***
Mitchell's paddle banged against the side of the aluminum canoe, the hollow echo interrupting the serenity of the sweltering July night. With each stroke he felt conspicuously awkward knifing through the calm water of the river. Midnight was approaching, and the full moon bathed the river and its tree-lined shore in cool light. Where the high cottonwoods overhung the water, deep shadows obscured the riverbank. Night insects whirred and clicked as he and Jake intruded into their realm.
Downstream, they could hear the rush of water as it plunged over the dam. The river was once the liquid aorta of the city. The dam had tapped its steady power, diverting water to run a mill, now long abandoned. The dam was the simplest of structures: a submerged concrete and rock wall that spanned the river to raise its level. The top of it never broke the surface as the river flowed evenly over it and plunged into the pool below.
Mitchell could see their destination ahead, the mouth of a muddy creek that emptied into the languid river upstream. Jake's canoe surged forward with each of his powerful strokes, and the men quickly closed the distance to the creek. Knowing that Jake was observing him from behind made Mitchell self-conscious. Mitchell was in shape, but his wiry physique couldn't propel the canoe like Jake's thick upper torso.
Mitchell was also uneasy about having spent the previous night with Gina. Straining his neck, he looked backward. "Am I...doing this right?" he asked over his shoulder. He had never before been in a canoe.
"You're doing okay." Jake said. "It doesn't really matter because I have control of things from back here."
Mitchell strained to see Jake's eyes, but they were obscured under his worn-out baseball cap. Downstream, Mitchell could barely see the clearing on the bank where they had launched the canoe and where Jake’s truck was parked. They entered the muddy feeder creek through a tunnel-like opening in the trees, and darkness swallowed them. The moonlight couldn’t penetrate the canopy of trees, and the air was thick.
"Toss me another beer," Jake said. "We'll sit here for awhile and get our bearings." Mitchell pulled two Budweisers out of the cooler and handed one back to Jake, shining his flashlight on the can, then opened one for himself. They were on their second six-pack, and Mitchell had only drunk two. He wished he had brought something better from one of the local microbreweries.
Mitchell thought about Gina, and their previous night together. How odd it was for him to be here now. Canoeing in Kansas at midnight was not his style. How had he let Jake persuade him to do this?
A big carp flopped in the water, startling Mitchell. Jake rigged his fishing pole and cast his line into the still water to one side of the canoe. The Hula Popper lure danced across the surface of the water as he reeled it back. Over the din of insects, frogs, and night birds they could hear the river plunging over the dam into the churning pool below it.
"You know, Mitchell," Jake said behind him in the canoe, "that dam's been out there over a hundred years now. It's really not very high, only about twenty-five feet. But that's all it took to channel the water into the old Bowerstock Mill. The mill’s gone, and now all the dam is good for is to generate a little electricity and grow monster catfish below it. There's catfish under there as big as a man. They just lie on the bottom in the mud and eat anything that’s not poisonous. They live as long as people do. Of all the crap that comes down this river, they know if something is poisonous. Don’t ask me how. Maybe they can smell tainted meat.
He continued, "The drop over the dam ain't very high, but don't ever underestimate the power of the river. Seems like every year someone goes over, for one reason or another. Most of the time they get drunk and fall asleep and drift too close. By the time they wake up there's nothing they can do. There's a hell of an undertow beneath the dam, and anything that goes over ends up getting pounded to a pulp. Usually they never even find the body. It just disintegrates. Once in a while the river spits up a corpse, and it turns up near Kansas City, all tangled up in fishin' line." Jake crushed his beer can, and dropped it into the bottom of the canoe. "Gimme another beer," His disembodied voice emanated out of the black night from behind Mitchell.
"You know, that dam is always there, waiting to claim anything that comes downstream,” Jake continued. “If it's natural and part of the river then it passes you on to continue your journey. But if you're not right with the world, it gets you." He yanked the pole, causing the Hula Popper to skip over of the water. They sat silently for a few minutes, listening to the river rushing over the dam. Finally, Jake said, "Let's get some frogs.” He laid the fishing pole and the lure in the floor of the canoe.
