Return to the Bounty

by Paul E. Jamison

 

"Detective Vecchio, could you step in here?"

 

"Yessir."  Ray Vecchio got up from the war zone that was his desk and walked over to Lieutenant Welsh's office.  He wondered what Welsh wanted, but he wasn't overly concerned.  The Lieutenant had spoken in his professional-cop voice, not his icily formal "you're-in-deep-trouble-Vecchio" voice.

 

There was someone else in Welsh's office – two suits.  Feds, most likely.

 

"Detective, you already know Agent Ford.  This is Agent Fawks Moldy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  Agent Moldy, Detective Ray Vecchio."

 

Actually, Ray had never seen Agent Ford before in his life – that had been the other Ray Vecchio.  Fraser had mentioned that they'd met several times.  But Ford didn't say anything about the "new" Ray Vecchio – probably either figured it was none of his business or else he knew about the switch already; then again, given his track record, maybe he was just dumb.

 

Agent Moldy was a different kettle of fish.  "Pleased to meet you, Detective," he said as he shook Ray's hand – and he actually smiled. Maybe they hadn't scheduled his sense-of-humor-ectomy yet.

 

Ray smiled back; he was actually warming to the guy.  "Same with you. What's going on that we get a visit from you guys?"

 

Welsh answered.  "It has to do with that illegal dumping case we were involved in a few weeks ago – on Lake Superior, you remember?"

 

"Well, yeah!  We helped take out a freighter with a wooden ship!  How could anyone forget that?"  Truth to tell, it had been fun.  "I thought the case was closed, though."

 

Agent Ford said, "Things happen sometimes, Detective.  Circumstances beyond our control –"

 

"We screwed up".  Agent Ford's face went carefully blank.  Moldy's interruption was a little bit rude, but more to the point, he was being candid about an Agency mistake, and Ray could see that Ford didn't like that at all.

 

Moldy continued.  "We were transporting Gilbert Wallace and eight of his crewmen to a federal detention facility in Michigan.  All in a single vehicle – a bus, with a driver and two armed guards.  The bus was ambushed along the way by two armed men – crewmen still loose, we figure.  The guards were killed, the driver severely injured.  We should've put them in two or more separate vehicles – at least have another vehicle following them – but we didn't.  Wallace got away and it's our fault.  Now we have to pick up the pieces."

 

Ford's face was very actively blank.

 

"Oh, dear."  The news made Ray uneasy.  Wallace and his crew of merry pirates running around loose again?  Not good.  "So – you guys got any leads?"

 

Ford replied, very carefully, "Yes, we do.  We're confident that we'll track them down soon."

 

Moldy said, "Fairly confident.  But you and Constable Fraser did a respectable job capturing them in the first place.  Quite frankly, the FBI could use your help this time, too."

 

"Any leads on where they went?"

 

"Yes – Canada.  We got a report a while ago from Canadian Intelligence.  Wallace and his men made their way to Ontario and attacked an RCMP regiment led by one Sergeant 'Sam' Thorn."

 

"Sgt. Thorn?  That crazy lady who had the hots for a Canadian navy? Why'd they want to go up against her and her guys?"  Ray was of the opinion that, crazy she may be, but she was dangerous to cross.

 

"Partly for revenge.  Those mounties took quite a beating.  Sgt. Thorn was seriously injured, but she'll pull through, they tell us.  What is real strange is that Wallace and his crew made off with her frigate."

 

Ray frowned.  "The wooden ship?  That is weird!  They'll stick out like a sore thumb with that thing!  Did Wallace get a head injury or something?"

 

Moldy shrugged.  "We don't know.  Mr. Wallace has something in mind, no doubt.  What it is…  At any rate, we'll find it sooner or later. Given the savage attack on Sgt. Thorn and her regiment, we feel that for now, Gilbert Wallace is motivated by revenge more than anything else.  That's another reason we wanted to contact you – to give you and Constable Fraser fair warning."

 

Lieutenant Welsh said, "We called the Consulate a few minutes ago. Turnbull said Fraser wasn't there, but that he expected him back shortly."

 

"Oh, yeah."  Ray looked at his watch.  "Yeah, that's right.  This time of day, Fraze always takes Dief out in back of the consulate to do – well – wolf things.  You can set your watch by 'em."

