Seven Bridge Digital Magazine

 

Lovell, Maine                                                                                     A Sunday in June

 

After the impact, the giant animal had writhed on the hood of Harry Bartlett’s Crown Victoria Police Interceptor vehicle. It struggled to free itself from the broken windshield and the now-peeled back curved roof, making a raspy guttural sound that strained its vocal cords to their limit. But the struggle hadn’t lasted long – blood was everywhere and the animal quickly weakened and then stopped moving.

Harry and Megan Webster had sat motionless through the death. It wasn’t by choice.

Harry had never been this up-close and personal with a moose before. Its antler had broken the steering wheel. A tip was close enough to the brim of Harry’s white, Red Sox cap that he could count individual velvety hairs.

Megan had slid her seat back and pushed herself as far into the foam as she could to avoid being slashed by the wriggling hoof that protruded through the windshield. She carefully untangled her long auburn hair that had wrapped around the animal’s ankle. She was surprised to see that the moose had three, finger-like toes behind the giant, split hoof that was the size of her hand.

Harry recalled the first time he’d seen the “BEWARE OF MOOSE” signs along the Maine highways. He thought the Department of Public Works was having fun with gullible tourists. But his opinion changed when he saw a large male at the Maine Wildlife Park during a prior trip. It was taller than a horse, with a solid body on spindly legs and a head the size of a five-year-old child. The animal was as long as a mid-sized sedan car from the tip of his nose to the end of his butt. The antlers could hold a dozen coats and added several feet to his height.

“You okay?” Harry asked.

“Better than our hitchhiker,” Megan said.

Seconds before, Harry had exited from a long, slow curve on Lovell Road in Bridgton, Maine, and seen that the road ahead was clear for at least a mile. He hadn’t gotten the speedometer over a hundred for a while; both he and the car needed it.

“Hold on,” he’d said and punched the gas pedal to the floorboard. The overpowered, police-modified engine responded instantly. Harry and Megan’s heads crashed against the headrests. Harry held the steering wheel firmly with his extended arms. The speedometer cruised past one hundred.

The roadside trees blended into a solid wall of brown and green. The road’s broken lines blurred into solid stripes. The clear mile was halfway gone when Megan spied a large, brown object bolting from the woods ahead. “Harry!” she screamed and braced herself against the dashboard.

“Oh, crap,” he said.

The giant head turned as Harry leaned on his horn and stomped on his brakes. The moose showed no recognition of the impending doom. Maybe it wasn’t afraid of a puny car or didn’t know what a car was. Or perhaps it was just plain dumb. They were eyeball-to-eyeball for a split second before impact.

Harry saw the collision in slow motion, with legs and antlers and torso spinning wildly in a brown blur. In later story-telling, Harry joked that this was the opposite of Rocky and Bulwinkle: flying moose, not squirrel.

The front grille and bumper crunched into the legs and got the beast airborne. Of course, airborne is a relative term when applied to a 1,200-pound mammal.

An antler and a leg caught the seam between the windshield and the roof and peeled it back like a can of sardines. Blue sky poked through the spots not blocked by fur. The car instantly filled with the animal’s overpowering gamey smell. The creature had shuddered, rocking the vehicle back and forth. Smoke and steam ushered from the engine.

“We’d better get the hell out of here,” Harry said. He laid across Megan’s lap and kicked out the passenger window.

She wormed her way out, avoiding the limbs that rested on the dashboard. Harry’s big body was a challenge to squeeze through the small opening, but with twisting and turning he finally made it. Megan had already called “911.”

They stayed on the opposite side of the street. Traffic slowed to a crawl to rubberneck and take pictures. The adrenaline that had rushed through their bodies gave out and they sat on large boulders, holding hands, waiting for the local cops.

They didn’t have to wait long; they heard the siren within a minute. The black and white SUV screeched to a halt behind the destroyed car and the officer set up orange cones and flares. He ran between the slowly moving vehicles to check on Harry and Megan. He was relieved when they said they weren’t hurt and went back into the road to get traffic moving along.