"Put down your paddle and shine the Mag-Lite ahead of us on the bank. I'll do the paddling. Shine it slowly along the shore and look for the white beneath their throats." Mitchell switched on the heavy steel light, and the sudden brightness brought to life the dancing contours of the creek bank. Slowly they glided up the creek. After only a minute Jake blurted, "There! Go back a few feet."
The beam of light came to rest upon a bullfrog as long as Mitchell's forearm. Its throat was distinctively white against the rest of its dark body. The creature sat motionless on the mud bank not more than twenty feet ahead of them, its yellow eyes shining.
"Now what you have to do is lean way over the front of the canoe with the light in one hand. If you're right-handed then hold the light in your left hand. I'll paddle you up to him head-on," Jake said. "When you get to him, just reach out and grab him hard any way you can get ahold of him." He paused, "Okay, get ready."
Mitchell laid over the bow out to his waist with the light in his left hand. He could easily reach in front of the canoe into the water below. He wished he had more time to get ready. The thought of exposing his bare hand to the huge amphibian nestled in muck repulsed him. These weren't anything like the cute little frogs he had caught as a kid. He wondered if it had teeth or sharp spines like a fish.
"Now put the light into his eyes, and hold it steady, and I'll move us in," Jake instructed. He maneuvered the canoe until it was perpendicular to the bank, and they approached the frog head-on. In a few seconds it was within reach.
Mitchell envisioned his fingers clamping around the frog's slimy body, its guts squirting out between them. He lurched forward in a half-hearted attempt to grab it, trying to keep the light in the creature’s eyes at the same time.
His hand closed over the frog's back, and it thrashed violently, its back legs pumping in the mud. Surprised by its power, Mitchell loosened his grip. The creature freed itself, and splashed noisily into its watery sanctuary.
"You gotta grab him hard!" Jake said. "Don't worry about squishin' him. They're tough!"
Mitchell resumed his lookout on the seat, resolving to get it right next time, and they quietly moved farther up the creek. He spotted another frog and positioned himself for the grab. This time he was ready.
When the frog was within reach, Mitchell lashed out and clamped down hard, mashing it into the muddy bank. He yanked it out and held it at arm's length, upside down, shining the light on its white underbelly. Slimy gook dripped from its body.
Jake said, “Wash him off and put him into the bag."
Mitchell was excited, and he fumbled with the drawstring on the canvas bag before he could deposit his prize into captivity.
“Jesus!” was all he could say with a shaking laugh.
Jake seemed detached and subdued.
"They just sit there when you shine the light into their eyes," Mitchell said, grinning.
Jake answered, "They don't understand the light. It intimidates them and allows you to gain control. Fear, intimidation, control. That works for a lot of things."
Mitchell couldn't see Jake very well, but he felt eyes boring into him.
"Gimme another beer, Mitch." Mitchell handed another Bud back.
"You know Mitch -- you don't care if I call you 'Mitch', do you? I really missed froggin' when I was in the pen. I mi
ssed a lot of things."
The pen! Gina had never said anything about that. They floated quietly for a few minutes. Mitchell wasn’t going to ask Jake why he had been in prison. Jake rambled on, "You know, Mitch, the only regret I have about killing that guy is that I had to do seven years for it."
Murder! Christ, what’s next? Mitchell was glad he had his back toward Jake so he couldn't see the alarm in his wide eyes.
"I just hit him once, and he went down in a heap. But, he had it coming. He'd been sniffing around my girlfriend for weeks. I told him to back off. Finally, I caught him with her, and I just sort of snapped. I guess I just wasn't thinking, but that guy was a little prick, and he wronged me. I couldn't let that go. If I'd used my head, I never would have gotten caught. I should have just set him up for some kind of accident. Oh well, I’ll know better next time. Live and learn, and all that crap."
