Running Dark

by Joseph Heywood

  Service and Homes were in one of the captured boats, a sixteen-footer with a two-hundred-horsepower Mercury outboard. Homes had renamed the boat Little Rat. The other confiscated craft was a twenty-footer, also with a two-hundred-horse motor; it would launch today from the Fishdam site as Fat Rat.

  Service and Homes were to patrol south past Point Detour, continue past Summer Island, and move north through the cut between Poverty and Little Summer. Fat Rat was coming south from the Fishdam, and the two DNR Glastrons would be coming over from Ogontz. The PB-4 would come east from Escanaba.

  They would all rendezvous mid-afternoon off Sac Bay, where Stone planned to grapple for nets. Attalienti and three other patrol cars were on the peninsula to provide land cover. Service had to admit that this patrol seemed more organized, with more resources and force committed than he had seen previously. A state trooper was parked at the Port Bar acting as a visible deterrent, and Service guessed that the information he had brought out was being used by Attalienti in planning Garden operations. Joe Flap would be overhead all afternoon and into the early evening.

  Homes piloted the Little Rat like A.J. Foyt, putting the stripped-down sixteen-footer on the plane and running it wide open, throwing up a ten-foot roostertail as they raced southward, the hull slamming against the waves. Service had never been particularly comfortable in boats, and thought about telling Homes they were wasting fuel as a way of slowing him down, but they had two extra tanks of fuel on board. He clutched his seat, let the spray sting his face, kept his mouth shut, and endured.

  They ran around the south shore of Summer Island and turned north. Homes finally slowed down to creep their way through the shoals that stuck up in places like a broken atoll. When they reached Sac Bay, they found the PB-4 thirty yards off the ice-packed shore. Someone was in the fourteen-foot aluminum deck boat, close to shore, throwing the grapple rope and dragging it across the bottom, hoping to snag illegal nets—either those that had sunk when the ice went out, or new ones they had just set by boat.

  Homes eased the Little Rat alongside the PB-4, pulled the throttle to idle, and had Service toss out the sea anchor. There was a slight breeze and a small chop. Stone leaned over the rail of the PB-4. “Dere’s a heap a’ perch up to Ansels Point,” he told them as they bobbed beside the mother ship.

  “Nets in the water there?” Homes asked.

  “Haven’t checked,” Stone said. “Buncha fish on gravel next ta shore down here, so dey’ll be against shore all da way up to da Chicken Farm. Da rats know our schedule ’cause I been keepin’ us pretty regular since we took dose two boats. Dey got somebody on shore watchin’ us right now, and dey know how long our shifts been runnin’. Pretty soon dere gonna come out wit’ dere short nets and see what dey can grab. Youse boys run up between Stoney Point and Ansels and anchor up. We’ll give youse a bump on da radio when we start for home, but we’ll anchor between Round Island and Chippewa Point and see what happens. Da rats only got a week till dey can net legally, and da dirty ones will want to get into da fish before dat.” Stone looked down at Service from the larger boat and winked. “Since Feb-u-ary da rats been real nervous. Somepin’ musta shook ’em up good.”

  “Bingo!” the man in the deck boat yelled. “Not marked,” he added, as he began to pull the net hand over hand toward his boat. Stone flung his grapple into the water and began hauling to see if there were nets closer to the big boat. Service saw Ed Moody working the front of the PB-4, and waved as Homes ordered the sea anchor up. When Service hauled it into the boat, they blasted off northward.

  They were anchored about halfway between Stoney and Ansels Points, bobbing in three-foot chop, the wind picking up from the north. The sky was overcast, no moon, no stars. The PB-4 had reported leaving its station, and since then, the radio had been silent.

  Service and Homes ate ham and cheese sandwiches and drank coffee as they waited. It seemed to Service that as a conservation officer, he was always waiting.

  “Who was working with Moody and Stone?” Service asked.

