Houston hadn’t rowed a canoe in years and would have to remaster it while underway. He threw his gear in the front, shoved the craft away from the shore and jumped in. He pushed out into the lake, dipped the paddle into the water on the left side of the canoe, and pulled it back as hard as he could. The small vessel angled to the left, and he realized he was going to have to use less force on the paddle and alternate sides if he wanted to travel in a straight line. In short time, Houston got the hang of keeping the canoe on a straight course and sliced through the water, his destination a dark bump on the horizon.
After an hour, the islands seemed no closer and his shoulders ached from the unaccustomed exertion. He muttered to himself and kept paddling. Suddenly a thought occurred to him and he smiled. Rosa may have made his first mistake. In his place, Houston would have left a motorized boat. The lake was so quiet that he would hear a motor miles before it reached him (something he needed to keep in mind when the others arrived). A canoe, on the other hand, was quiet and stealthy. Houston might gain the element of surprise. He wanted to time his trip so he would reach the killing ground around sunrise. Not that his arrival time mattered a whole lot. Regardless of when he arrived, Rosa would be waiting and watching.
The old man who ran the landing stood off to the side, smoking a pipe and admiring Gordon’s boat. “Yuh, I betcha that baby’ll handle big water. Looks sturdy enough for salt water.”
“It’s ocean-worthy,” the big blonde fellow said.
The old-timer inspected the gear this strange group of fishermen had brought—if they were fishermen. Their equipment was better suited to hunting and it was almost two months until bird hunting started, three until moose and deer seasons.
“Where you folks say you was from?”
“Boston,” the woman said.
“I knowed you was from away.” He sucked on the pipe; a cloud of smoke rolled out of his mouth and formed a small cloud around his head before dispersing in the wind. He looked at the rifles the big, young fellow had loaded into the boat, one of which was one of them assault rifles he had seen on TV. “Gonna shoot them fish, are yuh?” He addressed the third and oldest member of this strange party.
When he got no answer, the old man ignored the man’s surly silence and continued talking in his rambling manner. “Yup, don’t get many folks in here. They like the more populated lakes like Sebago and Moosehead. I’ll put our lake up against them anytime—once Labor Day comes it gets quiet out here, you know?”
The big young man walked onto the dock and patted him on the shoulder. “Keep an eye on our trucks, will you, old-timer? We’ll be back in a couple of days and there may be a few bucks in it for you.”
“Well, you should have a coupla good days fer it. S’posed to be clear, warm, and calm, although the feller on the radio outta Mexico says it could rain t’morrah night. You kids want to buy some fishin’ poles and tackle? Game wardens here about don’t like it when fishermen shoot at the fish . . . ”
“Actually, we’re here to take pictures of the wildlife.”
“That so? You coulda knocked me down with a tamarack branch before I ever woulda figured that out. To me it looks more like you’re huntin’.”
“Well, we heard that bears and stuff can be dangerous so we thought we’d be careful.”
“Yup, that’s a fact . . . only they ain’t much of a problem after spring. Once the cubs get able to fend for themselves. Looks to me like you folks are headin’ up to the big island. You part of that bunch a damned fools that play soldier up there from time to time?”
“You got us figured out, old-timer.”
“You know,” the oldest man said, “it might be a good idea to have a couple of rods and some tackle. A mess of fresh fish would be nice.”
The old man nodded once. “You got licenses?”
“We drove here, didn’t we?” The older one couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
The old-timer either did not pick up on his tone or ignored it. “I mean fishing licenses.”
None of them had thought about that.
“The state ain’t got a lot of money these days and cops and game wardens are checkin’ things close. Of late, they been handin’ out a shitload of tickets.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Guy Harris. I own this place.”
The woman gripped his hand. “I’m Anne Bouchard.” She indicated to the oldest man. “This is Jimmy O’Leary . . . the big man is Gordon Winter.”
Harris nodded his head. “Know a bunch of Bouchards, mostly good people. There’s a bunch of O’Learys up around Allagash—some of the best guides—and poachers—in Maine. All I know of Winter is it’s damn cold and harsh.” His eyes crinkled at the joke.
“Cold and harsh,” O’Leary said. “That’s Gordon, all right. We don’t have licenses. Anyplace close by where can we get them?”
“Just so happens I’m an authorized game inspection station and agent for the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. It’ll cost you . . . ” Harris scrutinized the Massachusetts license plates on both SUVs and the boat trailer and kept to himself the fact that he thought it strange that they had two trucks for three people. “How long you plan on being here?”
“Two, three days at the most,” Winter answered.
“A three-day nonresident fishing license will cost you twenty-three bucks plus two bucks agency fee—each. C’mon up the store an’ I’ll fix you right up.”
O’Leary followed Harris into the small country store/snack bar/ tackle shop and learned that he was owner and sole employee. He asked him what he thought they would need. For someone who looked like a backwoods hick, the man was a shrewd businessman; based upon his recommendations, O’Leary bought three fishing poles, some hooks and tackle and artificial bait. The bill came to $250 and change.
“I could buy a hell of a lot of fish for two and a half bills,” he said.
