Apparition Lake

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  *

  Tick, tick, tick. The clock on Stanton's wall was the only sound he could hear. The face on that clock was the only sight he could see. Now that the hordes, who only hours before stood pounding at his door, were on the banks of Apparition Lake, he sat exhausted and despondent.

  Divers, he knew, were at that moment searching the depths of that dead phantom lake looking for a one hundred year dead body.

  He was beginning to realize how tentative his hold was on the political ladder. He was beginning to see what a very long way down it would be when he fell.

  How will I ever explain this operation, he thought, if Glenn, J.D., and Two Ravens fail? If the divers fail? If they don't find that body?

  And what can I possibly say if they do?

  *

  “I'm not a co-conspirator,” Lark insisted sweating rivers. “I spotted them accidentally near Lewis River. I wanted a story. Then they spotted me. They wanted to put a bullet in my head. I told them, `You're hunters, not murderers. You don't profit from my death. And I don't want to be dead.' ” He glared at Glenn. “What would you have done?”

  He ignored the question. “You agreed to help them? For a story?”

  “To save my life, yes! I said if they would tell me where they were going and how and what they did that I would tell their story hypothetically, no names, no suggestion even that they were real. That I would put the heat on the park, on you, and I'd turn them into modern Robin Hoods.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don't know.”

  Glenn leaned in, reddening, threatening.

  “I'm telling you,” Lark shouted, “I don't know. I never asked their names. There's an old man and a young guy, my age I'd guess. I don't think their related. I just think of them as that. Or, sometimes, as the cowboy hat and the crusher. That's what they wear. That's all I ever thought of them as.”

  “Where are they?” J.D. demanded.

  “And keep in mind,” Glenn added. “A stay in a federal penitentiary hangs on your answer.”

  The door was yanked open and an alarmed Simpson stuck her head into the trailer. “Chief, our chopper is reporting riders on the ground; no livestock permits. And Ranger Franklin says he's found the poachers' vehicle. They're both…”

  “Inspiration Point,” Lark yelled, trying to get it in. Trying to save his bacon. He grabbed J.D. by the arm, pleading, “They're headed for Inspiration Point!”

  “Yes,” Simpson said amazed. “How did he… ?”

  “Never mind,” Glenn said looking at Lark in disgust. He turned quickly back to the ranger. “Order the chopper here to pick me up, Gloria. Then hustle back and take Mr. Lark into custody.”

  Simpson's eyes widened. She said nothing, just nodded and disappeared headed for the radio room. “Come on, J.D.,” Glenn said starting for the door.

  “What about me?” Lark asked.

  “You? Your only prayer is if we stop them before they kill again. Since you aren't going anywhere, I recommend you drop to your knees and help it along as best you can from here.”

  Chapter 25

  The scouts had traveled barely another quarter mile but Rob Jones was exhausted. The game trail had led them into thick blow downs and then had disappeared altogether. Cross-country hiking was not exactly what the Troop leader had in mind when he'd started their little adventure. Finally breaking out of the timber into a meadow opening, Jones decided to regroup and take another rest. He dropped his pack, plopped down on the ground, and waited as the gang funneled from the timber behind him.

  The boys had all emerged into the clearing and were removing their packs as they gathered around their leader. Surprisingly, Greg was the first to notice they were short one Webelos. “Hey, Mr. Jones,” he said. “Where's snot nose?”

  It took a moment for Jones to process the oddly asked question and understand Greg. When he did, and the meaning became clear, a rush of adrenaline shot through Jones' body. He stood up, scanned the group, and quickly took a head count. “Okay, guys,” Jones called out, his voice a octave higher with what amounted to near panic. “Where is James?”

  *

  James was officially lost; lost, and a little scared, and more than a little angry at himself. This would surely be the last straw. First the trouble with Greg, then those stupid post cards, then more trouble with Greg. He wouldn't have a chance now of earning his Webelos Badge. Not after this. Not a chance in the world.

