An image of the candidate’s son was displayed on the phone. Virginia’s skin paled, her lips parted in a panicked breath. Eyes wide with fear, she dropped her phone down on the table as if it had burnt her fingers.
Sam picked it up, glanced at the image. “You know this guy?”
“That’s the suspected drug dealer who overdosed in New York. The same person who I stole a million dollars from.”
A blank look on his face, Sam silently stared at the picture of the clean cut, young, healthy man. He appeared to be of a similar age as the Senator’s son. Did they go to the same school? Run in the same circles? Were they both killed by the same paid assassin?
“Don’t you see? This means I was right, the kid wasn’t a drug addict. In fact, if that’s the case, it means it’s more than likely the candidate’s boy was murdered. But why did they leave the cash? For dirty cops on a mob payroll perhaps? Remember, I also found the map in that bag. Was it also left as payment to cover up the crime?
Sam thought about that for a second, but new implications suddenly struck him like a match set to gasoline. “With the two other candidates already out of the running, that would mean Rachel Murphy already knew she was a sure thing! She must have been responsible for the murder of the Senator and second candidate’s son, just to get into power.”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean that Senator Murphy was in on it,” Virginia protested.
“You don’t think she just murdered two people to place herself in the position as next senator of Minnesota?” Sam asked.
Virginia expelled a deep breath of air. “If not Rachel Murphy, then it means someone murdered two people to place her there.”
Sam swore. “Either way, we have a senator who’s a murderer or one who’s being significantly coerced to vote a specific way.”
“That means before our seven days are up, we also need to find out which one of those statements is correct — and who’s doing the coercing.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Sam pulled back on the stick of the rented De Haviland, a Canadian-built DHC-3 Otter, climbing above the craggy mountainous coastline laid out below. It was a single engine propeller-driven seaplane, known for its suitability to the rugged Canadian conditions. Tom and Sam had picked it up from Duluth Aviation, under the guise of a week-long fishing and sightseeing vacation.
Built to seat ten, the plane had been converted to four seats and a substantial cargo area. In the second row, Virginia was checking over the sonar buoy they had brought with them. Tom was entering the co-ordinates of the lake into the onboard navigation screen.
Sam listened to the steady growl of the 450-kW Pratt & Whitney R-1340 geared radial engine, searching the tone for irregularities or out of place sounds that might spell foreseeable trouble. Finding none, he relaxed and focused his mind on the task ahead. To the left of him, Tom methodically scrutinized the gauges, while searching the horizon.
Adjusting the plane’s attitude, Sam slanted a casual glimpse at his industrious friend. Comfortable with Tom by his side, Sam thought it reassuring that they were of the same mind, as usual.
Turning his head, Sam glanced back at Virginia as she absent-mindedly examined the yellow kettle-bell shaped float in her hands. It was heavy, and it made the muscles in Virginia’s biceps and forearms ripple like a set of eels. It was about the size of a basketball, with a tow hook attachment at the front. It had 2 ports for USB, and an old-fashioned video RC cable with rubber grommets on its top.
“It’s a narrow-beam bathymetry and sonar buoy,” he said over his shoulder, raising his voice above the cabin noise.
“That’s what I thought it was,” she replied, a wry smile cracking her face.
Despite her good humor, Sam saw a hardness in her eyes he’d never noticed before. The stress of her father’s situation was starting to tell on her. He thought she must have squared off against thousands of horrors in her lifetime of service to others.
Up ahead, Sam spotted where the end of the Michipicoten River system flowed into Lake Superior. He banked to the left and pushed the throttle in farther to increase power to the engine. Commencing his climb, he used the river, which originated at the southern outlet of Dog Lake, as a guide.
The surface of Dog Lake was roughly 1083 feet above sea level, which fluctuated depending on the requirements of the local hydroelectric dam.
It wasn’t long before they spotted the southern tip of Dog Lake. The large body of water was an irregular shape with multiple islands and basins spread throughout. To the south a series of rapids and falls between Dog Lake and Little Dog Lake could be seen to create a confluence with the Matawin River to form the Kaministiquia River.
The name Kaministiquia came from the Ojibway First Peoples’ word, meaning, “Where the rivers meet.” It was there, at a crest of a ridge that separated Big and Little Dog Lake, that a large effigy of a dog had been found, from which the lakes took their names. Dug out of the ground, and mounded up with debris, it had been carved out of the crest to form a crude depiction of a dog-like creature.
Sam checked the topographical map that Yago had given him. A hand-written note identified the location of Jack Holman’s seaplane toward one of the northern arms of the lake, where the Lochalsh River entered from the north. The water was moderately clear to slightly turbid, taking on an overall yellow-brown color.
“There it is,” Tom said, pointing over the nose of the plane and down to his left.
Sam glanced at the shallow beach at the end of the basin, where several boats and another floatplane were tied to a dock. It was summer, and despite the remoteness, the entire region welcomed throngs of adventurers and fishermen who vacationed there.
He banked to the left, setting up to do a reconnaissance fly-past to rule out any floating logs, small boats, sand bars, or surface debris. He flew over a long distance, making sure his waterway was clear and long enough. The surface of the lake wasn’t rough, a condition that would make it hazardous to land. Worse, though, the water was dead calm.
A glassy, flat surface reflects like a mirror — one of the most dangerous conditions a seaplane pilot can face. This made it extremely difficult for Sam to judge actual height. When landing on water, one can’t rely on an altimeter. The difference between one foot and ten was a thin line between a safe landing, or flying your plane with power straight into the water and sinking.
When he was ready, Sam opened his side window, making a sharp bank to the left. Removing his cap and dropped it out the window. His hat fell straight downward, confirming there was no wind within the basin. It landed with a splash, sending a series of circular, undulating ripples flowing outward.
“Why did you drop your hat?” Virginia asked.
“Ripples,” he curtly replied, utterly focused on landing his craft.
Sam flew a sharp, 180 degrees turn and set up for his final approach. He set the flaps to thirty degrees, reduced power, and brought the de-Havilland DHC-3 Otter into a glide. Using peripheral vision for cues, he observed the height of trees on shore, his eyes carefully observing the ripples on the water.
Just above the surface, he raised the nose. This made the aircraft flare, meaning to lose lift and stall, slowing its descent, causing its twin pontoons to softly hydroplane for a moment before it sank gently into the water.
“Nice,” Virginia murmured. “I barely felt that.”
“Sam knows planes,” Tom observed, a note of pride in his voice.