“You think that’s expensive, wait until you get one or two of them hefty fines the state hands out—not to mention havin’ your boat and them fancy weapons impounded. Besides, I don’t see how you can put a price on the trip of a lifetime.” He handed O’Leary a paper booklet titled Open Water and Ice Fishing Laws and Rules. “Keep a tight grip on that. State’s so friggin’ broke they only print so many. Once they’s gone, ain’t gonna be no more.”
“Thanks.” O’Leary reached for his wallet. “You take credit cards?”
“Nope, don’t take checks neither—I run a strictly cash business.”
“Well, we got that in common.” O’Leary counted out the money.
“Send the others in and I’ll give them their licenses, unless you know their information.”
O’Leary gathered his purchases and walked out of the store to the pier where Anne and Winter were standing beside the boat. “The old fart says you need to go in and get your licenses. I already paid for them.”
Ten minutes later, Anne and Winter returned. Gordon got in the boat and held it alongside the dock with his hand. When O’Leary stepped off the wooden wharf and awkwardly lowered his body into the craft, it bobbed and started pulling away from the mooring. He almost fell into the lake. Once seated, he said, “I feel like a fuckin’ cow walking on a frozen pond.”
Harris chuckled. He helped Anne into the boat and tipped his hat to her. “Well, you kids have a good time. I’m always here from sunup until sundown. So if you get tired of roughin’ it, just come on back. Oh, yeah, the state bird has been declared one of them endangered species, so don’t hurt one . . . ”
“What is the state bird?” Anne naïvely asked.
“Hell, young lady, I thought everyone knew what the state bird of Maine is—it’s the black fly! ’Course, like the bears, they ain’t much of a problem this late in the year . . . ”
It irked O’Leary to no end when he heard the old man laughing to himself, apparently enjoying his joke, as he ambled up the pier toward the store. “What the fuck is a tamarack?”
Winter answered, “Beats me—probably some k
ind of tree.”
Harris laughed harder.
The afternoon passed quickly. Houston lost himself in the rhythm of paddling the canoe across the placid lake. The water was cleaner and clearer than any he had encountered anywhere in the world. Several times, he scooped a handful and sipped it. It was sweet and cold. He wondered how many springs there were on the lake bottom. As they had on the drive from Boston, thoughts of leaving the hassle of city life for something simpler played in his mind. Maybe he was ready to put society behind him for the allure of the simple life. Not quite this simple, but something close to it where the tranquil environment would allow him to relax. He stayed that way until he passed the first island.
The sun was resting on the horizon when Houston came to the island they had designated as their rendezvous point. He steered the canoe to the leeward shore, the one away from the big island, and began scouting the area for a suitable campsite.
In a short time, he saw an open grassy area on the shore and beached the canoe. He pulled the boat out of the water, placing it securely on the ground. Knowing that the rest of the party would arrive soon and want a cooked meal, he set out to find firewood.
His arms full of deadwood and small branches, Houston returned to the campsite and built a fire. A small spring-fed brook that drained into the lake provided water for the percolator; he added coffee and placed it on the fire. All that remained was to sit back and wait for the rest of his party to arrive. In no time, the air was filled with the tantalizing aroma of perked coffee.
Houston sat beneath a large tree, resting his aching muscles and hoping to get a few minutes of rest. It could very well be the last chance to relax before he arrived at the killing ground. Once there, the hunt would consume all of his time and energy.
A large fish rolled on the surface of the lake. He wondered if it were a trout or salmon—not that he would know the difference. Still, Houston wished he’d brought along a fishing pole. Before he knew it, the sun dropped below the horizon and the downside of being in the wilderness showed itself. As the night overtook the day, flies and mosquitoes came out to feast. Houston coated the exposed parts of his body with a locally manufactured insect repellent. The stuff smelled so bad it would make a skunk back away, but the flying predators hated it and that was all that mattered.
The brilliant full moon had been up for a half hour, drawing the flies high into the sky, when he heard a boat. The surface of the lake sparkled and, due to the brilliant moon, visibility was almost that of full daylight. Houston peered at the lake and saw the phosphorescent wake of a boat plowing through the placid water on a course that would bring it to his camp. In the event that it was not his companions, he retreated beyond the firelight, stood in the shadows with his 9mm pistol hidden beside his right leg. The driver throttled down the motor and Houston watched as he exercised great caution as he approached the shore.
When Houston heard O’Leary say, “You sure this is the place?” and then Winter answer, “It’s the only island with a fire burning,” he put his pistol away and walked into the light.
The boat drifted to the shore and O’Leary stepped out into ankle-deep water. “Mike,” he called.
“Yeah, come on in.”
O’Leary walked toward the fire with a pistol in his hand.
“You can put the piece away,” Houston said. “Nobody here but us.”
Winter raised the outboard and locked it in place before he wedged the boat’s bow into the sand and threw the anchor to the ground to hold it fast. He waited for Anne to disembark and walked with her to the fire.
“Is that coffee I smell?” Anne asked.
“Yup, just made it.”
“Great, but first I have something to attend to.”
Anne disappeared into the woods and Jimmy and Gordon flopped next to the fire. “Nice lake,” Winter remarked. “Big.”
