Ice Hunter (15 page)

“New fire?” Hathoot's eyebrows popped up and he looked surprised.

“Five acres at the log slide. Intentionally set. We found a body.”

“Holy shit.”

“The victim had been shot.”

“Double holy shit.”

“It's under investigation now and nobody is talking about it yet.”

“Did you identify the deceased?”

“Not yet.” Service wasn't sure why he didn't tell Hathoot he was pretty certain it was Jerry Allerdyce, but he had learned over the years, starting in Vietnam, that when stuff started going funny, you needed to withdraw into yourself and trust few others. “Your briefing go all right?”

“The usual crapola,” Hathoot said. “The governor wants even fewer state employees and he wants to up the state income, but reduce taxes. ‘How the hell do you do that?' I asked the NRC guys. By selling off state land, they said. Did you know that DEQ has been ordered to okay licenses and leases with minimal investigation before they approve development grants?”

“I've heard rumors.” Clearcut Bozian seemed intent on letting business do anything it wanted in the state. He was not surprised by Hathoot's revelation, but it irritated him.

“Before it was just a practice from above. Now it's in writing.”

“Don't tell me they want to sell the Tract.” Service felt his anger rise.

“Holy shit, no! We're still a gem in the state's crown jewels. Me, I'd do it the other way and buy property and real estate for the state and the future. This would cut down on rural incursions and let us put some substantial parcels back together, but in Lansing they think they'd lose tax revenues, so they want to sell public land for cash and to jack up the tax base. The thinking is to lower the rate, but get more people paying. Bureaucrats.”

“They come after the Tract,” Service said, “and they will have a war on their hands.”

“If they do that, count me in with you. And if you need more on the leasing situation, just call me.”

Kira sounded out of breath when he reached her at her office. “I'm glad you called!” she said. “I just got a call from a woman in Rock. Something about an eagle and her dog in her backyard. Meet me there?”

“Sure,” he said. He wrote the address on the back of his hand with a ballpoint pen, a habit acquired in Vietnam.

Kira's truck was parked in front of the house, which was on the edge of a marsh not far from the Tacoosh River. Newf wagged her tail when she saw Kira, but Service told the dog to stay and she did.

There was an older woman with the veterinarian. She had on a faded shapeless sundress and blue flipflops with her hair in a ragged black hair net, creating the appearance of a helmet.

“They've got Mac,” the woman keened. Her eyes were red from crying. “I turned a hose on 'em, but it didn't do no good.”

“Her dog McClellan,” Kira whispered to Service as they headed behind the house. “Named for the Civil War general who didn't like to fight. That should make you feel good.”

“It's still a dog,” he said.

In the backyard two very large, angry adult bald eagles were on top of a bloody brown dog. One of the raptors had hold of the dog's neck; with the other set of talons he was locked to the other bird. They were pecking at each other and pounding away with their wings.

“Get me a broom,” Service said.

The old woman fetched.

Service poked tentatively at the birds to switch their attention to the broom, but they were too filled with hate for each other.

The broom was not going to work. “You got your tranq gun?” he asked Kira.

“Yes, but I don't have a clue about a safe dose for eagles. I don't want to kill them. How about cold water?”

He nodded while he cautiously continued to try to separate the birds' talons with the broom.

Kira lugged the bucket of water and Service tossed it and the birds suddenly lifted, but took the dog with them. The CO instinctively grabbed the brown dog and the eagles let loose, flitting upward, showering a small rain of feathers. Service and the suddenly freed dog fell to the ground. The dog shook its head, saw Service, and lunged snarling at his chest, but the CO managed to knock the animal aside with an elbow as he scrambled to his feet.

“Don't, Mac!” the old woman shrieked.

Mac wasn't listening.

The dog was losing blood fast, but crouched to attack, trying to marshal its strength, its ears flat. Kira grabbed the owner and pulled her back. Service wondered if he could get to the broom, but suddenly Newf banged into his leg, knocking him off balance, and planted herself between him and the brown dog. The two animals stared at each other silently until the brown dog finally collapsed on its side.