That accomplished, he returned to them and asked what happened. Harry and Megan told their story except for the warp speed that Harry had been traveling.  The officer made notes in a small pad, then wandered over to examine the road, the Crown Vic in the roadside ditch, and the carcass. He paced off the long trail of rubber from Harry’s tires. “Going a bit over the 40 miles per hour speed limit, eh?” he asked.

“A bit,” Harry said.

“You’re lucky you drive a tank,” the officer said.

Megan shot Harry a “don’t you dare say one word, not one damned word” look, and he refrained from commenting. When they were planning this romantic weekend getaway, Megan suggested taking her bright red Mini Cooper. Harry said that was fine, except for needing to use the car’s glove compartment for their golf clubs.

A tow truck arrived to haul the Crown Vic to the nearest garage. A BMW blue and white emblem was on the front grill. The license plate read ‘RAYS TOYS 2.’

“Nice truck,” Harry said to the driver.

“Drive’s smooth over the frost heaves,” the driver said. He introduced himself as Ray Junior, pointing to the emblem on his shirt. He said they specialized in fixing moose-vehicle collisions and worked to get the Crown Vic hooked up.

Minutes later, a Mercedes-Benz pick-up truck with a winch parked next to Harry’s car. The license plate read ‘RAYS TOYS 1.’

“Nicer truck,” Harry said to Megan.

She walked over to the police officer. “How did they know to show up?”

“They’re on the list,” the officer said.

“List?”

The officer removed a sheet of paper from his cruiser. “They listen to our calls. The Sheriff loves it. They get three months of moose steak. We get a clean road. Simple. Ray Senior gets first crack at it. If he doesn’t answer, we call the list, but Uncle Ray always picks up.”

“Uncle Ray?” Megan asked.

“Second cousin on my mom’s side,” the officer said.

Harry watched the moose removal operation. The first thing they did was shoot it between the eyes. It made sense to make sure that the animal was out of its misery; moving a bucking moose wouldn’t be a picnic.

After the coup de grace, they ran a strap around the torso and tied the four limbs together. Then it was hoist away into the back of the pick-up. The truck ended up six inches closer to the ground after the added load.

Harry crossed the road. Ray Senior was flicking a piece of moose carcass off his alligator boots. The woman passenger leaned across the driver’s seat; the diamond in her ring could’ve doubled as a sugar cube. “Ray, baby, we’ve got that charity event to get to,” she said.

“They’ll wait for us, honey pie. We’re the donors.”

Harry introduced himself. A giant Rolex clattered on Ray Senior’s left wrist. “You don’t see many of those around here,” Harry said, pointing to the truck.

“It’s great in the snow,” Ray said. “You’re lucky to be alive, you know.”

“Maybe I should tell Crown Vic to advertise it as Moose Resistant,” Harry said.

“Junior will drive you back to the garage. We’ve got a car you can rent.”

Harry climbed in the back seat of Ray Junior’s truck, and Megan took the front. That must’ve been to Ray Juniors’ liking because he didn’t stop talking to her about seeing her on TV as the Fraud Reporter.

Harry was happy to be ignored. He pulled out his cell phone and opened up the Maine Wildlife Preservation website to the “MOOSE ACCIDENTS” tab. “Say, Ray, how many moose repairs do you do a year?”

“Geez, I don’t know, at least one or two a week,” Ray Junior said.

“Must be a complete bumper-to-bumper job. About five grand?”

“Oh, yeah, five thou easy,” Ray Junior said. “A whole bunch are over ten.”

Harry did the simple math. 75 accidents times $7,500 per car equaled $625,000.

“And you sell the meat?” Harry asked.

“Hey, we can’t eat it all,” Ray Junior said.

Harry did more math: 500 pounds times $5 per pound times 75 accidents equaled $187,500.

$812,500 went a long way in Maine.

Ray Junior pulled into the collision company’s parking lot.

“Ray, where’s your bathroom?” Harry asked. He followed the directions to the back of the building. Two rows of mangled cars and a working refrigerated cargo container were against the back fence.

Harry locked the bathroom door behind him and pulled out his cell phone. He hit FL. “Frank Lawless, US Attorney for New England, speaking.”

“Frank, Harry here.”

