Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  “No. It’ll mean fewer middle-of-the-night whine-calls.”

  She always called citizen calls whine-calls. “Slippery Creek is for sleep,” Service said. “But don’t rule out road games for playtime.”

  Friday snorted derisively. “Playtime in deer season? That’s rich.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Gotta go. Hug our boy for me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the jail.”

  “Ah, the Croatian,” Friday said.

  “Who told you about that?”

  “The whole community is talking about how the great Grady Service pinched a legendary and uncatchable violator by following his nose-hair clippings, or something equally ludicrous, following them for miles through an impenetrable swamp.”

  “People exaggerate. It was his cologne. Jovan. A noseless dog could follow that stench.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Eau de Violet.”

  Friday sniggered. “You are entertaining,” she said. “Keep your powder dry, kemo sabe.”

  Service looked at Knezevich. “Did you give your statement to your lawyer?”

  The man handed the CO some neatly folded papers. “I got no lawyer.”

  “What about Tavolacci?”

  “He is a clown in bad suit. I don’t need a fool. I will plead guilty, and you and me got an agreement.”

  “Understand, all I do is make a recommendation to the prosecutor,” Service said. “He makes the decision.”

  Knezevich smiled knowingly. “I check around on you. You got the gravitas for sure. What you tell, others believe. So, this prosecutor makes the actual decision on charges and all? You make negotiation with this person, yes?”

  Service nodded and read the man’s statement. “Who dropped you on the other side of the river?”

  “Mrs. Petrolli. She owns cabins called Escanaba Moons, near Gwinn.”

  “Giuseppi Petrolli’s widow?” Service had suffered many contacts with the dead man, who couldn’t or wouldn’t follow rules and often wanted to fight him.

  “That is her.”

  “How did you get up here from Chicago?”

  “In panel truck.”

  “You park it, then go to the Moons. How?”

  “First I drop gear at inn, then drive truck to where I will hunt, park truck, walk back.”

  “That’s got to be fifteen miles.”

  “I like to walk,” the man said. “You have sweet air here. Not like Chicago.”

  “And Mrs. Petrolli brings you back when you are ready to hunt?”

  “Yes.”

  “You camp rough and kill deer.”

  “Yes. When I finish, I move all to truck, drive back Chicago.”

  “You don’t stop to see Mrs. Petrolli?”

  “Why? I have wife at home.”

  “And the red truck?”

  “Knezevich grinned slyly. “Ne crveni kamion. You saw this truck?”

  “I tracked you from it.”

  “Nothing do with me. Is nice one?”

  “Tricked-out Ford 250, extended crew cab, big-ticket item.”

  Knezevich smirked.

  Service said, “Tribute, I understand.”

  Knezevich said, “Jeste li razum jeli, you understand this?”

  “Probably, the deer part of your deal I get. But why did you kill wolves?”

  “Vukovi su zli, da? Wolves are evil, all of them. This country, Old Country, everywhere.”

  • • •

  Service found the new Marquette County prosecutor in his office, his left leg in a cast. Kennard Dentso was forty, handsome, tall, and soft-spoken, a Chicago transplant. He had run as a Democrat and won in a landslide. Service knew he had a camp up near Big Bay.

  “Figured you’d already be out to your camp,” Service said.

  Dentso tapped his cast. “Not this year.”

  “Ice?”

  “My daughter’s size 4 hockey skate on the stairs. Kids. Surprised you’re not in the woods.”

  “Lodged a guy and doing follow-up.”

  “I heard the drums: You nabbed the uncatchable Croatian with thirtysix deer. Is that even possible?”

  “Thirty butchered carcasses, six racks with capes, three wolf pelts.”

  “Commercial market operation?”

  “If so, it’s not like any I’ve seen before.” Service then explained as best he could what was going on and ended by saying, “I’ve proposed a deal. We take everything, use the heads and pelts in our special ops, charge him with fifteen counts of deer out of season; he pays restitution, court costs, loses his equipment, hunting privileges, and gets no jail time.”

  “You’re good with that?”

