Thunder Bay: Mystery and Intrigue In Northern Michigan

By Robert Reynolds

The disappearance of a fishing boat goes unnoticed during a violent storm on Thunder Bay. A mysterious canister and an unidentified body washes ashore. The canister's deadly contents alarm authorities.
Discovery of the sunken boat sets off an investigation on both sides of Lake Huron as U.S. and Canadian authorities try to unravel the mystery before tragedy occurs. Throughout this tale of mystery and intrigue, love blossoms between the story's pivotal character and an old sweetheart. Set along Michigan's idyllic Thunder Bay, this timely thriller is framed by pristine waters, treacherous schemers and rekindled romance, all brought to life with an array of colorful characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387673315

Robert Reynolds

Based in Calgary, Robert is an emerging author who spends his days working in the oil and gas industry but has been a big fan of the spy thriller genre ever since his childhood when he read one of his grandfather's original James Bond paperbacks from the late 50's. He is married with a young daughter and when he's not day dreaming about dangerous adventures in exotic locales he enjoys running and other outdoor pursuits.

Book preview

Thunder Bay: Mystery and Intrigue In Northern Michigan

THUNDER BAY

A Michigan Mystery

ROBERT REYNOLDS

Copyright: 2013

ISBN: 978-1-387-67331-5

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to persons living or dead, events or locales, are purely coincidental. 

THUNDER BAY

PART ONE

Chapter 1

The afternoon’s natural light was changing quickly, what with the thick blanket of dark clouds moving in.  A high wall of gray was stacked up over Lake Huron.  For an instant, he thought he detected a flicker of lightning in the distance, but he could not be sure.  Perhaps it was merely a glint of sunlight off the Cessna that was coming in ahead of the storm, dropping lower over Thunder Bay as it made inland for the airport.  Now, the faint droning of the plane’s single engine could be heard over the rush of the waves lapping against the shore.  He had not noticed before, but the waves were becoming more intense and white caps were beginning to roil the bay’s surface.  That’s the way it happened on this wicked body of water and in this place; quickly and fiercely.  The eighty-some vessels known to lie at the bottom of the bay attested to that fact. 

The Cessna came in low, tipping its canary yellow wings.  As it drew closer he could make out Wally Nielsen’s bushy-face grinning down at him.  Wally held a salute for a moment, snapped it off and pointed over his left shoulder toward the incoming storm. The Cessna passed over, the whine of its engine having caught up with it; then, with a rush, it was gone, disappearing inland.   This time, lightning did flash inside the darkening gray and he could make out the squall line that was rapidly moving his way.

The waves had gathered strength and were rolling in heavily, washing up the rocky shoreline and across the patchy beach grass between him and the lake.  The wind suddenly picked up battering the trees.  They moaned and swayed as if in fateful mourning. Limbs whipped wildly releasing showers of multi-hued leaves spinning that went twirling across the small meadow between him and his car.  The howling grew louder and the wind more fierce.

He quickly gathered his gear; his easel, his palette, his small tubes of oils and assorted brushes, his partially completed canvas, damp with the bright autumn hues that prevailed in that part of Northern Michigan.  He knew that he should not have waited so long, but it had been such a mild, pretty day and he did not know how many more of these days would return before winter stormed in.  He had stayed as long as he could, milking the last rays of elegant sunlight, laying in a soft brush stroke here, the whisk of a palette knife there, but when the wind picked up and he smelled the oncoming rain in the air he hurried to gather his gear and get to safety. Thunder rumbled in ahead of the dark clouds and the now visible torrent that was racing toward shore.  Raymond Winters ran for the black SUV parked alongside the dirt road some thirty-yards away; ran that is, the best he could while trying to manage his equipment. 

The first drops hit him halfway there and by the time he reached the automobile, the sky opened and rain came pounding down.  The wind had come up just as quickly, whipping the trees with frenzy.  Out of breath, he pushed his gear into the back and slid into the front seat, half-drenched already, noticing having left a long lake-blue streak across the leather captain’s chair in back.  His right hand searched under the seat until he found a rag to wipe the black leather clean.  A diagonal smear ran almost the entire width of the canvas, streaking his Lake Huron landscape.  He could fix that, but what upset him most was that he did not like to rework something he had already done; he was an amateur and an impatient one at best. 

The day had suddenly turned dark with the black clouds racing inland.  Heavy thunder rumbled shaking the earth as if to wrench away the wildly swaying trees that lined the jagged shore.  A cluster of leaves rustled from along the shore, whipping into the wind and sailing off like a covey of startled robins.  Coarse sand and debris flew at the car, striking along the exterior and battering the windshield.  The vehicle rocked with the pounding of the wind. The violent black clouds were now directly overhead, churning viciously. 