  “Name’s Moomaw, from downstate. Len’s runnin’ guys up here from all over, givin’ ’em a week ta ten days in da Garden and shipping ’em home. Da more guys we give experience up here, da more support we’ll have around da state. You fucking anybody dese days?”

  “Just your wife,” Service said.

  Homes laughed out loud. “She’s more fun den my mum, eh!”

  “What’s a short net?” Service asked.

  “Hundred, two hundred feet with small mesh. Easier ta trow and recover den da longer gangs, best for shallow water work. We’re gonna sit here and wait. Eleven or so, we’ll start putt-putting toward Ansels, see what we can see. Want a candy bar?” Homes held it out. “Keep da energy up out here, eh.”

  Service chewed mechanically, not paying attention to the taste or the sugar.

  “Da rats will run dark,” Homes said, “but sometimes dey need to flip on dere flashlights ta handle dere nets. We’ll look for dat, an’ if we see anyting, we’ll charge dere sorry asses.”

  “Without lights?”

  “Just like on land. We want ta surprise da bastards.”

  “What about support?” Service wanted to know.

  “Da rats will try to run ta Garden, I’m thinking. Attalienti and da boys will be land-side, strung out along da coast. Got three trucks ready to head south to where we need ’em, and Troops on standby in da wings. Attalienti says he has a pretty good idea where ta find and intercept da rats. How he knows, I don’t know, and I ain’t askin’. Our job is ta cut da rats off from Garden and hope dey run north. If dey do, dis time we got da boats dat can keep up; dis time, we got darkness and speed on our side. Fat Rat will wait out near Ogontz, and the PB-4 and the Glastrons will be south of us, so we’ll have plenty of backup, just not close. Don’t worry,” Homes said.

  “What’s the Chicken Farm?” Service asked. Attalienti was definitely using his information, and it was filtering down to the officers.

  “Dis Twenty Questions? It’s a shoal north of Kates Bay. My wife any good?” he added with a chuckle.

  “Below average,” Service said.

  “Man,” Homes said, and guffawed. “You have been wit’ her!”

  The wind continued to rise, and with it came increased wave action. By ten the waves were regularly at five feet, some higher, and their anchor had come loose. They had drifted before Homes started the engine and began burrowing slowly over the peaks, the motor gurgling and chortling like an emphysemic gasping for air.

  Service sat just in front of Homes with his binoculars sweeping the horizon ahead of them. It was almost too rough to see. A couple of times he had to grab hold to avoid being bucked out of the boat. Going overboard, he decided, could be lethal if help wasn’t close by.

  It was almost eleven when Homes tapped him on the shoulder. “We’re about a mile out.” Service felt Homes’s binoculars over his right shoulder.

  The engine shut off suddenly.

  “What?” Service asked.

  “North wind reduces wave action along da shore. Let’s try ta listen for a while.”

  Service thought he heard something.

  “What is it?” Homes asked.

  “Sounded like metal against metal.”

  “Where?”

  Service pointed a little left of their bow.

  “Dat’s Ansels,” Homes said. A minute went by. “Okay, I heard it too. Dey tink dey’re safe, making so much noise. Dey tink we all went home . . . dis will be fun!”

  Fun wasn’t the word Service had in mind, but Homes seemed to relish any action that entailed risk.

  “Scalded dog!” Homes said before Service could ask what was next. “I’m gonna run full out. You keep your glasses ahead. When we have visual, I’ll turn on da lights and da yelper.”

  The engine went from a growl to a high-pitched
whine, the nose popped up, they bounced over a few waves, and began skimming the tops like a skipped rock, wave tops continuing to hammer the metal hull. Service checked his flashlight to make sure it was tethered to his life preserver. Likewise, he had attached a lanyard from his PFD to the trigger guard of his revolver. He wished there was more light and less wind.

  Service tried to concentrate on the view through his binoculars, but the ride was too rough, the spray blasting from the bow. Even so, he thought he detected a blink of a light.

  “There,” he called to Homes, “a light.”

