Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

“I’ve noticed that,” Puck said. “Go back to sleep, son. I’ve got the watch.”

The wind woke Raven at first light. Whining and keening like the rabid wolves of the Wolf Woman tale. An early November gale, mild by north-country standards, dark waters roiling like a great beast shifting in its sleep, temperature dropping like someone opened a freezer door.

Raven found Puck at the rail, scanning the horizon with his binoculars.

“Nice little blow,” the older man said. “Might see some early snow this year. Come on inside, I’ll rustle us up some breakfast.”

“What were you looking at?”

“Nothing. Just the storm.”

“Mind if I look?” Taking the glasses from Puck, he scanned the horizon, slowed, then stopped cold. “Something’s moving out there. What is that? An overturned boat?”

“Not likely. Not in this weather.”

“Likely or not, it’s there,” Raven said, offering him the binoculars, “look for yourself.”

“Son, I couldn’t see that far if you gave me a damn telescope. But nobody in his right mind would be boatin’ in a storm.”

“Someone was out there last night. We heard them.”

“We heard some thing, but sound can be tricky across the water. That engine noise could’ve been ten miles off.”

“Or maybe somebody’s in big trouble. Either way, I’m going to find out. Feel like a boat ride, Puck?”

“Hell no. Let it be, Mr. Raven. It’s dangerous, it’s none of our damn business, and there’s nothing out there anyway.”

“Isn’t there?”

Beau kept the outboard throttled down, putt-putting slowly across the bay, sliding over the oily swells instead of trying to buck through them. Scattered rain squalls blew past every few minutes, cutting visibility, shadowing the far shore. Ten minutes into the run, even the fish house receded into a vague outline glimpsed through the drizzle.

He’d used a twisted pine on the far shore to fix the overturned boat’s position but the thrust of the waves kept driving his small craft off course and he lost sight of the marker tree in the rain. Tried to correct by steering into the wind. Twenty minutes out he guessed he must be near the place but couldn’t see anything.

Shifting the outboard motor to neutral, he rose slowly, keeping his knees relaxed, gliding over the waves like a surfer. Spotted the shape. Roughly forty meters off in the mist.

Not a boat. A log. Big sucker, maybe twenty feet long, couple of feet thick, its stubby nose rising and falling with the swells. Something black and bulbous appeared to be lashed to it a third of the way along its length.

Squinting into the wind, Beau tried to get a better look — and a bullet ripped past his ear!

Reflex! Beau dove hard to the left, kicking the boat out from beneath him, hearing the crack of the rifle as he plunged into the waves.

Floundering beneath the surface, he felt the icy grip of the bay surging through his clothing, chilling him to the bone.

And clearing his head. Gunfire. And that was no stray round. Only missed him by an inch. He tried to remember which way he’d fallen, to orient himself. Couldn’t think, running out of air...

He surfaced, gasping, frantically looking around for the boat—

Damn! It was already twenty yards away, drifting with the wind, motor idling. Leaving him exposed—

Sucking in a quick breath, he ducked under again, just as a second slug smacked into the surf over his head. Dove deeper, kicking hard, swimming with his free hand, trying to catch up with the little boat. Couldn’t.

Surfacing again, he gulped down air like a seal, then dove again. No shot. Hadn’t showed himself long enough. But the shooter would be waiting the next time he surfaced, timing him. Had to get behind the damned boat!

Swam harder, desperately seeking the outline of the boat overhead. Finally spotted it. Too far. No! Not if he could hold on just a little longer... Ten seconds, twenty. His world was going red. Had to breathe!

Exploding out of the surf, he gagged down a mouthful of water instead of air. Coughing, flailing around — his fingertips brushed the boat.

Grabbing the gunwale, he hung on, hacking up lake water, clearing his lungs. Felt the boat jerk as a bullet punched through it, smashing out a fist-sized exit wound a foot from Beau’s head.

Whoa! Couldn’t stay here. Had to get aboard and make a run for it. If the shooter popped it at the waterline or trashed the motor he was dead meat out here. Could he haul himself over the gunwale with one hand? No choice. Had to. But even as he braced himself to try, he hesitated, his mind flashing to the images he’d glimpsed below when he was looking for the boat.

He knew he only had seconds to get clear but... Damn it!

Sucking in a deep breath, he let go of the gunwale, slipping beneath the waves again, swimming down and down into the dark, trying to make sense of what he’d seen.

Then he was kicking hard for the surface. Bursting out of the surf, clutching the rail, using his momentum to roll himself aboard. Felt a bolt of agony as he landed hard on his injured shoulder. Sweet Jesus!

Grabbing the steering arm, he cranked the throttle wide open, nearly throwing himself overboard again as the boat wheeled into the surf, bucking wildly through the waves, engine howling, charging headlong into the gathering storm.

“A log?” Shea said. “You went out in the middle of a blow to look at a damn log?”

“Didn’t know what it was when I went out,” Beau said, teeth chattering as he sipped scalding coffee. “Puck and I heard engine noise from across the bay last night. Thought it might be an overturned boat. But it was only a log. Big one, though, twenty feet long, couple of feet in diameter. With a float attached to it.”

“What kind of float?”

“Inner tubes, I think, to make it buoyant. Didn’t get a close look at it. Somebody started shooting at me from the far shore and I had to bail out.”

“Stegman?”

“Couldn’t see, I ended up in the water. Between the mist and the surf he couldn’t see me any better or I might not be here. Kept diving, got behind the boat, then made a run for it in the rain.”

“You’re lucky you made it back,” Shea said.

“Funny, I don’t feel very lucky. More disappointed. Because you’re not surprised at what I found out there, are you Mr. Paquette? You knew what it was.”

“No.”

“What are you two talking about? What’s out there?”

“Not just one log,” Raven said. “Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. I couldn’t see very far when I ducked under the water, but I could see enough. The bottom of the bay is littered with them.”

“What logs?” Shea demanded. “From where?”

“The last cutting before the fire of ‘ninety-six,” Puck explained. “They were felled that winter, floated down to the bay in the spring, filled it from shore to shore like that picture in the office. They were there waiting to be cut when fire took the town and the sawmill. By the time folks moved back, the logs had settled to the bottom. No way to get them out in those days. Been down there ever since.”

“Until now,” Raven said.

“That’s why Stegman’s men wear respirators and animals are dying near the sawdust piles.” Shea nodded, getting it. “They’re salvaging black walnut logs out of the bay. Did you know about this, Puck?”

“Not for certain. From the skidder tracks on the beach, the dead owl, Stegman’s loggers driving new trucks, I guessed what might be going on.”

“But you didn’t warn me,” Beau said.

“I told you it was none of your damn business and it’s not,” Puck said bluntly. “They may be outside the law, but it’s a lousy law. Down in Lansing they claim every damn thing in the lakes belongs to the state. Easy to say when you’ve never swung an axe. Old-time loggers busted their backs puttin’ those timbers into the bay and now their grandsons are takin’ ‘em out again. They aren’t stealing anything that isn’t already theirs. They aren’t hurting anybody.”