A small tree limb that had broken loose hurtled by, startling him as it scraped along the window.

Lightning struck nearby and a deafening thunderclap came immediately with it.  The gale whistled through a tiny crack left open at the top of the window; it whistled and roared moving in off the vast lake.  The thunderous downpour beat fiercely upon the SUV.  He suspected the angry bay was churning wildly now, but the rain being what it was, he could no longer see the shore.  He knew that he would not have fared-well having been a sailor on this tempest-inducing inland sea.

At last, having caught his breath, he fished the keys from his pocket; stuffed one in the ignition and the motor came to life.  He pulled the SUV into a wide U-turn and made for town as the full-force of the storm broke upon the shore.

***

Sometime earlier, aboard a small wooden craft, the pilot gripped tightly to the wheel steering into the gathering wind; he did not wish to venture too far into the roiling lake, into the oncoming storm, but he realized too, that he must use care in that he did not venture too close to shore and run aground.  The boat rose and fell with each surge of the increasingly violent lake.

Get yourselves into life vests! the boat’s pilot called above the rush of the wind, but search as they would, there were no vests to be found.  Perhaps his woman had removed them from the onboard storage chest and placed them elsewhere during one of her cleaning projects. She was prone to do that and the immediate question was where had she put them and why were they not handy? Whatever the reason, the vests certainly were missing now and a sense of panic was beginning to overcome the men onboard.   The rising waves lifted and tossed the boat like a large cork wildly bobbing on the raging water. The driving-wind blew fiercely and the pounding rain obscured any hope of seeing the nearby shore.

Hold on! the pilot hollered into the fierce wind as thick lake spray slapped against his unprotected face.

The boat’s narrow bow rose and then slammed against the lake’s roiling surface, jolting the men who cowered in the cabin.  A chorus of uncontrolled chanting began to emanate from below, but with the storm what it was, the harried pilot fought against the raging wind and the tug of the lake.  His attention was focused on keeping the small boat afloat and the men alive. The hastily uttered words of the frightened men caught on the wind and sailed away. The battered boat rose and fell, its bow slapping the huge lake’s increasingly rough waters.  The storm grew more violent. 

Chapter 2

Ed Kahski had started out on the Canadian North Channel in the upper reaches of Lake Huron intending to make a short, familiar run to Michigan’s Drummond Island.  At the last minute his connection had reported unplanned Coast Guard activity near the island so he changed course and made toward Ontario’s Manitoulin Island, through the Mississagi Strait into the giant lake’s vast open waters.  He was on course now for Michigan’s Presque Isle.  He would follow the shoreline south until a new meeting point was determined and he could rid himself of his cargo.  They made him uneasy.  He had not wanted this risk, but the struggling economy what it was and winter coming on, the offer was more than he could refuse.  As soon as he could drop the men off and be on his way he would skirt the shoreline all the way to Mackinaw City, cross the strait and head back home.  His boat was old and not seaworthy as it had once been, and thirty-nautical-miles northeast of Rogers City it began taking on a small amount of water.  Kahski turned on the pump to keep the seepage at bay.

He had half-a-case of Pabst Blue Ribbon in a blue and white cooler and after working up a sweat getting the pump running, he popped one open and took a long swig.  Offering the others a cool drink had entered his mind, but then he recalled that folks of their kind were not taken to alcohol.  Good.  He didn’t know how long this trip would take and how many more Pabsts he would go through before he could dock.  At the time, the leakage did not seem important.

The squall had been building since he reached about midway on the crossing.  He had never crossed the lake at this point, sticking mostly to short runs to De Tour, Drummond Island, and to St. Ignace.  They were safer crossings, especially for this kind of work.  

An ore freighter was coming out of the distant squall line, gray and neutral in the distance.  It was riding high and empty, probably headed to the Soo, through the locks and on into Lake Superior, perhaps to Iron Mountain or Duluth.  It was still far off and perhaps he would not be seen, what with the rain and mist down that way.  As long as he was navigating okay he did not want to arouse curiosity.  He supposed that if he was seen this far out and making southwest, it would be assumed he was headed to Rogers City. But soon he would begin to bear more to the south, more in line with Alpena.  He would not have risked this crossing, but a considerable sum of cash was involved and half the amount had already been paid in advance.  The pump continued to chug, spewing small amounts of water over the side, but so far, mostly air.   