  Homes leaned forward. “Where?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “Yes,” Homes shouted. “I see the motherfuckers!”

  The blue light began to rotate and the yelper began its eerie warble as they raced toward the target.

  “Hundred yards,” Homes yelled at Service. “I’m gonna put us alongside. You jump over an’ shut dere motor off!”

  The other craft was less than fifty yards away when Service saw light-colored froth erupt behind it.

  Homes yelled, “Dey’re runnin’!” Service thought he sounded almost happy about the prospect.

  “Make sure you get dere bloody motor shut off!” Homes repeated as the quarry began to flee, holding the interval between them. Service knew his job was critical, that both men would board to make the arrest and prevent evidence from being cast over the sides.

  Homes seemed to find more power, and as the distance closed, the other boat immediately began a series of abrupt right and left turns. No matter what they tried, Homes stayed with them. He seemed to anticipate each maneuver and they were closing steadily. Service saw piles of shore ice passing precariously close, and hoped Homes was paying attention.

  Amazingly, the other boat seemed to gain some space with a double left turn when Homes was cutting right, and when they turned back, the other boat was moving away. Homes soon had them closing, and instead of north, the other boat was running due west into the main bay.

  Service felt a sense of foreboding. Homes made it seem like the rats would throw up their hands, or if forced to run, try for the north. So far they hadn’t done anything Homes had predicted. Not a good sign, he told himself, but Homes had gained on the other craft and was almost beside it now.

  “Ready?” Homes called out.

  Service moved forward to the bow in a low crouch, braced himself, put a foot on the gunwale and waited, his heart pounding. Stepping out of an airplane was a lot easier than this shit.

  The distance between the two craft decreased steadily, and whenever the quarry tried to turn, Homes was ahead of their moves and drawing ever closer—like he had radar, or a sixth sense. Finally, they were within six feet, and Homes cut sharply into the other craft and grazed it gently. Service saw a man in dark oilers standing there, and aiming at the figure, he launched himself over the side into the other boat.

  As his feet hit the deck, something struck him on the forehead, and he found himself on his knees. He tried to get up, propping a leg against a gunwale, but another blow came, this time to the back of his head. He had the sudden impression of time suspended, and of levitating before smacking the water face-first, and skipping before sinking and bobbing quickly back to the surface, gasping for air like he was at death’s door, so focused on the cold and getting air that he had no idea where the boats had gone.

  Fucked was the first word that came into his mind. Then, calm down, assess the problem, focus on what you have, not on what you don’t have. He had his light and his pistol. Marine flares? No flares! Why didn’t they issue marine flares? Focus on what you’ve got, his mind repeated. Thoughts coming in clusters, no order. Water temperature: What was the water temperature? He had taken a reading near Sac Bay. Thirty-eight there, or forty-eight? No, take the worst case. Warmer out here? No, assume same. Worst case. Don’t fight, his mind said. Don’t struggle. You’re in the water and you can’t change that. Conserve heat. You’re in good shape, adapted to the cold, perhaps more this year than at any other time in your life. Big bodies cool slower than small bodies. Fifteen to thirty minutes before the lights go out, he told himself. Stay alive.

  He pulled himself into a cannonball position, which lifted his head up enough so he could see, but the waves immediately pushed his face under and he had to go through the contortion again, trying to make his body as tight as he could to reduce exertion and keep heat in. Slow down, relax; don’t swim—float! He eventually learned to take a breath before the waves dumped him, even to look around. No sound of the boats, no lights. All alone. Fucking rats! he thought. He needed to see a light, any light. Why the hell were game wardens boarding boats like pirates? This was the sort of shit frustration caused.

