Paul Doiron - Bad Little Falls

Kendrick was deliberately leading me through an obstacle course. He was “the best woodsman left in America,” according to the New York Times. He knew this country so much better than I did; he had every advantage. What could I remember about Bog Pond? What knowledge could I possibly use against my brilliant and experienced adversary without endangering Lucas?

Kendrick’s goal was to lose himself in the maze of alder thickets and beaver bogs on the western side of the lake. If he kept following the shoreline, he would skirt a cliff that would be impossible for his dogs to climb. Beyond that cliff was the outlet to Bog Stream, the creek that spilled out of the pond and fell in a series of gradual waterfalls down into the Heath.

Moving water, I thought. Thin ice.

If I cut across the lake sharply, I could pin Kendrick against that cliff, forcing him to make a choice: either turn back in the direction of the boat landing, where police cruisers would soon be assembling (I hoped) or skate across the questionable ice near the Bog Stream outlet. With my truck blocking escape to the center of the pond, he would have no other options.

The problem was that he would easily guess my intentions the moment he saw my headlights turn toward the cliff. I realized I had only a single plan of attack. I pointed the nose of the truck toward the center of the lake, filled my lungs with air, and switched off my headlights.

The world went instantly dark.

I was as blind as if I had fallen into a deep cave. The intermittent moonlight that had seemed so bright outside Doc’s farmhouse barely registered on my optic nerves.

Please, God, I prayed. Let there be none of those boulders in this part of the lake.

Leaning forward over the wheel, I stepped on the gas pedal and shot on an intercept course for the cliff. Within a matter of seconds, my front wheels hit a pressure ridge that jolted me against my seat belt. When I came back down, my teeth smashed together on the edge of my tongue. I tasted blood.

My eyes strained to adjust to the black-and-white universe into which I suddenly found myself. I saw a blurry line form far ahead: gray above, black below. I floored the gas and watched the line sharpen until I knew I was getting close to the cliff.

Between the engine and the wrecked wheel, my truck was making enough of a racket that he could hear me coming. But I could still throw some surprises his way. I hit everything I had in succession: blue lights, high beams, spotlight, and siren.

Bingo.

The sled was a hundred yards ahead, moving from right to left against the cliff face. I saw the dogs break stride, startled by the cacophonous noise and illumination. I saw Kendrick, standing on the runners, snap his head in my direction. And I saw Lucas seated on the sled: his pale white face the only part visible.

Be smart, Kendrick. Stop now.

Instead, he shook the leads and shouted at his dogs to leap forward. The sled shot off again, straight for the Bog Stream outlet. He had to know it was an act of madness.

The sled broke through the ice from back to front.

The weight of Kendrick and Lucas dragged the dogs in scrambling pairs backward into the collapsing hole. Over the siren, I couldn’t hear their howls, but I saw the animals clawing desperately against the harness that was pulling them inexorably to their deaths. Kendrick had loaded the sled with bricks, he’d told me, to build his dogs’ endurance.

I slammed on my brakes, but the truck kept sliding. The end fishtailed as I pulled the parking brake in a last-ditch attempt to avoid the thin ice. My truck spun completely around, once, twice, before it came to a halt. When it did, I found myself facing the center of the lake.

My God, I thought. Lucas.

Dazed, head spinning, my mouth bloody from the bite I’d taken out of my tongue, I fumbled with the seat-belt latch and pushed open the door. When I hit the ice, my boots slipped out from under me, and I fell face-first onto my chest in the snow. I pushed myself up onto my knees and then, slipping and sliding, onto my feet.

My vehicle had come to rest with the lights pointed in the wrong direction. In the near dark, I had trouble making out what was happening. I saw heads floating, limbs thrashing; heard animal wails and a boy’s cry for help.

“Lucas!”

I slid around to the open door and began madly groping at the junk in the backseat. Where was my rope? In a coil in the pack basket. My personal flotation devices? Wedged under the seat. Where the hell was my float coat? I coudn’t find it anywhere. Keep calm, said a voice in my head. Don’t panic.

I tied a bowline around the trailer hitch and ran the rope forward toward the hole in the ice, trying to secure another knot to the PFD while I did so.

The dogs were all gone now, pulled down by the brick-laden weight of the sled. But I saw Lucas’s head bobbing: glasses gone, a look of utter terror on his stricken white face. And farther out, Kendrick was calmly treading water.

“Kendrick!”

The musher didn’t answer me.

Lucas disappeared beneath the surface before I could throw him the PFD.

“Kendrick! Help him, for God’s sake!”

Deliberately, he turned away and began paddling for the edge of the ice on the other side of the hole.

I dropped my gun belt on the ice and, without even removing my boots, ran toward the open water. I heard an explosive crack and felt myself dropping as if through a trapdoor. With the PFD tucked under my arm, I didn’t go completely under, but the sudden, almost total immersion in freezing water blew the air entirely out of my lungs, as if I’d been hit by a two-by-four between the ribs.

My voice came out as a gasp. “Lucas!”

The shock of going into the water was worse than I’d expected. I could feel my muscles tightening and heard my pulse beating faster and faster in my water-filled ears. I gulped down a breath, let go of the PFD, and let myself sink beneath the surface. I thrust my arms around me like a blind man trying to feel his way out of an unfamiliar room.

My fingers touched something. At first, I thought it might be the boy’s hair, and then I realized it was fur-one of Kendrick’s lifeless malamutes passing in the dark current.

I shot back up to the surface for another breath.

I’d drifted several yards from the floating life jacket. If I went under again, would I even have the strength to grab it?

Keep calm, keep calm, keep calm.

Again, I filled my lungs with air, and again, I dived down into the gelid waters of the lake.

We collided with each other, literally knocked heads.

I was so startled, I recoiled at first, then understood what had happened. My fingers were so frozen, they could barely close around his arm.

I gave a strong kick and pulled with all my might.

My face broke the surface just long enough to see that the moon was out. Then I went under again. Unless I could summon strength from some unknown reserve, the boy and I would sink to the bottom. Tomorrow the Warden Service divers will retrieve our bodies, I thought.

An image flashed into my head of myself underwater, two years earlier. I’d thought I was going to die when my canoe overturned at Rum Pond. Instead, I had fought for my life. Now I needed to fight for Lucas Sewall’s life as well.

I scissored my legs and felt the cold air hit my face. I blinked and thrashed, tugging Lucas along after me, flexing my biceps to pull his head above the surface. Where was the PFD? My eyes were half blind from the lake water.

I kicked hard toward the jagged edge of the ice and saw something orange ahead. It seemed so far away. I could barely breathe. Even if I reached the life jacket, how was I going to pull myself out?

I heard coughing behind me. Lucas was flailing about with his arms. Amazingly, he was back from the dead. I tried to yank him toward the PFD.