Before racing north, he checked his fuel gauge and cut west onto US 2. He had enough to get to Vermillion, but knew from experience that keeping a full tank was the safest and most practical course—especially on the cusp of seasonal changes. It was warm enough now, but this could change any moment. He pulled into a Jet gas station and saw emergency vehicles converged in the parking lot of the McDonald’s next door. Squad car light-bars flashed blue and red under the garish yellow arches. Two town cops and two Mackinac County deputies milled around the restaurant’s parking lot.
He watched the activity next door while gas ran into his tank. There were faster pumps at other stations, but Jet had the cheapest gas in Iggy and even with his state credit card he tried to find bargains. After all, the money behind the credit card came out of his taxes too.
A blue state police Yukon joined the other vehicles and Service recognized the trooper who got out; Sergeant Lungo Ocha was known as Bilko by other Troops because of his office gambling pools and various schemes to make money for his retirement.
Bilko saw Service, puffed up his chest in an effort to hide his beer belly, and strutted over.
“What brings you this way?” Bilko asked with his customary cockiness.
“Stuff to take care of before the grind begins. What’s up over there?” Service asked with a nod toward McDonald’s.
Bilko grimaced. “Some assholes busted the front window to get inside. They spray-painted all over the place.”
“It begins early,” Service said.
“There it is,” Bilko said, shaking his head.
“What was spray-painted?”
Bilko pursed his lips and said with a sigh, “Meat is Murder. Mickey D is McPorkers.”
“Did they sign their work?”
“AFL.”
“I thought they merged with the NFL.”
Bilko grinned. “Animal Freedom League or some such shit. Buncha middle-age pinkos and college kids. I guess we should be happy it’s not that bin Laden fuckstick.”
Service wished the trooper luck, headed north on I-75, and sped up until he got to the M-123 cutoff. He cursed when he found the two-lane M-123 jammed with campers and trucks all wending their way north into the bush; six days until deer season began and the BOB was already out in force. He used his blue lights to surge past clots of vehicles, through Moran, Greene, Kenneth, past Ozark into Trout Lake, and from there north to Eckerman Corners. At the M-28 he saw that east–west traffic was as congested as the north–south 123. He couldn’t remember traffic this heavy in previous hunting seasons. Most people might be hunkering down in fear because of terrorist threats, but not hunters. He didn’t welcome the influx, but there was some comfort in knowing that some Americans were still out and doing. Maybe carrying guns boosted their confidence. Guns had never done much for him. In fact, in twenty years he had tried never to draw his weapon. Once a weapon was unholstered you were deep in shit-happens-land where all outcomes were seriously in doubt. He’d been forced to pull his weapon on a few occasions, but he had never shot anyone, a distinct change from his tour in Vietnam.
The traffic thinned north of Eckerman, allowing him to settle into a steady eighty miles per hour through the fog, trying to keep an eye out for deer and other animals along the roads. He slowed to a moderate speed only when he reached Paradise.
It was twenty miles to Vermillion, but the road was a washboard from all the rain this fall; he drove cautiously to keep from bouncing into a ditch. He eventually crossed a half-mile-wide marsh where the road had been built on a steep berm and came to the main gate of the federal wolf lab, more commonly called Vermillion.
The lab was two miles east of where the old Vermillion Point Life-Saving Station had once been located, chosen because it was one of the most isolated places in the Upper Peninsula and adjacent to major shipping lanes from the iron fields of Minnesota and the U.P. to Cleveland, Detroit, and Chicago. The lifesavers had been called storm warriors, and six of them and their families had lived at the station until the 1930s. Winter supplies and mail were brought in back then from Whitefish Point, ten miles to the east, winter trips taking eight hours by dogsled. As much as he loved the bush, Service couldn’t imagine living near the southern shore of Lake Superior, taking her nasty winter blasts for as much as seven months a year. His old man had always called the taigalike area Michigan’s Siberia, an especially apt description in winter. A group called Piping Plover Pals had recently acquired the old lifesaving station and turned it into a conservancy.
The gate to the federal wolf lab normally was attended by a security guard, but this morning it was standing wide open and two Chippewa County patrol cars were blocking the road. He had been to the Vermillion facility twice before, once two winters ago with other COs for a group snowmobile patrol and once just a month ago as part of Captain Grant’s directive that he introduce himself around in his new capacity as a detective in the Wildlife Resource Protection Unit. That time he’d met Dr. Barton Brule, the lab’s director. Brule had been gruff, not particularly friendly, and obviously irritated to have a visitor interrupt his routine. Brule was a lumbering man with long gray hair and sagging jowls.
He wondered if Brule was one of the victims.
A deputy sheriff waved him past the roadblock, where he parked his truck off the side of the road. He headed east on foot along the road, which passed through tamaracks and cedars in the lee of the sand barriers that lay between him and the largest and deepest of the five Great Lakes.
Through the fog he saw the blinking of emergency lights—two fire trucks, two more Chippewa County sheriff’s cars, and two ambulances, all of them pulled up near the lab. There were also two state police cruisers and a lot of people milling around with flashlights. He saw no hoses from the fire equipment, but firefighters were plodding around in their dark, bulky gear.
