Blue Wolf In Green Fire

by Joseph Heywood

  “Lieutenant Ivanhoe?” Nevelev said.

  The state police lieutenant opened a large notebook and began to talk. He was tall with longish black hair, a handsome man with an oversized head and little hands. His hair looked too dark to be natural, and with the thought of Ivanhoe dyeing his hair, Service fought back a smile.

  “The investigation indicates a high-yield nonincendiary explosive device. The arson people believe it’s unlikely that a problem in the gas lines or anything of that sort caused the blast. ATF investigators, of course, are doing additional work.”

  On what evidence? And where was the BATF rep? Service wondered why Ivanhoe was making the report. It had been the FBI’s crime scene techs at Vermillion, not the Troops. Service expected Freddy Bear Lee to interject something, but the sheriff sat quietly studying his fingernails and the table in front of him.

  “Special Agent Peterson, will you please bring us up to date?”

  Peterson got to his feet. “Peterson, FBI counterterrorism. There were six attacks in the eastern and central Upper Peninsula last night and this morning. A McDonald’s restaurant in St. Ignace and another in Marquette were struck. Nets on a fishing trawler were cut in Naubinway, breeding animals were released from a mink farm near Curtis, a veal processing plant was vandalized near Rudyard, and, of course, there was Vermillion, the only federal facility in the group and likely primary target of the attacks.” Peterson paused to let the information sink in.

  “Were there fatalities at the other sites?” Lee asked.

  “There are no other known injuries.”

  “Were explosive devices used at any of the other venues?” the sheriff asked.

  “If you’ll bear with me and let me finish I think I can pull all this together.”

  Freddy Bear Lee nodded, folded his hands, and sat back.

  “Evidence points to a coordinated terrorist attack by a group known as the Animal Freedom League. This is a shadowy, amorphous group held together by a shared political philosophy rather than a formal organization. The group has been active for many years in England, but has long been expected to strike targets in this country. That time seems to have arrived. This seems to be the year for terrorism,” he added with a solemnity that Service found gratuitous.

  Freddy Bear Lee spoke up again. “Why do you assume these events are all linked?”

  Peterson looked unaccustomed to being challenged and seemed to bristle. “The AFL has traditionally struck multiple targets simultaneously, trying to overload emergency forces, but one target is always the primary. That’s Vermillion in this case.”

  “But there was no painting, no slogans at Vermillion,” Service said, unable to stay out of it.

  “There’s no need for paint when your signature is a bomb,” Peterson said smugly.

  Service argued back, “The bomb is a signature only if it’s of a similar design with similar components to past bombs, right? Do we know this yet? Is the Vermillion device the same as those found at Tech or previous incidents attributed to the group? If they wanted publicity, they’d have gotten a helluva lot more if they blew their bombs at the college instead of at an isolated federal lab.”

  “That is under investigation,” Peterson said, “but we are compelled to make an assumption in the interest of public safety. This morning we are issuing a warning bulletin to all potential targets and asking the media to tell the public to be alert for strangers around such facilities.”

  “Great,” Service said, “with thousands of hunters in the woods, how long until they start blasting each other?”

  Phillips, the Detroit ASAC, came to Peterson’s assistance. “Granted, this is preliminary, but it’s more than mere hypothesis.”

  “Based on what?” Service asked.

  “We are aware of an individual living in this region who has been connected to the AFL in the past.”

  “Spit it out,” Freddy Bear Lee said in a distinctly unpolite tone.

  “Please,” Peterson said. “As we saw in September and its aftermath, it’s normal for acts of terrorism to create a wake of chaos. But we have dealt with this sort of thing before and we will deal with this.”

  “Yah, yah, the way youse hotshots dealt with Ruby Ridge, Waco, and Oklahoma City,” Freddy Bear Lee said with a menacing growl. “Hell, it was one of our Michigan morons who killed those people in Oklahoma.”

  “Bickering is counterproductive,” Lieutenant Ivanhoe said officiously in a slaughtered attempt to play peacemaker.

  “Cram it, Eugene. I’m not bickering. This is my fucking county and I’m not going to be ordered around by a bunch of assholes who haven’t got a clue.”

  “Gentlemen,” Cassie Nevelev said, trying to regain control. “Please! That’s enough. This team will honor dissenting opinions, but when we leave the room we will be in agreement, am I being clear?”

  What Service understood was that Nevelev had already lost control. Not that anybody could rein in Freddy Bear Lee when he got up a head of steam.

  “What role will each of us play on the team?” Service asked.

  “We will collectively process information, share leads, coordinate investigations, and help analyze evidence. It’s essential that nothing be held back. Follow your own investigative paths, but report back all details and findings.”

  Service thought about DaWayne Kota and kept quiet.

  Peterson began to continue his briefing on the AFL, but Service’s beeper hummed in his pocket. The message showed a number and the message call now. He excused himself, stepped outside the building, lit a cigarette, and called the number.

