A Note to the Reader Ed and Brenna are now traveling downriver with Sergei and Pavel. They’re wet, miserable, and on the run. Their plan? That’s easy. Get back to the United States any way they can. Meanwhile, Jack’s got a few plans of his own.

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Twenty-Nine

 
Moses watched the river with single-minded concentration. An infinity of black spruce and jack pine stretched back away from the lip of the cut-bank, framing the clump of poplar where he squatted. The light green leaves were the brightest things to be seen in the long northern twilight, but Moses’ dark face and worn clothes were lost in shadow. A fine drizzle was falling, but Moses didn’t notice. Every few seconds, his right arm twitched involuntarily and his right foot kicked out at nothing, sending a small clod of sandy soil tumbling down the bank. Each time this happened, Moses carefully re-aimed the rifle-scope. He was determined to keep his targets in sight.

The objective lens of the scope was beaded with drops of water. Moses wiped it carefully from time to time with the cuff of his shirt—the left cuff, the cleaner one, kept clean especially for that purpose—but mostly he just watched. His face showed the strain of unconscious effort. He swiveled slowly to his left, tracking the two canoes as they moved downriver. Moses aligned the crosshairs on each paddler’s head in turn, counting to himself as he did so. His voice had a childlike lisp: “Wwon, tooo, thweeee, fowwer….”

“Yep,” he whispered to the trees around him. “Fowwer of ‘em. Fowwer peeples in tooo canoos.”

At last the mist swallowed up both boats. Try as he might, Moses couldn’t bring the image back by polishing the lens with his sleeve. He lowered the scope, resting his hands on his thighs, and stared moodily out at the Albany. Then a grin stole across his smooth, mahogany features.

He drew a tattered bandanna from his jacket pocket. Without taking his eyes off the river, he wiped the glistening tube of the rifle-scope. His hands moved back and forth. The right one twitched from time to time, but his grip on the scope never loosened. It was his pride and joy, a gift from his father, dead ten years back. Drowned, maybe. Gone, for sure. He’d been the best hunter working the Albany, but now he was gone. Lost in a gale on the big river that he’d known so well. Moses’ wide grin narrowed, then collapsed. A soft moan escaped from between his compressed lips, and a new and much thicker mist suddenly hid the river from him. He rubbed at his eyes, but the mist only grew more opaque. He rubbed harder, trying to rub away the sudden pain.… Read more…

 
Hooked? A new chapter in our serial adventure novel, Trip of a Lifetime, will appear every Sunday. If you’ve missed a chapter, or if you’re coming aboard for the first time and want to catch up, just use the hot-linked title to go to the archives.

 
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A REMINDER This is a work of fiction. All the characters are figments of the imaginations. It’s NOT a paddling guide. If you’re planning a trip on the Albany River—or any other body of water, come to that—consult the most recent edition of a good guidebook and be sure you’re thoroughly familiar with all applicable regulations. While maps of Ontario show some of the waterways mentioned here, the places depicted in our story exist only in our minds—and in yours.

 
A Note to the Reader Ed and Brenna are back on the river with two new partners, but Jack doesn’t know that, and he’s decided to take matters into his own hands. What happens next? Read on to find out.

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Twenty-Eight

 
One o’clock in the morning, or near enough. A still and sticky night. Two distant fishermen tending a night-line coughed, one after the other, and the echoes reverberated for miles along the river. Joe Hunter squatted on his haunches on the boathouse walkway, listening. He seldom moved, and when he did, he made very little noise. The night, like the river, was an old and trusted friend.

And apart from the now-receding echoes and the lapping of waves against the boathouse piers, all was quiet. The international border between Canada and the United States was closed now, as it had been since the Independence Day Attack. Police and military patrols moved up and down the St. Lawrence on both sides of the river. But Joe wasn’t worried. This latest white man’s squabble wasn’t his concern, and the tribal police knew just when and where to turn a blind eye. Business is business, after all, and money talks. It was, Joe thought, the closest thing to a universal language. He chuckled quietly.

Startled by the sound, Jack turned to look at his old friend. Joe placed a reassuring hand on Jack’s arm and then motioned toward the river, but he said nothing to break the silence. Then he stood up, stretched, and swung down into the waiting 24-foot runabout, turning to help Jack negotiate the unfamiliar drop. When Jack had settled himself, Joe started the big inboard. It made surprisingly little noise. Joe reversed into the channel, swinging the bow downriver as the hull felt the current. The boat gained way slowly, the chuckle of the bow wave almost drowning out the rhythmic thrum of the well-muffled engine.

Jack noticed that his teeth were chattering. But he wasn’t cold. The warm summer air streamed by, enfolded him like a comforter. It was only excitement—like shipping out for the first time. Only excitement! A little bit of excitement went a long way at his age, Jack reflected. Maybe Molly was right. Maybe he was being an old fool. But that was beside the point. He’d made his decision

The runabout gained speed effortlessly. Joe negotiated the river bends, now in the buoyed channel, now out of it. The dark, tree-shrouded banks slid by. Soon they left the Raquette and entered the St. Lawrence. Joe opened the throttle. The thrum of the engine became a roar, and the runabout came up on plane. Black water rushed aft on both sides of them as the boat sped toward the distant lights of Canada.

