straight to the car. Chandler sort of crab walked toward it, walking away but watching his back. Always watching, he probably slept with one eye open, if he even slept. I had met guys like him before for whom the job was everything. It was family, social life, and everything else. Marriages didn’t last, if they ever existed. I understood because, in some ways, Chandler and I had things in common. If the job hadn’t ended for me, I might have become him. Who knows?

  As hard as it is for some to admit, the world needs people like us. Most people prefer we stay hidden and come out to do their bidding only after they are secured behind locked doors. They’d prefer to read about it the next day and question if the actions taken on their behalf were appropriate.