  He plunked down on a fallen tree to think out what to do next. He pulled the picture from his pocket, the torn post card of the white elk, Hercules. He wondered what the king of the elk would do. He wondered what Hercules, a leader among men, would do. And he knew they would both stand up, face their enemy, and survive.

  James remembered the Webelos' lectures about wilderness survival. Mr. Jones had even had a Search & Rescue Team Leader talk at one of their pack meetings before the trip. What had the man said? To pay attention to the lay of the land. That was it. When disoriented, he was supposed to find and follow a known landmark.

  James tucked the post card away and looked around. He scowled, unable to imagine finding any landmarks there. He was surrounded by tall, heavy timber that restricted his vision. The canopy above was garland with heavy strands of lichens, huge masses of green that looked like the beards of old men. The forest floor was thick with fallen timber. What had simply been trees moments before was quickly becoming something far more frightening and the more James looked at it, the more it seemed to close in on him.

  *

  The sound of the helicopter faded. Gerry Meeks swore under his breath. Them chopper patrols were getting ridiculous, cutting in on his pleasure, cutting in on his money. But it was gone now; for the moment.

  Meeks checked his rifle and resumed his surveillance of Hercules.

  Eager for some action, hungry with what to him was a natural blood lust, Bass Donnelly moved eagerly to Meeks' side.

  Neither of the poachers took any immediate notice of a strange fog settling about them.

  *

  Sulphur Creek was his landmark. James had worked it all out in his head. If he could just find his way back down the mountain to the creek, he could follow it back. Mr. Jones would probably be pretty hot, but there was nothing he could do about that. Webelos Badge or not, James was headed back to civilization. That was the plan.

  James struggled downhill through the heavy timber, climbing over fallen logs and crawling under those too high for him to get over. It was tough going for a little guy and he stopped and sat on another fallen tree to catch his breath.

  Going again a short time later, James stumbled through a break in the trees and fell hard to his knees. He looked up to see he was near the edge of a small clearing and to see, right beside him, a man in a camouflage hat, aiming a rifle. James didn't know Bass Donnelly from Adam and he got no introduction. What he got was grabbed by his bright yellow neckerchief, and his young neck all but broken, as the vicious young poacher jerked him to his feet.

  “Well,” Donnelly said. “Looky here.”

  *

  With the familiar sound of its churning blades, a helicopter appeared above and dropped into a clearing beside Apparition Lake.

  Waiting at the edge of the clearing, Glenn told J.D. “You're taking over here.”

  “Me. How can I take over?”

  “You caught Lark. You know the score. And you're surrounded by pros who know what they're doing. Just look wise.”

  Glenn crouched as he raced beneath the blades and jumped aboard. The copter lifted off, tussling crowd and trees alike, and banked quickly away.

  *

  Despite a fog that had started to settle into the area, Gerry Meeks had again found Hercules in the trees. Though it made sighting more difficult, Meeks considered the thickening earth-bound cloud a positive development. It would muffle the report of his rifle and add concealment as they prepared and removed their trophy. It was time to bring this hunt to a close. Donnelly, now clutching the Cub Scout
with one hand gripped on his blue uniform shirt, waited nearby, his eyes gleaming with all kinds of excitement and anticipation.

  The old man was about to shoot when both the poachers, and their young accidental captive, were startled by a high pitched scream.

  “Noooooooo!”

  Like the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow, a park ranger appeared out of the swirling mist, on horseback, his mount at full gallop. It was Franklin, coming, he thought, to Hercules' rescue, his horse throwing dirt from its hooves as it cut back and forth dodging trees in the sparse clearing. He shouted again and, with reins in one hand and rifle in the other, fired a round into the timber near the poachers.

  Donnelly dove for cover taking James to the ground with him merely as a matter of course. James gasped, the wind knocked out of him, and tried to sit, struggling for air. Mercilessly, the young poacher shoved him right back down.

  Meeks too had taken cover as another round from Franklin's weapon carved its way through the fog and trees in their direction.

