Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  “But you’re a Michigan guy, and this is Wisconsin.”

  “That’s right, but we have an agreement with Wisconsin. Your wardens and ours can work both states. We go back and forth across the border.”

  “That sure don’t seem right, sir.”

  “Take your beef to your legislators. Where’s the mount?”

  The man pointed disconsolately at another room.

  Service nodded Allerdyce in and heard, “Whoa, then. Holy moly!”

  Keeping his eyes on Chern, Service asked, “You got a copy of your DD 214?”

  The man’s eyes went wide. “Why would you want that?”

  “Call it curiosity.”

  “Sir, this feels like, you know, an invasion of my privacy, and anyways, my lawyer’s got my DD 214.”

  “Your lawyer?”

  “From the suit against the sawbones who fucked up my leg.”

  “Thought you said you got wounded in Iraq.”

  “I did, but I didn’t like how the government did my leg, so they discharged me. I found a civilian doc, and he really fucked it up and I had to sue him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is your case still active?”

  “No, I won and got a settlement.”

  “Good one?”

  “Could have been better, sir. My lawyer was for shit.”

  “When did you get this settlement?”

  “Oh seven.”

  “And your lawyer still has the paperwork and your DD form?”

  “Yes, sir. I never got around to fetching any of it. I didn’t have no money for gas.”

  “But you’d just got a settlement?”

  “I know,” the man said, hanging his head. “I can’t really explain it.”

  Allerdyce waggled a finger at Service, who joined him in the next room, where there was a four-foot flat-screen TV that took up most of one wall. There was a mounted pheasant, a pair of mounted largemouth bass and a muskie, two mounted turkey fans, a European mount of an antelope skull, the twelve-point, which was gigantic, and five other buck mounts, all large and impressive. A mink was mounted on a birch branch with a brook trout in its mouth. And there was a diamondback rattlesnake poised to strike; it was on an end table with an ashtray for its base. Most people didn’t shoot one deer of this quality in a lifetime, much less six, but no sign of last year’s thirteen-point. When he’d said he’d shot lots of big bucks, he hadn’t lied. The issue now was where had he shot them, and when?

  “Dandy bucks,” Allerdyce said, “but dat minky and brookie is fine ark.”

  Service blinked and smiled. “Grab the big boy and put him out in the truck.”

  “Dude,” Chern said, his eyes welling with tears.

  “Where’s last year’s thirteen-point, the one you shot here in Wisconsin?”

  “Only shoot does down here,” Chern said.

  “What about all those bucks on the wall?”

  “I don’t got talk ’bout them. I’m going to tell my attorney I’m being harassed, and I intend to let Fox News and CNN know too.”

  “We just asked where the deer are from.” Service said. “You tend to change your stories a lot.”

  “That’s not true, sir,” Chern said.

  Grady Service fished his tiny tape recorder out of a pocket and held it out. “Got the truth in your own words right in there. I’ll be back,” Service said. “While you’re at it, get your DD 214 back from your lawyer.”

  “Yes, sir, I will, sir,” Chern said with military crispness.

  Outside, KTR said, “That place in there is bone-empty. I looked in cabinets, the fridge; nothing. The guy’s got no food.”

  “Yet he’s got money for ammo, mounts, and gas.”

  “The disease,” Kelly the Rocket said. “Terminal hornophilia. Why are you hammering him for his DD 214?”

  “The military doesn’t release a man until his injuries are fixed to the government’s satisfaction, not his satisfaction.”

  “You think he’s lying?”

  “I know he is,” Service said.

  CHAPTER 20

  Slippery Creek Camp

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 15

  It was after midnight, and technically already opening day, when they pulled into Service’s camp, which lay close to the Mosquito Wilderness. Sunrise would be in less than eight hours, and Service knew they needed sleep. Allerdyce had even nodded off on the drive from Florence.

