Northwoods Deep

Northwoods Deep

by

Joel Arnold

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Joel Arnold on Smashwords

Northwoods Deep

Copyright © 2010 by Joel Arnold

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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For Melissa

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Northwoods Deep

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Prologue

He's down there. Only twenty minutes earlier, Sven Johnson was walking toward the narrow trail that led to his duck blind on Kruller’s Pond, when he came across the body in a ditch off the road. Now he pointed at it as he shivered in the chilled autumn air, clapping his gloved hands together for warmth. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to quell the pressure building in his bladder.

State Trooper Jim Reed looked down the shallow embankment, his breath a white, hesitant mist. Mingled with an odor of goldenrod and charred pine was the faint smell of death. There was a body, all right. A dozen fat deer flies hummed excitedly over it. Reed spotted a trail, a shadow in the morning sun, of matted down grass where the victim had presumably dragged himself or been dragged. It led into a thick wall of spruce cut back twenty feet from the side of the road.

Reed grimaced as he stepped gingerly down the slope of the ditch, the yellowing grass and weeds knee high and slippery with morning frost. His eyes focused immediately on the victim's hair. Long and bone white, it formed a rough, matted circle in the dying grass. A crude halo.

Reed squatted, waving away the flies, and touched the back of the victim's neck. Cold. When did you find him? Reed asked, sensing Sven behind him.

I don’t know. Sven looked away from the body, his eyes on the horizon. About half an hour ago.

Did you touch him?

Naw. Scared the shit out of me, seeing him there.

Reed turned back to the body.

Shirtless. Tattered, mud-caked jeans. Reed took in a deep breath, wincing at the smell as he turned the body over. Native American, by the looks of him. Skin covered with sores and lesions, fingernails worn away to nubs clotted with dirt and dried blood. His mouth was open slightly and Reed noticed dirt embedded in the gums, the front teeth and incisors chipped and worn like pieces of old chalk. The body was skeletally thin, the eyes open to small slits.

What happened to him? Sven asked.

Don't know.

Looks like he starved to death.

Could you move out of the light, please? Reed took off his trooper's hat and ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. A semi hurtled by, spilling black acrid smoke from its pipes. The smell of exhaust was a welcome diversion.

Sven took two steps to the side, letting sunlight spill onto the victim’s face.

His eyes.

The pupils were small, dull pinpricks.

Shouldn't they be dilated?

Reed leaned closer, blowing in his hands to warm them. He reached out to pull back the man’s eyelids.

The eyes blinked.

Jesus! Reed tried to stand, but his foot slipped out from under him and he fell on his back.

Sven jumped back. What?

He's alive. Reed leaped to his feet. His hand fell to the side of his holster out of reflex.

He's alive? Sven shook his head. No fuckin' way he's alive.

Reed forced himself to calm down. He knelt down next to the body and felt the neck. He didn’t feel a pulse, so he blew in his hands again, warming them against the cold. He tried again.

There. A slight tremor beneath the skin.

Jesus.

Sven shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He took a step back.

Stay there, Reed said without looking up. He rubbed the man’s neck and arms. Where the hell was the ambulance?

What do you want me to do? Sven asked.

Reed said, Come here. Keep rubbing his skin. Try to get the circulation going. I'll call for more help.

Sven hesitated at first, but took Reed's place, kneeling next to the body.

Reed took five giant steps up the embankment and grabbed the radio from the patrol car.

Where's the ambulance? he gasped. We've got a live one here.

The dispatcher’s voice crackled over the radio. It should be there any minute.

Reed slid back down the slope. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose.

Sven shook his head. You sure he's alive?

His question was answered when the man struggled to raise his head. At the sound of hair tearing away from the frost, the duck hunter sat back hard on his butt and tried to push himself away.

Reed's heart skipped a beat, but this time, he managed to remain calm even as white misty breath issued from the man’s mouth. He gnashed what remained of his teeth, as if chewing on air, chewing on something invisible as he clawed at Reed's jacket, desperately trying to pull himself up.

I'm trying to help you, Reed said, gently but firmly pushing him back. When the sun glared in the man’s eyes, he became calm once again, became so still that Reed felt again for a pulse.

The ambulance arrived five minutes later.