 

Moldy looked slightly puzzled.  "Wolf things?"

 

"Yeah – you know.  Wolf things.  Kinda like dog things."

 

"Oh, those things!  Right – no wonder we couldn't get hold of him; you can't rush things like that."

 

Welsh spoke up at this point.  "So, a regular wolf is a happy wolf. Vecchio, I want you to cooperate with Agents Ford and Moldy fully in this.  We know these men are dangerous and most likely armed by now. Proceed carefully and let's catch them again."

 

"Will do, sir – so, what do we do now?"

 

Moldy replied, "Actually, not much you can do for us right at the moment.  If you and Constable Fraser want to do some digging on your own, it's fine with us."

 

The skin covering Agent Ford's head split apart, revealing a glowing red skull beneath.  A forked tongue slithered from between his teeth as his eyeballs melted away and flames shot out from the empty sockets…

 

Well, strictly speaking, what actually happened was that Agent Ford developed a tic in one of his eyelids, and the muscles at the jawline twitched once.  But effectively it amounted to the same thing.  Ray just knew that there were going to be words later.

 

Ray ignored this.  "Fine.  I think I'll head over to the Consulate and fill Fraser in."

 

"Good idea.  We'll keep in touch – and thanks again for your help.  We appreciate it."

 

Agent Ford actually made a slight grunting noise.  Ray was glad to get out of there.

 

Ray had gotten in late that morning, and his GTO was parked at the far end of the 27th Precinct parking lot.  He was distracted, thinking about Wallace and wooden ships, so he didn't pay much attention as he opened the door and got in.  He then remembered – he'd locked the car up that morning.

 

Then someone pulled his head back and clapped a washcloth over his face.  It was soaked in something that smelled sweet – and strangely soothing…

 

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When Constable Benton Fraser had informed him that he and Diefenbaker were going out in back to answer the Call of Duty, Constable Turnbull had his spare jodhpurs laid out on a table and was beginning to attack a light-colored stain with his favorite cleaning fluid.  Turnbull went at his task with grim determination – the stain was proving to be stubborn.   So, more cleaning fluid, rub a little harder…

 

After the cleaning fluid had eaten a hole through the jodhpurs, Turnbull discovered the stain was a shaft of sunlight peeping through the window curtains.  He stepped back and shook his head, chiding himself for being such a silly – then it occurred to him that Constable Fraser had been gone an awfully long time.  Turnbull put down the jodhpurs and headed for the back door.

 

There was no one in the back alley, but Turnbull heard a muffled whining coming from a nearby dumpster.  This proved to be Diefenbaker. There was no sign of Constable Fraser – except his Stetson, which had been stepped on and crushed…

 

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Ray was waking up from a dream.  He'd found himself back on the frigate in Lake Superior.  It was a vivid dream – he could hear the creaking of the frigate's joints and the flap of the sails in a light wind.  He could even feel the breeze and smell the Lake.

 

"Ray…"

 

As Ray shook himself awake, he could still hear and smell and feel his dream.  Then he realized that he hadn't been dreaming.

 

Ray looked around and found that Fraser was standing next to him. The mountie didn't look so neat right at the moment; his hat and tunic were gone, and he was a mess. They were on the deck of the frigate once more.  The boat was in the middle of what had to be Lake Superior; it was a warm, sunny day with a slight breeze.  "Hey, Fraze."

 

Ray tried to move his hands, and discovered they were restrained behind his back by something hard and heavy.  He looked around and said, "We're in trouble, aren't we?"

 

"Yes, we are, Ray."

 

Ray recognized most of the faces around them – the pirates they'd arrested just a few weeks ago.  The boat was idle in the water, and nobody was doing much of anything much sailor-like, as far as he could see.  Four men stood at the far rail, hanging on to a rope that went over the side.  Four more men stood at the near rail, holding on to a rope of their own; a third coil of rope lay at their feet.  Two more men stood close by, keeping an eye on Ray and Fraser.

 

And right in front of them was Gilbert Wallace.  He smiled; it wasn't a nice smile.

 

"Good to see you awake, Detective.  We wouldn't want you to miss out."

