CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Ray checked the compass again. Northeast. Steady as she goes. Wasn't that a nautical saying? If he wasn't cooped up in this four by six crate with another guy, he might actually enjoy being out on the Lake. Today was warmer than yesterday, bright, less windy. He checked his watch. 10:30 am. Time for his exercises. Every half hour, he performed confined space stretching and isometric exercises that Fraser had shown him As he had pointed out, it was important to keep limber and not let muscles stiffen up. Quick action might be required at a moment's notice. It also helped Ray to keep warm and pass the time. Which was going very slowly, indeed.

He did the exercises quietly, trying not to disturb his roommate. Fraser was slumped against his side of the crate, arms crossed, chin resting on his chest. He appeared sound asleep, his breathing regular, his body relaxed. Well, as relaxed as you can be sitting up in a crate. They were switching off sleep shifts every two hours. Fraser could apparently sleep anywhere, anytime, through anything, yet be up and alert instantly. Ray had tried, but he hadn't been able to fall asleep when it was his turn. Even, though his eyes were gritty and his muscles sore and he craved surcease.

Ray looked at his watch, again. He had been of the opinion that the goons would dump the bodies under the cloak of darkness. Fraser had disagreed. He thought that the boating maneuvers required to board the barge were tricky enough in daylight. Executing them in darkness would only add to the danger. The odds of being seen by passing boats or the Coast Guard in the middle of the Lake they call Michigan in the middle of the winter were infinitesimally low, he had pointed out, even in broad daylight. Ray had to admit that his reasoning was sound and borne out by the fact that Vinnie and Joey had yet to sleep with the fishes. He rubbed the back of his head. It was tender and he still had a small headache. The nausea and dizziness had passed quickly, though. If he could only get a decent night's rest in his own bed, he'd be good as new. He sighed. Like that was gonna happen.

Fraser sat bolt upright. "Ray," he said, quietly.

"What?" Then, Ray too heard the change in the tug's engine noise as it was throttled back. Fraser pulled the rope. The lid of the crate slid smoothly into place. They strained to hear. Forward momentum had ceased. The barge bobbed in the water. The engine sound got louder, closer, then throttled back to a low growl. They inferred that the cable had been disengaged and the tug had maneuvered alongside the barge. That surmise was proved true when the sound of voices drew close to their position.

Fraser pressed an ear against the crate. Ray drew his gun and held it in a two-handed grip pointing up. Then, he put his ear to his side of the crate. There were definitely men on the barge now.

"Jim, gimme a hand with these chains," a man said. There was a metallic rattling sound from the direction of where Vinnie and Joey's bodies lay on the deck. "OK, wrap em up so they're good and tight. Grab his feet." The conclusion was obvious. They were preparing to dump the bodies overboard. In the wee hours, Fraser and Ray had discussed what they would do about it when it happened. While they abhorred the loss of the evidence, the corpus delicti, as Fraser called it, they were not in a position to do anything about it. Not without joining Vinnie and Joey at the bottom of the Lake. There were a few grunts, a couple of curses, the rattle of chains, and a splash. Ray winced. The sounds were repeated. It seemed wrong to him, for anybody, even murderous scumbags like Vinnie and Joey, to be dumped like this, as if they were no more than yesterday's garbage. In the light that filtered through the crate, their eyes met and he knew that Fraser shared his thought.

There was a lot of shouting as men on the barge and men on the boat tried to make themselves heard over the engine noise. Ray waited anxiously, expecting to hear the sounds of crates and boxes being moved around, or hoisted up, or something. After half an hour, he lifted a questioning eyebrow at Fraser. He gave a shake of his head, affirming his own ignorance. Then, their crate rocked slightly. Both men stiffened, Ray tightened his grip on his gun, Fraser kept the rope taut, and reached for his boot knife. After a moment, Ray smelled smoke. He groaned internally. Of all the crates on this godforsaken barge, the smoker had to pick theirs to lean against as he lit up. He hated cigarettes and waved his hand in front of his face, hoping he wouldn't sneeze.

"What time is it?" a voice asked.

Ray nearly jumped out of his skin when the reply came from right next to him, just outside the crate. "About 11."

"It won't be long, now," the first man said. "Hey, did ya see the Bulls game the other night?"

"Yeah, that shot that Jordan made in overtime was somethin." The conversation continued on in this vein.

Ray was glad to hear that "it" wouldn't be long. He hated waiting. Not that he had any idea what "it" was. He glanced sideways at Fraser and had to stifle a giggle. Something about the picture he made, squatting on a box of canned peaches in a big wooden crate on a barge in the middle of Lake Michigan, ear pressed against the wood, fist clutching the rope that held the lid in place, eyes closed as he listened intently to the chatter of armed gunmen outside the thins walls of their makeshift shelter, struck Ray as funny all of a sudden. The path that had led them here, as in so many of his misadventures with Fraser, was so ridiculous, so patently absurd ... He could hear himself trying to explain in the future. Well, you see, Your Honor, it all started with the blueberry pancakes ... A ripple of laughter threatened to erupt and he struggled to suppress it. It was harder to tamp down than a sneeze.

