EXT. SPARROW LAKE - DAY
A jagged SCREAM tears through the silence.
The ice auger vibrates violently in the hands of COLE (17). He is buried in a parka that swallows his frame, his face a mask of misery and windburn.
Below him, the black ice yields. Slush erupts.
Cole kills the engine. The silence returns. Instant. Heavy.
Fifty yards away stands MARK PETERSON (40s). He is a dense, unmoving shape against the white void. He doesn't wave. He doesn't smile. He just watches.
EXT. SPARROW LAKE - DUSK
Purple bruises the grey sky.
Cole sits on an overturned bucket. He stares at the orange tip-up flag. Motionless.
Mark approaches. The CRUNCH of boots on snow is the only sound.
Patience.
Cole scoffs. He reaches for the line to pack up.
A TUG.
Not a nibble. A dead weight.
Snagged. Bottom.
Mark steps closer. He takes the line. Feels the tension.
There's give. Lean back.
Cole wraps the line around his gloved hands. He heaves.
The line HUMS. Something scrapes against the lake floor.
Cole groans, breath pluming in the twilight. He hauls hand over hand.
Black water swirls in the hole.
A shape breaches.
Not a fish.
A metal strongbox. Rusted. Dripping slime.
Mark reaches into the freezing water. He grabs the handle. Heaves it onto the ice.
It sits between them. Ancient. Alien.
A brass plate on the front, corroded: "...rth...inch..."
INT. CABIN - NIGHT
The box sits on a rough pine table. A puddle of dark lake water spreads beneath it.
Mark hands Cole a crowbar.
Honours.
Cole jams the bar into the rusted seam. He leans his weight into it.
SCREECH of tortured metal.
The lock snaps. The lid groans open.
The smell hits them. Mildew. Rotting paper.
Inside: A waterlogged bundle.
Cole peels back the oilcloth.
A leather journal, fused into a brick. A brass compass, glass cracked. A carved wooden owl.
Cole picks up the owl. It's heavy. The eyes seem to watch him.
Mark adjusts a headlamp. He takes the owl. Peers at the base.
Here.
Mark inserts a pocketknife into a hairline crack. Twists.
CLICK.
The base pops off.
Inside, a hollow cavity. A tiny roll of microfilm.
INT. COUNTY RECORDS OFFICE - NIGHT
Dust motes dance in the beam of a beige, archaic microfilm reader.
Cole threads the film. His fingers tremble.
Mark leans in over his shoulder.
On screen: Grainy black and white. A map with hand-drawn lines. A photo of a man directing a logging crew. Massive white pines.
That's Silas Carter.
Cole scrolls. The final frames.
Silas Carter on a snowmobile. Angry. Close.
The strongbox on the ice.
A selfie. ARTHUR FINCH. Terrified. A bruise blooming on his cheek.
The last thing he ever saw.
He didn't fall through. He was pushed.
EXT. SPARROW LAKE - NIGHT
Wind HOWLS through the pines. The temperature has plummeted.
The empty strongbox sits on the ice near a fresh hole.
A lone headlight cuts the darkness. A snowmobile.
INT. TRUCK - CONTINUOUS
Mark and Cole watch through the windshield. Darkness inside.
Stay here.
Mark exits. His hand rests on his holster.
EXT. SPARROW LAKE - CONTINUOUS
The snowmobile slows. Stops.
SILAS CARTER (50s) dismounts. Burly. Expensive gear. He moves with purpose.
He approaches the box. He pulls out a grappling hook.
Late for fishing, Silas.
Silas spins. Drops the hook.
Mark steps from the tree line. Pistol drawn. Low ready.
We found the photos.
Silas freezes. His eyes dart to the snowmobile.
I don't know what—
The selfie, Silas. The one he took while you watched.
Silas lunges. He hits the throttle.
The snowmobile ROARS. Skis lift.
Mark lowers his weapon. He doesn't fire.
Silas looks back, shouting something lost to the wind.
He doesn't see the pressure ridge.
CRUNCH.
The machine cartwheels. Metal screams against ice.
Silas is thrown. He slides. Stops.
Silence returns to the lake.
In the distance, SIRENS wail.
INT. CABIN - LATER
The wood stove ticks as it cools.
Cole sits at the table. The laptop is open. A file named "DAD_CASE_FILES" is highlighted.
Mark stands by the window. Looking out at the dark.
Coffee?
Cole looks up. His shoulders drop. The tension leaves his jaw.
Yeah.
Mark pours two mugs. Sets one down.
He taps the table next to the laptop.
We'll look at that one tomorrow. Together.
Cole nods. He takes the coffee.
Outside, the ice holds firm.