 

Why do crooks talk like that?  Ray said, "Nice to see you, too.  Where are we?"

 

Fraser answered, "Not far south of Six Fathom Shoal.  Very close to where we were a few weeks ago."

 

Wallace grinned, and it was even less nice.  "Very good, Constable. We're quite close to where we want to be.  Where we want you to be!"

 

Ray said, "Well, that's nice.  Real considerate of you.  I'll have to thank you properly later.  So – why are we here?  And what's with the boat?  You planning to lose yourself in the big crowd of replica frigates on Lake Superior?  Real clever."

 

Wallace replied, "Oh, we don't plan on staying with this tub for very long – just long enough for some punishment.  Then we'll head for Michigan and make ourselves scarce.  But first – you ever hear of keelhauling, Detective?"

 

Fraser said, softly, "Oh, dear."

 

"What – what's keelhauling, Fraser?"

 

"It was used in the Dutch and English navies as punishment a long time ago.  A line was passed under the ship from one side to the other, and the victim was tied to one end, dropped in the water and passed under the ship and up to the other side."

 

"Aw, man…"

 

"They tied lead weights to the man's feet, to keep him clear of the hull.  Otherwise the barnacles would tear him to pieces, and he'd fetch up against the keel.  The purpose of keelhauling wasn't to kill the man."  Fraser looked at Wallace.  "Although in this case, I don't think we'll get that consideration.  Will we?"

 

Wallace smiled back and shook his head.  "No, you won't.  It makes thing much easier for us.  What we plan to do is tie lines to your arms and pass each one of you back and forth across the hull – until there's nothing left to pull on.  A rather interesting way to take care of you."

 

Fraser nodded; his face betrayed no emotion.  "I see.  One question I have to ask – why?  You and the others could have been long gone by now.  You could have just taken Detective Vecchio and me out at any time."

 

"Revenge, Constable.  We had a nice little operation going on there, but you had to come along and ruin it for us.  This is our way of paying you back."  Wallace grinned.  "You two have a few minutes left. Think about how you brought this on yourselves."

 

"NO!"  Ray exploded.  He lunged forward until he was in Wallace's face; if his hands hadn't been shackled behind him, he would have shaken his index finger at the man.  "I've heard that before! I've been with Chicago PD for years, and the people I've caught always act like they're the victims!  Poor little guys just doing making an honest living, until the big bad cops came along and interfered! Well, I'm not BUYING it this time, Mister!

 

"Fraser and I are policemen!  It's our job to stop bad people from doing bad things!  YOU were committing a crime!  YOU were doing something wrong!  We stopped you because it was the RIGHT thing for us to do!  You got caught and you were gonna be punished, and you SHOULD be!  You were ruined, all right, but it wasn't our fault!  You're a crook, your operation went down the tubes, and you brought it all on YOURSELF!!"

 

Wallace no longer smiled.  He scowled at Ray for a few seconds, and finally said, "This one goes first.  Get him ready."

 

Ray was pushed over to the railing.  Somebody removed his shackles, and they dropped to the deck.  They proved to be very old and heavy. Crude but effective.

 

Ray looked over at Fraser.  The mountie's features were passive, but Ray could see pain in the eyes.  Fraser said, "Well put, Ray."

 

"Thanks, Fraze."  On the whole, it meant a lot to hear his friend say that.  As they tied the ropes to his wrists, he said, "Any advice, Fraze?"

 

"Don't hold your breath."

 

"That's not like you, Fraser."

 

"No, seriously, Ray.  Don't hold your breath.  Drowning might be merciful."

 

"Oh."  Well, if they were gonna go…  Ray tried holding his head up; he was going to show as much dignity as he could.  He found it was easy.

 

"This is it, isn't it, Fraze?  We aren't getting out of it, are we?"

 

Fraser cocked his head to one side.  There was a slight amount of distraction in his voice as he replied, "I don't know, Ray."

 

The pirates  shoved Ray over the side, and he plunged into Lake Superior.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Ray could see now that Fraser's advice was probably for the best; drowning sounded like a good idea.  But his reflexes were too strong; he couldn't let the air out of his lungs.

