Fade to Grey (Book 1): Fade to Grey (5 page)

*click*

Remember my gut feeling?  I need to listen to it more often. We’ve
just left to head back to the cabin after the second fuel run and my hands are
still a little shaky. I was “this close” to shooting the guy, or should I say
the dickhead, in the parking lot of the marina. OK, let me just chill for a
minute.

*click*

All right, I think I’ve cooled down enough to let you know
what happened. So we make it back to the marina; it was just starting to
sprinkle a little . . . Hmmm, maybe I was wrong; I still can’t believe how
close I came. I’m still feeling a little nervous. Let me clarify that. I’m not
“nervous” as in scared. It’s more of a “pumped up on adrenaline” feeling. Normally
when I get like this I need to blow off a little steam. The best way I’ve found
so far is some type of exercise, like jogging or swimming, something individual—not
a team sport like basketball. Being the mental giant that I am, I figured out
that it can be difficult to jog while driving this truck loaded with fuel
barrels up an old dirt road. Which brings us to the second best way I’ve found
to dissipate the “adrenaline rush” jitters—talking. So let me see, what can I
talk about? Well, how about the marina, that ought to work. OK, Sheldon’s Marina
is more than just a marina. It’s a combination gas station and food store that
also carries some basic hardware and gear for outdoor activities, mostly
fishing, camping, and hiking, although he has a few things for hunting as well.
It’s located at the main access point for Ghost Echo Lake. The lake itself is
fairly typical for northern North Dakota with a couple of exceptions. There are
literally thousands of lakes up here, anywhere from a few acres to a few miles
long. Ghost Echo Lake is about twenty-seven miles long, roughly oval, with
about a bazillion small coves and inlets—picture a giant blob of ink dropped
onto a huge piece of paper and you’ll have a good idea of what it looks like. Most
of its shoreline is swamp. It’s also a bit deeper than the typical lakes you’d
find scattered everywhere up here. If I remember right its average depth is
somewhere around forty-five feet—it’s got some deep water drop offs as well—some
of those are over one hundred fifty feet deep. Again, not too much out of the
ordinary as lakes go. The two things that make Ghost Echo Lake such a draw are that
it straddles the border between the United States and Canada, as a matter of
fact the boundary line is almost exactly through the middle of the lake. I
think Canada actually has about a half mile more on their side. The problem
with this, believe it or not, is smuggling. There aren’t too many roads that
cross the border up here, and the ones that do are regularly patrolled by
customs agents and other LEO’s. It’s a lot harder to catch the bad guys when
they can disappear into the swamps or coves. Also it’s a lot easier to get rid
of drugs by tossing them overboard into a deep lake. The Border Patrol shares a
station with the DEA on the eastern edge of the lake near the boundary line,
and they run interdiction boats out of there. Sometimes they even cooperate
with my agency. Sometimes. Anyhow, you would think that being a game warden is
all about enforcing bag limits and busting poachers, but the truth is that more
and more of our law enforcement duties relate to smuggling. And not just
narcotics . . . there’s a lot of human traffic that crosses the US-Canada line.
Heck, I’ve already had, let me see . . . three training classes so far this
year on drug smuggling and counterterrorism, and another two on human
trafficking and slavery. Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah, the lake. So smugglers
have access via dozens of little dirt roads that surround the lake, and the
bottom line is that there’s just not enough manpower to patrol everything
effectively. Don’t even get me started about when everything is frozen. So
normally, all of this would not be very much of a problem for a lake that is
basically way out in the middle of nowhere. After all, there are a lot of lakes