“Ideal country for what we need to do,” Houston commented. “I haven’t seen a single boat all day.”
“Probably be busier than rush hour in the O’Neil tunnel on weekends though.”
In short time, Anne returned from the woods and sat beside Houston. “You guys have a definite advantage out here. All you need do is to locate a likely spot, point your thing, and let go—we girls need to find a place more suitable.”
“Another disadvantage of open plumbing,” O’Leary said.
“Another disadvantage?” Anne asked.
“Yeah, I can think of a few,” he said with a grin. “Giving birth comes to mind . . . ”
Houston grimaced and waited for Anne to explode. Rather than get angry at Jimmy’s remark, she laughed. Houston gave her a quizzical look.
“Jimmy and I finally understand each other.”
Houston shrugged. He was not about to upset the applecart.
They sat around the fire, drinking coffee and listening to water gently lapping against the shore. The croaking of frogs serenaded them from the darkness and they watched moths fly toward the fire’s light before the rising heat swept them upward. Everyone seemed relaxed, each unwilling to break the mood.
Finally, O’Leary asked, “Okay, what’s our game plan?”
Houston leaned back and rested his head against a fallen tree. “It’s really pretty basic. I’ll head for the island so that I arrive there right around sunup. You guys will come in later . . . hopefully by the time you arrive I’ll have a fix on where he’s keeping Susie.”
“That’s it?”
Houston grinned at Jimmy, sat up and picked up a wooden stick. “That’s it, I believe in the KISS concept—Keep It Simple, Stupid.” He stirred the coals for a few seconds and tossed the stick into the fire. “I think I was born a couple of centuries too late.”
Winter stared at him through the flickering flames of the fire and nodded in agreement. “I could live like this too. The world would be a great place to live if it weren’t for people.”
“Yeah,” Houston replied, “people do complicate the equation.”
“Mike,” Anne said, “there has to be more to the plan than that.”
“Not really. You and Jimmy are going to take care of Susie. Gordon and I are going to hunt down Edwin Rosa, or whoever this sniper is, and kill him.”
“That’s it?” She was incredulous; he made it sound as simple as going to the corner store for a quart of milk.
“It’s really quite simple, babe. My experience in situations like this is that the simpler you keep things, the less apt you are to screw things up. Before dawn, Gordon and I will take the canoe and head for the island. You and Jimmy will follow in the motorboat. You should wait until after sunrise.”
“Doesn’t sound so simple to me,” Anne replied. “That’s a big island.”
“Maybe simple is a bad word. How does uncomplicated sound? It’s no different from hunting an animal. You locate a spot to which you think it will come, get in position for a good shot and when it appears . . . bang.”
“You make it sound so easy.” She sounded unconvinced.
“It is. Whoever gets there the first-est, with the most-est comes away the winner.”
O’Leary spread out a topographical map of the island. He stared at it for a few seconds then cursed. “Fuck, I can’t read this thing.”
Winter took the map and placed a compass on it, and aligned the map so north corresponded with the compass needle. “He’s going to try and stake out the high ground. There’s a ridge running through the center of the island.” The map revealed a steep ridge that formed a spine that cut the island in half. He pointed on the map. “Here.”
Houston bent forward and looked at the map. “Someplace on this island, there has to be some type of building. That’s where they’ll have Susie.”
“Jimmy and Anne should probably circle around the island to the north. Sound really travels across water, so don’t approach using the outboard motor; go in with the electric trolling motor and start sweeping south,” Winter said.
“That’s as good a plan as any. We’ll go in
here.” Houston pointed to a spot on the map where the ridge was furthest from the shore. “Rosa will expect us to go in where the ridge is close to the water—at least that’s what I’d do.”
“How the hell do we use this trolling motor?” O’Leary asked.
Winter rolled his sleeping bag out and lay down. “Nothing to it. There’s a foot pedal that turns it on, all you have to do is turn the handle until the boat goes in the direction you want it to. I’ll show you in the morning. I’m going to get some sleep. Don’t you kids be up all night. We got a big day ahead of us.”
O’Leary tossed his cigarette into the fire and gave Houston and Anne a knowing leer. “It’s time for me to get some sleep too. There ain’t shit worth watching on TV.”
Houston and Anne sat silent until they were sure Jimmy and Gordon were asleep.
“Let’s take a walk,” Houston said.
The brilliant full moon hung in the sky, and as they walked, they watched the surface of the lake ripple each time a fish rolled after a fly.
Anne stopped and stared across the lake. “It makes you feel insignificant, doesn’t it?”
“That it does.”
“I feel like I can reach up and touch the moon.”
She let Houston guide her to a large rock and they sat on its flat crown. They said nothing for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.
“Mike?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m scared.”
“Me too. It’s been years since I’ve done this.” He paused, staring at the shimmering water. “Hopefully, by this time by tomorrow night it will all be behind us.”
“As the saying goes: We have to get through it to get beyond it.”
“I wouldn’t be so damned nervous if Susie’s life didn’t hang in the balance.”
“We’ll get her out.”
“Anne, promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll be careful.”
“I should be saying that to you.”
Sniper Page 24