Jack’s thick hair was blown back. The enveloping comforter had become a wet towel, pummelling him in the face and chest. Joe swung the boat’s bow to starboard, heading for a stretch of shoreline where no lights shone. The runabout now flew from the crest of one roller to the next, landing hard each time. The noise of rushing air was deafening. Jack found himself clutching his seat. He forced himself to relax his grip, and noticed with relief that his teeth had stopped chattering.

The two men sped headlong into the black night.… Read more…

 
Hooked? A new chapter in our serial adventure novel, Trip of a Lifetime, will appear every Sunday. If you’ve missed a chapter, or if you’re coming aboard for the first time and want to catch up, just use the hot-linked title to go to the archives.

 
Send a Comment

 
A REMINDER This is a work of fiction. All the characters are figments of the imaginations. It’s NOT a paddling guide. If you’re planning a trip on the Albany River—or any other body of water, come to that—consult the most recent edition of a good guidebook and be sure you’re thoroughly familiar with all applicable regulations. While maps of Ontario show some of the waterways mentioned here, the places depicted in our story exist only in our minds—and in yours.

 
A Note to the Reader Jack Van Dorn is worried about Ed and Brenna. There’s been no news from northern Ontario, and he’s beginning to think that their “trip of a lifetime” might be turning out to be just that. Then he decides to stop worrying and DO something—but has he left it too late?

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Twenty-Seven

 
“Now what! For Chrissake….” Jack’s booming voice filled the Subaru Forester, his words slamming back and forth like water sloshing in a basin. Molly winced, while Jack braked hard and skidded to a stop. The old man drummed his thumbs against the wheel and grumbled. It was the sort of sound an aging lion might make. The sun beat down on the long line of idling cars. The day was still and hot. The stink of exhaust was overpowering.

“A roadblock,” Molly said unnecessarily. “And you don’t even have a driver’s license!” There was a hint of panic in her voice. “Better slide over and let me get behind the wheel.”

“Why’n hell they put a roadblock here, g’dammit?” Jack asked, not really expecting an answer. But he made no effort to change places with Molly.

The first car in line was turning around now. Soon it was headed back the way they’d just come. The second car followed, and then the third. Their drivers didn’t look happy. The fourth vehicle was a rusty red pickup. It was waved through.

Each time the line moved up, Jack crept forward, grinding the unfamiliar gearbox.

Molly was having second thoughts. “Maybe we should just turn around now,” she suggested. Jack gave no sign he’d heard.

“I really should be driving,” Molly added, determined to carry at least one point.

Jack still said nothing. More cars were turned back. Jack let up too fast on the clutch, stalled out, and swore reflexively. He restarted the engine. They crept forward. An Army National Guard Humvee was parked on the shoulder of the road just ahead. The driver’s door was open, but the vehicle’s interior was in shadow. Molly tried to see if anyone was inside. She had no luck.

A single guardsman stood on the double yellow centerline across from the Humvee. He stooped down to peer into a low-slung, classic Impala. It was painted a glossy black—as glossy and black as the long hair on the heads of the five young men seated inside. A large, barred feather hung from the rear-view mirror. The soldier straightened up and waved the Impala through. It accelerated away from the checkpoint, tires squealing. A pall of hot rubber and raw gas remained behind.

Jack turned toward Molly, winked, and patted her knee. Then he jerked the Subaru forward and stopped beside the guardsman. Jack rolled down the window. The heat hit him like a hammer. He looked up. The guardsman’s name tag said COLLAMER. He started to speak, but Jack beat him to it: “Hell and damnation, soldier! You ain’t gonna hold us up any longer, are ya? You do that, and Mother’s gonna have her baby right here!”

Private Collamer squinted into the Subaru. His head was swimming with the heat and the fumes, but the lady in the car didn’t look very pregnant to him. And anyway, she looked way too old to be having anybody’s baby. “Sir…,” he began, but Jack didn’t let him get any further. “Listen up!” he roared, “You got hearin’ trouble, maybe? I tole ya Mother’s having a baby. It’s comin’ early, and I gotta get her into hospital! NOW! You gonna take your hand off my door and wave us on, or ….” Just then, Molly let out a long groan.… Read more…

 
Hooked? A new chapter in our serial adventure novel, Trip of a Lifetime, will appear every Sunday. If you’ve missed a chapter, or if you’re coming aboard for the first time and want to catch up, just use the hot-linked title to go to the archives.

 
Send a Comment

 
A REMINDER This is a work of fiction. All the characters are figments of the imaginations. It’s NOT a paddling guide. If you’re planning a trip on the Albany River—or any other body of water, come to that—consult the most recent edition of a good guidebook and be sure you’re thoroughly familiar with all applicable regulations. While maps of Ontario show some of the waterways mentioned here, the places depicted in our story exist only in our minds—and in yours.