Turned out the man wasn't a man at all, but a boy of only ten. His name was Michael Horsecapture, and of the five children and one adult who set out on a hike a month earlier, he was the only one they ever found.

Part I

The Gundersons

(Six Years Later)

One

Interstate 94 was a blistering river of sun glinting off mirrors, windows, and chrome. Two lanes were closed for repair, creating a bottleneck that stretched back for miles.

Carol Gunderson’s eyes were sore from squinting and she cursed herself for forgetting her sunglasses. How many hours of her life had she wasted in her damn car? If it weren’t for the classic rock cd’s blasting over her car’s stereo, she would have gone insane years ago. Ah, but there wasn’t anything a little Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin couldn’t help.

She glanced in her rearview mirror. Heat rose in waves off of the black Mazda behind her. Thank God for air conditioning. Then she noticed the man driving the Mazda and her breath faltered.

He looked familiar, even behind the sunglasses he wore. Too familiar.

No, Carol thought. It can't be.

Her hands tensed on the steering wheel. She'd never seen him driving that car before, but still…

It was Mitch. It had to be. She looked grimly forward at the endless stretch of traffic. Glanced in the rearview mirror once again.

He smiled at her. A malignant smile that clenched Carol's heart. Her palms slid on the steering wheel. She tugged at the collar of her blouse.

Ignore him, just ignore him. She forced herself to keep her eyes on the traffic ahead. Maybe she imagined it. After all she'd been through, who could blame her? Maybe it wasn't Mitch at all, maybe just someone headed in the same direction. She turned off the interstate. The Mazda followed. Carol took a left and drove toward Minneapolis's Uptown area instead of her apartment by Loring Park.

No. It's Mitch. Has to be. She ran her tongue over her teeth. Took a left and circled the block. The traffic remained heavy. Tight. But the Mazda continued to follow.

She crawled past Calhoun Square. Pedestrians waited impatiently at the corners for the lights to change. A neon moose in a second floor window smiled wickedly at her. Get a grip, she warned herself. She didn't want the bastard to follow her home.

A group of teenagers shuffled past the hood of her car. One of them pounded the fender with his fist, making her jump. She heard them laugh, but ignored it as they walked by.

She wanted to scream. When the light changed, she eased forward. She saw Mitch's mouth move in the rearview mirror.

Who is he talking to? Is he talking to me?

He honked. Pointed. You. Yeah you.

All right, you son of a bitch, Carol thought. Her arms broke out in goose bumps. If you wanna play games, we'll play games.

She sped through a yellow light and took a sharp left. A man in a suit and tie jumped out of the way. The Mazda stuck to her like wet cement. She slowed to a crawl. Five miles-per-hour. Three miles-per-hour. She barely moved.

He'd gotten to her, that was for sure. Gotten to her like a paper-cut under the thumbnail.

The light changed and she hit the gas. Tires screeched. Horns blared. The Mazda followed, rocking up and down, the driver alternating between gas and brakes. Its tires squeaked out a grating rhythm, drawing stares and whistles from pedestrians.

Almost funny, except for the fact that Carol put up with these games almost every day of her life. Almost funny, if Carol didn't think she'd lose her sanity at any moment. When will this end?

The light in front of her turned red. She hit the passenger seat with her fist.

Come on!

Hard to remain calm with this going on almost every day of her life, restraining order or not. If only she could put a restraining order on all of his friends, too, but she knew Mitch would still find a way to get to her, to continue to not only widen that paper-cut, but to pour acid on it as well.

The Mazda sped through the light with her.

She was tired of this. Of all of it. Mitch’s friends followed her, drove by her apartment, yelled from their cars, left cruel, unsigned notes on her door. She never caught anyone in the act, not anyone she recognized, at least, and she’d called the police many times, but there wasn't much they could do. She'd promised herself not to let it get to her, because that was what he wanted. But bit by bit, note by note, scream by scream…

And this was the first time it was actually Mitch following her.

Carol squealed around the next corner. The sun hit her like a hammer. She put an arm up to shield her eyes and slammed on the brakes. She heard the screech of tires and felt a sharp shudder pass through her as the Mazda nicked her bumper. Carol’s heart pounded, her blouse tight and constricting. She pushed on the gas again, rolled down her window as humid air seeped in.

Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip. She forced herself to take a deep breath. Lowered the sunshade. Looked in the rearview mirror. Mitch’s smile had turned into a forced, pissed-off grin.

Carol's anxiety turned to anger. Enough!

She drove toward the nearest police station, but before she got there, a squad car crept up behind the Mazda. Its lights flashed and the Mazda pulled over. Mitch's face clouded.

She couldn't believe it. Her hands shook. Perspiration dripped into her eyes and stung. Yet somehow, a smile spread across her face.

She circled through Uptown and got on Hennepin Avenue, headed in the direction of her apartment. She pulled into a gas station, filled her tank, and used the restroom to splash cold water onto her face.

Restraining order, my ass, she thought. He’s controlling my life.

She lived in an old brown brick apartment building with a large arched entrance. Concrete lions guarded the steps leading up to it. Across the street, Loring Park was turning brown and simmering in the summer's heat.

Carol parked in the lot behind her building, then circled to the front on foot. She opened the door to the foyer where the mailboxes were, not noticing a rusty Chevy idling among the cars parked along the street. The blast of its horn made her wince and the word Bitch! hit her like a burst of frozen air. The car sped away in a screech of tires and a cloud of exhaust. Carol could do nothing but watch. The police had nothing to hold these bastards on. The games would continue as long as Mitch had friends willing to do his dirty work. It was hard to believe these were grown men. The Chevy turned a corner and disappeared.

At least no one had hurt her. So far, it had only been childish games. She stepped into the foyer and opened her mailbox. An envelope fell from the stack of junk mail and bills. Her shoulders slumped and exhaustion swept over her.

He just won't give up.

The envelope's flap was held shut with a small piece of tape. The canceled stamps on the outside were old and yellowed. Carol recognized the cramped handwriting.

What's it gonna be this time?

She had trouble getting her key into her apartment door.

She strode into her small, neat apartment and tore the envelope open. The postmark was from Edgarton, Minnesota. Mitch's mother, Ethel Cryer. She'd sent Carol letters before. The smell of camphor hit her like a slap on the face. A dead, pressed violet fell from the envelope to the floor. Carol sat down hard on the green sofa behind her, trembling, her face turning crimson as she read over the words written in crabbed, back-slanted handwriting. Who says monsters aren't real? Who the hell ever tried to make her believe that?

Carol -

You never call me anymore. How come? You think I'll forget you? How could I ever forget someone like you? My son is living in Hell on earth because of you. Since you refuse to reconcile with him, my nightly prayer, my nightly wish, is for you to rot in Hell. Do you really think all I can do is sit here and drool? You best watch your back. You think I'm old and frail?

You just wait.

It was comical, really, and perhaps most days, Carol would have felt pity for her ex mother-in-law. But today the letter was too much, like a feather tipping a set of scales. It took all her strength to keep from screaming, and even so, a slight growl escaped her throat. She knew that if she did not get a hold of herself immediately, something inside of her would snap. Her heart would burst, her brain would explode, something would give if she didn't get a hold of herself right...this...

moment...

She closed her eyes, but the smell wafting off the letter only made her see Ethel grinning at her like some avian predator.

Funny, really, since Ethel weighed only ninety-five pounds, but today, with everything else, one thing on top of another over the days, the weeks, the months...

A scream rose in her throat.

One thing after another.

Building, building...

I don't know how much more I can take.

She clenched her teeth and swallowed, the scream reversing itself, forced down her throat like crushed glass. She ripped the letter to shreds and stomped on them. Someone pounded a fist on her floor from below. She slumped forward, shaking. Goddamn it, she whispered, her voice ragged. I just...need...a break.

Her thoughts turned to her sister. To the canoe trip they'd talked about. They hadn't seen each other since their mother's funeral, over two years ago.

She forced herself to calm down. Took in a deep breath and dialed Brenda.

Carol ran her hand over the open page of the atlas on her lap, the Mesaba River a blue vein pulsing beneath her finger.

The Mesaba River?

It would be perfect, Brenda said. It starts in this little town called Cradlerock, goes through the Misquah Indian Reservation, then a chunk of State Forest, and ends in a town called Seiversville. Carol heard pages being flipped on Brenda's end of the phone. It's supposed to be a pretty tame river. A few rapids, but smooth most of the way. Exciting enough for novices like us.

