Chapter 28
Before we started down from the top of the cliff, Ollie hit me with his pistol.
He swung it at my face, but I was able to turn so that it caught me just above my left ear, knocking me down.
Then he proceeded to kick me. Despite the pain in his back, he managed to put a lot of effort into it.
Between kicks, I reminded him that if he and Stan were going to get out of Boundary Waters, they needed me alive.
He stopped, but I could tell it was with great reluctance.
It took me a while to be able to stand up, then he marched me down.
“Marched” isn’t quite the right word because we went slowly, the heavy man bent and swearing a blue streak, me stumbling a little because of the beating.
Stan met us at the campsite. When he saw me bleeding from the pistol whipping, he said to his brother, “Did you try to kill him?”
“Wanted to,” Ollie said. “Still might.”
“I waited for you,” Stan said, holding up the pack.
“Over there,” Ollie ordered me, pointing toward a log near the fire pit.
I sat and watched as the two brothers opened the dry bag. Stan reached inside and pulled out a bound sheaf of papers. I couldn’t make out what they were, but they looked to be official documents of some kind.
“What do you reckon?” Ollie said.
Stan gazed into the dry bag for a few moments. “Like he said, millions.”
“Jesus Murphy,” Ollie exclaimed.
“Still got some whiskey left?” Stan asked. “I think we need to celebrate.”
“In my pack in the tent. I’ll watch Dudley Do-Right here.” Ollie turned the Glock my way so that the hole at the barrel’s end was like a black, unblinking eye tracking my every move.
After Stan had disappeared into the tent, I said, “What is it that was worth all the deaths?”
“A fortune,” Ollie said.
“Millions?”
“And millions.”
“Didn’t look like money.”
“As good as,” Ollie said. “Now shut up.”
Stan rejoined us, an unopened bottle of Canadian Club in his hand. He cracked the seal, but before he took a drink, he lifted the bottle in a toast. “To the old man. May the bastard rot in hell.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Ollie said, and when Stan handed him the bottle, he did.
“Maybe this whiskey will help some with that injured back of yours. And what’s in there oughta help, too.” Stan nodded toward the dry bag.
“Still a long way to go before you’re out of this wilderness,” I reminded them.
“That’s the only reason you’re still alive,” Ollie said, and he swatted at the flies swarming around his fat head and the mosquitoes that had joined in the fun.
Stan took a swig of whiskey. “How come these damn insects don’t bother you much? What’s your secret?”
“Urine,” I said.
The two men eyed me as if I was crazy.
“Old Indian trick. Flies and mosquitoes hate the smell. It’s even better if you make a little mud mixture with your pee and put that on.”
Stan cocked his head. “I think I’ve heard that. Something the Indians used to do.”
What I told them wasn’t true. It was an old wives’ tale, often repeated by ignorant folks, that Native people mixed mud and urine to repel the biting insects.
A mud covering, yes. It provides a layer that’s difficult for mosquitoes to penetrate.
But urine, in fact, tends to attract the little tormentors.
In truth, I had no idea why I wasn’t being eaten alive in the same way as the Kennedy brothers.
As I’ve already said, the only explanation I had for it was simply karma.
Henry Meloux might have offered me reasoning along the same line, how maybe the manidoog of the woods were favoring me because of the circumstance, the just battling the unjust, or something like that.
But I didn’t feel like one of the just. I felt beat to hell, and I was also beginning to feel the steady pull of my darker side.
Which was why I’d offered these two gullible city slickers a bunch of bullshit that I hoped they would buy and that would add to their suffering.
“Drink up,” Ollie said. “Then we piss.”
I’d thought the brothers would be eager to be on their way.
Three people had escaped them and had the potential of alerting the authorities.
I didn’t think Cordell Bishop or Tucker Jackson would be getting out of the Boundary Waters anytime soon.
They might even still be lurking nearby, hoping to have an opportunity to help free me.
Which was something I thought I might have done in their place.
But they were both wounded, in pretty bad shape, and them trying to help me would probably not have ended well for any of us.
The one hope I held to was that I hadn’t been mistaken when I thought that I’d spotted the two men on the wall of Devil’s Door.
And maybe, just maybe, Leticia had hooked up with them and they could all paddle to safety.
A long shot, but it helped me accept my situation.
Which I was beginning, in a way, to warm up to. Or the dark side of me was, anyway.
Stan tied me to the trunk of the same pine tree they’d bound Cordell to. The brothers drank heartily, then stepped away from the campsite and must have peed up a storm, because they both came back covered in mud of their own making.