“I thought you were on a romantic trip with Megan to see the puffins.”

“No, we decided to go moose hunting with my car instead,” Harry said and gave Frank a blow-by-blow of the last hour. “Do you know someone you trust in Portland?”

“Sure, I went to law school with the local D.A.,” Frank said. “Why?”

“I need someone to meet me at Ray’s Collision Repair in Bridgton.”

“He won’t just show up because you’re a swell guy,” Frank said.

“What would you say if I told you that 25% of the reported moose accidents happened in Bridgton?”

“I’d say it’s the moose equivalent of Miami Beach.”

“There’s another explanation,” Harry said and went through his reasoning.

Frank gave Harry the D.A.’s number. “Tell Fred he wouldn’t have passed Contracts without me.”

Harry called Fred Saugus, introduced himself, and passed along Frank’s remark about their Contracts course.

“He’s a liar,” Fred said. “I helped him pass the damned course. Now, what do you need me for?” They talked for about ten minutes, and Fred agreed to meet Harry in an hour.

“I’ll stall until you get here,” Harry said. He opened the bathroom door.

Ray Senior was sitting on the hood of a damaged Tesla. “Tummy troubles?” he asked.

“Maybe. Looking at moose antlers through a windshield is a new thing for me,” Harry said. “But I’m okay now. Is there a place to grab a sandwich near here?”

“Right across the street.”

“Great, we’ll have something to eat, then rent one of your cars.”

Megan was waiting patiently in the office part of the repair building, reading two-year-old copies of ‘SKINNERS JOURNAL.’ The cover story was ‘Working Around the Ears.’ “I thought you’d fallen in,” she said.

“You want details?”

“No way. Just commenting. New subject. I’m hungry. A moose burger might be interesting.”

“Lobster sounds better,” Harry said, and they dodged traffic and entered the old-fashioned dining car across the street. They ordered lobster rolls with coleslaw and fresh corn on the cob and agreed not to talk about the moose incident. They kept to their word until an hour had passed.

“You keep looking for something across the street. What are you up to?” Megan asked. “And don’t tell me nothing. You’re as easy to read as a Dr. Seuss book.”

“I’ll give you one clue,” Harry said. “How many moose are killed by cars and trucks in Maine?”

Before she could answer, an official-looking gray sedan pulled into Ray’s parking lot. Two Maine State Police SUV’s parked alongside.

“The cavalry has arrived,” Harry said, and they crossed to meet Fred.

They’d finished their introductions when Ray Senior approached.

“Okay, I’ve had enough of this crap,” Ray said. “You can have your car back, mangled and all. Get someone else to fix it. And you,” he pointed to Fred,” you can drive them there.”

“You’re the only one going anywhere,” Fred said and showed his D.A. ID card. “You’re under arrest for insurance fraud.”

“For hauling away dead moose? You’re out of your freakin’ mind.” Ray Senior said.

“I only have one question,” Harry said. “What does a collision repair shop need with a walk-in freezer? Hold beer for the boys after work? Extra space for Ben and Jerry’s ice cream?” Harry pulled a frozen block from his backpack and tossed it to Ray Senior. “I think it’s to hold moose meat and fur for your productions of “MOOSE I’VE KILLED WHILE DRIVING,” a multiple-act play of insurance fraud.”

“I fix cars and trucks. Simple business.”

“You’d need to fix ten Bentleys and sell enough moose meat to feed an army to pay for your cars and jewelry,” Harry said.

“Get the hell off my land,” Ray said.

“No problem,” Harry said. “Megan has one question, and then we’ll leave.”

Ray stood with his arms folded like the Mr. Clean character.

“How much do you pay the car owners to let you beat their car with a sledgehammer and slop moose blood and fur all over it? Is it a flat amount or a percentage?” Megan asked, cell phone in hand.

“Get the hell out of here,” Ray said and swatted at the device.

Megan was ready and jerked out of his range. “Did you get that, Harry?”

Ray turned. Harry had his cell phone pointed at them. “Got it,” Harry said.

***

There once was a couple who liked bling

Their money came from insurance lying

They faked damaged cars

Then spent like movie stars

‘Til Harry exposed their false billing.