that span the border between United States and Canada. Which brings me to the
second unique characteristic of a Ghost Echo Lake. In 1972, the North Dakota
state record walleye was caught there. In 1987, the world record walleye was
caught there. Since then, anglers have been flocking to the lake from all
around the world. And that is why Walter stays in business. Sheldon’s Marina
has facilities to house about forty-five to fifty average size bass boats. A
couple years ago he built a storage facility to keep the boats in dry dock for
the anglers who didn’t want to keep hauling their boats back and forth. He also
has a thriving business of storing customers’ ice fishing shacks during the
warm months. Once the lake freezes enough to permit the annual migration of the
shacks to their winter home, the location of which is done on a first-come,
first-serve basis—heavily influenced by fistfights, bribery, and copious
amounts of alcohol—he’ll haul it out there for you, charging both for mileage
and time. Before ice out, you are required by law to remove your shack, and
most people just call in and gave him a credit card number and the location ID
of their shack and he brings it back to shore for them. Quite a little racket
he’s got going. Across the road from the marina there is a large gravel parking
lot that can hold, oh, I don’t know, maybe 200 to 300 pickups, cars or SUV’s with
boat trailers before they start spilling over into the grass. Eight miles northeast
of the marina there’s a pretty big state operated RV park/campground. Most of
the guys that come up here to fish stay there. The nearest hotel is about twenty
miles further east. So there you have it, you now know almost everything there
is to know about Sheldon’s Marina, except what just happened there. Deep breath
. . . . OK, so we make it back to Sheldon’s and see that there’s about thirty
people in the parking lot, not the gravel one across the road but the one right
by the bait store. The way that Walter’s pumps are set up are in two banks of a
“three-grade delivery pump?” I guess it would be called. Basically there are
two gas pumps, each one can pump out of both sides and on each side you have a
choice between regular, mid-grade, and high test. The pumps themselves are
spaced about ten feet further apart than you would typically see at a gas
station, with me so far?  So, if it was just cars or trucks, there would be
room for four of them to gas up at the same time. However the pumps are spaced apart
the way they are because most people gas up their vehicle with one pump and
fill their boat with the second pump. The diesel pump is located off the side
of the parking lot on a straight stretch that allows larger trucks to pull up
to it, but there’s only one pump for diesel since he doesn’t sell that much. Where
was I . . . oh yeah, so there was a bunch of people milling around talking in
the parking lot, but the line to the gas pumps was about seven truck/boat
trailers long. There wasn’t anybody at the diesel pump. Before we left the
cabin the first time, we had divided the barrels up. Uncle Andy had the gas
ones on his truck and I had the diesel on mine, so I pulled up to the pump and
Uncle Andy got in line. When you’re in line at the pumps the person working the
counter can see you through the windows of the bait store. If they know you
they turn the pumps on, if they don’t and you haven’t paid at the pump with a
credit card, then you gotta come in and pay first. However, since credit cards
were currently offline, cash was king. As was my uncle’s prepayment. I got out
of my truck, grabbed the hose off the pump, flipped the lever up and climbed
into the bed of my truck. Don’t give me any crap about filling a non-DOT
approved fuel container. I opened the first barrel, put the nozzle in and
squeezed . . . nothing. I turned to look toward the window to try and get their
attention but I couldn’t see inside because of the glare on the glass, so I
climbed back off the truck and put the hose back. My door was still hanging
open and the tailgate was still down.