 

The Lake water was pretty clear, considering.  Ray looked to one side and saw the bulk of the frigate's hull.  It looked huge – the boat hadn't seemed that big from above.  And that must be the keel there. It looked real solid.  And he was going to slam right into it at any moment.

 

Still Ray held his breath.  It was over.  Him and Fraze, they were done for.  He felt quite calm. Oh, well, I've had a nice time in this world.  I guess.

 

Ray had heard that a person's life flashes before their eyes when they're dying.  It must be true, because it was happening now.  Ray settled back to enjoy the show.  He vividly recalled the scuba diver cutting away some ropes tied around his wrists; that had been an interesting case.

 

It took a second to register with Ray that such an incident had never happened to him before.  By the time it occurred to him that maybe this was happening here and now, a second scuba diver came right up to him and was trying to shove something between his teeth. Some survival instinct within him wanted to resist, but an even smarter survival instinct somewhere else within him decided that maybe giving in was a better idea.  So he opened his mouth just enough for the guy to shove something in, and he clamped down.

 

He was rewarded with the taste of fresh, pure air.  The Cavalry had come and saved his life.

 

The scuba diver who'd given Ray the air to breathe nodded his head and signaled thumbs up.  He wore a diver's mask, and Ray couldn't see much of his face; but he thought he could recognise the eyes.  The initials FBI were stenciled on the suit.  It had to be Moldy.

 

Well, okay, not quite the Cavalry, but the Feds would do.

 

For the first time, Ray noticed that there were quite a few other scuba divers in the water around them.  Quite a large operation – they even had a couple of underwater sled things, like James Bond used.

 

As Ray watched, two of the divers took the ropes that they'd just cut off of him and began to attach them to the sled things.

 

It hit him then what the Feds were planning.  If those perps on the boat held on to the ropes…

 

This was going to be fun.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Several squawks came from the opposite side of the frigate.  Wallace turned around just in time to see four pairs of feet disappear over the far rail.  He turned around to face Fraser, and he saw the other line go taut and pull four more of his crew over the side.

 

He'd had ten men working for him.  Now there were only two left on the deck.  Wallace turned to one of them.  "Brown!"  He pointed to Fraser. "Kill him."

 

Brown was a large muscular man.  He raised his hands and walked toward the mountie.

 

Back in the late '60s, the Rare Books Collection of the Tuktoyaktuk Public Library consisted of one locked, glass-fronted cabinet.  Young Benton Fraser's favorite of those rare books had to be an old, worn one from the turn of the Century, entitled, An Encyclopedia Of Locks, Manacles And Handcuffs, With Instructions Detailing How I Was Able To Open Them, by Harry Houdini.  The boy had pored over that book for hours, and it was obvious how much he learned from its pages:  He only had to ask his Grandmother once to unlock the cabinet for him.  After that, he could open the cabinet himself with a hairpin.

 

The manacles that had been used to restrain Fraser and Ray were of a type that had been around for over a hundred years; Wallace had found them in the hold of the frigate.  Houdini had devoted only a few paragraphs to the type in his Encyclopedia, and at that his tone had been condescending.  Fraser had no trouble with his manacles, and he demonstrated this to Brown when he was close enough.  Fraser also demonstrated how heavy the manacles were.  Specifically, he demonstrated all this upside Brown's head.

 

There was a loud clunk.  Brown stopped, shook his head, smiled at Fraser and gave out a derisive snort.  Then his eyes crossed and he toppled like a Redwood during a Republican administration.

 

That left Fraser facing Wallace and one crewman.  In effect, the two pirates were outnumbered and they knew it.  Wallace turned and ran for the stern, while the remaining crewman headed for the bow.

 

It's risky leaving rope lying around; you can trip over it if you're not careful.  The crewman's feet got tangled and he fell flat on his face on the wooden deck.  He didn't get up.

 

As if on cue – life is like that sometimes – a figure in scuba gear popped up at the railing and shouted, "FBI!  PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND… Oh.  Hello, you must be Constable Fraser.  Agent Moldy.  Looks like things are under control up here."

 

"Not quite."  Fraser ran for the stern; Wallace had just disappeared over the aft rail.  Moldy jumped on deck and followed.

