Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 27

The next day, with some trepidation, I ventured onto the lake in Aunt Aggie’s old wooden motor boat with an ancient fishing rod lying along the length of the boat’s bottom and a Styrofoam container of worms tucked under the stern seat. By the time the sun rose above the Lookout, Eric, John-Joe and three others from the Fishing Camp had joined me. We’d been patrolling for a couple of hours when the planes arrived, glimmering silver with the words CanacGold emblazoned in gold. The six of us were crisscrossing the only area of the lake large enough to handle their landing. Each of us had a section to patrol. Mine was the far one, which was supposed to be the least dangerous.

So far the planes had made five attempts to land, each time more daring than the last. The pilots were losing patience, becoming angrier and more willing to call our bluff.

Our constant circling was working. The water was well-stirred, the wind adding to the height of the chop. “Planes prefer to land in calm, flat water,” I was told. “Make it good and soupy!” We tried to time it so that there was no clear landing path.

“Ready! Here they come again!” Eric shouted from his boat, his voice a hoarse croak above the noise of the wind and racing engines.

I looked up to see the silver flash of a plane swoop over the distant hill towards us. The boats closest to the plane leapt into action, churning up the water in its path. But the pilot continued his descent and zoomed over their heads towards Eric and me. I revved up the engine and swerved my boat across the path of the landing plane.

“No, Meg! Not that way! Keep to the right, to the ri . . . ight!” Eric shouted.

I pushed the tiller hard over, but the boat wouldn’t respond. Something was wrong. Frantic, I leaned over the stern to see what was preventing it from turning. The motor coughed, sputtered and died. In desperation, I yanked the engine cord. No response.

“Oh my God, he’s almost down . . . get out of the way!!”

I looked behind and saw nothing but my damn hair. I shoved it aside. Shit! He was flying straight towards me. The pontoons edged closer to the water. Splash! They touched down! The whirling propellers raced towards me . . .

I yanked the engine cord again. “Come on, you stupid boat, start!”

I turned back towards the plane. The pilot glared at me, eyeball to eyeball. I stopped breathing. I was about to dive into the water, when with a roar he swerved back into the air. I felt the rush of his passing what seemed inches above my head. Icy drops sprinkled over my face, my clothes and trickled down my neck. Slowly, I released the air from my lungs and gulped deeply. That was way too close! John-Joe may like the thrill of a near miss, but I sure didn’t. I pulled the cord again, and this time the engine started.

I zoomed over to Eric and yelled, “Damn you, I thought you said it was safe!”

He, looking equally angry, yelled back, “Why in the hell didn’t you—” and was cut off by John-Joe’s shout.

“We did it! The bastards are going!” John-Joe cried and threw his orange cap into the air. It promptly fell into the water. John-Joe scrambled to the side of his boat almost capsizing it, but managed to pull his dripping cap out. He stuck the soggy mess back on his head.

I watched the two fading specks head north over the brow of the distant hills. Out of sight their drone continued, roared louder and suddenly stopped, putting an immediate end to our victory celebration. They’d not flown away in surrender, but had landed on a neighbouring lake to regroup.

Glad for the respite, no matter how brief, each of us relaxed, slowed our engines to a crawl and continued a more leisurely patrol. Unfortunately, the reprieve was soon over.

“Hey, guys! Look! Isn’t that a police car?” shouted John-Joe, pointing to the distant dock of the Fishing Camp, where red and blue lights flickered like electrical sparks from the end of Forgotten Bay.

“Whadda we do now?” someone else yelled.

“Nothing!” shouted back Eric. “We have every right to be on this lake. So get out your rods and fish!”

I pulled up the rod from the bottom of the boat that was filled with several inches of water. Even though my feet were soaked, the bottom of my jeans dripped, and my heart still pounded from my near miss, I found it exhilarating. Eric was right. I hadn’t had this much fun in years. I pulled out the container of worms. Unfortunately, fishing had never been one of my loves. Particularly the part where you pulled this writhing glob of goo out of the container and held it while attempting to pierce and then thread it onto the hook two or three times until the bait was securely attached.

But, in the interests of stopping CanacGold, I persevered, jammed the yucky thing onto my hook and cast the line over the side of the boat. Then, deciding to take advantage of the interlude, I grabbed the bucket and started bailing. A glance at the others revealed they were doing likewise.

When the policeman finally reached us, he was met by a sedate group of fisherman slowly trolling the water, intent on catching the big one. Eric had even managed to catch a large silvery bass.

The officer, his back towards us, sat squeezed into the narrow bow seat of a large green motor boat. His brown uniform was liberally sprinkled with dark wet blotches. At the helm sat Charlie Cardinal, encased in a dripping yellow Camp rain slicker, an Ottawa Senators cap clamped down over his brow and a smug grin on his round, glistening face.