  “It will slow him down and give us some tools to use. If we’re lucky, he’ll move to Wisconsin or Illinois for his next chapter.”

  “This is a real bad guy?”

  “Not sure if bad’s the right label. Strange bird for sure, yet he’s honorable in some inexplicable way.”

  “Fifteen, and? That’s the deal you’re recommending?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Bail or own recognizance?”

  “Bail, in case I’m wrong on the guy.”

  “Okay by me. Done. You want to tell his lawyer?”

  “He fired Sandy Tavolacci; thinks he can do this alone.”

  “Did you explain that justice is blind and dumb, and mostly the latter?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll make sure we get him a public defender. Tell Sally on the way out. She’ll take care of it. I don’t want this case bouncing back on us.”

  Service stopped at Sally Palovar’s desk, handed her the paperwork, and explained about the public defender.

  “Done,” she said. “Newichyu?”

  “Deer season,” he said.

  The woman smirked. “Give ’em hell, Grady. All of ’em. They’re idiots, the whole bloody lot.”

  “Even your boss?”

  “No exceptions, including my husband.”

  • • •

  Town business done, radios quiet, Service decided they would head for Slippery Creek, get a good night’s sleep, and see what tomorrow would bring.

  A half mile from his house, he saw four-wheeler tracks cutting into the woods toward Slippery Creek. He parked the truck and they got out and started quick-walking along the illegal trail, which had been cut through virgin territory. A mile down, they struck the creek. A pair of four-wheelers were parked, and four men were spread out, wading the creek trying to dip spawning brook trout.

  Service walked up behind one of the men. “That legal?”

  “Who’re you, the fucking game warden,” the man muttered, not looking back.

  “Conservation officer,” Service said, and almost immediately the man had a cell phone in hand and was rabbiting through the woods, leaving his net and fish bag on the bank of the creek. “Get to the four-wheelers and disable them,” Service told Allerdyce. “That will put them on foot.”

  The old man hurried downstream close to the bank, while Service climbed higher to more open territory and headed downstream until he saw two more machines. He slid down the slope and used his pocket knife to quickly put them out of commission.

  Allerdyce soon joined him. He was grinning. “Da hunt an’ da waiting game,” the old poacher said. “Dis is fun.”

  “You see anybody on your way to me?”

  “Nope.”

  “You want me go sniff ’em out?” Allerdyce asked.

  “No, but work your way up to the other machines and collect all the fish and gear along the way. It’s evidence. They’ll try to get to the machines too. We’ll start our work by checking ownership, find out who they belong to.”

  It turned out that all four machines were stolen—two of them just in the past week, two of them earlier in the fall from Baraga County. Dark came, and none of the men showed.

  “Track ’em now?” Allerdyce asked.

  “Not worth the energy. We recovered stolen property. That’s good
enough for tonight. We’ll see these jerks again somewhere along the line.” Service called the county and ordered a flatbed truck to haul the stolen goods.

  “Dat firs’ guy rabbit off t’rough woods?”

  “The first guy? What about him?”

  “Dat’s Virpi Niemi’s fodder-in-law, Dinty Peaveyhouse.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Got short left leg, from g’enade, Fir’t Guff War. Got full medical; don’t work none nomore. In woods alla time, dat one.”

  “Good at it?”

  “He look like he good?”

  Service laughed. “Do you know where Peaveyhouse lives?”

  “Yah, mebbe, I t’ink ’e got camp over old railroad grade and da pipeline down jest nor’t an west a Alfred. Bear Creek, I t’ink.”

  The location was in Dickinson County. “They’re a long way from home.” “Got have truck hided roun’ ’ere someplace.”

  Service ran Peaveyhouse through his computer and the state system and got a vehicle plate and description. White Toyota Tacoma, year-old eightcylinder model. Service asked central dispatch to transmit the description and BOL for the central U.P.

  “We’ll wait for the flatbed; then let’s go find that camp,” Service told his partner. “That’s where they’ll head for, sooner or later.”

  Jesus, the official season hasn’t even begun.