 

Just as the two men reached the rail, the roar of an outboard motor started up, and they watched as Wallace raced away in a speedboat.

 

Moldy snapped, "Damn!  We didn't think of looking for escape vehicles! Dumb, dumb, dumb!"

 

"Don't be so hard on yourself.  Every cloud has a silver lining!" Fraser was already over the rail and climbing down the stern.  "You missed the speedboat – but you also missed the other one, too!"

 

Moldy followed, and soon he and Fraser roared away in the second speedboat in pursuit of Wallace.  The chase headed North, toward the Canadian shore.  Nobody noticed the fog rolling in.

 

Moldy was steering the speedboat.  As he took out his gun and began to aim, Fraser stopped him.  Fraser shouted, "I can't let you do that. We are now in the Dominion of Canada – my jurisdiction.  If anyone is to shoot at him, it has to be me!  May I borrow your gun?"

 

Moldy shrugged and handed over his gun.  He said, "It's your bailiwick!  I will remind you, though, that I placed first in my class at the Academy in marksmanship…"

 

Fraser let off a shot; it ricocheted off Wallace's outboard motor in a vulnerable location.

 

"…and I think I'll sit back and let an even better marksman take over!"  The FBI man concentrated on steering; Fawks Moldy was a practical man.

 

The speedboats were more or less evenly matched, and Wallace did his best to stay ahead, but Moldy and Fraser slowly gained on him.  The pirate weaved constantly from side to side as well to throw off the mountie's aim.  But Fraser wasn't one to miss.  His third shot did mortal damage, and Wallace's motor sputtered out.

 

Moldy crowed.  "We got him!"  Then their own motor stopped abruptly.

 

Very abruptly.  Unnaturally so.  Ordinarily, when a motor dies, it takes a few seconds to spool down.  In this case, the motor just stopped.  As if they'd been listening to it on TV when somebody hit the Mute button.

 

Moldy swore.  "Oh, great!  Just what we need!"  He began to fiddle with the controls.

 

"What in…"

 

Something in Fraser's voice made Moldy look up.  He forgot all about the motor.

 

They hadn't noticed the fog as it rolled in.  Now it was all around them, completely obscuring anything beyond a hundred yards.  And was it above them?  It had been a clear day – now the sun had disappeared overhead.  This wasn't a cloud cover; clouds have features.

 

The wind had died down, and it was calm.  But even on a windless day, the Lake was never that calm.  The water was as smooth and as level as a sheet of glass.

 

No sounds.  They didn't hear any birds, or any kind of noise from the frigate, or anything.

 

There were just the two boats, floating on a smooth surface, cut off completely from the outside world.

 

Moldy asked, "Where are we?"  His words were swallowed up by the fog as soon as he said them.

 

Fraser answered, very precisely, "We should be over Six Fathom Shoal."

 

Moldy and Fraser stared over at Wallace, and he stared back at them. He couldn't get away from them, but they couldn't get to him.  A standoff.

 

Then something began to rise out of the water near the pirate's boat.

 

First came a wide, curved, dish – a radar antenna.  This was attached to a squat mast.  A deckhouse quickly appeared below this.

 

Moldy said, "What is that – a submarine?"

 

"No. It's too bulky for a submarine," Fraser replied.  "It's the superstructure of a Great Lakes freighter."  And he knew which ship this was.

 

The freighter made no sound as it rose out of the water.  It didn't disturb the surface of the lake in the slightest – not the tiniest ripple – and not a droplet of water trickled from the ship's exposed structure.  It looked completely dry.

 

It was obviously a large ship – Fraser knew it to be 810 feet long and 80 feet wide – and it was soon apparent that Wallace's boat would end up resting on the middeck.

 

Before that happened, the men appeared.

 

Their heads broke the surface of the water first, quickly followed by their shoulders, their torsos and arms.  As with the ship, no water flowed from their bodies, and their clothes didn't look wet.

 

Moldy whispered, "Who are they?  How many of them are there?"

 

Fraser answered, softly. "Thirty-two, exactly.  They're the crew."