  Pidge Carmody answered. “That was quick. I think we can work together.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just checking in, boyo. I’ve accommodations in Bessemer, purchased a rifle at Horns, and, as you predicted, they offered to grease me way into the gun club. Tiz always grand indeed how money talks so eloquently in the Land of the Free. I’ve purchased ten boxes of munitions, so I expect to be a busy boy at the club.”

  “Any sign of the Johns woman?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “Let me know if you get contacted.”

  “Aye.”

  Carmody: Was he for real?

  As Service came back into the conference room and slid into his seat beside the captain he heard Peterson say, “The suspect will be approached this afternoon.”

  “What suspect?” Service asked.

  “For this room only,” Cassie Nevelev said as a caution to the group.

  “Her name is Summer Rose Genova,” Peterson announced. “She lived in England some years ago and was arrested there several times at animal rights protests. She was present at a meat processing plant where a bomb was detonated.”

  “Was she charged?” Service asked.

  “No,” Peterson said. “You could say she was ‘encouraged’ to leave the country, and as soon as she departed, the violence from the AFL ceased. We have worked with Scotland Yard and Interpol to monitor her for years. She has been under our continuous surveillance since her return to the United States.”

  If so, that meant he had been seen visiting her. “I know SuRo Genova,” Service said, making a preemptive disclosure. “She runs an animal rescue operation near Brevort. COs, cops, and animal control personnel work with her all the time, and I don’t believe she would be involved in such a thing.” On the other hand, he thought, the day he had met her she had roughed up two hunters and might well have shot them had he not happened along. Still, his gut said this was not SuRo’s kind of thing. At heart she was a gentle, nonviolent soul. But she also had a hot temper and unbendable convictions, which made for a dangerous combination.

  “Yes,” said Peterson, “we’re aware of your relationship and we were in fact just about to suggest that you be the one to interview her.”
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br />   Peterson smiled maliciously from his place at the head of the table.

  Service bristled. “I’ll talk to her, but my way, and no damn team of black-suits running all over her property. If we barge in like the marines, she’ll have a lawyer and we’ll never get anywhere.” Of this he was certain.

  “Any objections?” Nevelev asked the group. There were none. “We stand adjourned and we will reassemble tomorrow morning, same place, same time.”

  Service walked outside to wait for Nevelev and muttered, “This is bullshit,” his temper leaking out.

  He fell into step with Nevelev as she walked toward her vehicle. “I may not be able to make every meeting,” he said.

  “I understand,” she said dispassionately.

  “No offense, but why isn’t the FBI heading this up?”

  “Do you always ask so many questions?” the prosecutor said, opening her door and getting in.

  “Do you always answer questions with questions?” Service fired back at her.

  Nevelev smiled, shut the door, started the engine, backed out, and drove away. Service used his cell phone to call his captain and related the meeting blow by blow.

  When he was done, the captain said, “Keep going.”

  “No matter where my nose leads?”

  Captain Grant said, “Within reason. You are more than able to hold your own with those people, Detective. I trust your judgment. Call me when you need heavier artillery.”

  Geez, Service thought.

  11

  It was early Saturday afternoon and en route to Brevort, Service telephoned DaWayne Kota’s office at Bay Mills. A woman, presumably the dispatcher, told him Kota had called in and would be in the field all day. Doing what? Service wondered. And where?

  Next he called Luticious Treebone, hoping to catch his old friend at home. They had graduated from college the same year, Service from Northern Michigan and Treebone cum laude from Wayne State, where he had lettered in football and baseball. They had joined the marines, met during training at Parris Island, and spent a year in the same long-range recon unit in Vietnam. The year had been hellacious and had included a high-risk mission into North Vietnam, but they had rarely talked about the war since their return. After the marines, they were in the same Michigan State Police Academy class and spent two years on patrol before seeking transfers to the DNR. Treebone had gotten fed up with chasing fish and game violators after a year on the job and transferred to the Detroit Metropolitan Police, where he was now a lieutenant in charge of vice. They saw each other several times a year and talked more often when problems arose or one of them needed support.

  “Tree, Grady.”

  “S’up, bro?”

  Service explained the situation, focusing on his suspicions about the behavior of the feds and their precipitous targeting of Summer Rose Genova.

  “I know Peterson,” Treebone said. “Wrapped tight as a mummy’s johnson. The man can’t count higher than number one.”

  “Why a federal prosecutor in charge of an investigation?”

  “’Member what the major used to tell us.”

  Their unit commander, Major Teddy Gates, had been a tough, fair leader who made good decisions for his men while acting like a dumb country boy from Mississippi, thereby hiding the fact that he had graduated fourteenth in his class at the Naval Academy. Gates and his two sergeants had formed a close bond in their time together.

  Treebone said, “Swim in the swamp, you gotta expect some snakes.”

  Service laughed. “I need help—somebody with connections in the U.K. I need information about an American woman who was involved with animal rights activists there, eight, nine years ago. Her name is Summer Rose Genova.”