  CHAPTER 16

  Bear Creek, Dickinson County

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 13

  They had just crossed the pipeline on a two-track west of Alfred when Service saw a man in camo, maybe forty yards away. He was carrying a rifle and Service slowed, his mind ticking through what he had seen, small game? No orange, the dumb ass. He stopped the truck.

  The man crashed into the cedar swamp.

  “You see da scope?” Allerdyce asked.

  “No.”

  “Wass one.”

  “Rabbits?”

  “Got no dogs.”

  Shit.

  “Look your computer gizzy dere,” Allerdyce said, tapping the laptop between them.

  Service shrunk the online map to one square mile so they could make out the contour lines.

  The old poacher’s yellowed finger moved across the screen. “Dis galoot ’eadin’ dere; ’e gone turn east along swamp. Too much open coun’ry west, hardswoods an’ stuff. He take dis dink ritch line, I t’ink; ’e run like hell, what I’d do wass me. Make us go on foot. No road, but look dere, Sonny, dere’s two bitty-titty hills, eh. Dis second dink ritch got little overlook, mebbe right down on swamp. Runner gone go east on ritch, den down along da swamp. We get up top, ’e can’t get by us.”

  Service’s brain processed the information and map as Allerdyce jabbered about topography. The old man was right, and Service saw that the runner was making a tactical mistake. If he went the way Limpy said he would, he’d be trapped by Bear Creek on the north, the North Branch of the Ford River to the east; and if he bolted south through open country, he’d have to cross County Road 438, only to have to find some way across the main Ford River, which wasn’t frozen and had some deep and dangerous hat-floating holes in this area. The man should have risked the open country to the west.

  “I’m yore dawg,” Allerdyce said happily. “Woof-woof. Sonny take truck over dere east end; youse get to dat ritch and come west. I push dis guy east and we get dis jamoke ’tween us. Youse come along edge of da swamp, bottom of titty hills.” The old man pointed. “I follow track. We meet middle.”

  Do I give the old man a weapon? The runner is armed. Limpy’s a felon and can’t possess or handle a firearm. Not that this rule has been strictly adhered to or enforced. The way he saw it, there was law and then there was officer judgment, which was based on reality of circumstances, not words on paper. But Allerdyce was wily, and this was his kind of country and game. He didn’t need a firearm. “Go,” Service said, adding, “and be careful.”

  Allerdyce croaked, “Tree to tree like dat Nappy Buncoguy.”

  Service laughed as the old man slid on his battered pack, cackled, and went over the snowy field with the grace of a young animal.

  Ten minutes later, Service had the truck moved and stashed and was hurrying westward for the rendezvous, trying to think like the runner. Fortunately, or unfortunately, most people who ran from cops and game wardens ran with no plan in mind, bolting on surges of fear and adrenaline, an instantaneous flight thing. Years ago the first instinct seemed to be to fight, but nowadays conservation officers were better trained and armed, and fleeand-eludes had become more prevalent than bone-crushing fistfights and wrestling matches.

  The length of such chases was usually matched by the severity of the crime. Minor stuff, short chases. Serious stuff, drawn-out affairs; and the longer a chase lasted, the more dangerous it became, because all involved would be getting tired and frustrated and desperate. Service had been involved in such pursuits many times in his career and had experienced and known all the feelings and emotions involved. The problem with an unknown runner was that you couldn’t know which kind of chase was facing you until the chase was joined. The only three facts certain here were first, the guy wasn’t wearing orange; second, he was armed with a long gun with a scope; and third, he ran.

  Weapons had to be factored into every pursuit, but something in his gut kept telling him Limpy would be all right, that the old man had probably been on the other end of such chases so many times that he could meld his mind to the runner’s and know exactly what he would do next. In fact, over decades, Limpy had won almost all of his contests. Service and his late old man were among the few game wardens to ever get the best of the old poacher, much less pinch him.

  Service followed the edge of the spruce and tamarack swamp, which connected two small hills covered with aspen and birch and maple. Tamaracks were now bright yellow and would soon dull to ochre, drop their needles, and spend the winter naked.

