Blue Wolf In Green Fire

by Joseph Heywood

  “Granted it’s a challenge,” Service said, “but you still manage to trap and collar them.”

  “We do.”

  “What about the blue wolf?”

  “You mean trap and collar him? You gotta be smokin’ wacky weed.”

  “We’re having a theoretical discussion here,” Service reminded him.

  Zambonet issued a sort of gasp of exasperation. “Theoretically, sure. The first order of business is to identify where he is. Next we send out our trackers to narrow it down. Then we put out the traps, bait them, and stand by.”

  “The blue is in the Mosquito,” Service announced.

  Zambonet jerked his head around to stare at the detective. “Says who?”

  “Limpy Allerdyce.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Zambonet said. “That asshole!” Everybody in the DNR knew Allerdyce.

  “Who better to know where animals are?” Service countered.

  “Allerdyce tells you there’re wolves in the Mosquito so you get sucked over there and he goes elsewhere,” Zambonet argued.

  “Limpy won’t shoot wolves, and if he says the blue wolf is in the Mosquito, then that’s where the blue is.” Service hoped. He was thinking out loud, trying to work something out and not entirely clear on what he was looking for.

  Zambonet flashed a skeptical look.

  Gus Turnage said, “If Limpy told Grady this, I’d tend to believe him. He didn’t get to be what he is without knowing his business.”

  The biologist shot back, “It also seems to me that his business includes misleading you people.”

  Service didn’t tell them that he and Allerdyce had a sort of understanding. Service had learned that Allerdyce had been one of his father’s informants and that because of this, Allerdyce never poached in the Mosquito. Now they had a similar relationship, or at least a start at one.

  “What I don’t understand,” Service said, “is why the blue would head down there. If he’s looking for a mate, there are no wolves in the Mosquito.”

  “Sure there is,” Zambonet said. “I trapped and collared one there in September.”

  “In the Mosquito?”

  “It was in the northeast quadrant by Mosquito River headwaters,” the biologist said.

  Service said, “McCants should have been informed.”

  “Listen,” Zambonet said, “a few years back we had a handful of wolves. Now I’ve got at least sixty packs and dispersers are moving and setting up house all over the place. I can’t be telling every bloody grayshirt when a wolf pops up somewhere.”

  Service disagreed, but this wasn’t the time to argue the point.

  “This is the first wolf in the tract?”

  “First I’ve confirmed,” Zambonet said. “Three-year-old female.”

  “Already collared, right?”

  “I said that.”

  “Why’s it taken so long for the wolves to move into the Mosquito? Is there something wrong with the habitat?”

  “No way, it’s great, lots of deer and beaver. It’s like a chow line, but it’s also a bituva scoot inland from the main migration corridors over from Wisconsin and Minnesota. We know so little about wolves. Fifty years ago when they were last in the Yoop they were north of Channing in the Floodwood Lakes district. In those days that’s where the largest deer concentration was. Forty years after they disappeared from the U.P. the first wolves came straight back to Floodwood and their pups dispersed from there. We don’t know how they knew to go back there. Maybe there’s some sort of genetic memory chip at work, but the point is, they didn’t spread all over the place. They went to the place that used to have the most prey animals and settled there first, then spread out. The people who came over the Aleutian land bridge didn’t all run right down to San Francisco or Topeka, eh? It takes time for men and animals to spread out, but now that she’s there she’s got cherry territory.”

  “Why would the blue be there?” Service asked.

  “Pussy,” Zambonet and Turnage said simultaneously, and all of them laughed.

  Gus added, “You’re so tight with Maridly now you don’t remember when you prowled around like a wolf looking for company.”

  “I never prowled.”

  “Right, and Shark don’t drink too much.”

  “Why wouldn’t he just be passing through? I mean, how easy can it be for one wolf to find another?”

  “Not easy,” Zambonet said, “but not as daunting as you’d think. We had a predation case in Baraga County in September, couple of sheep killed. Bobber trapped the whole pack and relocated them more than a hundred miles north into Houghton County, in the Misery Bay country. We released the six animals separately, more than ten miles apart. In twenty-four hours the pack had reunited. Wolves seem to be able to find each other when they want to.” Bobber was Bobber Canot, the state’s lead tracker and Zambonet’s primary assistant.

  “You never had any problems,” Turnage quipped.

  Service ignored Gus. “But he could be headed elsewhere.”

  “Of course. It’s not like he’s dialed a destination into his NavStar and followed an electronic map. He’s doing what any single male would do, looking for food, shelter, and a lady, and right now, the lady is probably his primo interest.”

  “Any lady?”

  “Like I said, he’s just another single male. Think of the forest as a bar and mating season as last call.”

  “But wolves mate for life,” Service said.

  Zambonet grinned. “Eventually, but they only get to fuck a few days a year, so he’s not gonna be choosy if a four-legged opportunity sashays into view.”

  “But he could be homing in on this female?”

  “Could be. Probably he’s smelled her and heard her. Even lone wolves howl, though we aren’t sure why. But you could also be right. He may just be passing through. If you find them together, then you’ll know.”