Jake lapsed back into silence. Mitchell calmed himself and resolved to keep his wits. He tried to think of a way to abort their outing. He just wished he were more in his own element: like his office at work. Anywhere but here, he thought.
Jake started paddling, and Mitchell scanned the bank for more frogs. After thirty minutes they had caught ten of them.
Jake said, "That's enough for tonight. I want to leave some here. Maybe if I live long enough I'll bring Gina to this place someday."
“Do you plan on dying soon?”
“You never know when your time is up, Mitchell.”
Jake turned the canoe around and paddled with long powerful strokes as Mitchell shone the light into the blackness ahead from the front seat. In a few minutes, they emerged from the dark creek onto the bright, moonlit river. Mitchell turned off the Mag-Lite and laid it the floor of the canoe.
"Gimme another beer," Jake said. He stopped paddling. "We need to take care of these frogs."
He reached carefully into the opening of the canvas bag, and pulled out a frog, clasping it around its waist. Jake raised his arm, and with a quick, powerful motion he banged the frog's head on the gunnel of the canoe.
As he killed the rest of the frogs in the same way the canoe reverberated like a long, metal drum, the clamor echoing across the water. Jake unsheathed his hunting knife, hacked off their back legs, and threw them into the canvas bag with a drawstring. He tossed the legless carcasses on the floor of the canoe.
Mitchell watched with disgust as Jake butchered the bullfrogs. He hadn’t thought ahead to the actual killing part. Jake tossed the knotted canvas bag of frog legs onto the floor of the canoe where it landed on top of the Hula Popper. One barb of a treble hook snagged the canvas.
"Another beer!" Jake demanded.
They paddled out to the middle of the calm river, listening to the night sounds and the rush of water over the dam. "I want you to see something," Jake said as he steered the canoe down river toward the dam. "I want to show you the power of this river. It's a little game I invented -- kind of like in the movies when the good guys try to keep from going over the waterfall. It’s too bad there aren’t any good guys left. But it’s still a rush to get into the current and then break free."
"This is close enough for me, Jake," Mitchell said.
"Hell, there's barely any pull on us here!" Jake paddled the canoe closer to the dam.
"I learned a lot in prison, Mitch. I learned the value of friends. You know, you can be anywhere and still be okay as long as you have people that care about you. That's the worst part of prison -- you can't be with the people you care about. I've been pretty happy since I met Gina. I'd be lost without her. I don't know if I could go on without her."
"Jake, this is really close enough for me. Let's head for the shore."
"Shut up, Mitch. You're such a calculated bastard. You think you've got everything figured out, but you're kidding yourself. You don't know shit."
Mitchell was sweating. The river moved faster. Bird and insect calls disappeared in the roar of crashing water over the dam. They drifted closer.
Jake turned the canoe around and maintained their distance by a powerful stroke every few seconds. Mitchell was paddling as hard as he could. The churning water roared behind them.
Mitchell realized his feeble paddling wasn’t making much difference. He turned in his seat and pointed his paddle at Jake. “What the hell is your problem, Jake?”
Jake grabbed the blade of the paddle, yanked it away, and threw it overboard. It splashed a few feet away and floated toward the falls.
"Watch it go over, Mitch," Jake said calmly. "It'll be toothpicks in a few seconds."
"Are you crazy?" Mitchell yelled, his neck hurting from looking at Jake over his shoulder. "What the hell is the matter with you?"
Jake stared back angrily. He stroked for a few seconds and said, "Last Thursday I drove by your place at four in the morning, and Gina’s car was parked around the corner."
Shit! Mitchell thought.
His stomach churned, and he sweated even more. Tangled lies and flimsy excuses paraded through his mind, but Jake knew. Denials would be futile.
"Well, goddammit, what was her car doing at your place, Mitch?"
His mind raced. He would have to find just the right words -- if that was possible. He’ll kill us both, he thought.
"It was a fling, Jake. A one-time thing. She stopped by. We had a few beers. One thing led to another. Things just happened."