Carol laughed. I'm the novice here.

I figure it would take six days to do, if we go about twenty miles a day.

Carol groaned.

We'll be sore the first couple nights, but no sweat, Brenda said. And once we're in Seiversville, we can pick up a few fishermen. They can rub away all that soreness.

Oh God, no.

Come on, sis. Don't you think it's about time?

Carol became quiet. I have enough men in my life, she said. They just all happen to be harassing me at the moment.

The two sisters sat on their respective ends of the phone, waiting for the other to speak. They had never been very close to each other, Carol being six years Brenda’s senior, but Brenda thought this would be a great chance for them to change that.

Brenda broke the silence. You need this trip. It'll be good to get away. Forget about all this crap. Just you and me. Having a great time.

Yeah, Carol sighed, wondering if anything could make her forget this, even for a little while.

Even if it rains the whole time, we'll have fun.

You can't imagine how much I need this.

I don't want to imagine.

Finally, Carol said, I'll see you next Saturday, okay?

I'm looking forward to it, Brenda, her sister, her strong little sister said.

Carol tried to conjure up the smell of pine sap bubbling up through thick bark, the sound of the running river. Tried to imagine the heat of the sun on her face and the feel of the canoe carrying her. Just thinking of it almost made her forget about Mitch for a while. Mitch and his crazy mother.

Almost.

But not quite.

Two

The week passed too quickly. By the time Friday arrived, Carol realized she hadn’t done a damn thing to prepare. She’d had second thoughts all week long, but the weather was hot and humid with no let-up in sight. She hoped it was cooler up north. She was tired of the sweat that clung to her just from walking to her car. She finally pushed away any last thoughts of canceling, and decided she’d better shop for some supplies if she didn’t want to be miserably dependent on her little sister.

She scoped out the parking lot of a Craguns’ Sporting Goods before getting out of her car. Nothing struck her as being out of the ordinary, but you could never tell. Every parked car, every tree or shrub presented an opportunity for Mitch or one of his cohorts to jump out and yell boo. She took a deep breath, grabbed her purse and stepped onto the blacktop, the biggest of her keys nestled between her middle and index fingers, just in case.

The place was huge, a two-level warehouse with one side devoted to camping equipment. Carol didn't know where to start. She pushed a shopping cart over to the camping section and dug a crumpled list of supplies out of her pocket. The words blurred as her eyes ran down it. Again, her mind turned to Mitch. Amazing how things that start out so good can gradually turn sour. Turn plain rancid, in fact.

The first time Carol felt a twinge of fright toward Mitch was a few months into their marriage. They had gotten into an argument about returning some clothing of Mitch's to the department store. He insisted Carol return it for him, but she refused.

They're your pants, Mitch. You bought them, you return them.

Mitch didn't answer. He inhaled slowly through his nose, like a lion stalking prey, before turning abruptly and walking out of the room. As he did so, Carol saw his jaw tighten, his neck muscles constrict. And his eyes - it was as if the coals of an old furnace glowed within.

When she brought it up that evening, he acted as if he didn't know what she was talking about. He laughed. Told her she was imagining things. She tried to forget about it, but couldn't, his eyes still smoldering in her mind.

The front of Carol's shopping cart thumped against a display of tackle boxes. Damn it, concentrate. Brenda was due the next evening and Carol hadn't even started packing.

She scanned the rows of camping gear, forcing herself to focus on them, on the brand names, the prices.

Jesus, this stuff is expensive.

She found a sleeping bag, a couple candle lanterns, a flashlight and batteries, a fishing pole. Do I really need all this crap? she wondered. She hadn’t camped in years. Brenda had a tent, and they could rent a lot of the bigger supplies - the canoe, the propane stove, life jackets, ice-chests - from an outfitter in Cradlerock.

At least Brenda knows what she's doing.

A voice startled her from her thoughts. Looks like you’re planning quite a trip.

It took her a moment to focus on the large grinning man standing in front of her. His eyes were deep green, his chin specked with red stubble. A nametag on his flannel shirt said DAVE.

Yeah, Carol said. Quite a trip. She turned to a display of insect repellent.

Where are you headed? Dave asked.

Up north. Canoeing.

Then you definitely want to stock up on repellent.

Carol grabbed a bottle of mosquito spray off the shelf.