The paunch-bellied Ed Kahski was nervous venturing this far into open water.  Mostly, he chartered fishing and sightseeing excursions up to the Soo Locks, along the North Channel islands, and on rare occasions, down to Georgian Bay.  He most always stayed within sight of shore.  His boat, the unreliable Ojibwe Princess out of Hessel, west of De Tour, was old, slow and poorly maintained, unfit for large bodies of water.  In good seasons, he made a decent living off the sportsmen who came up from the Lower Peninsula; those without deep pockets and who could afford no better.   It was also rumored among some, those who hung around the shabby Beaver Trappings Tavern, that for the right price he could be encouraged to take on jobs that others found too uncertain.  He was not a bad person, but for the right price he could be encouraged to take a risk; a fellow had to eat and pay his bills. It was just such a risk that found him now at this tenuous point on the vast upper reaches of Lake Huron.

He did not know the men, his scraggly human cargo, or their reason for choosing this way to cross the International Boundary and he did not ask; although he did not trust them. Through their smattering of English that had slipped his way, Kahski believed they had come up from Sudbury, but he did not know how they had gotten there.  He believed he had detected the word Ottawa spoken, but he was unsure and perhaps his hearing had played a trick on him.  A ruddy complexioned Canadian of longtime acquaintance had inquired if he wished to make a handsome stipend. He knew that no questions were to be asked and no unnecessary answers offered; they had played this game before and both were satisfied with the results.  From the amount of his reward Kahski realized this was not an ordinary agreement; thus, even more reason not to question the motive.  He checked the compass and eased the wheel until they were headed due south, directly in line with Presque Isle and Lower Michigan’s eastern coast.     

When do we arrive? one of the men rudely demanded.  He spoke the clearest English, although it was not good at all.  I wish to be at land.

You know as well as me there was a change of plans, Kahski shouted above the sputtering of the boat’s engine.   This is no easy trek.  I’ll get you there when it’s safe.

The man muttered something unintelligible and the others inside the cabin laughed and sneered.  Kahski wished they were off his boat.  The sooner he ridded himself of this bunch the safer he would feel. 

Stay in there and out of the way, Kahski said, but more to himself than to the others.

The insolent trio with swarthy complexions and of undetermined nationality huddled together smoking and chatting quietly in the small cabin; noticeably protective of a canvas knapsack that was never more than an arm’s reach away.  The man guarding it now was tucked into a pullover sweatshirt, the other two in light windbreaker jackets.  Even days that started mild as this one had could turn chilly on the lake.  Kahski pulled the tab on his zipper, tightening his yellow windbreaker under his throat while simultaneously keeping an eye on the unpredictable lake and the nervous men in the cabin below.    

The choppy lake had begun to tug at the boat and Ed Kahski held tightly to the wheel, keeping them a safe distance from shore, but close enough in that he could clearly see the emerald conifers and autumn’s brightly-hued deciduous hardwoods that lined the shore.  With each wash of the strengthening waves the boat creaked under the strain as it fought its way south. One of the men, the tall slender one, struggled up from below, leaned over the side and vomited; the wind whipping the spray of his sickness back his way. 

You’d better get yourself away from there or you’ll end up going over the side! Kahski barked, but the man was too sick to acknowledge, or perhaps care. 

When he didn’t obey, Kahski motioned for one of the others to come up and get their comrade.  The fair-skinned one in a ball cap came up to help his companion.  This one seemed to understand English to some degree and perhaps to understand the language the others spoke. Considering his appearance and the marked difference in his accent, one might conclude that a degree of European blood coursed through his veins.  He mumbled something into the wind, took the seasick man by the arm and led him staggering into the cabin. 

Kahski did not want the ill man to puke all over his cabin, but even worse would be for him to go overboard into this wild body of water.  He could have sworn he had life vests on board, but in this tumultuous rush of wind and wave, he did not know what had become of them. To report losing a man and not having vests would be difficult to explain; and he would have to explain it. 

Keep him down below and stay there! Kahski shouted, but he did not know if the man understood or if he heard over the rising crescendo of the battering storm. 

The wind whistled and moaned and the boat pushed against the waves; Kahski trying to will the craft forward, the stubborn lake pushing it toward land. 

Down below, the radio was crackling periodic weather briefs, but the storm had come up quick and unexpected, catching everyone off guard.  By the time the forecasters had figured it out, it was already bearing down on Alpena, Ossineke, Black River and all the way down to Oscoda.  The storm was growing ever wider and more foreboding fifty-miles across the roiling inland