In Too Deep

by Andreas Oertel

  I shook my head and chuckled. “And how will you assist me?”

  “I’ll be right here on the dock, catching some rays.” Eric stretched out on the decking.

  It took me less than five minutes to put on my still-damp wetsuit and slip on my flippers. Eric propped himself up on one elbow as I got ready to enter the water. He knew my entrance would be entertaining. Sure, I had a wetsuit on, but until my body warmed up that thin layer of water between the neoprene and me, I was going to be in pain.

  “Don’t dawdle while you’re down there,” Eric said gleefully. “I know it can be tempting to enjoy the spa-like water.”

  I stuck my flippered foot in the lake and it immediately went numb. I knew the wetsuit would do its job in a minute, but gosh that initial shock was horrible!

  “Gimme a count, at least,” I groaned.

  Eric laughed, enjoying every second of my agony. “Five, four, three, two, one, go-go-go!”

  I pushed myself into the icy water. I didn’t have to swim anywhere, because I was right over the exact spot Mr. Provost had indicated. But I still kicked my legs and splashed around in a circle, trying to warm up. I dunked my head and grabbed onto the dock. Eric passed down my mask and snorkel, and I defogged it with some spit. He was sitting up now with his feet hanging over the edge, except his feet didn’t reach the lake.

  Floating with my face down, I concentrated on slowing down my heart rate. When I felt ready, I inhaled and exhaled rapidly three times—trying to purge the carbon dioxide from my blood. The theory was that this tricked your brain into not wanting your lungs to breathe, which meant you could stay down and free-dive longer. But you had to be careful too, because if you overdid the hyperventilation, your brain could forget to breathe altogether, and . . . well, that’s obviously not good.

  I took a fourth deep breath and held it.

  Jackknifing my body, I kicked my legs out of the water, letting my weight drive me to the bottom. Keeping one hand on my nose, I blew continuously to equalize the pressure that built up.

  Now, when I said I could hold my breath for over two minutes, I was talking about warm water. There was no way could I do that in water this cold.

  Anyway, the water was nice and clear, and I could see where I was all the way down. The steel post of the dock was two metres away, providing a nice reference point as I descended. When I reached the bottom, I began scanning the area. After my second spiral pattern, my lungs began to crave air. But I expected that and wasn’t alarmed.

  I continued looking for the watch. But where was the stupid thing? A silver watch should twinkle and sparkle and stick out like a . . . like a . . .

  Whatever, Cody. Just hurry. I did another sweep of the area beside the dock. Nope. It just wasn’t here. Time to go up.

  Wait! Something shiny . . . Wedged between those rocks . . . It’s not silver—it’s gold! The watch is gold.

  I grabbed the Rolex and kicked for the top—my brain threatening to pack it in. I exhaled all the way up, trying to relieve the pressure on my lungs. Shooting through the surface, I gasped hungrily for air.

  I held my arms above my head and let Eric hoist me onto the dock. Then I flopped on the deck like a cooked noodle. Air had never tasted so good. I stayed on my back, letting my wetsuit absorb the heat from the sun-soaked planks.

  Eric dropped a towel on my head. “You were down there awfully long,” he said.

  I dried my face. “Got distracted by the mermaids. Lost track of time. You know how it is.”

  Eric laughed. “You found it, didn’t you?”

  I sat up and unclenched my frozen hand. “Check it out.” I dangled the watch between my fingers, like a hypnotist.

  Eric took the watch and felt the weight of it. “This thing’s heavy.” He looked at the face and examined the dials. “I think it might be broken. The time is way off.”

  I snatched it back, not wanting to believe it was damaged. Holding the watch next to my ears, I shook it. Inside the Rolex, I could hear the delicate purr of winding gears and gyros. The second hand began ticking. “No, it’s okay,” I said. “It doesn’t have a battery like most watches, because this is an expensive watch.” I pulled the pin out and set the time to my Sector watch.

  Then I felt the Rolex’s weight like Eric had, and flipped it over. Engraved on the back was, “For 45 Years On The Beat—NWE.”