  “That’s the only way?”

  Zambonet thought for a moment. “No, if I had several reliable sightings in the area, I’d think maybe he’s there for a reason.”

  “Several reliable sightings?”

  “Reliable, meaning not from some asshole poacher.”

  “Let me get this straight. First you get multiple reports of sightings, and you assume he’s staying in the area and that the female is the magnet. Then you set traps to capture him and attach the collar, right?”

  “Theoretically,” Yogi said.

  “Understood,” Service said. “Let’s forget the theoretical. What if the wolf was declared a national security concern and the president ordered you to capture the animal. Would that change your tactics?”

  Zambonet dropped an implement into a stainless-steel tray, where it clattered like a broken tuning fork. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “We’re having an intellectual discussion,” Service said.

  The biologist sneered. “This is about as intellectual as a Letterman stunt.”

  “Humor me,” Service said.

  “Dubya doesn’t give a shit about wolves. He’s got enough on his plate these days—even for a Texan.”

  “Okay, Mother Teresa.”

  Gus Turnage intervened. “She croaked.”

  Service ignored his friend. “Yogi? C’mon, talk to me.”

  “Okay, if the future of the world depended on it . . .”

  “That’s the spirit,” Service said.

  “If that was the case we’d start flying surveillance on the female, lay in some traps to see how her boyfriend handled them, and once we had him pinpointed running together with her, we’d take a chopper in and run him until we could pop him with a tranq dart.”

  Service said, “I think maybe we have a plan.”

  The biologist flushed. “A plan! Jesus Christ, Service. W
e’re talking theoreticals here and pure theory is usually half bullshit. If you run a wolf hard, you can kill him. Or he can react to the tranq after that kind of pursuit. Do you want to kill the wolf in order to save him?”

  Service grinned. “Nah, we already tried that in Vietnam. Let’s forget the theoretical and talk reality. That wolf is loose and somebody is going to kill him, sooner or later. The best chance we have to keep this animal alive is to get a collar on him and to be able to move with him and stay close.”

  “The three wolf kills so far haven’t been any place near the Mosquito,” Yogi Zambonet reminded him. “I can’t believe a Yooper would kill a wolf,” he added under his breath.

  “A Yooper farmer would kill one,” Service said, “and there’re lots of flatlanders and nonresidents in the woods right now. There is somebody out there hunting the animal,” Service said. “Not just a wolf. This wolf.”

  Zambonet started to argue, but Gus Turnage stopped him. “Pay attention, Yogi. Grady just told us in veiled fashion that he has somebody working the case and he knows this wolf is being hunted.”

  The biologist’s mouth hung open. “For real?”

  “Theoretically,” Service said. Good old Gus. Service added another wrinkle to the discussion. “Even if there wasn’t a theoretical targeting of the animal, what happens if our visitors today get pissed and run to the media and start blabbing about a rare blue wolf running around the woods in the U.P.?”

  “I’d hate to think,” Zambonet said with a shudder.

  “Exactly, we can’t allow that to happen. We need to find a way to appease those folks so that we can do what we have to do. Let’s get practical about this. You start organizing what we need, and I want Shark Wetelainen brought in.”

  “I don’t know him,” Zambonet complained.

  “We do and you will,” Service said with a glance at Turnage.

  “I’m supposed to drop everything and get ready for this . . . stunt. What are you going to do?” the biologist asked.

  “I’m going to do lunch,” Service said, thinking the last time he had a lunch with Natalie Namegoss it had turned out to be a lot more.

  “Lunch?” Gus said.

  “Yah, I’m gonna play Let’s Make a Deal.” Or some form of Survivor.

  27

  Natalie Namegoss sat across from Grady Service, scanning the dining room, which was painted a blinding white. “Petto’s Pine Box?” she said. “It’s a bit sterile.”

  “It used to have a different function. Up here businesses tank but buildings live on.” Like the aftermath of a neutron bomb, he thought.

  A waitress came for their drink orders. Service asked for coffee and Namegoss studied him. “Coffee, just like last time,” she said. “You were on duty that day, too. A glass of Merlot for me,” she told the waitress.

  When the waitress left them, Service said, “This is business.”

  “I’m glad you came, Grady” she said. “It really is good to see you. I just wish the circumstances were different.”

  “Nin babi-miwi-da-di-min,” he said, struggling with the language he had studied intermittently since his childhood. Not sure of his skills, he translated to English, “We have patience with each other.”

  “There was a time,” she said, her eyes locked on him.

  “Pag-a-man-i-mad,” he said. “A strong wind is coming up.”

  “Nin jog-an-as-tum, you can use English,” she said. “I’m duly impressed. Am I the strong wind?”

  “You might be,” Service said. “I won’t even ask how you know about the wolf shootings or what was going on at Vermillion.”

  “Ve haff owa zawzes,” she said in a mock German accent.

  “The blue wolf is a problem,” he said.

  Namegoss cocked her head. “And?”

  “I think we want the same thing, but we aren’t going to get it if we don’t work together.”