Fraser felt his spastic movement and turned to look at him. His expression of concern amused Ray even more. He looked away, biting his lip as he thought of depressing things. A mental image formed of Fraser, shot full of holes, blood and peach syrup mingling in the bottom of the crate. That stopped the laughter bubbling up inside. He shrugged, sheepishly. Fraser saw that he was OK and closed his eyes again.

They sat like that for another half hour, eavesdropping on the two men outside the crate as they chatted in a desultory way about nothing in particular. Ray was in serious need of using the can, when he heard two long pulls on a boat horn from a distance away. The answering toots were so loud he had to put his fingers in his ears. A boat was approaching, and "their" tugboat had answered its greeting.

"It's a rendezvous," he whispered in Fraser's ear. "Time to be unloaded."

He nodded, tightening his grip on the rope and knife. They heard the exchange of boat horns a few more times, each time indicating that the approaching boat was getting closer while their tugboat stayed relatively stationary alongside the barge.

"Break time's over, Jack," said the man on Ray's side of the crate.

"Good. I wanna get home. Hawks play tonight," Jack replied. They moved away from the crate, exchanging a shouted conversation with their tugboat, something to do with ropes and lines and knots that Ray couldn't follow.

After a while, they heard the sound of another engine close by, on the opposite side of the barge. More shouting, though Ray was having trouble making out the words. He cupped a hand to his ear.

"A rat! A rat!," someone shouted. There was a thud and the barge lurched sideways. Ray and Fraser nearly fell off their peach cartons. "Murt!" Ray wanted to laugh. The oncoming boat had bumped the barge, probably not hard enough to do any damage. Murt must have been too bothered by the rat to pay attention to what he was doing.

"I hate rats," he muttered.

Fraser blinked at the non sequitur. "So, does Dief," he whispered. Then, he realized his error. "No, Ray. He said, 'arret', not 'a rat'"

"Right, 'a rat,'" he shot back. "I hate 'em."

"It's Quebecois French, Ray," he explained. "'Arret'" means "stop."

"Oh," he said, "well, Murt didn't listen. He hit the barge."

Fraser looked down at his feet, rubbing his eyebrow with a thumb. "Merde, Ray. He said, 'merde.'"

"Oh." He looked a question at the unfamiliar word.

Fraser shrugged eloquently. "As in, merde happens."

"Ah." They hadn't taught that one in French class.

Heavy footsteps sounded from the far side of the barge, approached their crate, and stopped. More footfalls came from the near side of the barge, then stopped near the crate. Logical. The crate was situated in the only open part of the barge, the only space large enough for a gathering, now that Vinnie and Joey were out of the way. They heard several voices. Greetings were exchanged, not hostile, but not chummy either, Ray thought. Nothing personal. This was business.

He glanced over at Fraser, who was looking pretty excited. Well, excited for Fraser. Ray could imagine what he was thinking. Here at last may be his Holy Grail. The missing link between the Chicago mob and the Canadian maple syrup. Whatever deal was going down was happening right outside their crate. They were in the thick of it.

"Nice day." An American voice.

"Faire beau soleil," came the reply. "But a storm is coming," he added, in English, tinged with a French accent.

"Right. Let's do it," said the American.

"Oui," said the Frenchman. French-Canadian man, Ray corrected.

"Twenty keys, ten casesAKs."

"Fifty cases Oxy, twenty five barrels whiskey," said the Canadian. "And five more of liquid gold. Tell your boss to hang on to them this time."

The American snorted. "Yeah, right. Maybe you should tell him. I like breathing too much."

Ray was stunned. They were talking a mega- exchange of illegal goodies out here in the middle of nowhere. Cocaine and assault weapons coming from the American side; Oxycontin, whiskey and bootleg maple syrup from the Canuck side. The implications were staggering. Not only for the size of the transaction, which was monumental. But the variety! It was like one-stop shopping for bad guys. From what he could hear, it appeared to Ray that no actual money was changing hands, or at least, not at this transfer point. It was also clear that this was not the first time such an exchange had happened. There was a sense of past dealing, a flavor of routine between the two sides.

The deal was done. The men dispersed. The loading and unloading had to start soon. Especially, if a storm was coming. Ray was surprised that such a large quantity of cargo would be exchanged in the middle of the Lake in broad daylight, but like Fraser said, it was a dangerous enterprise made even more dangerous at night. And now it seemed that two vessels were going to be unloaded and loaded? He traded glances with Fraser. If they were going to be discovered, it would most likely happen while their American crate was being loaded on to the Canadian boat.

For the next half hour, they heard a lot of activity, shouts of men yelling orders back and forth to each other. No one came near their crate, however. Then, they heard the roar of the tugboat engine on their near side. It tooted its horn twice, then cruised away, the sound of its engine dwindling. Ray looked at Fraser who looked back at him.

"We're not being unloaded?" he whispered, puzzled.

Fraser shook his head, equally mysified. "I think –" Whatever he thought, he never said, because there were two toots of the horn of the boat on the far side. Its engine started and the barge lurched forward.

"We're not being unloaded!"

"No, Ray," he said, looking as stunned as Ray felt.

"Huh." Ray slumped back against the crate. So, that was how they cut the risk of discovery. The barges were exchanged - lock, stock and barrel. No cumbersome unloading required.

"Where are we going now?"

Fraser hesitated, then said, "I think we're going to Canada."

"Merde," Ray said, with feeling.