“Max, guard the truck,” I said as I started toward the bait
store. Max jumped off the front seat down to the ground, trotted around to the
back, and jumped up onto the bed of the truck.

As I got closer to the front door of the bait store I could
hear some of the conversations that were taking place—mostly about the
president’s speech. Two guys standing near an eighteen foot bass boat seemed to
be having a slightly heated discussion about whether they’re going to go back
out on the lake or head home. Another lady with two kids was digging through
her purse and swearing; the kids were standing by looking bored. My badge was
riding in plain view on my belt, the CZ slightly below and to the right in a
tactical thigh holster. Neither brought more than a cursory glance from the
small crowd in the parking lot even though I was wearing jeans and a slightly
ratty “Tennessee” long sleeve sweatshirt. All the rest of my work gear—handcuffs,
vest, uniform, radio, and belt gear were behind the seat in my truck. My hand
was almost on the door to the bait shop when the glass partition shattered. I
crouched down against the side of the building, hand reaching toward the CZ as
a large man burst out of the remains of the door. A continual series of shouted
profanities that would make a drill sergeant blush spilled out of his mouth as
he made his way toward the gas pumps.

“Freeze, sheriff’s department,” I shouted.

Now, I know I am not a member of the sheriff’s department. I
am, however a North Dakota State law enforcement officer, specifically a
wildlife conservation officer, otherwise known as a game warden. I have all of
the same responsibilities for upholding the law as any other law enforcement
officer in the state. Where we differ is in our select area of primarily
enforcement. A state highway patrol officer is going to be primarily focused on
vehicular related offenses, where as myself, I’m primarily focused on natural
resources management and enforcement. It’s not to say that I couldn’t give
somebody a speeding ticket—I could. The same way a highway patrol officer could
arrest somebody for poaching a deer. Which brings me back to my original point,
why did I yell “sheriff’s department”?  The answer to that is simple . . . it’s
what I was trained to do in a “non-wildlife violation” situation. If I’m part
of a raid on a warehouse that has been selling illegally harvested moose meat
and bear claws, going in yelling “game warden” or “wildlife officer” is going
to send the message that they’re in trouble because anybody working in that
warehouse is going to know that the people most likely to bust them are going
to be game wardens. The same goes if I pull over a truckload of guys driving
around drinking beer and taking potshots at deer. However, in a situation that
requires some type of interdiction by a game warden, a scenario that is not
directly “wildlife” related, you yell “sheriff’s office.” The reason for this
is purely psychological. Imagine if you’re a bank robber busting out of the
vault with a bag of money in each hand and somebody yells “freeze . . . game
warden” . . . you get the point.

Anyway, I told the guy to freeze, and he didn’t. He spun
around to face me, his left hand dripping blood and his right hand in his coat
pocket. My thumb opened the break on the Blade Tech holster and my fingers went
around the CZ’s grip.

“Show me your hands,” I yelled. “Do it slow—do it now!”

He looked at me, red face burning with anger, eyes clinched
together, chest heaving. But he didn’t take his hand out of his pocket.

I drew the 9mm and pointed it at his center mass. “Show me
your hands now,” I yelled again. I could see him weighing his options in his
mind, and I didn’t like the way it looked like he was leaning toward going.

“Mister, you show me your hands right now or so help me I
will drop you where you stand,” I hissed.

Just then a woman’s voice shouted out, “Drake, what are you
doing?  Stop this! . . . Please! . . . You’re gonna get killed!” It was the
woman with the two kids.

Her voice seemed to bring him back to sanity, and his
shoulders sagged as he slowly took his hand out of his pocket. There was
nothing in his hand. A crowd was gathering as I got him to the ground, frisked
him and then stood him back up, fingers interlaced behind his head, leaning
against a cement roof support for the pump island. Uncle Andy caught my eye and
gave a slight nod toward my truck. I gave a quick “affirmative” nod. Thirty
seconds later he returned and passed me my handcuffs, which I used on Drake.

It took me about an hour to get things sorted out. Like I
already mentioned, Walter has only been taking cash as payment. As I said
before, he never takes checks, and since his credit card machine is down he
doesn’t really have an option. He’s got several signs posted, some on the gas
pumps, others on the door and by the counter, but apparently this guy wouldn’t
listen. It wasn’t so much the gas, it was the case of beer and carton of cigarettes
that he was pissed about. When Marty, the kid behind the counter, explained
that they could not take a credit card for payment, the guy flipped out and
started calling Marty all kinds of names. Things ballooned from there until the
guy punched the glass door. You know the rest. Anyhow, Walter himself wasn’t in
the store when it happened, he was taking a boat out of the water and putting
it back into storage. When he made it back to the store we went over what had
happened with Marty, and Walter decided not to press charges, although he did
get a copy of Drake’s credit card to pay for the window when the system came
back online.