Jake stroked a few more times. "Just like things are going to happen now. You're not going to get off this river alive."
Mitchell fought back panic as he sized up his predicament. He was at Jake’s mercy. He’d never avoid the falls if he bailed from the canoe. Jake seemed suicidal.
"You're making this into something bigger than it really is," Mitchell said. He's insane, he thought, grasping for words. He needed to keep talking. Maybe he could distract Jake from whatever he was planning. "It didn't mean anything!" he blurted, then instantly regretted his choice of words.
"You're telling me Gina doesn't mean anything?" Jake roared. He stopped paddling, and their backward speed increased.
"Jake, let's get out of here, and then we can talk this over where we have time to think. If we go over that dam our chances to straighten out this mess are gone.”
Jake looked completely out of control now. He pushed the blade of his paddle into Mitchell's back. Mitchell couldn't do anything. If he tried to wrestle the paddle away they would both certainly go over.
"If you try to push me out and I'll tip this thing over and take you with me!" Mitchell shouted, still half-turned backwards toward Jake.
"Don't matter to me!" Jake shouted back. "You can't screw up my life any more than you already have. You’re a pathetic wimp, Mitch. You wronged me!"
They were almost on top of the dam, and Mitchell stared at the drop-off. The noise triggered visions in his mind of his butcher pulverizing tenderloin with a steel mallet.
Jake set his paddle in his lap. Mitchell leaned over the front of the canoe and flailed at the water with both hands. They slid backwards.
Jake screamed, "Oh no! Now look what you've done! We're goners!"
They crested the falls. Mitchell hugged the bow as it shot up on their backward plunge. He clung to it like an insect on a floating stick.
He closed his eyes in helplessness. He had a vision of losing control of his car on an ice-covered bridge when he was sixteen. Sliding in slow motion. He felt that same sick knot in his stomach, helplessly waiting for the inevitable collision.
His head slammed against the canoe. All motion stopped. Mitchell opened his eyes. They were floating beneath the dam, still in the canoe.
He watched the water cascade down the backside of the dam. He could see its height was only a fraction of twenty-five feet. There wasn't even a drop-off -- only a gradual slope inundated under a foot of running water. Confused, Mitchell regained his bearings. The roar of water was due to the sheer length of
the dam as it spanned the river. The noise could not drown out Jake's laughter, however.
"Did that scare you, Mitch? I thought it was pretty scary, and I've shot these falls a dozen times, although never backwards. A guy really did drown here once, though.”
Mitchell pivoted on his seat to face Jake. “Fuck you, Jake! You’re the sick, calculated bastard! He picked up a frog torso from the floor of the canoe and hurled it at Jake. It bounced off his chest with a squishy thud. Mitchell threw another frog front, and Jake ducked it. The unstable canoe wobbled precariously.
“Don’t start anything you can’t finish, Mitch.”
Mitchell threw another half frog at Jake.
Jake exploded off the seat. “I’ve got some frogs for you, too, Mitch!” he yelled. Jake grabbed the bag of frog legs with the Hula Popper hooked in the canvas. He swung the bag at Mitchell’s head.
Mitchell started to scream as the frog bag struck him square in the face. The Hula Popper’s hooks snagged the roof of Mitchell’s wide-open mouth. He gagged and thrashed, tearing the lure out of the canvas bag. But he was still hooked on the Hula Popper like a trophy bass.
The canoe rocked wildly and then flipped. As he hit the water, Mitchell grasped for the side of the canoe, but his fingers closed instead around the steel Mag-Lite. Jake was on top of him in the water. Mitchell swung the light with all his remaining strength and felt the crunch of Jake’s skull as they both lost consciousness.
***
Before the swirling current swept the two bodies from the bottom of the river onto the rocky bank, the oldest catfish in the Kansas River nudged them cautiously. As always, he was voraciously hungry. He swam deliberately around the corpses, still locked in their deathly embrace of combat. Slowly the huge fish drifted away. Poison, his instincts warned.
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