If Avery Wheeler hadn't robbed an armored truck in
Farmington, Maine, and taken a woman hostage, the state
police would never have given chase when he headed north
up Highway 27. He made it all the way to the outskirts of
Stanton before taking a side road toward Flagstaff Lake.
The police were only a minute or so behind him, and even
though it was almost dark, he knew he wasn't going to make
it to the Canadian border before they caught up with him.
His plan, for the moment, was to get lost in the woods
around the lake and hope for the best.
At that point he was wishing he hadn't dropped out of high
school back in the seventies and had taken that job in his
uncle's meat-packing business. Even more, he wished to
hell he'd never laid eyes on the woman in the seat beside
him. She hadn't stopped screaming since he'd shoved her in
the car at gunpoint. Now all he wanted was to start this
day over. But since that wasn't possible, he opted for
making a new start, and to do that, he had to get rid of
the police and that damned screaming clerk. As he rounded
a curve in the road, he saw the opportunity to do both.
With the setting sun coming in through the driver's side
of the windows and the dark water of Flagstaff Lake before
him, he unbuckled his seat belt, lowered the window, then
stomped on the gas. The force of the acceleration slammed
both him and his hostage against the back of the seat.
Gritting his teeth, he braced himself against the steering
wheel while the decibels of her shrieks rose. Out of
patience and time, he backhanded the woman into a state of
semiconsciousness as the car went airborne.
The silence that followed was surreal. Even the sirens
from the police cars seemed to fade. For Avery, everything
began passing in slow motion.
The slight whistle of the wind coming in through the open
window blew soft against his cheek.
The last rays of the dying sun glittered on the dark,
mirrored water like broken glass on spilled coffee.
The soft moan coming from the woman's lips mingled with
his own panicked breaths as the water grew nearer and
nearer.
Then they hit. The impact was sharp and jarring, and Avery
wondered how something so fluid could be so hard. The
displaced water sent a ten-foot spray into the air, and
then the car began sinking, faster than he would have
imagined. When the water began spilling in through the
open window, his heartbeat accelerated, even though this
was exactly what he'd planned. He reached into the seat
behind him and grabbed the bag with the stolen money. As
he did, the woman he'd taken hostage began to come around.
A thin trickle of blood was coming out of her nose from
where he'd hit her, and when she reached toward her face,
it smeared across her cheek. She opened her eyes in blank
confusion, then reached down for her seat belt, brushing
at the water on her clothes as if it was dust. When it
wouldn't come off, she looked up at him with a wide,
frantic stare.
"Can you swim?" he asked. She shook her head no. "Sorry,"
he muttered, and pushed the front seat all the way back to
give himself more room in which to maneuver out the
window. She was going to drown. There was nothing he could
do about that.
"Don't leave me!" she screamed, and grabbed at his arm.
He hit her with his fist. Her head snapped backward from
the blow as she slumped down into the seat.
"You'll thank me later," he muttered. At least her death
would be painless.
As he started out the window, the car began to flip.
Panicked, he slung the shoulder strap of the bag over his
head and began climbing out the window, desperate not to
get caught in the sucking undertow. Twice the bag got
caught - once on the gearshift and once on the side-view
mirror on the outside of the door. Both times he thought
about just letting go and saving himself, but he'd gotten
into this mess because of the money. He wasn't yet ready
to give it up.
Suddenly he was free, and the elation of the moment gave
him renewed hope. He felt along the underside of the frame
until he came to a wheel, climbed up on it and pushed
himself off, praying that he was swimming up and not down.
The water felt thick, as if he was swimming in gelatin. He
knew it was from the weight of the bag, but he was strong
and a damned good swimmer. Moments later he surfaced, only
to realize the sun had gone down. Treading water, he dared
a glance at the shore. Although he could hear shouts from
the police who had finally arrived, all he could see were
the red-and-blue flashing lights and the vague silhouettes
of the men as they ran back and forth in front of the
cars. He didn't think they could see him any better than
he could see them, but the knowledge that they might made
him swim even harder. He swam and he swam, until his arms
felt like lead and his lungs were about to burst.
Once again treading water, he stopped and looked behind
him. The shore he'd come from was alive with flashing
lights and the faint sounds of men's voices, shouting to
one another. With a satisfied grin, he tugged the heavy
wet bag to a more comfortable position and began to swim
again. The opposite shore was nothing but a vague blur
above the surface of the black water, but he could see one
small light - probably someone's porch light - through the
trees. He fixed his eyes on that light and began to
stroke.
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