A week before Victoria arrived, Nick Randall was standing on his deck watching two swans float by in the current. The cold spring had finally given way to warmer weather, the steelhead run was over. The pike and bass were spawning in beds under the lilly pads and yellow flowers sat on top blooming brightly in the morning sun. He was one of the few year-round residents on a stretch of the Crooked River where mostly summer people kept old cottages. The docks and boat houses that lined the river were mostly neglected with missing planks swept away by the fast-moving currents. He was painting his small bungalow what he called, “the color of spring,” a light, pine green. The day was opening humid, a feeling that he had not experienced since the year before. Soon the rent-by-the-day pontoon boats would begin floating by along with occasional bow riders, canoes and kayaks.
Nick was 64, a retired Navy Seal. He liked being near water. He was so close to the water in this place that he could dangle his feet in the water from his deck all day long if he wanted to. He swam in the strong currents each morning before breakfast to stay fit. Early in the year at ice out, he pulled on a wetsuit, and used it again in the late fall, careful to avoid the many duck and deer blinds that dotted the marshes by the river.
Early this morning, a friend had emailed him some specs on the new Navy triple-hulled pirate chaser, the USS Independence, “faster than any ship in the Navy.” He nailed a photograph of the ship to one of the posts supporting the roof over his deck. “Torpedoes, missiles, machine guns, and helicopters at 60 knots,” he mused, “enough to get me out of dry dock.” The truth is, he and his widower neighbor, Chuck, an avuncular automotive retiree, had been “out of dry dock” the night before, all night.
A meth lab had been operating deep in the woods near state land for about two years. The local police were aware of it, but did nothing. “Around here sometimes relations affect law enforcement,” Chuck had said. Chuck, also a Vietnam Veteran, helped Nick plan their project over a few weeks, laying in marsh grass about 500 yards away from the run-down shacks and barn that made up the complex. They noticed several people coming and going, and recorded their observations until they established a clear pattern.
“We can’t kill or injure anyone, either accidentally or on purpose,” Nick stated. We need to get inside on the night we blow it up to make sure no one, not even a dog or cat, is inside.” So on the designated night, the Fourth of July, while Chuck waited in the dark, Nick fast-roped down inside the lab from a hole in the roof. He struck one wooden match, and fifteen minutes later the night sky was lit along with the local fireworks displays. People could see the red glow from their blankets on the beaches of Harbor Springs and Petoskey, and the incineration could be seen on the south end of Beaver Island, over 30 miles away. Locals thought it sounded like a propane explosion, a common occurrence in the area.
Nick’s cell phone went off about when he expected. He was a volunteer fireman, and he scrambled into town just in time to ride out to a scene of his own creation. By six in the morning, he and his fellow firefighters were laying in the grass exhausted. Local people came to see, arriving on foot, in cars, bicycles, and ATV’s. Mrs. Johan brought coffee and donuts.
Just as Nick was finishing his first coat of paint midmorning, Sheriff Lassiter paid Nick a visit. “We can’t prove nothin’, but I think we know what the fuck happened, and if you step even a little out of line ever again...my bet is that Chuck and you took the law into your own hands. We had good reasons for keepin’ a watch on that operation without movin’ in--and you will see from the news, these were not locals...some very bad people come from downstate, and you’re I’m not clippin’ your obituaries out the Petoskey News and Review. Do you hear what I’m sayin?”
Nick nodded, said nothing at first, and then after a long pause replied, “Yep.”
The sheriff jumped in the squad car to head back to Oden, but as he began to head out the long two-track road that led to Nick’s cottage, he said, “We’re having a spaghetti dinner fund-raiser next Thursday night at the town hall. Joe Beckwith needs a new kidney. I expect you and Chuck to be there, and write some big checks.”
And so just like a priest assigning acts of penance to sinners, the sheriff told Nick how Chuck and he could absolve themselves of their transgression through charity. It was as practical as taking rust off the fenders of an old pickup--the rust of sin polished away through an act of love, not exactly perfect contrition, but good enough for local use. Nick had to admit that it was a truly stupid thing to do, and he did feel a bit contrite, but the winters were long in Northern Michigan, and Chuck and he had to have something to talk about during the long hours on hard water in their fishing shanty, pulling yellow perch through the ice. After a black cigar and some nips of Irish Whiskey from their shared flask, this story would just keep getting better with age.
The following Thursday, Chuck and Nick showed up at the benefit supper.
Sheriff Lassiter greeted them at the door, “Well, it’s awfully nice of you guys to stop by. We just ran out of spaghetti, but pizza’s on the way.”
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