  The humans weren't the only ones with survival on their minds. At the sound of Franklin's first scream, Hercules had raised his head in alarm and, at the first shot, the elk monarch proved how he had beaten the odds and lived so long. His legs recoiled and sprung, launching him over the first deadfall in his way then, maneuvering like a running back dodging tacklers, he swerved and weaved through the trees to disappear into the timber completely in under three seconds.

  *

  Like a synchronized swimmer, Two Ravens mirrored his teammate's efforts on the other side of the lake. He'd never seen a lake so devoid of life. There were no fish, no crawdads, none of the usual creatures he was accustomed to seeing on the water or under it. The thought of looking for a dead body in a dead lake made him uneasy.

  Returned from the clearing to the lake shore, J.D. felt helpless as she watched the surface bubbles travel in ever-enlarging circles. She and Glenn had been running in circles themselves the last several weeks. Just thinking of it made her dizzy. Now the anticipation of what they might find was beginning to hit home. It was all too bizarre, she thought.

  Below the surface of Apparition Lake, trying to act the professional and put his emotions aside, Two Ravens worked like an automaton. Swinging his arms wide, he brushed an object. His reflexes kicked in. He jerked his arm back against his side and felt immediately embarrassed. Was it his first mission, for heaven's sake? He'd looked for bodies before, in the reservation waterways, but there, alone in the belly of the cold dead lake, he admitted now that it had always given him the willies.

  He anchored his body, belly-down in the thick grass, determined not to disturb whatever it was he'd touched. Two Ravens drew on his regulator; once for air, twice more for courage, and slowly reached in the direction of the object. Feeling the bump again, he turned his arm to grasp the object. He closed his eyes and tugged it up and toward his face mask.

  He opened them again… and rolled his eyes in embarrassment and relief. It was a tree limb.

  *

  Gerry Meeks had never liked his name. But Geronimo Meeks had taken his namesake's words to heart. He'd decided long ago that he, too, would never surrender. He was far too guilty of far too many things. His age meant once he was returned to prison, he'd never live long enough to see freedom again. Donnelly could do as he pleased. But Meeks wasn't going back to jail. And he wasn't planning on going out alone. He raised up over the log behind which he was hiding, raised the rifle to his shoulder, took aim on the ranger that had ruined his hunt, and fired.

  Riding hard, Franklin somehow saw the glint of reflected light on rifle scope just as Meeks pulled the trigger. The bullet hit his horse, and the rider felt the impact through Tuff's reaction as if it had hit him instead. Franklin dove from the saddle as his mount stumbled and started down on its side. The ranger rolled hard as he hit the ground, losing his rifle, and caught himself in a half-crouch. Instinct took over. Franklin scrambled to cover beneath his saddle, behind his horse. He laid a loving hand on the animal and found it was already too late for his faithful partner. The horse was dead. Red with anger, Franklin drew his sidearm, eased over the top of the saddle protecting him, and searched for a target. Any target.

  As the ranger's horse went down, the park cop had run for cover like the coward he was, Meeks jumped up, tossed his rifle aside and ran for his own mount, and his saddle bags. He wasn't running away, no, sir. That's where he kept a loaded pistol.

  Donnelly, meanwhile, was a pale mess. He'd never considered the question of surrender versus fight. The possibility of getting caught hadn't entered his mind. Without doubt, the last thing he would have ever dreamed was that he'd be face down in the dirt dodging bullets. He lay flat on his stomach, face pressed hard against the ground, without a clue what to do next.

  *

  The pilot cleared Dunraven Peak, banked his helicopter hard left, and started dropping altitude. That's when he saw it. His gasp, over his helmet microphone, through the cockpit speakers, sounded like the roar of the grizzly they'd all been chasing. “That's incredible, chief,” he yelled. He pointed below. “That fog is where I saw the suspects… But, believe me, there wasn't a fog ten minutes ago!”

  Glenn had no trouble believing the man. He knew what it was. And he knew what it meant. “Get me on the ground fast,” he shouted. “Franklin's in serious trouble!”