  “Jiminy Cricket!” I passed the watch to Eric. “Read the back.”

  Eric read the inscription out loud. “Sooo?”

  “So, this means he worked for the North West Examiner—the newspaper in Milner’s Corner—for forty-five years. Think about it, Eric. If there was an incident involving a bronze statue, he would know about it. I mean, providing the incident happened in the last forty-five years.”

  Eric looked up at the house, and then slowly nodded. “And all we have to do is ask him.”

  “And hope he remembers,” I added.

  We both decided to remain on the dock for a while, figuring that the longer we stayed down by the lake, the harder Mr. Provost would think we were working to find his watch, and therefore, the more appreciative he would be when he got his watch back. It was kind of sneaky, but since he was having fun entertaining Rachel, we didn’t feel too bad.

  Ten minutes later, I took off my wetsuit and slipped on my T-shirt. “Okay,” I said, standing up. “Let’s go show Grandpa his watch.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  UP AT THE house, Rachel and Mr. Provost were sitting in the shade, giggling like they’d known each other forever. He actually looked mad at us for intruding on their fun. I held up the Rolex so he could see we weren’t goofing off.

  “Splendid, my boy.” He took the watch and looked it over for damage. “Was it difficult to locate?”

  “It took some time to find,” I lied. Then, feeling guilty, I quickly added, “But it was more or less where you said it would be.”

  “You boys make yourselves at home.” He stood up and indicated some plastic chairs scattered about the deck. “I’ll pop inside and fetch my wallet.”

  “No, that’s not necessary, Mr. Provost.” I glanced at Eric, who gave me a what-the-heck? look.

  “Are you sure?” Mr. Provost said. “Kids can always use some extra money.” I guess even he thought I was nuts.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” I sat in a chair. “But we’d like to ask you a few questions—if you have time, that is.”

  “I’ve got nothing but time.” He turned and winked at Rachel, like that was a great inside joke.

  Rachel smiled back politely.

  “Well,” I began. “I noticed, from the engraving on the back of your watch, that you worked for the newspaper for forty-five years.”

  “You got that right, son. For forty-five years I pounded the pavement and wrote the news. Started right out of high school.”

  “Do you remember the paper ever doing a story about a missing statue?” I held my breath.

  “Keep talking,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m listening.”

  Rachel leaned forward, also listening intently.

  Eric looked at me and shrugged.

  “Well,” I said, “do you remember something about the disappearance or theft of a life-size bronze statue? Anything like that?”

  We waited.

  He still had his eyes closed. Hope he didn’t fall asleep.

  Then he opened an eye and sat up straight. “Was the statue a likeness of a Cree? An Aboriginal man?”

  We all nodded vigorously. “Yes!”

  “Never heard of it,” he said quickly.

  We looked at each other, perplexed. He knew the statue was of a Cree, but he had never heard of it?

  I was stunned. “But then, how did—”

  “I’m pulling your leg.” His cheeks tugged the corners of his mouth into a grin. He laughed uncontrollably, leaned forward, and gave Eric a good slap on the back. “You should see your faces.”

  We chuckled awkwardly while Mr. Provost twitched in his chai
r.

  “Okay, so you do know something about the statue?” I asked. I was getting confused and looking for clarification.

  “Oh, sure. I remember it well.” He stood up suddenly. “Why don’t we all go and take a look at the past?” He led us across his manicured lawn and back to the garage.

  When we got inside, he took us to the wall of old newspapers I noticed earlier. He caressed the folded edges of the nearest stack as if it were the family bible. “What we have here is a lifetime’s work. I have every issue of the North West Examiner since the day I started there.”

  “Wow,” Rachel said, sounding genuinely impressed.

  “That’s a lot of papers, Mr. Provost!” Eric exclaimed. Even he was shocked by all the history piled up in front of us.

  “You bet it is, junior. Fifty-two issues a year for forty-five years.”

  I could see that his collection had order to it. They weren’t just heaped up like at the recycling centre. Every fifty-two editions—an entire year’s worth—were bundled together with string. And each string was tagged with a label. I flipped the nearest one over: 1999.