 

They were standing on the deck in two rows, face to face, stretching from one side of the ship to the other.  Their skin wasn't the chalky pale one would have expected – they all had a sailor's tan – and they were definitely not covered in seaweed.  But they made no sound, and their faces showed no emotion at all.  Their eyes – Fraser was thankful that he didn't have to look in their eyes.

 

Gilbert Wallace looked at the silent men rising on either side of him and he began to scream, loud and long.

 

The freighter's huge deck broke the still surface of the water, and the speedboat was beached.  The silent men began to walk forward.

 

As they moved toward him, Wallace screamed even louder and tumbled from the boat.  He scrambled to his feet and stumbled between the rows of silent men to the side of the ship.

 

Wallace managed to reach the railing.  But he was too late.  Two of the men got to him and grabbed him.  He could go no further.

 

And the Robert Mackensie began to sink back into the depths of Lake Superior.

 

Wallace continued to scream as he leaned over the railing, stretching his hands out to Fraser and Moldy; he said no words, but his eyes pleaded with them to help.  But the two men could do nothing but watch.

 

Wallace and the rest of the crewmen sank quickly beneath the water. Within seconds, they were gone.  Wallace had screamed continuously until his head had disappeared.  In a way, Fraser thought, he didn't quit screaming, even then; he may never quit.

 

Soon all that was left above the water was the Robert Mackensie's superstructure, then the mast.  Finally the radar dish sank from sight.

 

Someone hit the Mute button again, and the outboard motor resumed its growling.  Moldy and Fraser managed to keep from jumping out of their skins.  Once again they felt the wind on their faces; waves rippled the surface of the Lake.  The Sun shone down and burned away what little fog was left.

 

Somewhere overhead a gull squawked.

 

The two men said nothing as Moldy guided them to the empty speedboat. When they had reached it, Moldy finally spoke.  "I don't know about you, Constable, but when I fill out my report, I'm going to say that Gilbert Wallace disappeared in the Lake and is presumed drowned."

 

"Understood."  Fraser reflected that he'd most likely say something similar.  He and Moldy were both practical men.

 

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Ray Vecchio was sitting on the tailgate of an Agency pickup, huddled under a blanket and sipping a cup of coffee, when Constable Benton Fraser and Agent Fawks Moldy walked up to him.  He managed to smile at them.  "Hey, guys."

 

"Hello, Ray.  How are you doing?"

 

Ray looked down at his cup.  "This is bad coffee.  You Feds make bad coffee."

 

Moldy said, "That's true, I'm afraid.  I'm terribly –"

 

"It's the best bad coffee I've ever tasted!  I'm gonna want another cup.  Two, maybe."

 

Moldy nodded.  "We can do that."

 

"Thanks."

 

"Ray – are you going to be alright?"

 

"Doc's looked at me, Fraze.  Says I'm suffering a little from shock and – what's that again? Expo –"

 

"Exposure."

 

"Yeah, exposure – But he says I'll be fine.  I swallowed some water, though.  He gave me a couple of shots for that."

 

"Well, this isn't Lake Michigan, but penicillin and tetanus shots are good ideas, just to play it safe."

 

"Yeah.  I'm not gonna complain.  They don't have shots that can cure drowning."

 

Ray took another sip of the bad coffee, and looked up at the two men. "So – Did you catch him?  Or did he get away?"

 

Moldy and Fraser looked at each other.  Fraser said, "He deserves to know; I'll explain it all to him later."  Moldy nodded.  Fraser turned to Ray.  "We didn't capture Wallace.  But he didn't get away."

 

"What – he drowned?  Don't expect me to feel bad about it if he did, Fraser.  Not after what he put us through!"

 

"Let's say for now that he was punished for his sins, Ray."  Fraser turned around and looked over the surface of Lake Superior.  The remaining pirates were being escorted ashore by heavily-armed Federal agents.  Not far from shore, the wooden frigate lay at anchor.

 

"Indeed, It would be safe to say that Gilbert Wallace will continue to be punished for his sins."

 

Steel boats, iron men,

Thirty-three down on the Robert Mackensie

 

THE END

 

DISCLAIMER

 

This story is for entertainment purposes only and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications Corp., CBS and CTV or any other copyright holders of "due South". Lyrics to Robert Mackensie copyright Paul Gross and Jay Semko – with one crucial word change.