  The pilot did as instructed and, as the chopper dropped and cut into the fog rising just off the top of the trees, Glenn saw the first muzzle flashes from gunfire below. An instant later, the plastic bubble forming the helicopter's windshield took a glancing bullet and cracked.

  “Jesus, Glenn,” the pilot cried. “They're shooting at us.”

  Glenn couldn't argue. The pilot had called it exactly. Meeks had turned his guns on the helicopter and coaxed the cowering Donnelly to sit up and do the same. Between shots at the whirlybird, they continued to trade fire with the ranger on the ground as well. “We can't let Frankie have all the fun,” Glenn told the pilot. “Get me down there.”

  “What?” the pilot cried back in alarm. “Glenn, I said they're shooting at us!”

  “I know. I know.” The chief pointed below. “Franklin needs a hand. Just get me close.”

  The pilot shook his head in irritation, disgust, terror, but he didn't say a word. He pinched his lips to a thin line, grabbed the control with both hands, and started the helicopter down again to a terrifying chorus of ricocheting bullets. It was all he could do, between the barrage, the air currents between the trees, and his trembling hands, to keep his head. When he didn't think he could take another second, he shouted, “This is nuts. They could really put us down, ya know!”

  “Try,” Glenn pleaded. “You've got to try.”

  Sucking it up like he never had before, battling the control, the pilot moved again to drop the helicopter down over top of Franklin's position. They were close enough now to see the desperate, terrified poachers turning the battle on, several shots in a row at Franklin, and then several more skyward to pockmark the cockpit bubble and rock the ship. “God!” the pilot screamed.

  On his side, Franklin could do little, but he did all he could. With his beloved horse down and gone he had little choice but to stay behind his saddle using the animal, his long-time friend, for cover. He returned the gunfire at the poachers trying to give the chopper what small cover-fire he could muster.

  The helicopter hovered ten feet off the ground. It wasn't close enough for Glenn's taste but, clearly, it was as close as they were going to get. Shotgun in hand, the chief ranger jumped. He hit the ground hard and, as he rolled through his landing, the chopper was already climbing fast and banking out of the line of fire. Glenn couldn't blame the pilot one bit. Besides he was too busy. He scrambled back to his feet, snaked his way to Franklin's position, jumped the fallen mount, and dropped into cover beside his junior ranger.

  “You okay?” Glenn barked as he chambered a round, raised up, and fired in the direction of the last muzzle fl
ash. “Yeah,” Franklin's voice cracked as he also fired into the growing cloud of mist. “Tuff took the one with my name on it.”

  Glenn nodded understanding and squeezed Franklin's arm. “Hercules?”

  Franklin jerked his head in the direction of the woods behind them. “Smart and fast as ever.”

  *

  James, had been curled up, fingers in his ears to block the explosive sound of gunfire. As the chopper had flown in and the poachers turned their attention on it, the young scout grabbed his courage with both hands and started to crawl away from the fight. He'd only gone about forty yards when he realized the fog was getting thick and the air had suddenly grown cold. In minutes the temperature had dropped ten degrees. His fingers were getting numb and a chill ran up his frame and made him shudder. A heavy cloud of mist encircled the boy and rose into the drooping boughs as the trees began to take on odd shapes like phantoms in the night.

  James trembled. He watched the mist as it swirled in front of him and gathered into a dark mass drawing in from the edges. Darker and thicker it expanded until a distinct form took shape; the head of a bear with a huge muscled body forming below. Gray hair appeared and the silver bear stared at James with piercing steel-gray eyes. With a tremendous roar the creature emerged from the trees.

  “Help me, Jesus,” James whispered as his mind raced. A bear! Don't move, he thought. Don't move.

  The great silver-tipped grizzly started to charge.

  *

  Two Ravens had covered an area forty feet out from the buoy and was starting another round. He stroked his feet rhythmically, finding himself slowly along the bottom. Visibility had been rotten from the get-go. Now the slightest motion stirred silt from the bottom and clouded the water darker yet. It seemed he'd been down for hours in the icy water, though he knew it hadn't been that long.