Might I make a suggestion? Dave asked.

Carol shrugged. Sure.

He picked a bottle of lotion off the shelf. I’d recommend this stuff. It’s what I use and I swear by it. That stuff you have there is fine with mosquitoes, but when you’re on the rivers up there, deer flies can be a bitch.

Thanks, Carol said. She took the bottle Dave offered and dropped it in her cart.

Dave rubbed his chin. He followed Carol as she pushed her cart down the aisle. Where are you putting in at? When Carol hesitated, Dave smiled. I've done a lot of canoeing up there. Know a lot of the rivers.

Carol sighed. What about the Mesaba? she asked.

Dave nodded. Been there. Nice. Smooth. Good for people who want an easy ride. He continued to follow her down the rows of camping gear. When are you going?

Sunday.

Sunday? Dave laughed. Well, this time of year, the water's generally low and calm. There is one set of rapids you'll wanna keep your eyes on, though. About half-way. A tight bend in the river, rocks the size of small cars. Just keep your eyes peeled.

It’s dangerous?

Hell, just driving to work is dangerous. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. Where ya putting in at?

Carol took her eyes off the shelves and looked up at him again. I'm not sure, she lied. My sister knows all the details.

Dave shifted his gaze away from her. Anyway, it sounds like fun. Have a good trip, okay?

We will, Carol said. Thanks.

Her cell phone chirped the moment she stepped into the car.

Shit.

She looked at it as if it was alive. Flipped it open and listened. A man breathed heavily on the other end. Then there was a click followed by the dial tone.

She shook her head. Looked across the parking lot. Looked at the dashboard, studying the configuration of the odometer and fuel gauge, the geometry of the steering wheel and air vents. There were times when Carol felt as if the world were collapsing in on itself, the planets were all off kilter, and the sun was a black hole, sucking away all that had once been normal, all that had once been comfortable. And times like now when the idea of comfortable seemed like a distant dream.

She turned the cell phone off. Stuck it in the glove compartment. Slammed it shut. I should just get rid of the thing.

As she drove out of Galleons' parking lot, she felt it, swore she felt it.

The earth tilting. The ground slightly askew.

Carol checked her messages once she got back to her apartment. There were the usual hang-ups. Usually five a day, and today was no exception. One hang-up for each of the five years she had been married to Mitch. Even though she had her phone number changed twice since the divorce, Mitch still managed to find her current number.

Her eyes surveyed the camping gear laid out on the floor of her apartment. It looked odd sitting there amidst the cleanliness, the order of her apartment. Look at all this shit, she thought. What the hell am I doing?

Although she thanked God every day of her life for leaving Mitch, there were still times when she felt like she'd been flung high into the air with nothing to grab onto, nothing to support her when she came crashing down.

She was only twenty-eight and already felt like she was experiencing a mid-life crisis. Her view of reality had been abruptly altered; her daydream of coming home to a pleasant house to play with her perfect children had turned to a dull ache in her heart.

Mitch became more ill tempered with each passing year of their marriage, more obsessive, more cloying. That look of distrust in his eyes when she’d come home from work – as if she had the time for some kind of affair! Where the hell did he think her paychecks came from, anyway?

The arguments heated up, the clenched jaw, the corded neck muscles, the coals in his eyes. The arguments turned verbally abusive until his fist hung threateningly in the air, and still she didn't leave, still hoping there was some thread to hold onto, some magic word to conjure up those children she'd dreamed of. Maybe if they had children, his temper would diminish with the joy of raising a family. But then another argument, more yelling, and this time his fist came down hard and struck her on the cheek.

She sat there stunned. Touched the swelling flesh on her face as if it were not hers, as if she were merely touching the bark of a tree.

The phone rang, startling her from these thoughts, and she picked up without thinking.

Carol?

Apprehension immediately crept into every muscle of her body. Yes?

You’re a fucking whore, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll -

Stop it! Carol screamed. Stop it! She threw the phone against the wall. The plastic casing broke in half, but she could still hear it – instead of the dial tone – the caller laughing, a bright, cheery laughter that sounded so awful, so damn evil. It burrowed into her soul, a ghost in the fiber optics. Perspiration chilled her back, raising goose bumps. She bit down hard on her lip. Forced herself to pack. Pack up the gear. Keep busy.