And in the middle of the boat, his designer suede jacket splattered, his knuckles white against the dark green boat gunnels, glowered Gareth, who just happened to be afraid of water. Served him right, I laughed to myself.

“Bonjour, messieurs-dames!” shouted the policeman, who turned out to be Sgt. LaFramboise, his nose as arrogantly pointed as the day I’d met him in Eric’s office. Today it appeared he’d forgotten his English.

And a good day to you too, I thought. I felt something tug at my line. I jerked it up, but it fell slack.

“Une journée formidable pour la pêche, n’est-ce pas?”

Yes, this clear sun-filled windy morning was perfect for fishing. Couldn’t he see the big one Eric was holding up?

“Vos permis, s’il vous plaît.”

Uh-oh. I never thought I’d need a fishing licence. I didn’t have one, and it was a three hundred dollar fine.

Charlie, his bulging stomach propped against the side of the boat, steered the officer from one boat to the next, as each of the “fishermen” showed him their permit. Balancing a clipboard on his knees, Gareth took down the names.

“Et vous, madame. Est-ce que je peux voir votre permis, s’il vous plaît?”

He’d finally reached me. I feigned ignorance. “What is he saying, Eric?” I mumbled, stalling for time.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you, Meg. Speak louder,” Eric replied, as his dimples created tiny puckers on either cheek. Gareth gave him a scathing look.

I tried again “What does he—”

At that moment, the loud roar of plane engines burst over the trees. From the shore of Whispers Island, a fleet of Zodiacs sped towards us.

“Ah excusez-moi, messieurs-dames. Il faut que nous reculions pour permettre aux avions d’atterrir.” Sgt. LaFramboise motioned us to move towards shore, away from where the planes would be landing. Charlie sat in the stern, beaming, while Gareth lips creased into a smug smile. In his hand, he held what looked to be a radio transmitter.

The Zodiacs arrived. Cutting their engines to a crawl, they drifted to either side of Charlie’s green boat. Then the boats, like a set of grasping pincers, advanced toward us and slowly began to push us to the shore. We were caught like a school of helpless fish.

I glanced at Eric, who shook his head. “We don’t have a choice, guys. We’d better move out of the way,” he said reluctantly.

“Too bad, guys,” Gareth shouted. “Better luck next time.”

I ignored him and so did Eric. But Charlie responded with a loud guffaw.

Gradually, we were herded closer to shore, while overhead the two planes slowly circled.

We had almost reached the shore when Gareth lifted the radio and spoke several sharp words into it, after which one of the planes started its descent. Suddenly, John-Joe burst from the pack and roared back into the middle of the lake. Close on his stern, another boat followed, its powerful Mercedes engine throwing a stream of water into the air. The Zodiacs leapt after them. In their wake lumbered Charlie and the police officer, with Gareth clinging to the sides of the boat. The plane arched upwards and back into the air.

“I order you to halt!” shouted Sgt. LaFramboise through a megaphone. Now the English came out.

Shouting “Stay out of this, Meg!”, Eric turned his boat and raced after the others, his black mane flying like a flag of defiance.

The lake became a swirling churning mass of boats and spray. It was like a pack of sharks fighting over prey. Above the roar, I heard intermittent shouts of “Halte-là!”, “Attention!”, “Arrêtez, arrêtez!”

Without warning, a loud thud rent the air. In the middle of the chaos, a green hull reared skyward, hung there for one long heart stopping moment, then crashed back to the lake, its contents tumbling into the cold, frothy water. All movement stopped.

A single silver hull sped to the spot where the officer, Charlie and Gareth had fallen in. Next, Eric was hauling the three bedraggled shapes, one after the other, over the side of his boat.

By the time I reached Eric’s boat, Charlie and the policeman had managed to shake off much of the excess water. With his brown uniform looking as if it had been through a wringer washer, Sgt. LaFramboise gesticulated and shouted at Eric. Charlie, looking massive in a clinging purple T-shirt, continued shaking his yellow jacket over the side. Gareth, in ruined suede, just sat there glaring, as water dribbled down his face. He made no attempt to wring himself dry.

The drowned rat look suits you, I thought to myself.

Charlie’s boat was floating hull up a short distance away. Next to it drifted John-Joe’s aluminum boat with the bow staved in. He sat in the stern bailing, while a couple of the others tried to right Charlie’s boat. But they soon gave up and tied a thick yellow towrope through the bow ring.

And all the while, the fleet of Zodiacs slowly circled us. They made no move to help out. Now that they had us trapped, they wanted to ensure none of us broke loose. But they needn’t have worried. With John-Joe out of action and Eric trying to placate LaFramboise, none of us had the heart to resume the action.

With tails between our legs, we returned in single file, at funereal speed, to the now crowded dock of the Fishing Camp.

My heart thudded as the planes landed. One after the other, they skidded across the puckered surface of the lake as the Zodiacs turned back to meet them.

What would we do now?