Snapper (25 page)

JJ walked alongside the stretcher as the paramedics carried his father to the ambulance.

“Dad!” he cried again and again. “Can you hear me? Dad – it’s me – JJ!”

Just as they were sliding him into the back of the ambulance, Judd’s eyes opened briefly. He reached out for JJ’s hand and squeezed it weakly.

“I love you, JJ,” he said in a faint voice. “Please – forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Dad,” said JJ. “And I love you, too.”

Chief Rudolph stuck his head into the back of the ambulance.

August’s head was raised slightly, propped up on a small pillow.

“Did you get him, Chief?” he asked.

Chief Rudolph looked into Andersen’s eyes.

“I did, August. I hit him twice – square in the back. He swam off, but there’s no way he can survive.”

August was silent.

“I know how you feel, August,” said the Chief. “But it was either the snapper or Donnie. What would you have done?”

“Exactly what you did,” said August.

Paul Murphy, one of the paramedics on duty that night, interrupted their conversation.

“You can talk to them, later, Chief,” he said. “But right now, we got to get them to the emergency room.”

Paul closed the ambulance’s double doors and the vehicle pulled away.

* * * *

The storm kept Marc up well past midnight. His apartment had a leaky roof. The rain dripped into a small bucket that Marc had to empty every twenty minutes. When the garage doors of the Turtleback Lake Rescue Squad opened suddenly just before 2 a.m., Marc was standing at his window. He watched the ambulance speed out into the night. Throwing a coat over his pajamas, Marc dashed outside and hopped into his own champagne colored Suburu. He tailed the ambulance all the way to the northwest corner of the lake where it stopped in front of August Andersen’s cabin. Marc smelled a story in the making – and he got it.

CHIEF BLASTS SNAPPER!

By Marc Bozian

The residents of Turtleback Lake can heave a collective sigh of relief. The scourge that has terrorized the town has ended.

On Thursday night, at approximately 2 a.m., Police Chief Rudolph fired a bullet that pierced the shell of a giant snapper that was about to add deputy Donald Rhodes to its list of victims. Donald Rhodes, 42, had fallen into the lake in the midst of a rescue attempt.

According to eyewitnesses, including Dr. Deena Goode, Principal of Turtleback High School, and Judd Clayton, Jr., a freshman at Turtleback High, the turtle was on the verge of attacking deputy Rhodes when a bullet fired by Police Chief Rudolph struck and splintered the monstrous snapper’s shell. The two eyewitnesses concurred that the wounded turtle then fled, billowing great plumes of blood. A second round, fired as the wounded reptile sought the refuge of the deep, added the final nail to the great beast’s coffin.

Rudolph and Rhodes were out on the lake, along with August Andersen, in an attempt to rescue Mr. Judd Clayton, the prominent local real estate broker. Mr. Clayton was apparently attempting to cross the lake in a kayak during the raging storm that battered the region that night.

The heroic efforts of Mr. Andersen in particular can be credited for saving Mr. Clayton’s life.

Operating a two-man submersible vessel that he helped to design and build, Mr. Andersen rescued Mr. Clayton from Turtleback Rock, where the broker had been stranded when violent waves crashed his kayak against the rock.

What induced Mr. Clayton to risk life and limb on such a reckless, ill-considered crossing has not yet been made clear. Mr. Clayton has been only semi-conscious since the accident, though doctors, who say his condition remains guarded, believe he will make a full recovery from the various injuries he sustained.

“Some story, Marc,” said Michael Schneiderman as the two colleagues were having coffee in a booth at Bond’s.

“Thanks, Mike. All in a day’s work.”

“You know, you’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of this snapper,” said Michael. “What are we gonna do now – now that the turtle’s gone?”

Secretly, Michael was concerned that his new star reporter might be thinking about jumping ship. A few days earlier, when Michael was walking past Bond’s, he had glanced through the window and seen Marc talking with some guy who looked a lot like Stephen Borg, the publisher of The Record.

“Actually,” said Bozian. “I’ve been approached about a possible book deal.”

Schneiderman shook his head in amazement. It was unbelievable! Did absolutely
everything
have to be turned into a book?

“Well, good luck with that,” said Michael. “You’ll sign me a copy when it’s done, okay?”

“I’ll do better than that,” said Marc. “I’ll work you into the story.”

“Great,” said Mike. “Maybe I can even play myself in the movie.”

“I wouldn’t joke, Mike,” said Marc. “There’s been interest.”

“So what does all this mean for the paper?” asked Michael.

“It means I’m going to need some time off,” said Marc. “Maybe just a few months to work on the book. Then we can see where we stand.”

“Well, then,” said Michael, spinning and rising off his stool. “I guess this is good bye and good luck for now.”

Michael reached out for Marc’s hand. It was odd, but the two men had never shaken hands before. As their hands clasped, Marc felt something he had never noticed before: Michael’s middle finger ended at the knuckle.

“You know, Mike,” he said. “I was just wondering – did you happen to play football here in town when you were in high school?”

Chapter 25

TURTLEBACK LAKE DECEMBER 2006

After the longest, hottest summer in memory, December turned out to be the polar opposite. An arctic air mass set in and refused to budge. For a week the temperature didn’t rise above single digits. Never had the lake frozen so solid so early.

August sat in an armchair, gazing out the window at the skaters gliding and falling out on the lake. His injured foot was elevated and resting on a pillow. He was sipping hot chocolate from a mug. Deena stood behind him, wearing a black cashmere cardigan with mother-of-pearl buttons. August leaned his head back against the soft swell of her stomach. For someone so toned, the curve of her belly was a bit of a surprise. But so what if Deena had suddenly put on a few? What did it matter?