“We should get going,” Stan said. “Once that girl gets out of this wilderness, the cops’ll come looking for us.”
“She won’t get out for a couple of days,” I told him. “By then, I’ll have you across the border. You can afford to celebrate a little longer. If we broke camp now, we wouldn’t get far before nightfall anyway.”
“I like his thinking,” Ollie said and refilled his cup.
It was late afternoon of a day that seemed to me to have gone on forever.
After their celebratory drinking, the Kennedy brothers became drowsy.
Ollie said he needed forty winks. Stan said he’d watch me.
But the mosquitoes were feasting on him, and pretty soon he went into the other tent and soon I could hear his snores mixing with those of his brother.
I could have made a play to escape, but Stan had done a decent job with the rope and knots.
So I spent a while calculating. The soonest Stephen and the rest of my family could make it out of the Boundary Waters would be that evening.
Which meant a search wouldn’t begin until the next day.
Unless someone involved in the search happened to stumble onto Leticia or Cordell or Tucker, they wouldn’t have any idea that I’d made my way to Devil’s End. So who knew when help might be coming?
I’d talked the brothers into drinking mostly to stall for time. The longer we lingered, the better the chance we’d be caught.
I was feeling pretty sore and tired, and I ended up nodding off.
When I woke it was dusk. Ollie had come out of his tent and brought a BearVault with him.
He was rummaging through the canister for something to eat.
He came up with a big piece of jerky, sat on a log near the fire pit, and began eating.
Stan emerged from his tent, and Ollie said, “I’m hungry. ”
“You’re always hungry.” Stan stretched and sat on the log beside his brother. They were both slapping at mosquitoes. “What do we have in there?”
“Look for yourself,” Ollie said around a wad of jerky in his mouth.
Stan peered into the canister and came up with a sealed plastic bag. “This one says minestrone.”
“That’ll do.” Ollie finished the last bite of his jerky. “What do we cook it in?”
“One of the pots the Indian brought along. Where are they?”
“Hell if I know. Didn’t see them in my tent.
Why don’t we just use that?” Ollie indicated a cast-iron skillet that was sitting on the grate over the fire pit.
I’d noticed the skillet, which still contained what looked like the dried remnants of some egg concoction, probably left from the morning’s meal.
“Needs to be washed out,” Stan said.
“Then wash it out.”
“Why don’t you wash it out?”
“I can barely walk.”
“Are you going to use that excuse all the way out of these woods?”
“Bite me.”
“I’ll wash it,” I called to them from the tree where they’d bound me. “And I’ll fix whatever else you want from that BearVault.”
They just stared at me.
“Isn’t that what the Indian did for you?” I said, using the terminology for Cordell they seemed most comfortable with.
“You planning on poisoning us?” Stan asked.
“If I’m going to get you to Canada, I have to eat, too. I cook in the wild all the time.”
Now they stared at each other as if silently communicating.
“Why not?” Ollie said. “You try anything, I’ll beat you half to death.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
They’d tied my hands behind me before binding me to the tree. Stan came over, released the rope around the tree, stood me up, and untied my hands. They’d gone numb, and I rubbed them until some tingly feeling came back into them. Then I got to work.
There are lighter cooking utensils you can use when canoeing the Boundary Waters, but like me, Cordell preferred a cast-iron skillet. It’s like an old friend. It has its shortcomings, but I know it well, it’s versatile, and I trust it to do what I need it to do.
“Where’s the stove?”
“Stove?”
“I’m guessing Cordell brought a single-burner stove for cooking. A Coleman or Dragonfly. Something.”
“Mr. Act-First-Think-Later here kicked it in a fit of rage this morning,” Stan said, giving his brother the evil eye. “Broke the damn thing. Luckily, we’d already cooked breakfast.”
“I’ll need to get a fire going,” I said.
“Be my guest,” Ollie said magnanimously.
“I’ll need the hatchet.” They balked at that one. “To chop wood for the fire,” I explained. “You can always shoot me before I do either of you any damage.”
“Okay,” Ollie said. I thought he seemed almost eager at the prospect of using the Glock on me.
I cut kindling, got the fire going, put water in the fry pan, made a little salt paste to help scrape away the leavings from breakfast.
“Did the Indian bring a gravity bag?”
“A what?”
“A gravity filter to purify the lake water.”
“Yeah. It’s somewhere. No clue where now. Is that a problem?”
“I’ll make do.”