*click*

Third run under way. I’m feeling a little bit better. We made
it back and transferred all the fuel we could into his main tanks. They’re all
full now. As I thought, it didn’t take a complete emptying of the 55 gallon
barrels to accomplish this. We now have a grand total of three empty barrels left
for diesel, and four empty ones for gas. Once we transferred the fuel into his
holding tanks we were left with the barrels that were still full in the trucks.
It took both of us to unload those. We ended up using some two-inch nylon
webbing to make an improvised sling. I would then tilt the barrels enough for Uncle
Andy to slide and center the webbing underneath, and then I used some ratchet
straps to secure the sling around the barrel. Uncle Andy brought the Terramite
to lift the barrels off the truck and carry them to the fuel shed. We had
originally tried to use the front end loader on his old Ford 3600 tractor, but
the bucket wouldn’t go up high enough to clear the sides of our trucks. It
still took us about ninety minutes to unload the barrels. Once we had the fuel
barrels unloaded, Uncle Andy asked me to load the empty propane tanks while he
took care of some things inside. I was wrong though; he’s got five, not four,
of the one hundred pound canisters, three of which were empty, and he’s got sixteen
of the little twenty pound “barbecue grill- sized” as well. The way the propane
system is hooked up at his cabin is kinda cool. He heats the cabin with wood,
not gas, so his propane fuel line goes from the tank enclosure to an “on
demand” style of water heater, from there it runs around and goes to his
propane refrigerator/freezer and finally to his stove. The propane tank
enclosure is an exterior closet-like thing that is attached to the back of his
cabin. It’s vented to the outside in case of gas leaks, but it also receives
warm air from inside the cabin through vents in the wall. The way he explained
it to me was that the warm cabin air helps to keep the propane tanks at a more
even pressure during the cold winter months. Apparently, propane tanks don’t
maintain their pressure in the cold . . . I don’t know . . . something like
that. Inside the “propane closet” there is a . . . not sure what it’s called,
maybe a “two gang valve supply input . . . thingy.” Whatever it’s called, he
uses the hundred pound tank as the main supply, and there’s a twenty pound tank
that functions as an emergency backup when the hundred pound tank gets close to
being empty. He can also run it using just the barbecue style tanks, he’d just
have to change them more frequently. I got all the tanks loaded and secured
into my truck, and then I moved all the empty fuel barrels onto Uncle Andy’s
pickup. He’s got one of those older dual-wheel, crew-cab Chevy 3500 work trucks
with four wheel drive and a big gas guzzling engine, but I think it could haul
over 5000 pounds if it had to. As I said though, I got all of the propane tanks
loaded and went in to get Uncle Andy. When I opened the door, the smell that
hit me about made me choke on drool. The little rough carved birch table that
he uses for a combination kitchen-poker-chess table was covered with two round
plates, a big plastic bowl, and a large oval platter. The oval platter was
heaping over with freshly fried walleye filets.

“Sit down and grab yourself some grub, boy. There’s hot rice
on the stove, and ketchup, mustard, soy sauce, and whatever else you want in
the fridge. Although why you’d want to smother the delicate taste of my special
recipe, hand caught, beer and buttermilk dipped walleye filets are beyond me.”

“Yep,” I replied, “I’m sure that a lot of beer was involved
in this recipe. I strongly suspect that most of it came on the front end during
the catching part.”

Uncle Andy smiled and put four large filets and some rice in
the plastic bowl, mixed it all together with his hands, and gave it to Max. All
three of us spent the next half hour enjoying some of the best fish we’d ever
tasted.