Service exhaled in relief and backed up, calling Newf, who came to him reluctantly and kept staring back at the other dog. He had learned a long time ago never to run away from an angry or injured animal.

Kira returned with a blanket and talked softly to the injured dog while she carefully wrapped it. She told Service she needed to get the animal to her clinic.

“Help me, Grady.”

He was nervous but grabbed the brown dog's front. Kira got its hindquarters and they carried the animal to her truck, where she gave the animal an injection and used a towel to wipe blood off her own arms.

“Do you want me to follow you back to the office?” Service asked.

“No, I'll be fine.” She kissed him and got in her truck. “I'll take Newf and see you at home.” She opened her passenger door and Newf jumped in and sat down.

Service dug into his shirt pocket, asked for her hand, and put the pebbles from the Mosquito in her hand.

“What're these?” she asked with a smile.

“It's your reward for pulling that woman back,” he said.

She looked at the stones, then at him. “I
love
sparkle-arkles, baby. You'll get
your
reward tonight,” she added, lowering her voice. “If I can stay awake.” Then she winked and started her engine.

Service lingered by the passenger door and stared at the dog. “How did you get out?” he asked.

The animal woofed and wagged her tail, looking back as Kira drove away.

There were black hairs on the edge of his truck window on the passenger side. The dog must've squeezed her way out. “Okay, dog.” he said to himself, “I owe you.”

The county dispatcher relayed Service by radio to Gustus Turnage, a CO in Houghton. “Gus, Grady.”

“Yo.”

“I need information. There's a man over your way in Pelkie. His name is Seton Knipe.” Service spelled the name. “Get me an address, phone number, and a read on him.”

“How soon?”

“Quick as you can. Do you know him?”

“No, but Knipe's an old name around these parts. Dough from mining and logging. Iron mines, I think, somewhere in the distant past. Maybe some real estate in recent years.”

“Let me know what you find out, okay?”

“Wilco. How goes the battle?”

“Day by day.”

“Yeah, well, eat your Twinkies,” Turnage said with an audible chuckle.

The word was out on his court exploits, Service knew, and it made him feel good. When you took down a bad guy, it gave all the good guys heart.

He called ahead to the Marquette County Jail, only to learn that Limpy was refusing visitors. There was no point in bugging the old bastard. Instead, he turned southwest and headed for Limpy's camp. When he parked, he saw a lookout dart into the woods.

Service didn't get far down the trail before Limpy's brother Eddie came toward him. Eddie had done half a dozen short stints in various U.P. county jails for fish and game and assault violations. He was a few years younger than Limpy but looked nearly as bad. He was toothless and balding, his face lumpy with acne scars, his back bent. Still, he had strength enough to lug along a baseball bat.

“You're not welcome here,” Eddie said.

“I want to talk to Saila.”

“Jerry's dead. Just leave the girl be.”

The word had obviously traveled fast. “Jerry was murdered, Eddie. We need information.”

“We know how to take care of our own.”

“Yeah, well, you didn't do so well with Jerry.”

Eddie turned without a word and led him into camp.

Acrid wood smoke hung in the air. Several people milled around casting angry eyes at them.

The girl met him on the porch of a run-down shack. She was tall, five-ten at least, with spindly legs and arms and an enormously protruding belly. The other clan members gathered near the porch.

Service said, “Folks, can we have a few minutes alone?”

The crowd dispersed reluctantly.

The girl had a pretty face but aged eyes, and he couldn't blame her.

“I'm sorry about Jerry,” he said.

“I keep thinking he'll come walkin' up the trail any minute.”

“He was murdered, Saila. Somebody shot him and set his body on fire and he is not coming back.”

“That don't change what I feel for him.”

“He was in the Mosquito Wilderness Area when it happened. When did you last see him?”

The girl thought before answering. “Two, three days ago, I guess.”

“Was it two or three? This is important.”