  No idea how much time had passed. Too much? No, still alive. Too cold to be dead yet. He had heard an instructor in winter survival training say, “You’re not dead until you’re warm and dead.” Where the hell was Homes? Body cold, but no shivering yet. That’s good. Glass half full. He had wool under nylon, under an insulated jumpsuit. Thank God for wool. Not great for swimming, but he wasn’t swimming tonight, just floating, trying to take one breath at a time, and not going anywhere except where the wind wanted him to go. Don’t think, he warned himself, Stay calm—no matter what. Taste in his mouth: Salt. Blood? Forget it. The only sharks out here were in boats.

  At some point he heard a sound, or imagined it. He uncurled his body and fumbled to get his finger into the trigger guard of the revolver, which was attached to his preserver by a lanyard. Stay calm, control breathing. Okay, finger set. He closed his eyes, tried to substitute hearing for sight. The crests of the waves seemed higher than five feet now. Eyes closed. There, yes. Sound for sure. A motor running hard. He lifted his arm as high as he could, fired a round, found himself temporarily blinded by the intensity of the muzzle flash. Had anyone ever calculated the candlepower of that? Stay in the fucking game, his old man’s voice, the familiar refrain no matter what was happening. More sound. He lifted his arm, fired two rounds in succession; he ignored the muzzle flashes this time, his ears ringing. He hoped the rounds would land on some rat’s head. Then: Wait, don’t fire again too soon. How many shots left? Not counting, not paying attention. Dummy! No, wrong attitude. Okay, no problem. Not like he was going to reload out here. He laughed out loud, closed his eyes. Yes, a motor drawing toward him; he lifted his arm, fired another round, got dunked by a huge wave, came up coughing and choking on water. Christ, his lungs were going to fill with ice. How many rounds left? Never mind. Save it until nothing left. Under the water again, choking more, he bobbed to the surface and said out loud, “This ain’t good.”

  A female voice: “If I was Florence Nightingale I’d strip and get under da blankets wit’ youse.”

  “Is this a topless beach?” he asked, no idea why. He felt pressure near his rectum. “What’s that?”

  “We need your body temperature.”

  “Ninety-eight point six is normal,” he said.

  “You’re not normal,” the voice said.

  “That smarts.”

  “Truth always does,” the voice said. “Haven’t lost the sense of humor, eh?”

  “Damn,” he said, flinching at the feel of the thermometer.

  “I used Vaseline,” the voice said.

  “It feels like a baseball bat.”

  “I didn’t feel a thing,” the nurse said. “Everything’s a little constricted,” she said. “Ninety-four point eight. It’s coming up.”

  “It?” he asked.

  “You’re not that warm yet,” she quipped.

  “That’s not what the mermaid said.”

  “Mermaid?”

  “Can modern science measure the buoyancy of breasts?” he asked.

  “Say again?”

  “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.” Neither did he. His mouth was launching
words unvetted by his mind. He felt heat on his forehead and neck.

  “Drink,” the voice said. “Tea and sugar.”

  “No candy,” he said. “Bad luck.”

  “Tea,” she said, trying to reassure him. “Tepid, not hot.”

  He sipped and spit it out.

  “Too hot?” she sounded concerned.

  “My lips don’t work so good.”

  “Try again?” she asked softly.

  “Okay.”

  This time he got it down. “Where am I?”

  “Hospital,” the voice said. “Escanaba.”

  “Where’s Homes?”

  “Right here, partner.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife.”

  Homes laughed. “She isn’t.”

  “Rats?”

  “I finally got control of da assholes, called for emergency help, turned da boat around, an’ come looking for youse. Len had an ambulance waiting for us at Ogontz, and da county was dere to transport da prisoners. Da Little Rat drifted away and got lost. The Glastrons went ta search for it.”

  Service said, “Another drink?”

  The nurse said, “You want to try to hold the cup?”

  “Okay.”

  She helped prop him up against his pillow and put the cup in his hands.

  “You’re not so blue anymore.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “That’s very good.”

  “Did I pass out?”

  “I don’t know,” Homes said, “but you looked dead, man. We got you on da deck and you started babbling some weird shit about mermaids wit’ big tits.”

  “Can we talk about this later?” Service said, turning away from Homes.