Vermilion (eBook)

Chapter One

Sunday, Nov. 7, 2018, 3:17 p.m. CST, northern Minnesota

The chopper erupted over the water like a sudden squall; its black steel blades shattering the once picturesque serenity of the remote Northwoods hunting community of Lake Vermilion. Known as “Waterhawk,” the aircraft spit water into the cool Minnesota air as it hovered over the lake. A search-and-rescue mission was underway involving two missing persons, and every second counted in this wild and unforgiving terrain.

Awash in drab-green camouflage, the Bell helicopter pushed hard into the icy rain as it flew just feet above a dense array of pine, birch, oak, and maple trees along the lake’s sandy shoreline. The aircraft descended over a weedy knoll surrounded by yellow police tape, and landed on the outer edge of the Fremont property.

Lieutenant Edward Stone unbuckled, gathered his thoughts, and eased his barrel-chested frame down from the aircraft. He and his sidekick, Chief Pilot Michael McCrary, were dispatched to Vermilion after a pair of hunters went missing the day before, which was the opening of deer-hunting season.

Stone had enjoyed a remarkably quiet, 38-year career with the Minnesota State Police, and was no stranger to the unbridled wilderness. A dedicated hunter in his own right, he knew that a person lost in the Kabetogama woods could vanish quickly and never be seen again.

“This weather isn’t doing us any favors,” Stone said. “They could be miles from their intended hunting area. I’ll check in with the crew, you try and get some intel from the family.”

“Will do, Ed,” McCrary said and quickly headed off toward the cabin.

Despite the odds, the duo knew the drill well; the vast majority of the Northwoods is remote and inaccessible, and the forests are dense and dotted with wetlands, making search-and-rescue operations overwhelming, at best. If used methodically, air support is the most effective way to locate lost hunters.

Stone and McCrary, who was just months away from an early retirement, were regarded by their peers as the utmost experts at recovering missing persons in this type of terrain. Seasoned by decades of experience, both men knew they should have been called to the scene sooner.

The delay was due to the state’s reluctance to move the helicopter from its base in International Falls. It served in the U.S. Army National Guard’s “Operation Osprey,” a reconnaissance program that worked in conjunction with U.S. Customs and Border Protection. Osprey’s purpose was to increase security along the U.S. and Canadian border by monitoring the region for illegal crossings, especially in the drug trade. Largely political in nature, Uncle Sam paid the state a handsome fee to keep the chopper grounded and on-call.

Stone was told that a high-ranking government official made the call to send Waterhawk to Vermilion, deeming it necessary support in the search. He and McCrary were quickly debriefed on the situation in a cream-colored canvas tent at the end of the driveway at the Fremont residence.

The two missing hunters, Chase Fremont and Jay Taylor, both 23, had left the cabin at 5:10 a.m., on Saturday, and headed off in opposite directions into the timber. The pecking order for the choicest hunting spots had been awarded by “drawing straws” the night before. But as day turned to night, neither man had returned to the cabin for the traditional opening-day happy hour. Around 10 p.m., the rest of the hunting party reported them overdue. The search party was organized shortly thereafter.

On this day, the makeshift command post was buzzing with activity – six police units from St. Louis County were sitting just inside the door flap, and each were laboring over incident reports on card tables. Having searched since before dawn, the team members, along with local hunters aiding the party, were resting their legs and replenishing their sodden bodies with an assortment of snacks and warm beverages.

A second wave of searchers from neighboring Itasca County, aided by a scent dog from a local breeder, had joined the effort shortly after noon. The team combed through the deep woods, remaining in constant contact with the operations base via handheld radios, since cellphone coverage was shoddy at best.

Despite the impressive scale of resources, the teams had found no trace of either man. There were no clues as to the whereabouts of the two skilled outdoorsmen. It was perplexing that Fremont was lost in an area he knew like the back of his hand. Stranger yet, according to the rest of the hunting party, the missing men weren’t supposed to be hunting together.

Saint Louis County Sheriff Rob Blake was the first to greet Stone. The 42-year-old Blake was young compared to the other law enforcement dinosaurs that surrounded him.

“Good afternoon, lieutenant,” Blake said.

“How are you, Rob?” Stone replied, offering a firm handshake.

“Well, some days are better than others,” the sheriff responded.

“Do you know these guys?” Stone asked.

“I do … somewhat. One of the missing is Chase Fremont, Harold Fremont’s son. I’ve known Harold for a while, and have met Chase a few times. I don’t know the other guy, Jay Taylor. The cabin has been in the Fremont family for years.”

“Here’s the obvious question: Are these guys legitimate hunters, or are they city kids up here trying to nab a decoration for their condo in the Cities?” Stone shot back.

“Christ, I wouldn’t guess otherwise,” Blake said. “Chase comes up here every year. It’s a pretty tight-knit group. Go inside and talk to the others. They’re worried sick.”

“I can understand why,” Stone said. “These woods aren’t very merciful.”

“We don’t really know what direction to take right now,” the sheriff added. “We’re hoping that your chopper can get us out of a tight spot.”

“Hunters don’t usually get lost in pairs, do they, Rob?” Stone said, looking back at the tent flaps slapping in the wind.

He understood the window to find the missing hunters alive was closing.

Blake and Stone’s paths had crossed before, including an unsolved disappearance in the spring of 1999. Stone was working the skies as a pilot at the time, and Blake was a rookie fresh out of the academy. A drug-and-alcohol-laced prom weekend led to the still unsolved saga of Richard Todd Walker.

It was presumed the high school senior decided to go for a stroll in the woods following an all-night bender, and likely wandered lost for days. Police were able to discern that Walker crisscrossed his tracks as many as a dozen times, while weaving his way through miles of thicket, swamp, dead-fallen trees, mosquitoes, rain and subsequent exhaustion, before any sign of him vanished.

His buddies didn’t report him missing until the third day, probably due to paranoia from all the marijuana and psilocybin they had consumed at the post-prom party. Walker’s family members still searched the area every summer, hoping to someday find closure.

But this case at hand didn’t bear any resemblance to what happened in 1999.

By Monday, Stone, McCrary, Blake’s boys, an agent from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, and volunteers from the Department of Natural Resources were completely stonewalled.

Fremont and Taylor were more than gone.

There were no reports of lost hunters seen trying to hitch a ride down remote dirt roads, or of men trapped under fallen trees in tamarack swamps. No distress shots were heard. The only signs that Chase and Jay had ever been there were two sets of footprints that disappeared into thick black muck, and a scent trail that vanished just as quickly.

By Tuesday, the story had gained national attention. The Federal Bureau of Investigation field office in Minneapolis sent one of its top agents, Christina Lynch, to the scene. The search’s intensity only gained steam when local volunteers started joining in. The media rush was just as intense, as members of the press set up satellite trucks in a clearing across the road from the cabin.

Stone didn’t deviate from his instincts – despite the frustration, he pushed hard, ransacking every nook and cranny inside a 15-mile radius. He became the face of the Lake Vermilion “disappearance” on the evening news. For a man that felt more at home in a dirty John boat than an office, Stone appeared collected and composed, and his reports were professional and unwavering.

“We don’t have anything to report at this time,” Stone told reporters. “When we do, we will make the families of the missing men our top priority.”

But off-camera, he had grown far less patient. With each passing hour, his cerulean eyes grew more bloodshot, and his weary shoulders slouched further forward with the gravity of the situation.

“What am I missing?” he inquired internally.

The outlook certainly wasn’t good; McCrary had worked the skies for two days without success. Family and friends of the missing were being...