The scene on the lake reminded Deena of a nineteenth-century print that had hung on the wall of her kitchen when she was a little girl.

“It’s like a scene from
Currier and Ives,
” she said.

“Or perhaps a
Breughel
,” suggested August.

This was what Deena loved about August. He understood her. And she understood him.

Deena looked beyond the skaters. In the distance, far across the lake, a solitary figure sat in a folding chair, fishing through a hole in the ice.

“Does anyone ever catch anything ice-fishing?” she asked.

“They must,” said August. “Otherwise, why would they do it?”

Given a choice, Deena thought she’d much rather skate and generate body heat than sit freezing by a hole hoping for a fish to come along.

Since the night of his injury, Deena had been faithfully nursing August back to health. He had put in for a leave of absence at the university until he was back on his two feet again. Deena couldn’t have been happier. Every day after school, she stopped in at her bungalow, changed into something comfortable, then walked over to August’s cabin with a bag of groceries. While she prepared dinner, the two of them sipped wine and talked.

One Friday night, after she had cleared the dishes from the table, Deena was putting her coat on to leave.

“If you feel like it,” said August, “why don’t you stay?”

Deena sighed and smiled.

“You know,” she said. “I was beginning to think you’d never ask.”

*

It was a frigid starry night, but at least there was no wind.

Five people sat around a fire in a clearing down by the lake. Their faces glowed in the light of the flickering flames. The smoke from the fire rose straight up in a column into the star-filled sky above. The people sat on stools that all had been made from the same tree trunk.

Judd Clayton poured a single-malt whisky into August’s mug. It was poured from a bottle he had kept in his liquor cabinet for more than a decade. He had been saving it for a special occasion, but no occasion special enough had ever cropped up. Earlier in the day, when Deena called to invite him and JJ to ‘join them around the fire,’ August decided the right moment had come.

“There’s something I’d like to say,” said Judd, lifting his glass toward the others. “It’s not so much a toast as it is a thank-you – and an apology.”

Everyone – August, Deena, JJ and Mary – waited for him to continue.

“August, I’d like to thank you for saving my life. I wouldn’t be sitting here today if it weren’t for you.”

August said nothing, but raised his mug in acknowledgement. The two men’s eyes met.

Then Judd looked toward Deena.

“I’d also like to apologize for my stupid behavior,” said Judd. “I’m truly sorry. I was a total ass. I lost control of myself and my emotions.”

“Forget it, Judd,” said Deena. “We’re all human.”

Judd reached out with his mug. August touched his to it. Then they both took a swig. The whisky coursed through the two men, warming them both from within.

On the two stools at the end of the semi-circle, JJ and Mary clinked their mugs together. The hot chocolate they had brought in a thermos was still steaming. After their first sip, Mary reached over and wiped the froth off JJ’s upper lip with the knuckle of her index finger.

“You look nice in a mustache,” she said. “But even better without.”

JJ reached over and wiped the foam off Mary’s upper lip.

“You too,” he laughed.

Deena rose from her stool.

“I think the fire could use another log,” she said.

“Let me,” said JJ, starting to rise.

Deena gestured for him to stay seated.

“Thanks, JJ, but actually I kind of like doing it myself.”

Deena chose a log from the stack at the edge of the clearing, balanced it on end then raised an ax high above her head. It was the ax August always kept razor-sharp above his fireplace. The ax head fell and split the log neatly in two.

“One swing,” said Judd. “I’m impressed.”

“I’m getting the hang of it,” said Deena. “It’s fun.”

She tossed the two halves into the fire. A spray of embers flared into the air then rained back down like a shower of shooting stars. In the sudden glow, August glanced across the fire at JJ. He thought the boy had just winced. Then he noticed JJ reaching for his stomach.

“Is something wrong, JJ?" asked August.

“No," said JJ. "It's nothing. Sometimes I just get little twinges in my scar. It’s nothing.”

Mary wrapped her arm around JJ’s shoulder. They leaned closer together. It felt good. But the pain in his scar didn’t stop.

August looked again into JJ’s eyes. It was weird – too weird to be nothing – but August also had just felt a strange pang in his stomach.

He looked again into the boy’s eyes. Something was wrong – and getting worse.

* * * *

“Want another?”

“You have to ask?”

Ted Tanner handed a cold can of beer to Bobby Savarese. He felt no guilt about drinking with a minor. The kid had stayed back once, maybe even twice, in grade school. Savarese wasn’t a kid. He was nineteen – practically twenty. There was nothing wrong with throwing back at few. In some states, he’d already be legal.

“At eighteen it used to be legal in this state,” said Tanner.

“What?” said Savarese, not following the line of Ted Tanner’s unspoken thoughts.

“Nothing,” said Tanner. “Just the drinking age. It used to be eighteen here in New Jersey.”

The two men sat on folding stools, sharing a six-pack. They were fishing through a hole they had chipped and sawn through the ice earlier in the night. A gas lantern cast a ring of flickering light. Each man had a fishing pole in one hand and a beer can in the other. Between slurps and burps, they talked.

“Ever catch anything this way?” asked Savarese.

“Nope,” answered Ted. “But others have.”

“Like who?” asked Savarese.

“The Eskimos.”

“This ain’t Alaska,” said Savarese. “And we’re not Eskimos. How about somebody around here?”

“Bill Lupo says he’s had luck ice fishing.”

Savarese drained his beer and tossed the empty can into the hole they were fishing in. It bobbed in the freezing water along with other cans they’d tossed in earlier. The cans made Savarese think of the passengers on the Titanic – the ones freezing in the water hoping to be saved.

Suddenly the tip of Savarese’s pole plunged like a divining rod. When he tried lifting it back up, he couldn’t.

“I’ve got something!” he said. “Something big.”