D Carpenter - Infertile Grounds

If they had killed David, they certainly wouldn’t think twice about doing the same to Chris. But who were they? Northern Maine was a vast wilderness but a small world and he had no idea who in that small world was wrapped up in whatever the hell was going on. He decided to test the water first without necessarily revealing the entire conversation or what had happened afterward.

“Well, this morning I was fishing a few yards above that little stream that you were just talking about…”

He paced the porch as he told Bert about the plane crash but didn’t mention the bullet wounds, the pursuing plane opening fire or David’s incredible words.

“Hot damn,” Bert said. “What happened to the pilot?”

“When I got to the plane and looked inside I thought he was dead, but it turned out that he was alive.”

“Really?”

“He was a mess,” Chris replied. “Covered in blood, the engine was pushed into the cockpit and it was crushing him but he was still breathing. I tried to get him to talk to me. He managed to tell me that his name was David something. I couldn’t understand exactly what he said. He was in rough shape. It sounded like Roll, or something like that.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No, not really. He was babbling about something that I couldn’t understand. He kept on saying someone was after him. And then he died. Blood was pouring out of his mouth the whole time. I can’t believe he was even alive.” He clenched his teeth as he recalled David’s last moments.

“That’s it?” Bert asked.

Chris nodded.

“The body’s still in the plane?”

“It is.”

“Well. It’s too late to go up there and get it tonight. I’ll make some calls. See if any planes are missing.”

“I just wanted to tell the law about it because I have to be getting back home tonight.”

“You ain’t going no place. Not tonight at least. You need to give a statement to the FAA, or the NTSB or whoever ultimately has jurisdiction about this tomorrow morning after we go up to the crash site.”

“I wish I could but I can’t. I have to be back in Boston for an important meeting tomorrow afternoon at three.”

“Sorry, plane crashes are federal jurisdiction. If you leave without the proper people interviewing you, it’s going to be my ass. I like my ass just the way it is, comprendé?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Chris said, briefly wishing he had just driven straight home and forgotten all about the plane crash and David Rose. But how could he do that after having experienced the ultimate results of a violent murder which left a man lying dead in a plane up the river. He was the lone witness and, granted he didn’t owe David anything, someone had to represent the dead man, to give him a living voice in the search for justice.

“I’m not,” Bert replied as he pinched the end of the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, held it for a second to make sure it was fully extinguished and then flicked it over the railing.

Chris took a deep breath and slowly cracked each knuckle. Maybe it was the crazy events of the morning making him paranoid but Chris couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to be careful who he trusted around here. Going to the state police had seemed like the most sensible thing to do, but now that he was here, he couldn’t help thinking perhaps Bert wasn’t the right person to be investigating this type of crime.

He was probably a fine cop, just doing his job, and clearly enjoying the fact that he had a Mass-hole in a bind and wasn’t going to bend the rules the least bit. In and of itself, that wasn’t really that strange for people up here. But the gooseflesh on Chris’ arms and the nervy twisting in his gut was keeping him on edge.

“You tell anyone else about this?” Bert asked as he hoisted his bulk out of the chair and stood next to him.

Chris shook his head.

“Come on inside. I’ll get Stu to set you up with a room, and you can make some calls if you have to. Your cell phone isn’t going to work up here.”

Chris glanced at his phone and sure enough, no signal. He grudgingly followed Bert. Fleeting thoughts of making a break for his car, escaping this fucked up situation and heading back home to forget the whole incident raced through his mind, but only one road led out of the woods and Bert would surely be able to catch him – his cruiser undoubtedly a little faster than the Prius. Now that he had involved the authorities, he was caught in their machine and he, unfortunately, had to comply.

Once inside, Bert said to the bartender, “Stu, set Chris here up with a room for tonight. Bill me for it.”

“No problem, Bert,” Stu replied. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. He saw a plane crash up the St. Croix. Let me use the phone, will you?”

Stu slid the phone across the bar to Bert, who started to make calls to see if anyone knew about missing planes.

“So what happened?” Stu asked as soon as Bert started to dial the first number.

“It’s a long story,” Chris said. “Could I get a beer and some food first?”

“Sure.” Stu said. “About all we got for food is some of my wife’s rabbit stew, or I could get her to do a burger for you.” He was already popping the top off a Bud. To men like Stu there was only one beer, and Chris would be willing to bet that the refrigerator was Budweiser only, particularly at this time of year.

“I’ll try some rabbit stew, Stu,” Chris said, smiling at the sound of it.

“You won’t be disappointed,” he replied, not looking nearly as grumpy for some reason.

As he ate, the other men finished their game of pool and congregated around him as if he was a preacher come to town to deliver the sermon that was going to save their souls.

Chris wiped the last of the rabbit stew from his lips and said, “Your wife’s a real catch, Stu. Anyone who can make a rabbit taste that good ought to be anointed.”

Stu smiled proudly. “We’ve owned this place for twenty years and not one person’s stayed here who didn’t compliment her cooking. So what’s with this plane crash?”

Chris regurgitated the slightly modified story once again.

Just as he finished, Bert said from the other side of the bar, “I think I found it.”

“Really?” Chris replied.

“The plane was old and yellow, right?”

Chris nodded, “Yes.”

Bert spoke into the handset of the phone, “Yeah, that sounds like the one all right.”

As he listened, he nodded while rolling his eyes and making a hurry-up-already motion with his hand. “Okay. We’ll be there about eight tomorrow morning. See you then.”

He hung up the phone and slid it across the bar to Stu. Then ran his fingers through his wavy black hair and slowly shook his head as he said, “It sounds like a plane from Great Northern. It was supposed to bring some supplies in to a crew up in the Allagash but never showed up.”

“How about that,” Stu said as he cleared away the dishes and fastidiously wiped the shiny wooden bar. “If you hadn’t seen him go down, it could have been years before they found him, if ever.”

“That’s for sure,” Bert said. “We’ll meet the FAA guys up in Ashland tomorrow morning. They’ll have a chopper, and we’ll fly in to the crash site.”

Chris’s mind raced as he, drank and ate. Why would a lumber camp delivery plane and pilot be shot up? And why would it have been pursued and riddled with bullets again? David’s final word echoed in Chris’ mind, “Run!” There was nothing more he would have liked to do right now. But how?

“Sounds good,” Chris said. “I’m spent. Where’s my room, Stu?”

Stu walked out from the other side of the bar, glanced at Bert and said, “Follow me.”