  “Spell that for me,” his friend said. “Genova, okay man. I’ll see what I can shake loose. Speaking of reptiles, we got us a new mayor in Motown and a new chief and you take care not to get yourself bit on the ass or find somebody else to suck out the poison. I got beaucoup snakes I gotta try not to step on down here. Back atchu, Semper Fi, bro.”

  “Semper Fi, my friend.”

  Talking to Tree always made him feel better, but it didn’t change the fact that he was in a screwy situation—and this business with SuRo seemed ludicrous. He hoped she wouldn’t try to chuck him out when he began asking questions. Seeing her was a waste of time, his gut told him. He had too many other questions he’d rather pursue. What was the exact security setup at Vermillion, and if there were tapes and the feds had them, when were they going to share?

  And what exactly was a blue wolf? For that he would have to drive all the way to Crystal Falls and see Yogi Zambonet, the biologist who headed the state’s wolf recovery program. Yogi had been born in Chassell, had gotten his Ph.D. from the University of Minnesota, and worked in Alaska and Idaho before returning home to Michigan, where he had developed into one of the most respected wolf biologists in the country.

  Within the DNR Yogi was affectionately called Wolf Daddy. A tall gaunt man with a shaggy beard and long hair tied in a ponytail, the biologist tended to spend a lot of time alone in the field observing and tracking his animals, and catching up to him might prove difficult. Service radioed the district office in Crystal Falls, asked for the biologist, and was told he was not due in until the next morning. Service left a message that he needed to see him. He left his numbers for a call-back, and tried to shift his thoughts to Pidge Carmody and poachers.

  But he was in no mood to think about work. Just outside St. Ignace he called Nantz’s hotel and was put through to her room. “I’m sorry I had to bail out so fast, honey,” he said.

  “I’m glad you called, Grady. I’ve been worried. What happened at Vermillion?”

  “There was an explosion,” he said.

  “But people were killed. Is this related to the stuff at Tech?”

  “We don’t know,” he said. “You should see the vultures gathering: feds, state, county, everybody seems to be looking for a piece of the action.”

  “Maybe I should suggest Team 2001 get involved.”

  Service laughed. “Only if they send you.”

  “I have my first official meeting Monday morning.”

  “Really?”

  “I have to meet with the cleaning service the state leases to clean these offices and give them a performance review,” she said, groaning. “This sucks!” she added. “But I’m going to hang in there, Grady. I really am. We’ll get through this, no matter what it takes. Where are you?”

  “Heading into Iggy.”

  “God, and I could still be in Mack City. Be careful, babe. And call me?”

  “Tomorrow for sure. I’ll be in Crystal Falls.”

  “Mister Mileage,” she said. “Any chance you can get down here?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I could drive up to Mount Pleasant and we could have the night and I could be back here for work by morning,” she suggested.

  “We’ll just have to see,” he said.

  He felt empty when he hung up. Being apart from Nantz was not as easy as he had anticipated, and busy as he was, the job did not satisfy him the way the old one had. Then he was almost always alone, finding his own way, not relying on so many different people from organizations he didn’t understand or trust.

  Service went through the usual ritual to gain entry to SuRo’s sanctuary.

  She met him at the door of her building.

  “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, rockhead. Cuppa?”

  “I’ve already had too much. You want a smoke?”

  Genova eyed him suspiciously. “Do I need one?” she asked, opening the door for him.

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  He tossed a new pack to her and she looked at it before opening it. “This isn’t a social visit.”

 
“No,” Service said. “Have you heard the news?”

  She nodded. “Vermillion and all that.”

  “When I was here you mentioned a blue wolf, and the next thing I know the lab is bombed and the wolf has been released. That’s the sort of coincidence that gives cops sour stomachs.”

  “Take Tagamet,” she said sharply. “Is the wolf loose?”

  “Five of them got out in the wake of the bomb.”

  “Were they hurt?”

  He heard genuine concern in her voice. “We don’t know. Why did you bring up the blue wolf?”

  Before she could answer, he told her, “This morning I heard a story about you living in England and being linked to a group called the Animal Freedom League. The feds and state have been watching you since you came back into the country. Would you care to enlighten me?”

  She sighed, but it was a sound of weariness, not sadness. “Yes, rockhead, I lived in England for eight years. That’s where I met Howard. He came to London to lecture for a year, and we met at a party. I was arrested a couple of times. My alleged ‘link’ to the AFL was strictly that of unofficial spokesperson. I used to get anonymous calls warning of demonstrations and attacks, and I then passed these on to the authorities and the media. I have no idea who sent me the information. Did the feds suggest to you I was connected to AFL-linked deaths over there?”

  He nodded.

  “But they didn’t tell you that I saved dozens of lives by reporting the information I had and keeping people away from places. Assholes!”

  “I didn’t tell them that you knew about the blue wolf at Vermillion. How did you know it was there?”

  “If you will recall my words, rockhead, I said ‘it’s been said’ there was a blue wolf up there. I was simply curious. You know me. I can’t resist.”