Blue Wolf In Green Fire

by Joseph Heywood

  “Wolf Ground One, DNR Air One, we have aural null.” Nantz read off the GPS coordinates. “She’s a cool one,” Zambonet said to nobody in particular. Seeing Service’s puzzled expression, he added, “Aural null, no sound, cone of silence. It means they’re directly over the radio collar.”

  Zambonet checked the chart in his lap and made a dot with his grease pencil. “I’ve got the position. Can you run a north–south check and then east–west? Let’s get a cross-reference. Then do your two-antenna flyover.”

  “Roger, Air One out.”

  The bearded biologist took a small apple out of his coat pocket. It made a crisp popping sound when he bit into it.

  Service smelled coffee brewing on the woodstove and tried to imagine Nantz in the cramped cockpit overhead. Less than half an hour later she called with a set of coordinates. The biologist made another mark on his chart and grinned. “Looks good, Air One. The plots are on top of each other. Great job. You can RTB. We’d like you back just after first light in the morning, copy?”

  “We’ll try,” Nantz said, “but the weather in Escanaba isn’t looking good for morning.”

  “Roger,” Zambonet said. “Bump us on the cell phone if you can’t get up and keep us posted on the weather.”

  “Roger,” Nantz said. “DNR Air Wolf One is clear.”

  The biologist looked at Service. “She’s a pilot,” he said perceptively. “Radio discipline always tells.”

  “Do we need them in the morning?” he asked the biologist.

  “Only if the animal moves tonight.”

  Shark Wetelainen set up a gas grill and began cooking venison steaks.

  Service hated waiting around and pulled Limpy Allerdyce aside. “How far away is Aldo?”

  “Not too. Why?”

  “Let’s go see him.”

  “Eats first,” Limpy said.

  Service watched as the poacher took small portions, sampling salt and pepper on the palm of his hand before sprinkling his meat, which he cut a piece at a time, eating one before he cut the next, acting remarkably civilized. What was it about Limpy that had made his father trust him? Or was this all a lie from Limpy? Down deep he didn’t trust Allerdyce. Probably never would, he told himself as he got a steak for himself and began shoveling it down.

  “Should mebbe slow down, Sonny,” Limpy rasped. “Chew, not healty ta wolf down da eats.”

  Gus Turnage snickered, trying to stifle a laugh. Service scowled at Gus.

  They were plowing through ankle-deep snow. The wind was picking up, pushing the tumbling snow sideways.

  “Have you been to Aldo’s camp?”

  “I smell da smoke,” Allerdyce said.

  Service sniffed the air, but the wind prevented him from smelling anything. He had always considered himself Limpy’s equal in fieldcraft, but maybe that was more ego and wishful thinking than reality. It was not a comforting thought.

  Thirty minutes into the trek, Limpy began to mumble and Service craned to listen. Talking to himself? Service shone his small flashlight at the poacher and saw a thin wire curling down into his collar from an ear bud. The old bastard was using a radio.

  “Not dat far now,” he muttered over his shoulder.

  Limpy refused to have telephones at his camp, but he was using a radio, probably one that operated on Family Radio Service frequencies. FRS had a limited range but required no FCC license to operate. More and more poachers had electronics that matched their pursuers: police scanners, vehicle radars, night-vision scopes, motion detectors, radios of all kinds. Obviously Allerdyce was keeping up with the competition, an observation that suggested the old man had not abandoned his lawbreaking ways.

  Depending on brand, terrain, and weather, FRS radios had a range of two to five miles. “What’s your radio range?” Service asked. The forest was thick around them.

  “Don’t need no radio to talk Aldo,” Limpy said. Limpy might be along to help, but he wasn’t going to willingly surrender professional secrets. If he wasn’t talking to Aldo, then who?

  The old man led them up a small hill, stopped, and urged Service to angle to the right.

  “You want a light?” Service asked him.

  “What for?” Limpy said with a chuckle. “I can see good.” Service didn’t like the inference, but kept his mouth shut.