  Mr. Provost saw me. “’Eighty-nine, right?” he said confidently.

  “Uhmm. No, ’ninety-nine.” I showed him the tag.

  “Oh? Well, whatever.” He walked down the stacks and flipped tags until he found the one he was looking for. “Here it is. From twenty-six years ago. Give me a hand, boys.” Our bundle was three from the bottom, so we had to move seven other packages to get it out.

  “Now, let me think,” he said, carefully cutting the string with a pocketknife. “The fire at the mill was in July of that year . . . And Mayor Lavoie retired in September . . . But the statue was stolen before he could make his speech . . . And the water treatment plant was rebuilt in . . .”

  This sort of rambling continued for some time, and I think we all got tired and stopped listening.

  “Got it,” he said suddenly. “We want the first newspaper of August.”

  It was excruciating watching him extract papers from the bundle, delicately placing them on the ground. I finally had enough and yelled, “Get your butt in gear!” Just kidding—I didn’t do that. But in my mind, I was sure thinking something like that.

  “Ahhh, here it is,” he finally announced, “Friday, August 5.”

  He unfolded the paper and smoothed the cover with his palm. The banner headline screamed at us from the garage floor, “STATUE STOLEN IN BRAZEN HEIST.”

  This is what I read:

  The bronze statue of Cree pioneer Simon Ghost-Keeper was stolen on Wednesday night from the Canadian National Rail compound in Pine Falls. Security video footage, taken by a surveillance camera, revealed a masked intruder boldly driving a forklift up to the crate containing the statue. The thief then picked up the box and disappeared out of the camera’s sight. A railroad employee suffered a concussion when he stumbled upon the bandit in the switching yard. The culprit violently struck the worker on the head with a wooden object, sending him to the Pinawa Health Complex. The statue was to have been delivered to the local branch of the Manitoba Council of Cree (MCC). The MCC was scheduled to take possession of the bronze on Saturday and to set the figure in place on Sunday.

  Cree elder Johnny Barker is at a loss to explain the theft. “Who would do such a thing?” he said in an interview. “We have been raising money for seven years to pay tribute to a revered historical figure. Now we have nothing.”

  An MCC spokesperson said it is unlikely that another statue would be purchased if this one were not recovered.

  Constable Benjamin Forbes of the RCMP is asking for the public’s assistance in solving this crime.

  “And then what happened?” Rachel asked, having finished reading the story first.

  “Not a thing,” Mr. Provost said. “No one ever came forward with information. And the police had no solid leads to go on. So, that was the end of it.”

  “Did you find out why it was stolen?” I asked, still staring at the headline. “I mean, did anyone ever get a ransom note or anything like that?”

  “No, and that’s what really bothered the community—the fact that someone would just steal it for no reason other than to prevent the Cree people from honouring one of their own.”

  We sat in silence on the cool concrete floor of the garage, each in our own thoughts.

  “Maybe it’ll still turn up,” Rachel said, trying to cheer up her new friend. “Maybe someone will find it.”

  “I suppose that would be nice,” he said, “but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “We’re divers, Mr. Provost,” I said, getting up from the floor. “We can hold our breath for a long time.” I thought that was pretty clever, but as soon as I looked at Mr. Provost’s face, I regretted saying it.

  “You kids listen to me, and listen carefully.” He stared at each of us for two seconds, and then continued. “If you know anything about this statue, anything at all, you’d better come clean and tell the police. I’ve covered many crime stories, but none like this. This theft was odd—really odd.”

  “Why’s that?” Eric asked.

  “Well, there were no clues at all. The statue just vanished. Usually, when an item that big is stolen, it eventually shows up. Often the bad guys get caught when they try and sell the goods they stole. We always expected a scrap metal dealer to tip off the police. But nothing like that ever happened. And it was never seen again.”

  We were all quiet for a minute, but I wanted him to know we were paying attention, so I said, “That’s interesting.”

  “And there’s something else you should know,” Mr. Provost continued. “The young man who was hospitalized—well, he died three days later from his injuries.”