  The only chore now was to set the coffeemaker for morning. The one good thing about the firearm season opener was that you didn’t have to race dawn. Unless you had known offenses or specific complaint situations that needed to be addressed immediately, it was preferable to let hunters enjoy their hunting experience without interruption. Tomorrow’s weather forecast was for twenty-five and an inch of snow, not bad. Hunters would easily be able to sit in their blinds in some comfort all day, and some of the good ones would do just that, while bad ones, incompetents and cheats, would get impatient and start rambling and road-hunting.

  Service heard a chirping sound, his phone announcing a text message, the latest in a seemingly unending technological irritant. His hands weren’t made for pecking on pellet-size keys. The message he read blasted sleep right out of him. “Fire tonight in garage. Arson probably. We’re okay. Three deer carcasses left out front. Again, repeat, we are okay. You’re not picking up your phone. Repeat. We are okay, Shigun, me, the animals, all of us.”

  “Let’s go,” Service told Allerdyce, who chuffed for the truck without a word.

  • • •

  The garage was gone, reduced to a smoking black pile in the snow. Service looked at the three dead deer, killed today, backstraps removed. One was dumped by the garage, one on the sidewalk to the house, and one next to the back porch steps. “We were asleep,” Friday told him, holding him tight. “I heard some noise, you know like something that didn’t quite fit, so I got up, looked outside; saw flames, grabbed Shigun, stuffed him into this snowsuit, and ran to the neighbors. I called 911 on the way. The fire guys were here in seven minutes, but it was too late.”

  “What time?”

  “Tenish, I think.”

  “What about your car?”

  “Left it out front, too lazy to put it in the garage. What’s this about?” she asked.

  “Me,” he said. His anger had bled off during the fast drive north. “It’s a message.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Am I smiling?”

  “What exactly are you being told?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” though he had a notion. The deer are like conjunctions, joiners. If you kept up with something, your house was going to be next. What the firebug is referring to was anybody’s guess. “We need to move you and Shigun out to the camp.”

  “It’s too far, Grady. We can stay with my sister.”

  Her sister was the boy’s normal caregiver and lived near Skandia, south of Marquette, an easy shot to town.

  The fire-moppers were still working. Service talked to the chief, who looked twenty and had the voice of an eleven-year-old. “Point of origin is the front door, east side. Some sort of flammable and an accelerant, nothing fancy. Set it quick, ignite it quick, and split. How many burnables were inside?”

  “I cleaned out the chemicals and old paint cans last August.”

  “Good thing you did,” the kid said. “Mighta gone off like a bomb, spit shrapnel and fire all over the neighborhood.”

  Service felt his legs start to turn to rubber. Friday had bugged him for a year to clean the garage, and he had finally gotten to it. The house was old, built just after World War II, the garage somewhat newer, but not by much. There had been multiple owners, most of whom left stuff behind when they moved on.

  Allerdyce said, “Easy target, so close ta udder places, hey. Pipples don’t notice somebody don’t stop long. Out to camp dey got worry ’bout movement gizzies, trail cameras, some guys inside wit’ rifles. You got all kinds open space your place too.”

  Not an accident, Serv
ice knew. He was a firm believer in clear fields of fire. Just in case. Provide as little cover as possible to wannabe intruders. Make it tough, not easy.

  “This ever happened to you before?” Friday asked.

  “Not to me.”

  “Did you fellas piss off someone today?”

  “I’m always pissing people off,” Grady Service said. “It’s what COs do. Just leaving the house and driving down a two-track pisses off some idiots.” He tried to play through the last few days and the players. His gut said Bojan Knezevich seemed unlikely. Dinty Peaveyhouse? Possibly, but I don’t know much about the man yet. He has the temper, that’s for sure. Pie lady Arletta Ingalls? She seems the most unstable of all of them. Not Chernobyl. That’s too recent, and he has an alibi. He was with us. This sick little deal required foreknowledge, and some nasty intent.

  The whole area reeked of smoke. “Limpy and I will follow you guys out to your sister’s.”

  “You think we should plan to stay out there for a while?”

  “At least for a few days. It’s more private out there, lit better at night.”