  When they stopped walking Limpy said, “We’re here.”

  Service saw nothing. Limpy reached forward, his hand causing something plastic to crackle. He pulled a cover aside to reveal a flickering interior light. Service ducked inside and Limpy followed.

  Aldo was sitting in front of a tiny fire ringed by blackened rocks the size of softballs. Two sleeping bags were in stuff sacks along a wall. The pit had seen lots of use, and Service wondered by whom. The shelter was a shallow cave. Service looked up. What little smoke there was curled up into an opening in the rocks above them, a natural chimney. The spot was well chosen.

  They were in the northern reaches of the Mosquito and he had never seen the cave before. DNR scientists and techies were forever debating the half-life of knowledge, how long it took for half of what they knew to become obsolete, and Service wondered how long it would take before he lost half of what he knew about the Mosquito.

  Service squatted. Limpy’s grandson looked young, relaxed, at home in his cave.

  “Where’s da squaw?” Limpy asked his grandson.

  “With her brother and sister,” Aldo said.

  “We got a radio signal on the female today,” Service said.

  “She’s not far from here,” Aldo said. “The male’s with her.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “Daysi’s with them.”

  “Injun hokum-pokum,” Limpy muttered. “Buildin’ casinos to fleece da white man.”

  “The wolves aren’t afraid of her,” Aldo said, ignoring his grandfather’s muted complaint. He held up a black FRS radio. “She’s got one of these. If they move, she’ll let us know and leave signs to help us follow.”

  Had Limpy radioed ahead to Aldo?

  “The weather’s getting bad in Escanaba,” Service said. “We may not have air cover in the morning.”

  The boy shrugged and said confidently, “Daysi can follow them.”

  Service said, “Your grandfather can call you on the radio when we’re ready to move in. Tomorrow at first light if the snow lets up. If not, later.” Aldo didn’t answer, but Service saw him sneak a puzzled side glance at Limpy.

  They were on their way back to the main camp. “How old is Aldo?” Service asked.

  The poacher shrugged. “Eighteen mebbe. Da squaw’s older, I tink. Claims she can talk to da wolves, but Injuns claim all sorts a stuff, eh?”

  Back in the tent Limpy zipped his coat, lay down on the frigid canvas floor, and immediately went off to sleep, no sleeping bag, no blanket, no pillow, nothing but the clothes and boots he wore. The group stared at him like he was an animal, but Service understood. Limpy was focused on what they were doing—or what he was doing—and nothing else mattered. You slept when it was time to sleep, or when there was opportunity, and you ate when you needed fuel, hungry or not. Life in the bush always reduced to basics.

  Service didn’t tell the others about Daysi and the wolves.

  The wind howled and battered the heavy canvas walls throughout the night.

  They were all awake at 4 a.m., stoking the fire and readying breakfast. Nantz called Service’s cell phone at 5 a.m. “Weather’s marginal,” she told him. “Tucker’s willing to try, but we might not be able to get back in here. We’ve got strong winds and blowing snow. We can use Menominee as our alternate. The snow’s lighter down there.”

  “Stay on the ground,” Service said. “We have the animals located.”

  “Call you later, okay? I do,” she added, her
two-word code for she loved him.

  “No flight this morning,” Service told the group. “Nantz will keep us posted on the weather.”

  “Won’t let up twenty-four hours,” Allerdyce said, stretching and getting up off the floor. “Worse tonight den last night.”

  Zambonet grimaced. “The National Weather Service says it will start to tail off later today.”

  “Twenty-four hours,” Allerdyce repeated. “You’ll see. What’s for breakfast? We got bakery?”

  Service grabbed the poacher’s arm. “Call Aldo, tell him it won’t be this morning.”

  “I’ll walk over dere later,” Limpy said, watching Shark scramble eggs. Limpy had a radio. Why wouldn’t he call his grandson?

  Zambonet spent the early morning checking his equipment and talking them through what would take place once they had the wolf in a leghold trap. He took a radio collar out of a box. It looked different from the ones Service had seen in the biologist’s office.

