SALLY’S LANDING, MICHIGAN
CHAPTER 31
ALWAYS FISHING

“Dad says you got a different father,” Stretch sniped. “He said there aren’t fellas in the family that are short and Italian-looking.”

“There ain’t any giants, either,” Joey replied. Then he sat on the bank of the creek and dipped the toe of his tennis shoe into the water.

“Don’t say ain’t,” Stretch ordered. “Ma said it’s not a word.”

“Look how low this creek is. Dad says the corn’s puny this year.”

“Ma says the blueberries are off. It’s a drought, stupid. That’s why we’ve had so many brush fires this year,” Stretch was the more bookish of the two.

Joey said, “Boyd Johnson called in that fire last night.”

“The one we set on the back lot? How’d he see from his wheelchair?”

“Don’t know, but I’d like to yank that scanner clean out of his house and shoot it with Pa’s shotgun.”

“Johnson’s a spy and we have to rub him out,” Stretch replied. “Let’s skip some stones.”

“Nah, that’s boring. Let’s go hunt bears,” Joey suggested.

The boys wandered along the creek bed for a while before crossing the stream on rocks they had strategically placed two years earlier.

“I’m getting a mustache,” Joey said. “It’s got four hairs.”

“You can’t have a mustache at thirteen unless you’re an aborigine.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding,” Stretch confirmed. “And those are Indians that live in Australia. I learned it in school. Let’s go into the woods. That’s where the bears are.”

Without warning, Joey turned and pushed his brother into the mud. Then, inexplicably, he joined him in the muck.

“What’s wrong with you, punk?”

“There’s a van up there, no lie,” Joey whispered.

“Lie!” Stretch hollered.

“It is so. Look, sitting on the two-track.” Joey parted the tall grass and watched the intruder.

“It’s the ranger, toad-butt,” Stretch said.

“Shit–it’s a nest of evil spies,” Joey was already into a new game.

“I don’t think so.” Stretch was too tired for a game of spy, and he was hungry. “Spies don’t come to Newaygo County, dumbbell.”

Then he looked for himself and, sure enough, a dangerous-looking man was fiddling with the tire on a long white van.

The boys crawled on their stomachs, side by side, through the marshy grass to the edge of the woods. Scrub pines were the only cover available. They sneaked up on their prey and hid behind a huge boulder.

The driver got back inside the utility vehicle, and it clattered away down the rutted path. The boys followed the sound, staying just out of the driver’s sight.

“There’s nothing back here except that old burnt-out ranger station.”

“There’s a hunting cabin further inside.” Stretch was muddy and hungry for lunch.

“Can’t be, stupid, it’s government land.” Joey round-housed his brother.

“Well, there is, butthole. I saw it when Dad took us deer hunting, and you went off with Ellis Stevenson in the other direction.” Stretch tripped over deadfall and sprawled.

“Watch where you’re putting those big-ass feet!” Joey offered him a hand up.

“You want to spy on them, right?” Stretch brushed off pine needles. “I’ll just wait right here.”

“Let’s pretend we’re in the Army—we’re Airborne Rangers and they’re mad bombers.” He smeared dirt on his sweaty face.

“That’s probably deer droppings.”

“You’re coming with me, cause if you don’t, I’ll tell,” Joey warned. “I don’t know what I’ll tell yet, but I’ll think of something.”

The boys hid their fishing poles in the brush and stalked the mysterious white van, following the sounds of the engine. The forest floor darkened. Only the skittering of small animals in the brush and the snapping of twigs beneath their feet broke the stillness.

“He must have stopped,” Joey declared, crouching low.

A car door slammed shut. They fell into the dirt and crawled forward on their stomachs. The van was parked in a clearing next to a well-maintained log cabin.

“Told you, noodle head,” Stretch whispered.

“Shhh!” Joey ordered.