  “I do not like this at all,” Tuesday Friday declared in her steely cop voice.

  “I know,” he said. “But nobody’s hurt, and that’s all that’s important at this point.”

  “When you find who did this, please don’t kill him,” Friday said.

  “I’m a professional,” Grady Service said.

  “With a very large reservoir of testosterone,” she whispered.

  Two deps showed up, having canvassed the neighborhood, talking to all they could get to answer their doors. Nobody had seen anything.

  Has to be evidence somewhere, Service told himself. Somewhere. Has to be.

  “You see a signature in this?” Service asked Allerdyce.

  “Mebbe. Got t’ink back. Dis make me t’ink old school.”

  “Explain.”

  “I’m ’memberin’ east side over Hulbert, MickeyMillan, Seney. Back in da day youse hear game warden gone sniff around, youse send him message, leave me ’lone—or else.”

  “Preemptive warning—before the game warden gets involved in something, not after he’s stirred the hornet’s nest?”

  “Yep, dat pimptive t’ing youse say. Way I ’member t’ings to back den.”

  “You ever do that?”

  “Never had to,” Allerdyce said.

  “Seems way over the top to me,” Grady Service said. “What’s your take on the message?”

  “Guy says what he gone do wit deer ain’t none of youse’s bus’ness. Youse keep gettin’ in ’is way, he torch youse’s house.”

  “But not somebody I’ve dealt with, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Only point dis deal is make youse stay away.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to predict the future?”

  “Use youse’s cripple ball.”

  Grady Service had no comeback for that.

  • • •

  They did not get back to Slippery Creek Camp until almost four in the morning, and both went to sleep in chairs. Grady Service awoke at 9 a.m. to the smell of coffee brewing.

  Allerdyce mumbled, “Got ’er all ready. Youse want porshwid sinman?”

  “What the hell is porsh?”

  “S’like goatmeal and sinman; keep blood sugar down.”

  “That’s your learned medical opinion?”

  “What my mum always say back in da day. Sinman fight sweet bloods.”

  “Your mother was a doctor?”

  “Wah. She was me mum. But she live ninety-five.”

  “And you loved her.”

  Allerdyce snickered. “Nasty old bitch. Hated ’er guts, but she know what she talk ’bout. What we gone do dis morn?”

  “Stoke up on sinman-porsh and coffee, then go ruin the days of some bad guys.”

  Allerdyce cackled. “I usta be one dem pipples, eh.”

  “So you claim,” Service said. Who the hell is trying to warn me off? And of what, one of the camp owners I met with?

  “Youse got stubborn streak, Sonny, like youse’s old man.”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  “Nope; is all good.”

  ACT 2: UNDER WAY

  Today you are you. That is truer than true. There is no one alive who is you-er than you.

  —Dr. Seuss, Happy Birthday to You

  CHAPTER 21

  Near Watson, Marquette County

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 16

  Opening day had been a zero. And it had been excruciating getting himself going this morning. Allerdyce made eggs and coffee and filled their two thermoses. No need to talk. Service wondered momentarily what lay ahead but quickly turned off his imagination. Yesterday had been a total bust. Maybe he’d had his shot before it all began. No sense pondering. It would be what it would be. No two deer seasons were ever the same, and this one was already in a class all alone, despite yesterday. The severity and incidence of law breaking varied from year to year, but stupidity and greed ran consistently high. This year both counts seemed severely elevated. Okay, some of it was stupidity and some was sheer ignorance, which you could forgive in a kid, but not in a twenty-something, and even less in a sixty-something.

  They rolled slowly, got onto a two-track just over the Delta and Marquette County lines, southwest of Watson, the two-track west of County Road SC, an area Service called the Ford River Swamp. “Ever work this turf?” he asked Allerdyce, who shook his head.

  Another inch of snow had fallen last night, and there was one set of tracks going down an old skid road. The tracks didn’t penetrate far. He could see multiple stops, backups, pull-forwards, like those in the vehicle were looking at or for something. For what?