  “Built-in GPS,” Zambonet said. “If we can get this on the male, we’ll be able to track him precisely. This collar’s accurate to three feet.”

  “You use these all the time?”

  “Nope. I bought this with my own money. Been saving it. This is a matter of national security, right?”

  Service grinned. Yogi was on board.

  After eggs, hash browns, and venison chops, Shark began assembling the makings of hunter’s stew for lunch. The others went out to collect more wood, each coming back with his clothes caked with snow. Limpy disappeared. To Aldo’s camp, Service assumed. The old reprobate was not going to admit to having a radio.

  Service probed the snow with a stick, estimated nine or ten inches and still accumulating. Jesse Fulsik called in from Houghton with a weather update from there. “Clear and still,” he told Zambonet. “Clear up to our asses and still snowin’.” The Keweenaw had twenty inches on the ground and counting. Zambonet wanted his equipment within fifty yards of the capture site. Service knew they couldn’t get a truck to Aldo’s camp and decided they would have to use the snowmobiles to carry the gear. He explained the situation to Zambonet, and together they transferred equipment to two of the snow machines.

  Carmody called at 3 p.m. “This has to be quick,” he said, his voice barely audible. “We’re in the Mosquito.”

  “Where in the Mosquito?”

  “No clue, lad. She’s gone steely-eyed and tight-lipped. I’ll give you a shout.”

  “Another wolf was shot the other night when you called.”

  Carmody grunted. “Not us, lad. She had hold of a gun that night, but not the fifty.”

  “Is the fifty with you?”

  “I can’t say. She holds information tight. I’ll be in touch.”

  If Wealthy Johns didn’t shoot the third wolf, who did?

  There was a lot to think about before Carmody got to the area. He wished Shamekia would call today, but knew she wouldn’t.

  Freddy Bear Lee called at 7 p.m. As Limpy predicted, the snow had intensified throughout the day, sagging the roof of the tent. Shark and Gus and DaWayne Kota went outside periodically to scrape it off.

  “Service, Fred.”

  “Yah.”

  “I got the fax. The shooter was a woman, Grady.”

  The message caught him short. “SuRo?”

  “Your friend got the video cleaned and it’s still a bit of a blur, eh, but you can make out the face and it’s definootely not Genova. I talked to your friend about an hour ago and she’s running the photo through the Interpol and FBI computer databases of mug shots to see what pops up. She’s also talking to somebody in London.”

  At least SuRo would be clear. “Have you informed Cassie Nevelev?”

  “Hell no, but the feds and Feebs still have a lot to explain about why they’re on Genova’s ass so hard. Where you at?” Service told him. “Middle of the bloody wilderness, eh,” his friend said.

  The word made him smile. He remembered reading a recent Jim Harrison description of the U.P. as “undistinguished and slovenly, a wilderness by default,” spared development only because there was little of value to the rest of the state. He had long admired the writer’s work, but Harrison might sing a different tune if he saw the Mosquito.

  “You want to see the photos?” the Chippewa County sheriff asked.

  “How?”

  “I’ll bring ’em to youse. She’s only a baby blizzard, eh?”

  Service gave him directions and GPS coordinates to where he had left his trailer, and another GPS fix for the camp.

  “Be there sometime tomorrow,” the sheriff said.

  “Bring your sled,” Service said.

  “I never leave home without it.”

  Two hours later the cell phone rang again. It was McKower. “Grady, I’m at Marquette General. The captain had a stroke this afternoon. He was shoveling snow and passed out. When he came to, he managed to call nine-one-one. I just talked to his doctor. The captain’s left side is paralyzed, but this may pass. They’re going to run tests, try to determine if there’s permanent damage.” Lis sounded deflated. “Where are you?”

  “In the northern Mosquito, near Fish Creek. We’re trying to put a radio collar on the blue wolf.”

  He imagined the gears turning in her mind. What the hell was he doing in the Mosquito? The turf now belonged to McCants. But she didn’t challenge him. “They don’t think he’ll die,” she said after the long pause. “I’ll keep you informed.”