*click*

I’m tired. We’ve just left Sheldon’s. I think we were there
about five hours. According to my watch it’s 10:04 PM. It’s April 17
^th
,
the day after I started my vacation, but dang, so far it doesn’t feel much like
a vacation. The drizzle that went on all day has now increased to a steady
sprinkle, and I imagine the dirt road is going to be kinda slick. Max is riding
in Uncle Andy’s truck, probably getting fed an entire bag of the treats that I know
Uncle Andy keeps there for just that occasion. So let me see—a lot of info—where
to begin?  Well, the third trip back to Sheldon’s was uneventful, although I
did take the time to remove my cuff case from my duty belt and attach it to the
belt I was wearing now. When we arrived, it looked very similar to when we were
there for the second time, although it actually looked like there were more
cars with trailers in the gravel parking lot across the road. Since we had both
the gas and diesel barrels on Uncle Andy’s truck, he pulled close to the diesel
pumps and got in line; there was a pickup filling up there already. I pulled up
alongside him and we switched vehicles, since he’s the only one of us that both
has permission to, and knows how to refill the propane from Walter’s main tank.
He drove my truck around the back of the marina and once the pickup in front of
me moved, I pulled his truck forward, got out and lifted the nozzle on the pump.
It turned on and reset to zero, I guess Marty was looking out the window this
time, so I filled the diesel barrels. After that I got in line for the gas. I
didn’t have to wait too long and that operation went fairly smooth as well. On
a whim, I filled two of the gas barrels with high test fuel. I also filled the
three 5 gallon gas cans that Uncle Andy had. The only can we didn’t bring with
us was that two and a half gallon one that he uses for the gas-oil mix for the
chainsaw; it was already mostly filled with a fresh mix. The last fill was the
transfer tank. A little over one hundred gallons in that later, I pulled away
from the pump island and moved the truck to a parking spot on the side of the
bait shop where I could see it through the window from inside. Max and I got
out and I dropped the tailgate.

“Guard the truck Max,” I said.

Max hopped into the truck bed and took over sentry duty. If
anybody could get past him, they were welcome to the fuel. When I walked into
the bait shop, I noticed that the door had been repaired with two sheets of
plywood, cut to fit and bolted to each other, sandwiching the door between them.
Both sides had been painted white and had several words stenciled in large
black letters. They read “cash only, no credit cards, no checks!” In addition
to the door sign, several larger “cash only” signs were scattered throughout
the store. Sheldon’s store is kind of “L” shaped, with one leg comprising
primarily the gas station and tackle & bait store. The other leg—the larger
and wider one—has the groceries and hardware, as well as most of the “non fishing”
sporting goods. A separate building houses the marina facility. I moved through
the bait store into the food section, grabbing a blue plastic hand basket on
the way. I picked up a six pack of Dr. Pepper, some Pop Tarts, and a few snack
packs of sunflower seeds. I was kneeling down to sort through several mixed
bottles of condiments, specifically looking for Louisiana hot sauce, when I
heard a voice.

“Reach for the sky you scurvy pile of steaming dog turds.” It
was a female voice.

I knew the voice, and I knew the answer. “You only want my
hands in the air for two reasons. The first one is so you can admire my firm,
manly backside. The second one is so you can steal my food and stuff it into
your own face, you pitiful excuse for a female Sasquatch.” I turned around as I
rose. Standing a few feet away was Michelle Owens. She was north-central North
Dakota’s lone U. S. Fish and Wildlife officer. She was tall—just a smidgeon
over six feet. She wasn’t stick figure skinny like a lot of tall girls, but she
definitely wasn’t fat either. I know this, um, personally. High cheekbones and
long, curly strawberry blonde hair usually pulled back in a ponytail framed a
stunningly beautiful face. A light smattering of freckles and a perpetual smile
completed the picture. Her green eyes and infectious laugh always brought a
smile to my own face. She and I had gone to school together, and although we
were never an official item, we were always friends. Best friends. It’s a
really complicated story, our dynamics that is. A lot of guys were interested
in her, and a lot of the girls at school were jealous. She really was good
looking—the right combination of curves and attitude mixed together and forged
with her personality made her an irresistible package, as well as a target for
the resentful girls at school. They gave her the name “Sasquatch.” At first she
took it as an insult, but eventually it seemed to grow on her and the more they
tried to use it in a derogatory manner, the more she’d just smile and laugh—then
go out with their boyfriends. Our paths crossed several times since high school.
The standard “two ships that keep passing each other in the night.” It’s just .
. . well, complicated. I’d see her every now and then . . . she’d call and stop
by, or I would. There was the occasional weekend at the cabin, fishing with me
and my uncle. Even less frequently we’d both be in our hometown at the same
time, and then it was usually out to dinner with her and her mom; that kind of
thing. Everything from birthday cards and the occasional email to conferences
and trainings . . . even a few cooperative efforts between her agency and mine.
It was at a conference on endangered species smuggling three years ago that we,
um, finally hooked up for some quality time. I’ve got to say, it was a wild
weekend. Right time, right place, excessive amounts of alcohol and apparently a
decade long buildup of sexual frustration and flirtation. Since that time she’s
been married and divorced, no kids. He was an older guy who worked for the
highway department. Scumbag. Shortly after they got married, she caught him
screwing around with his ex-wife. She came back to our hometown and spent a few
days with her mom, and as it turned out a few more days with me. Max was just a
puppy then. Michelle Owens . . . my personal kryptonite . . . sigh. Have I
mentioned that it’s really complicated?