Service walked toward the knot of people and saw that one side of the building was gone, as were several sections of twelve-foot-high steel fencing that surrounded the compound behind the building. He could smell smoke, see plumes rising from the debris, hear steam hissing. He could also smell the residue of an explosive, but couldn’t identify it.
It was difficult to tell now, but the building had been new, less than three years old. Now half of it was in a pile. Service recognized only one of the Chippewa County deputies, a thin woman named Altina Lodner. She was a lethargic, even-tempered professional who took her work seriously, seemed a little stiff around strangers, and didn’t leave much of an impression on most people she met.
Lodner nodded when she saw him. “Service. They call you out too?”
“My captain,” he said.
“Bad news travels fast.”
“What have we got?”
“Two bodies, one male, one female. Prelim says Dr. Larola Brule and Dr. Lanceford Singleton, staff biologists. We’re leaving everything alone until the Troop crime scene team gets here.”
“Brule, related to the director?”
“His wife,” Lodner said.
Service hadn’t known Brule’s wife worked at the lab. The director had not been chatty the day he’d met him.
“Crime scene team coming from Negaunee?”
The deputy sheriff nodded, and he walked on. Negaunee was a long 160 miles west of Vermillion. The Troops had put their lab there to create a central location to serve the entire U.P., but it was more in the west than the east.
Service pulled his six-cell Mag-Lite from its holster, snapped down the red lens cover, pulled up the collar of his green Thinsulate coat, and walked over to the fence, which was made of ten-by-ten gray steel panels with golf-ball-sized perforations. The fence was connected to the building that housed the wolf lab by a narrow tunnel of steel panels. He had no idea what the tunnel was for. His previous tour had been cursory; Brule had made him uncomfortable and he hadn’t asked many question
s, figuring it wasn’t likely he’d have much contact with Brule or his facility in the future. At least four panels of the larger enclosure had been blown away where the wall was attached to the building. Shreds, strips, and scraps of metal gleamed in the beam of his flashlight.
Service walked around the exterior of the lab building and saw mounts for security cameras. Were there cameras on the gates, elsewhere along the fence? He’d have to check.
He cupped his hands to light a cigarette and continued walking. The wolf compound was oval in shape. He found nothing of interest near the destroyed sections and decided to make the full circuit of the perimeter fence, not sure how far it was. He flicked on his light periodically to study the ground or scan part of the fence.
The morning dew would preserve tracks like disappearing ink, the rising sun quickly melting them away. Dew in November? More strangeness. Usually there was frost—or snow, and up here a lot of snow. Thirty minutes into his tour he saw a small light flicker along the fence ahead of him and stepped under some overhanging cedar branches. When the light got to within ten feet, he said, “Looking for something?”
The light tumbled, sending its beam flashing around, like a drunk with a laser pointer.
Service illuminated the small figure and saw wild, long gray hair and a prune face that reminded him of Yoda.
“DaWayne Kota?”
The man bent over to retrieve his light and flashed it at Service. “Twinkie Man,” Kota said with a smirk.
Service had earned the name in a highly publicized case in which a poacher claimed to be intoxicated by Twinkies, a defense that had failed miserably.
“Little off your beat, DaWayne.” Kota was the recently appointed tribal game warden for the Bay Mills Indian Community near Brimley. The reservation was at least thirty miles southeast of Vermillion.
“You heard about the blue wolf?” Kota asked.
“Just yesterday.”
“I heard on my police band tonight there was goin’s-on out this way. Thought I’d better have a look.”
Why? Service wondered. He decided to see what Kota volunteered.
“I think it got loose,” the Indian said.
“How many wolves were here?” Four, he thought he remembered, but he wasn’t sure. No wolves had been visible on his last visit, and there had been no mention of a blue wolf. Had it arrived after he’d been here?
“Don’t know for sure how many,” Kota said.
“You find tracks?” Service asked.
“Not yet.” Kota was reputed to be a fine tracker, but Service had his own expertise and preferred to look for himself.
“Nothing back the way I came,” Service said.
Kota hunkered close to the ground, dug out a tin of Wintergreen, and held it up to Service.
“No thanks,” he said, taking out his cigarettes.
They squatted in silence, listening to more sirens from the direction of the lab building.
“The blue wolf supposed to be bad luck or something?” Service asked.
“Shit,” Kota said, spitting on the snow. “Some of the old ones believe that, but it’s just an animal.” Kota had been a cop in Saginaw before taking the Bay Mills job.
“Bad luck if it’s caged, right?”
“Some say,” Kota said.
“And if it’s running free?”
“Some dumb fuck will probably shoot it.”
“Killing a blue wolf isn’t bad luck?”
“For the wolf,” the tribal game warden said.
Kota was a difficult man to read. Just an animal, yet here he was looking around. Why? Did he suspect people from Bay Mills were involved? The Indians looked out for each other and, given their history and experience with white justice, Service couldn’t blame them.
Service flicked his cigarette away and stood up. “Guess I’ll move on,” he announced.