“He sorta comes and goes, ya know?”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Just that he had a job to do.”

“Did he say when he'd be back?”

“Probably yesterday.”

“What kind of job?”

“For some guy.”

“Do you know who?”

She shook her head and clasped her hands together. He understood the body language. She was shutting down.

“Do your folks know about Jerry?”

She barely moved her head. “They don't want me and our baby.”

“You should call them,” he said. “Your baby ought to have grandparents. Did Jerry work with this man before?”

“I don't know,” she said. “We don't put our noses in other people's business.”

This was a Limpyism. “Do you know what kind of work it was?”

“No, but I seen his chain saw was gone.”

“What make was it?”

“I don't know that stuff. It was yellow. Had a long blade, ya know? Jerry took real good care of his guns and tools.”

But not people, Service thought. “Anything missing besides the chain saw?”

“No, just that. He's real particular about that saw. He'll use other people's tools, but not their chain saws. Wouldn't loan his, neither.”

“This other guy, did he pick Jerry up?”

“No, I think they were gonna meet at the Happy Jet.”

“In Gwinn?” It was the only bar he knew with this name, but he needed to make certain and help her to keep talking.

“Yah, Jerry likes the Happy Jet. I haven't been in there yet, but I hear it's way cool.”

If you liked bikers and meth freaks. “Did Jerry have his own car?”

“He had Limpy's truck and he took real good care o' that, too.”

Service couldn't think of other questions. “Thanks for talking to me, Saila. Call your parents. Things get said when people are mad or upset, but time tends to calm things down. They'll be worried about you when news of Jerry gets out.”

She nodded, but he had a feeling she wouldn't call.

Eddie Allerdyce walked out of camp with Service. “You think they're gonna let Limpy out?” Had Limpy told his brother he was offering to trade information? It wasn't likely. The family would not like it if their leader were known to be cooperating.

“I don't know,” the CO said. “He violated parole. You know who Jerry was going to work with?”

“I did, you can bet we'd already be hunting that bastard.”

Which meant he knew that Jerry had gone with somebody. “Let the law handle this, Eddie. You people have enough problems.”

“You're a decent guy,” Eddie said. “Limpy told us that. He don't got no hard feelings, eh? He didn't mean to shoot you that time, ya know? It just sorta happened.”

“What's Jerry drive?” Service asked.

“He's got my brother's truck.”

“Did you see Jerry leave with his chain saw?”

“Nope. I didn't see him leave at all.”

“Maybe he was going to do some work with Ralph.”

“Limpy tell you that?”

“I'm just asking.” Eddie didn't need to know he'd gotten the information from Honeypat.

“Ralph lives near Christmas?”

“Down to Ridge, but he don't welcome visitors.”

It wouldn't hurt to leave Eddie with a little hope. “Tell your people if they clean up their acts, Limpy may have a chance. You keep on doing what you've always done and they won't send him back to you.”

Eddie said nothing.

Ridge was a tiny farming community southeast of the village of Christmas. Like most COs in the U.P., Service knew of most the villages and little clusters of houses that served as population centers, but he had never been to Ridge and radioed CO Jake Mecosta for help. A member of the Baraga-L'Anse Ojibwa, Mecosta worked out of Munising and was one of the few Native American COs in the state. Most of the tribes and bands had their own police and CO forces, and few of the Indians moved into the state ranks. Service wasn't sure why. Mecosta agreed to meet him at the public boat launch on Christmas Beach in Bay Furnace. Christmas was a fine example of Yooper schemes to make money. A Swede from Munising had bought land back before World War II and had built a factory to produce year-round Yule gifts. The business had burned, but the town had kept the name. You could still buy Christmas trinkets in gas stations and restaurants. And you could gamble at the tiny Indian casino called Kewadin, which meant north wind.

Jake Mecosta was leaning against the front fender of his truck, chewing a toothpick. Nearing fifty, Jake was six-six, with short salt-and-pepper hair and skin the color of cherrywood.