  “You see any animal tracks out your side?”

  “Not yet,” Allerdyce said, and as quickly, “Over dere.”

  Service saw it too, a new model, gold Chevy pickup parked off the road. There was a camo popup blind, conspicuously set up on a four-foot rise, not thirty yards from the truck. The truck looked brand new. They got out, looked inside it, and saw a rifle case in the backseat. Even that looked new. Box of .308 ammo on the floor. Remington. The truck had Illinois plates.

  “Might be good place bag some trucks,” Allerdyce said. “You ever eat truck, Sonny?”

  Service ignored his suddenly chatty partner. One set of boot tracks led directly from the truck to the pop-up blind. He checked his watch. A little after ten. He walked up to the back of the blind. “Hey, you inside the pop-up, conservation officer, DNR. Let’s talk.”

  He heard a zipper, and a man in a full blaze orange insulated jumpsuit emerged. The color was so bright it hurt the eyes. Like an electric pumpkin.

  “Any luck?” he asked the man.

  “Not so far.”

  “You alone?”

  “No, my brother-in-law is up the road.”

  “Your blind looks new.”

  “New everything,” the man said. “The wives told us we needed to take up some manly hobbies. What’s more manly than hunting deer?”

  “You’ve hunted deer before?”

  “I never hunted anything before, except the wife maybe.”

  “Your brother-in-law got experience?”

  “Tommy? No, this is his first time too.”

  “Rifles sighted in?”

  “Come again?”

  “Have you and Tommy shot your rifles to make sure the sights line up on what you’re aiming at?”

  “I thought the manufacturer done that. They sure soak you enough.”

  Service explained, “Every firearm shoots a little differently. You have to shoot them in order to figure out if adjustments are needed in the weapon, and/or your technique.”

  “Ruskelt’s Sports never mentioned none of that.”

  “Can I see your rifle?”

  “Sure.”

  The man went back into his blind and came back out pointing the barrel at Service, who stepped aside, adroitly pushing the barrel away. He started to gently c
hastise the man when the silence was shattered by a shot that left his ears ringing. “Safety!” he screamed at the man, and quickly realized he had lost control of himself and was screaming at the fool.

  The man looked crestfallen and afraid. “The w-w-what?”

  Service took the rifle and activated the safety. “When this is ‘on,’ the rifle can’t be fired. It’s black, and means it’s safe to handle. When it’s ‘off,’ it will be red, and that tells you it’s dangerous and ready to shoot. Always assume a gun is loaded, and check the safety frequently.”

  “Boy, that was loud,” the man said. “Is it always that loud?”

  The hunter was trying to act calm, but Service saw the man’s skin had taken on the hue of ash.

  Doofus. “Let me see your Michigan hunting license and your driver’s license please.”

  The man unzipped his orange jumpsuit, which had at least a dozen visible zippers, and fished out a baggie containing several documents. He held the package out to Service.

  “Please take them out of the bag and hand them to me.”

  “Okay.”

  Service’s heart kept racing. Just like that, one damn millisecond of asleep-at-your-switch, and you might’ve taken a bullet in the guts, accidentally, the whole thing pure innocence. He held his elbow against his side to hide how badly his hand was shaking.

  He read the Illinois operator’s license. “Lewallyn Lewallyn Lewallyn, MD?”

  The man said sheepishly. “I know, the name’s peculiar. People call me Lew Lew-Lew.”

  “Date of birth?” Service asked.

  “November 16, 1934.”

  “Today’s your birthday.” The guy was seventy-five and didn’t look it. “What kind of doctor?”

  “General surgeon.”

  “You almost shot me, Doctor. You have to keep the safety engaged until just before you’re ready to shoot. Did you read the manual?”

  “All that technical mumbo jumbo, who can read that gibberish?”

  Service knew a congressman, a former surgeon, who claimed that all doctors were scientists and trained to evaluate complex technological and scientific issues. All but this septuagenarian, apparently. “I thought doctors were trained in mumbo jumbo.”