  “Handsome wa-bish extends the olive branch,” she said. “Or is it the Trojan horse?”

  “An olive branch is better than finding another wolf carcass,” he replied sharply. “Zambonet tried to explain today that focusing on a single wolf is difficult, but we think we have an opportunity.”

  Namegoss listened attentively as he talked about the Mosquito Wilderness, the female wolf, the sightings of the blue wolf, and what the DNR proposed to do to catch, collar, and follow the animal.

  “And with all this,” he concluded, “we still may fail.”

  “That would be tragic,” she said. “What do you want from us?”

  “We’ll keep you tuned in all along the way, but you can’t go to the media. If word of the wolf gets out, we’ll have a lot of crazies out there looking to take a shot.”

  Namegoss nodded solemnly but said nothing as she processed what she had heard. “Is your investigation of the shootings focused on an individual?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  After another pregnant pause, she nodded and said, “All right. We keep quiet while you try to collar the wolf, but there’s one condition.”

  Service felt himself tensing and he fought to control it. “What?”

  “We want to be part of the effort. With one of our people.”

  “Who?”

  “DaWayne Kota,” she said.

  “DaWayne?” Had Kota called in the heavy artillery? “I didn’t know he was political.”

  “He’s not,” she said. “He’s a fine tracker.”

  Service nodded.

  “And,” she added with a self-deprecating laugh, “he’s my cousin, several times removed. I won’t try to talk you through the genealogy because I’m not sure I understand it myself.”

  “DaWayne will be welcome,” he said. “Is that it?”

  She cocked her head again. “No, now let’s have lunch and talk about what, as you put it—comes next.”

  He looked her in the eye. “I’m sorry, Natalie, but no lunch for me. If we’re going to do this thing, we have to get after it now. Try the D.C. pizza,” he added.

  “As in Washington, D.C.?”

  “As in Death Certificate. This place was a funeral home for forty years.”

  Namegoss made a face and began laughing. When he pushed back from the table, she looked up at him and said, “You really must introduce me to your woman sometime.”

  Outside, he lit a cigarette with a shaking hand and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs.

  He called the house in Gladstone from his cell phone in the truck and got his own voice on the answering machine. She wasn’t home yet. He left a message: “Hey you,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be at the airport but I wanted you to know that I wouldn’t trade you—”

  Suddenly Nantz’s voice cut in. “In a minute, Newf!” she said with her mischievous laugh. “Service, you romantic dog. You trying to get in my wears? Why don’t you save the schmooze for face-time. Bundolo, Kreegah!” she shouted into the phone.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “I don’t have a clue, but Tarzan used to say it all the time in the comics.”

  “You aren’t supposed to be back until dinnertime,” he said.

  “I know. Tuck pushed it up and I was game. I couldn’t wait to get back. Whoa,” she said. “Am I hearing a man complain because his woman is early?”

  “I just wanted to be there to meet you. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

  “I’ll try not to start without you,” she said with a lecherous laugh and hung up.

  He was about to pull away from the restaurant when he saw DaWayne Kota ambling toward him. Service rolled down the window. “Ahh-neen, DaWayne, coincidental presence?”

  “Bojo, Twinkie Man. Did you talk to Natalie?”

  “You’re in,” Service said with a nod. “You got wheels?”


  The Bay Mills game warden nodded, but Service said, “Leave them here and jump in. We’re going back to the district office. I’ll fill you in on what we’re putting together.”

  Ten minutes from the office, the taciturn Kota said, “You want to see a picture?”

  He handed a snapshot to Service. It was in color, taken in low light, probably just before sunset. The wolf in it was not just blue, but a shimmering electric blue.

  “Where is this?”

  “North of the Mosquito, three days ago,” Kota said. “He’s been followed since he left the compound.”

  “By whom?”

  “Who do you think invented the concept of networking?” Kota said, obviously pleased with himself.

  Service grinned and speeded up.

  “One thing,” Service said as he turned into the DNR District 3 office parking lot. “If you’re in, you’re all the way in. No freelancing. We agree on a plan and then we all stick with it. The time to disagree is before we make a decision. After it’s made, that’s it. Do I make myself clear?” Not so long ago Cassie Nevelev had given a similar speech to another team. The irony soured his stomach.

  “Who makes these decisions?” Kota asked.

  “I do,” Service said. Limpy reported the blue in the Mosquito. Carmody indicated that Wealthy Johns believed it was headed for the same area. And now Kota had a photo. That should be enough to convince Yogi.

  “Whatever you say, petcha.”

  Service looked over at Kota and found him grinning.

  “Helluva network,” Service mumbled.

  Kota smirked and stared straight ahead.

  28

  Gus Turnage was helping to inventory gear in Zambonet’s office. Black patent-leather radio collars were side by side on a table next to a black six-foot-long metal poke-stick with an opaque syringe attached to the tip. A pale blue Tupperware cup held several red plastic ear tags. The biologist’s field drug kit was in a marked bag on the floor and Yogi Zambonet was putting ice packs into it.