  Rachel groaned. “Does that make it murder?”

  He refolded the paper. “Maybe not murder, but certainly manslaughter.”

  “Manslaughter,” Rachel repeated the word slowly—with disgust. It actually sounded worse than murder.

  Rachel and Eric stood up.

  “You’d think someone would have seen something,” Eric said to no one in particular. “In small towns, people always talk and gossip.”

  “Oh, sure,” Mr. Provost said. “There were lots of crazy theories about who did it. Most folks thought the Filthy Few were somehow involved.”

  “The Filthy Few?” Eric laughed. “Is that a motorcycle gang or something?”

  “More of a club, really.” Mr. Provost chuckled and began searching through the papers he had on the floor. “A real bunch of characters.”

  “Do you think they—the Filthy Few—did it?” Rachel asked.

  He shrugged. “I always thought they were nice guys, just messing around. But who knows.”

  “That’s an odd name for a club,” I said.

  Mr. Provost kept rummaging through the newspapers. “They did some wacky things back then. For example, they’d all cruise around in an old van, and then they’d jump out suddenly at intersections with pails of water and squeegees and attack cars, quickly cleaning all the windows. Then they’d pile into the vehicle again and take off.”

  Rachel shook her head. “But that seems harmless.”

  Not seeming to hear her, he went on. “And another time, they raised a bunch of money for the food bank in Lockport. They set up a car wash in the grocery store parking lot, put on bikinis, and charged two bucks to wash your car.”

  “Then why would anyone suspect the Filthy Few?” Eric asked. “They sound like a bunch of do-gooders.”

  “I think they were,” Mr. Provost said. “But it bothered most folks that those boys always wore rubber masks—dirty old bum masks, if I recall. That made people suspicious and nervous. Some even thought their good deeds were just a cover for criminal activities. Ahh, found it!”

  We waited for him to show us whatever he’d been looking for.

  “I took this picture of the Filthy Few a month before the statue heist.”

  I let Eric and Rachel study the old photograph first.

>   “It can’t be!” Rachel mumbled.

  “Whoa!” Eric gasped.

  They both stepped back and waited for me to see the image.

  I got on my knees again. It was a group picture. Five guys—two still wearing the rubber hobo masks, three with their masks peeled up and exposing their grinning faces. I didn’t know who the first boy was, but the second kid was Scolletti, and the third teenager was my dad.

  I thought I was going to faint.

  “That picture doesn’t mean anything,” Rachel said.

  “Yeah,” Eric agreed. “It just means your dad knew Scolletti a long time ago. Like when they were teenagers.”

  “I know,” I mumbled.

  We had left Mr. Provost’s cottage and were now sitting around a picnic table at the tiny beach at the north end of Clearwater Lake. I appreciated their support. But the fact was my dad might have been involved in the theft of that statue. And he may have killed someone.

  “That explains why my dad always wants to know where we’re snorkelling,” I said. “So he can stop me if I tell him I’m diving in Smoke Lake. What a sneak!”

  “You gotta chill out,” Eric said.

  Rachel nodded. “There’s no way your dad would clobber anyone, Cody. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Maybe taking the statue was a prank,” I mumbled. “Maybe that guard startled them and things got out of hand. Stuff like that happens.”

  Rachel shook her head. “But it doesn’t fit with the other things they did,” she said, her finger tracing a heart someone had carved into the wood. “You heard Mr. Provost. They were good Samaritans, on silly missions to clean stuff and raise money for charities.”

  “But the picture proves my dad was buddies with Scolletti.” I flicked an ant off the table, and then felt bad for taking my anger out on a bug. “And Scolletti didn’t want us in Smoke Lake. That’s a fact too.”

  “We should have left it down there,” Eric said.

  “I don’t feel like swimming anymore,” Rachel said. “Let’s go back to town.”

  “Yeah, I’m not in the mood, either,” I said.

  We climbed back onto our bikes and headed for Sultana. When we crossed the bridge, I had an idea. I turned left on Larose Avenue and rolled to a stop.