Season Four—Episode 9 (TAKEN)

Evening dinners at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters are scheduled for 6:00pm daily. Celine walked out the south lodge door, raised her arm to pull a tattered rope, and then pulled strenuously to ring the bell that the rope was attached to. For three times in succession was the rule. To announce to no one on this particular evening that supper was ready. The search party she waited for (Clarence and Cosmoid searching everything North and West of Moose Island / Sally, Rusty, and Link canvassing everything South and East of Moose Island) had not yet returned to home base.

“Fiddle sticks to feed hot coals,” she thought to herself. “I guess I’ll have to hold dinner indefinitely.”

But something was amiss. She could sense an awkward tremble in the wooden ladle, held in her heat sensitive to touch chef’s hand. Then she held the ladle to her forehead, as if saluting the setting sun. She surveyed the harbor—double checked that no returning boats were within eyesight—it was the three bald eagles (the two naturally colored and the one golden). In her short tenure she’d become quite fond of checking in with the threesome. Of which there were now, only two.

“Clarence… I feel like we’re chasing empty space out here. No fishermen, no boats, no nothing,” was Cosmoid’s comment to break the silence from their past hour of boating.

“Yah, you’re right. Let’s assume they were taken. Whoever might be involved isn’t just going to be out and about, joy riding.”

“What about hideouts? Are there places on islands that are not very well known, or off the grid?” questioned Cos.

Clarence hesitated for two counts. “Caribou Inlet—there’s a local snowmobile trail—it gets used maybe a handful of times by locals in the winter—there would potentially be a path leading to the old abandoned Zholtana Mine.”

“How far?”

“Another forty-five minutes from here, and we’re already over an hour out from camp,” returned Clarence. “Too far and not enough daylight remaining.”

“Then let’s circle back to Moose Island. Maybe you missed something. Take one more thorough search before dark. Maybe we can find a clue.”

Sally, Rusty, and Link were seventeen miles east of Moose Island and traveling south in the Tranquill Channel when they saw the boat. Matte black finish—low to the water—an excessive rooster’s tail spray indicating the vessel was traveling at maximum speed.

“Rusty! Look ahead—he’s coming right at us!” alerted Sally.

And there he was. SAM. Sam the friend of Oscar and Grover, decked out in his matte black boat with black opps looking clothing, and his mirrored black framed shades. Rusty cut the throttle bringing the bow of his skiff flat to the water’s surface and idled toward the middle of the channel.

“What are you planning here Rusty?” was Sally’s response to his idle speed.

“I think we should try to flag him down,” replied Rusty.

“Bad idea dude. This guy wants nothing to do with us. You should make a run for that shoreline weed bed and get us hidden from his view.”

Too late. The V-bottom aluminum boat with the maxed out 250HP Yamaha outboard was on them before they could shout get the net. Rusty stood at the stern waving frantically—Sally prepared to jump overboard—Link skedaddled from the bow and went belly flat on the deck.

This was a kid playing sandlot football scenario and Rusty was the punt returner. YES, the tacklers were racing full bore downfield to cover the kick. NO, he didn’t have to return it, but he would have to wave his arms as if stopping traffic to receive his fair catch opportunity. YES, the defenders were supposed to allow him safe distance to receive. NO, this was not always the case and penalties would be allotted to those crashing into the receiver with malice.

With Rusty waving uncontrollably in effort to flag down the oncoming boat and Sally praying exponentially that the boat would not absolutely T-bone their much smaller skiff… There was a ten-count where all breaths were held. And then—nothing—a non-saluting fly by.

Not only did SAM (or whomever he alleged to be) not slow down, he raced past within 15-yards of Rusty’s boat as if they didn’t exist. He was bent forward, both hands clutching the steering wheel, head with blinders on racing somewhere as though there was a fire to be put out.

“What the…” started Sally. “Not so much as a sideways glance from that guy.”

“Yeah…” replied Rusty as their boat became rocked with waves. “There’s no way he didn’t see us. And he definitely didn’t want to stop and chat.

“He’s traveling way too fast for us to chase, but it does appear he’s tracking northwest. The same direction that we came from. Moose Island.

“Did you see if anyone was on the floor of his boat?

“No,” answered Sally, “But it also looks like there’s an evening thunderstorm building in the direction he’s heading.

“Do you think we should try and follow? We need to go that way to get back to camp anyway.”

“By the looks of it we’re going to be lucky to beat this storm. If there’s a shortcut to get back, let’s take it. I think our searching party is over for the day.”

As Rusty throttled the boat to full speed the first crack of lightning lit the sky and dark purplish-black clouds rolled in, dropping area temperatures by twenty degrees. For anyone lost, stranded, or taken it would be a miserable night to endure the wilds of Ontario’s remote lake country. Even those with a lifetime of outdoors experience.

–To Be Continued—