  “We got the video enhanced,” he said, “and a clear photo of the shooter. It’s a woman.”

  “Genova?”

  “Freddy Bear says no. FEMUNSUB at this point.” FBI jargon for “female unidentified subject.” “You want to see the pics? Freddy’s bringing a set to me. I can have him drop a set to you along the way. Does the chief know about the cap’n?”

  “I just got off the phone with him. He’s going to fly up, but right now all air traffic is grounded. The storm has socked in everything north of Cadillac. He’ll probably be here early tomorrow. I would like to see those pictures.”

  “Freddy will bring them. Tell the cap’n I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Just do your job,” she said. “That’s what he’ll want.”

  He called Freddy Bear Lee on the cellular and asked him to drop a set of photos to McKower at Marquette General. Then he called Nantz.

  “Hi,” she said, sounding tired.

  “Captain Grant had a stroke. He’s in Marquette General.”

  “How bad?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

  “Lis says he’ll live, but they don’t know yet if there’s permanent damage.”

  “I’m so sorry. Is Lis with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could drive up there.”

  “Let Lis handle it, hon.”

  “We’re not getting shit done here,” she said. “I loathe sitting on my ass, Grady. Tucker and I are sleeping in the hangar. No way are we ­getting ­airborne in the morning. The snow’s letting up a bit, but the winds are still brutal and with this drifting it’s going to be a battle to get the runway cleared.”

  “Don’t take a chance,” he said. “Stay on the ground until it’s safe. The wolves will wait.”

  “Okay, babe. Bad over there?”

  “It’s always bad when we’re in different places.”

  “Ooh, Service. Did I hear an unsolicited romantic, loving thought? You big old love-puppy!”

  He felt a blush coming over him and changed the subject. “Genova didn’t shoot those people at Vermillion.”

  “Well, duh,” she said. “Who did?”

  He didn’t know, but he was determined to find out. “Talk to you later,” he said.

  He immediately called Candace McCants. McKower h
adn’t brought it up, but this was Candi’s territory now and she deserved to know what was going on. He remembered Sheena Grinda laughing at his lecture on teamwork and shook his head. Just like his old man, the do-as-I-say, not do-as-I-do school. He felt like a jerk.

  “What?” McCants answered in the wary deer-season voice that all COs developed for two weeks each year when every time you picked up the phone there could be anything on the other end.

  “This is Grady. I’m in the Mosquito near Fish Creek. I’ve got Zambonet, Gus, Shark, Bobber Canot, DaWayne Kota, and Limpy with me.”

  “Allerdyce?” she said. “It sounds like Armegeddon.”

  “The Mosquito is yours. You want to join us?”

  She laughed out loud. “I wouldn’t miss this to do squat jumps on Russell Crowe. I take it you have something going down.”

  “Soon,” he said, leaving it at that. He gave her the coordinates and promised to explain further when she arrived. Next he called Sheena Grinda.

  “I thought you passed away,” she said, digging him.

  He cut her off. “I told you if we made a case, the bust would be yours.” He gave her directions and a list of equipment to bring and prepared to hang up, but her voice stopped him.

  “Service?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks.”

  All the calls left him questioning everything. This job required him to keep too goddamn many people in the loop. He was separated from Maridly, who was flying hurt in bad weather with some old beau. Joe Flap was dead and the captain was on his back in the hospital. He had an explosion first assumed to be intended to release the wolves, but now looking more like a murder cover-up. He had the feds and FBI playing some kind of game that made no sense, and Natalie Namegoss and her Native American greenies threatening public pressure on the department. On top of all this, the damn blue wolf was still loose and snow was coming down by the dumpster load; last week it had been in the sixties.

  Instead of settling into a funk, he suddenly felt alert and energized. Nantz had said to him one night that he was the sort of man who was born to ride a roller coaster, not a merry-go-round. She was right. But how often did roller coasters come off their tracks?