Kota remained where he was, chewing his tobacco.
The detective said, “Why don’t we join the others and get some coffee.”
“Gives me the shits,” Kota said, not moving.
Service went back to walking the fence line, doubting there was anything to find, but he had decided to make the circuit and he would, just as Kota would go in the other direction. They were a lot alike, he decided. Loners, set in their ways, overly suspicious, detail-oriented.
It took another thirty minutes to complete the perimeter tour and when he got back to the wolf lab he saw Wink Rector with two men in dark parkas that said fbi in large yellow block letters on the backs. Another jacket proclaimed batf. Rector was the resident agent for the Upper Peninsula and rarely had visits from his colleagues. The nearest major Feeb office was in Detroit. Gus Turnage said Rector was heading up the bomb investigation at Tech.
Spotlights by the forensics truck illuminated personnel who were busily erecting a tentlike shelter and setting up folding tables. Service saw Barry Davey of the USF&WS near the truck. It was very strange to find Rector and Davey at the same crime scene. Service’s antennae began to vibrate.
Wink Rector nudged Service’s arm and handed him coffee in a Styrofoam cup. “The shit’s hitting the fan tonight,” the Feeb said.
“Anybody got a read on this?” Service asked.
“Animal rights freaks,” Rector said. “They hit a McDonald’s in St. Ignace, another in Marquette, released animals from a mink farm near Curtis, cut nets from fishing tugs in Naubinway, and painted a veal operation near Rudyard.”
“All of that was tonight?”
“I suspect we’ll hear more,” Rector said with a nod.
“Where’d your compadres come from?”
“They flew into the Soo about an hour after the Iggy deal.”
“Who are they?”
“Peterson, the guy with the beard, is CT—counterterrorism—out of the Bureau. Phillips is the Detroit ASAC—assistant special agent in charge.”
“Peterson was in Detroit when this went down?”
“He’s touring field offices with the monthly dog-and-pony CT briefing. It used to be quarterly. What’re you doing here?”
“Checking for wolves.”
Rector grunted.
“You see Barry Davey?” Service asked.
“Yep, looks like the whole crowd is descending on this one.”
“Barry’s usually in Grand Rapids.”
“Deer season and September eleventh. Talk about a shitty combo,” Rector said.
Maybe, Service thought. But so many agencies in one place so quickly was a curious coincidence.
“I talked to Gus Turnage. Any progress on the Tech investigation?”
“You mean, a bomb here and bombs there and are they related?”
“Something like that,” Service said.
“No progress yet and thank God, no bodies in Houghton.”
“Everybody behaving?” Service asked.
Wink Rector snorted with a little laugh. “Like trying to herd cats, eh? And all of ’em in feisty moods.”
Service left Rector and walked over to Barry Davey. The USF&WS man did not look happy.
“Howyadoin, you see Carmody yet?” Davey asked.
“Yesterday,” Service said.
“He’s the best.”
“What are you doing here, Barry?”
“Gray wolf, endangered species.”
“No shit, but you have field personnel and we enforce ESA for the wolves here. You don’t send the boss on this sort of thing.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Davey snapped.
Service was about to press Davey when a dark SUV pulled into the cluster of other vehicles and a man emerged, stumbling forward and shouting incomprehensibly. A Troop sergeant grabbed the man, pinned his arms, and stopped him.
Service watched as the sergeant talked quietly to Dr. Barton Brule, who began sobbing and collapsed. Two county cops helped the Troop move the lab director into the backseat of a cruiser with its engine running.
Service walked back to the building and watched the crime scene people erecting portable klieg lights. They wore FBI jackets. Two bodies were draped under dark plastic tarps. How the hell had the FBI gotten a team here before the state people from Negaunee? And why?
“Who’re you?” an FBI technician challenged.
“Service, DNR.”
The man grunted and turned away.
The lights erected in the remains of the lab showed that the bomb had been a powerful one. He looked at what remained of the ceiling and saw remnants of mounts for two video cameras. Were there cameras in the debris, and if so, what would the tapes show? He’d have to wait to find out.
Service rejoined Wink Rector at the coffee jug. The FBI men he’d seen earlier were talking in hushed tones, with their backs to Rector.
“You got leprosy?” Service asked under his breath.
Rector twisted his face into a pained grin. “I’m just hired help.”
“Are there security cameras on the gatehouse?”
“It’s a high-security facility.”
“The cameras might show something.”
Rector grunted and changed the subject. “You hear the weather forecast? They’re calling for sixty degrees from midweek until Sunday. Talk about shitty conditions for deer hunting.”
The FBI agent didn’t even hunt deer, so why the weather forecast?
Service returned to the rubble of the building and nosed around, using his light. There were boot tracks everywhere. Whoever got to the site first had done a lousy job of preserving it. With all the foot traffic the ground was turning to mush, but away from the traffic he finally found two distinct paw prints, one of them extremely large. He tried to picture the animal that made it, remembering photographs he had once seen showing a couple of dead Canadian wolves said to be more than two hundred pounds.
Blue Wolf In Green Fire Page 10