  Reaching the west end of the tit hill, Service quickly scrambled up the western bump and found a place where he could see hundreds of yards out into the swamp. Naturally, his first thought was to light a cigarette, but he ignored the urge and told himself to tell Friday about his self-discipline, if and when he saw her again. In fact, nothing to do with discipline: Smoke carried out here in cold heavy air. One cigarette could tell your opponent where you were. No smoke. But he’d had enough presence of mind to stuff Limpy’s thermos into his pack, which he set on a downed log.

  He kept his Remington .308 slung barrel-down across his chest. The rifle was too long and heavy for most officers to carry, especially in an extended foot pursuit, but with his size he could manage it. Barely. The damn thing was heavy and unwieldy. Like most of his fellow officers, he preferred a shorter, lighter, carbine-type weapon, but state budgets precluded this. The one good thing now, in an open area like this, his .308 could reach out and touch someone with astonishing accuracy, even with its iron sights. Last summer, all officers had trained at Camp Grayling and had shot at 800 yards; he had socked five rounds into a tight pattern in the Coke bottle, all five kill shots. But this long-range possibility here was a fluke; most CO work took place within arm’s length of the opposition, not at 800 yards.

  He poured a half-cup of coffee, took a sip, listened. The fresh snow muffled sound, which would work into Allerdyce’s advantage. Feeling alert and relaxed, he was content to let the little drama play itself out.

  Until he realized how fast they were losing light. Dark would change everything. Or could. Was the runner capable of operating in the dark the way he and Limpy were? Or would the runner need a light to find his way? No way to know.

  The only option: Sit back and watch for any light oddities.

  The forest was silent, snow falling gracefully, dark settling quickly under a cloudy sky.

  A flicker of light, close, not thirty yards, directly below me. How did this guy get that close without me seeing him? Geez. This is a disturbing damn thought. But no more flashes. Just one. Did I really see a light? This the standard do
ubt brought on by all crepuscular or dark operations? No CO, no matter their experience, was immune from imaginings spawned by darkness. Minds played tricks, and you had to be able to sort imaginings from reality. Easier said than done, and all but impossible for a few.

  No, real, not imaginary. And it did not shine again. He slid on his pack and started downhill, angling to his right and anticipating the heading of whomever had been below. The snow was really coming down hard, the temperature holding around freezing.

  “Hey, Sonny,” a muffled voice said, and then there were other words he couldn’t make out, but he moved toward the sounds. Allerdyce was the only person who consistently called him Sonny.

  Service moved cautiously, one step, stop, listen, step again.

  “Geez, oh, Pete; I hope you brung dat bloody t’ermos,” Allerdyce said in the darkness. He cackled and hacked at the same time. “Youse got smokes?”

  “I thought you quit,” Service said.

  “Dis young buck I got holt of make me want start ’gain, and he ain’t got none.”

  Service found his partner sitting on a very still human figure. “Our guy?”

  “Yah, you betcha. Kid’s pret good. Dat li’l light ’e got screwed ’is pooch.”

  “Why is he so still?”

  “T’ink mebbe he bumped his noggin, eh.”

  “Hit something while running?”

  “More like turn to fight and run into branch.” The old man chuckled.

  Service had no doubt said branch had been in Allerdyce’s hand. “Let’s roll him over, cuff him, and get him to his feet.”

  “Gimme smoke first,” the old man said, and Service gave him his pack. Then he cuffed the man and pulled him to his feet. He was awake, breathing heavily. Service lit the man’s face with his Surefire.

  “Hey, that makes me blind!”

  Jesus. “Ah, Mister Willie Asshole Nelson Niemi.”

  “I told youse my name is Virpi, and dat old coot dere attack me and I want press charges.”

  “Did I or did I not tell you to not do anything stupid?”

  “I ain’t done nuffin stupid. Was comin’ find youses.”

  “Really,” Service said, his voice dripping sarcasm.

  “Yah, I found some shit and was comin’ tell youse.”