“You just gonna stand there with a dumb ass look on your face
or are you gonna give me a hug?  Of course, maybe since your time with me
you’ve realized that no other woman can truly satisfy you, and now you’re ‘playing
for the other team’ as they say.”

“Officer Owens, I didn’t recognize you without your lime
green Scooby Doo bikini underwear and matching lace bra,” I said as I hugged
her. She felt slimmer, harder, like she’d been working out a lot. She felt
good.

She whispered in my ear as we parted the hug, “I still got
them.”

“Hmmmm,” I thought . . . “file that one away for later.”

We were still catching up a few minutes later when Walter
appeared.

“Evenin’ Miss Owens . . . Eric . . . would the both of you
mind coming back to my office for a spell?  Eric, Andy is back there as well.”
We nodded and followed him.

Sheldon’s office was attached to the building where the boats
were kept in dry dock. We walked through the food section and I paid for my
groceries. I didn’t know the lady behind the counter. Her name tag read “Francis”;
there was something about her that looked a little familiar though. We exited
through the door by her checkout counter and turned left towards the dry dock
building. I saw Michelle’s USFW Chevy Tahoe parked there. I could also see my
truck parked near the propane filling station. We crossed the gravel and
entered Walter’s office; Uncle Andy was already there.

“’Chelle, how are ya’ darling?” Uncle Andy smiled and said to
Michelle.

“Oh, I imagine I’d be a whole lot better if I could ever find
me a good man, someone who’s a hard worker, maybe someone who owns a big chunk
of land with a cute little cabin on it. Someone who is financially well off. Why,
maybe even someone who’s stubborn, mean, nasty, and foul smelling; someone
who’s fast passing their golden years and is not long for this world; a man who
after one night with me will die with a big smile on his face and a worn out
pecker in his shorts, leaving me his entire estate including his hot little
nephew. Know anybody like that?”

For a man who spent so many years in the military, Uncle Andy
could still blush. “Ah . . . maybe . . .” was all he could get out before
Walter, Michelle, and I busted out laughing.

We spent the next half hour exchanging pleasantries, fish
stories, and on occasion some bold faced lies, usually in conjunction with some
of the fish stories. Michelle said she was just passing through and stopped in
for a bite to eat. Uncle Andy and myself, well I’ve already told you about us,
and Walter is, well, Walter. He says he’s been so busy he doesn’t hardly have
time to think. The last time he actually got a line wet for himself was over a
year ago. Anyhow, of course the topic soon drifted around to the president’s
speech and what was going on in the world.

“What do you know about what’s been going on?” asked Walter.

Uncle Andy had already filled him in on our attempt to watch
the president’s speech online. Michelle had the same experience with her office
laptop. She also added that before the Internet went, down she had received
several emails, mostly from the state office but a few from the national office
as well. Their general “flavor” seemed to indicate, without actually spelling
out, that there might be a need for increased awareness of personal protection
barriers when handling suspects. Most of the emails had attachments about bloodborne
pathogen trainings and procedures. Of course, the lack of television and Internet
was putting most people she knew in a grumpy mood, she added.