The man opened the cargo door of the van. Then a group of redheads in hunting clothes stepped out of the cabin and grabbed water jugs from the truck. They went into the lodge.

“Maybe they’re camping,” Stretch whispered.

“They’re assassins,” Joey informed his ignorant twin. “Who ever heard of a pack of redheads going on a camping trip?”

“Who are they gonna assassinate in Newaygo County, Bambi?” Stretch giggled.

The driver looked up. Joey elbowed his brother to stay quiet. They watched as their target pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket, lit it, and sat on the van’s running board. One of the redheaded men came back out and sat in a rocker on the porch.

“He heard us before, I’m sure of it,” Stretch said confidently.

“That’s because you’re an idiot, numb nuts. You trip over those gunboat feet of yours and make all kinds of racket. A good scout doesn’t make noise—haven’t you ever seen Wagon Train reruns?”

“You’re getting into this play acting a little too heavy. I just really wanted to catch some fish for Momma to fry for dinner.”

“Well, we’re stuck here now,” Joey whispered and elbowed his brother in the ribs hard.

The cigar man stood up and looked over the woodline. They froze in place. He turned around and walked to the other side of the clearing.

“Okay, he’s going to take a leak. Run!” Joey instructed.

They dashed for the van. Joey reached it first and climbed inside. The console held a map, a couple of cigars, and a gun. Clipped to the visor was a laminated badge with the driver’s picture on it. His name was Argus Spann. Unfortunately, the picture was of a blonde with a crew cut—not the dangerous dark spy who was peeing on a bush now.

An envelope rested on the dash, with a return address of AAU, Omega Compound, Sumatra Barat, Indonesia. A gun was placed next to it.

“Stretch, where’s In-Doe-Neesa?”

“Don’t know. Hurry up, stupid.”

Joey grabbed the letter and stuffed it in his pocket. He picked up the card from the console. He was examining it when his brother nudged him. He slipped it into his jeans pocket.

“Hurry, he’s coming back!” Stretch grabbed his brother’s ankle, yanking him out of the truck. They sprinted toward the trees.

“Halt!”

The boys reached a fork in the path and chose the one with more brambles. They heard the man’s footsteps pounding behind them. Stretch was two strides ahead of his brother. Joey kept up, but the branches kept slapping him as Stretch blazed the trail.

At the edge of the woods, an old culvert sat in the ditch. Its gaping opening was a haven. Joey sloshed through the darkness, the remains of who-knows-what under his feet. Stretch followed. When they reached the junction of the conduit, they took the smaller pipe, moving into deeper mud.

Behind them, their pursuer reached the junction. The spy didn’t know where the culvert emptied, and that was to the twins’ advantage. The man quickly got stuck where the tunnel narrowed. The boys heard a gunshot ricochet, but the bullet couldn’t navigate the sharp turns. They crawled cautiously at first, then faster, until they saw daylight.

“Where are we?” Joey asked. He was covered with dirt and looked like a young commando.

“We’re on M-37. We need to hitchhike home,” Stretch said.

Joey saw a horse-drawn wagon coming up on the shoulder.

“Those Amish will give us a ride.” The driver didn’t seem very interested in helping, but he slowed down when they waved him over.

They climbed into the back of the wood-slatted farm wagon and wedged themselves among the produce bound for the Farmer’s Market in Sally’s Landing.

“Do you think those were real bullets?” Joey’s eyes widened with fear.

“Lord yes,” Stretch said. “They were as real as the ones Boyd Johnson puts in his scattergun.”

“Look! Is that the spy van?”

A white van pulled out from a two-track onto the highway. Stretch pushed his brother deeper between the crates of tomatoes and pulled some dried corn stalks over them. Then he looked out through a peephole he’d made.

The driver carefully watched both sides of the road.

Stretch told his brother, “The stupid son-of-a-gun hasn’t thought to look straight ahead.”

“I don’t want to play spy anymore, ever,” Joey replied tearfully.
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