Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  “Get up,” Kelly the Rocket told the man.

  Chern remained on his back.

  Grady Service went to the back door. Allerdyce was waiting. “Thirteen,” the old violator said. “It’s beaut. Was in trash t’ree houses down. I see dis woman, ast her when is garbage pickups? She says ain’t till Friday. But dis one house got can out and wonder, why dat is for jes’ dat one guy, eh? I go look. Wah! Here youse go. Like I tole youse, guys like dis can’t t’row away t’ing like dis even if evidence gone screw ’im.”

  Service took the antlers inside and handed them to Kelly the Rocket, who held it in front of Chern’s eyes.

  The man’s lips pooched out and quivered. “I’ve never seen that before.”

  Service said, “Neighbor was throwing it out. Can you imagine that, dumping a two hundred? That’s a man with his life in the right proportion. You can’t eat horns.”

  Chern began slapping the floor and wailing again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t help myself, I’m sorry. You took my twelve you can’t take that one too! I can’t hunt, I’ll die; I know I will.”

  “Listen, Chern, tell us one thing. How did you injure your leg.”

  Chern rolled to his side, away from the officers. “Fell outten a chopper.”

  “Fell?” Service said.

  “They take us out to the trucks every day. I fall off, smash my leg bad.”

  “Thought this was an air assault?”

  “I never said that, exactly.”

  A truck driver who fell out of his ride to work? Never mind that he was in a combat zone. Here lies a truly pathetic creature. Death might be a better place than he is mired in now.

  The Rocket thanked Allerdyce, who said, “We done wit’ dis jamoke?”

  “Mostly. He took a dive off the deep end in there, complete breakdown. Says he’ll die if he can’t hunt. We took his trophies. We took his grandpa’s gun. Wah-wah.”

  “Add old dogs and watermelon wine, and we might could get him on the Grand Ole Opry,” Limpy said with a straight face and hopped up into the Silverado.

  CHAPTER 29

  Slippery Creek Camp

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18

  Middle of the night and probably after midnight, but Service wasn’t sure if it was today or tomorrow and it didn’t really matter. They reached the camp just in time to see the camp’s garage on fire. Grady Service didn’t even attempt to get out of the truck. He didn’t put a chokehold on the steering wheel and didn’t pound anything in anger. He said nothing, just sat. And watched.

  Allerdyce said in a barely audible tone, “Wah.”

  The two men watched the building burn.

  “You want call basement savers?” Allerdyce asked, this a derisive Yooper term for volunteer firemen.

  “No basement to save,” Service said.

  “Might she could spread to house.”

  “Built the garage far away just so that can’t happen, especially this time of year.”

  “Can’t just let burn. Youse got stuff in grudge we need get out?” Allerdyce asked.

  “It’s just stuff. God will let it burn out.”

  “Youse believe God? Youse?” Allerdyce asked, his eyes bugging out.

  “Some days, sometimes.”

  “This one them days?”

  “Not sure yet.” Service reluctantly handed his partner his cell phone. “Knock yourself out.”

  Allerdyce made the call and Service got out and wandered over to the fire, First the garage at Friday’s, and now here? No coincidence. I’ve made more enemies than Nixon. He broke his reverie to tell his partner, “Bump Pancho Frye down in Gladstone. Tell him I’d like for him to take a look at this mess. His number’s in the directory.”

  “T’ought Frye and his woman move down some bluehairland,” Allerdyce chirped.

  “Only in January and February.”

  “He strange bird, Frye.”

  “But he knows his business.” Pancho Frye had spent thirty years with the Michigan State Police, retiring as the MSP’s chief arson investigator. Some said he was so good because he had the heart and mind of a firebug. Grady Service hoped so.

  Allerdyce reported, “Basement gang here twenty minute, turdy; one dem say you live too bloody far out fum simplezation.”

  And yet not nearly so far that a torch couldn’t find Friday’s and now the camp. What would it take to be really too far out, to be unfindable by man or satellite?

  “Hot dogs in the fridge in the house,” he told Allerdyce. “Buns in the freezer.”

  “Grudge on fire and youse talking wieners?”

  “The lads will need something to do when they get here. Only fire left by then will be barely enough to roast the dogs.”

  “T’ink we ought back truck up case some shit in grudge blows up?”

  “Nah, God’ll see to it.”

  “Dere youse go wid God again. Youse got youse’s head on straight?”

  “Ya, sure; everything’s peachy.”

  A fire crew from Rock got to the place first, and Allerdyce greeted them.

  “Youse’s ain’t closest, ’owscomes youse get ’ere so quick?”

  A fireman said, “This ain’t the only burn tonight, old timer. We were already out this way.”

  Service leaned against the truck deer guard and lit a cigarette.

  “Dose t’ings ain’t no good for da healt’,” Allerdyce said.

  “One data point is shit, two is better, three is a trend, four’s a bonanza.”

  “Huh?” Limpy said.

  “Ask the firemen exactly how many other burns.”

  “Now?”

  Service said, “No hurry. Did I tell you how tired I am?”

  Allerdyce went off to talk to the firemen and trotted back. “Dey got five fires tonight.”

  Grady Service grinned and nodded.

  “Howscome youse ain’t pissed. Youse got two fires youse’s places?”

  “You ever bet on instant replays?” Service asked his companion.

  “Geez, oh Pete, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Already know how she come out, eh.”

  “Same here. Two fires on me, they’re out. Why waste energy on what’s done? All that matters is what comes next.”

  “Youse is more and more like youse’s old man.”

  “He’d be serving beer to the fire crew.”

  “He wunt as bad wit’ booze as youse make ’im out, eh.”

  “I lived with him.”

  “I partner with him. Him and me talk all time.”

  “Him and me didn’t, partner,” Service said. “He lectured. I listened.”

  “He had plenty ta tell.”

  “He was a drunk and a loser.”

  “He helped make youse youse.”

  “An entirely bullshit technicality.”

  “It trut’, Sonny.”

  He felt oddly irritated, but the feeling was mixed with something else, an emotional non sequitur, elation. “Five fires plus here,” he said out loud.

  “Why youse keep sayin’ dose numbers, Sonny?”

  Go ahead and tell the man; share your happy with him. “You have one event, that’s all you’ve got—one event, one thing; probably it stands alone, unconnectable to anything else. You have two, you’ve got to think they’re probably connected. But you don’t know how or why, and there is the possibility they could both be stand-alones and the connection totally coincidental. Following me?”

  “Like follow da moose, but keep ways back so don’t step in da doots, eh?”

  “I’m trying to impart wisdom.”

  “Youse’s partner is all ears.”

  “If we have two events, we might be able to draw a line between them, but it’s not worth shit to do that. All you have is two points, and you can’t say if they fit together or not. But then you get a third event, and shazam! You draw a line from one to two to three and you may begin to see a direction, you with me?”

  “Wah, I t’ink mebbe youse got chunked on noggin�
�� out to Peaveyhouse fight, got you dat pee-ess-tee-dee?”

  “Are you with me?”

  “Youse’s partner, wichyouse alldaways.”

  “When the event horizon begins to grow to four, five, and six, that’s when you can comfortably connect your line and see a more definite direction. This sinking in?”

  “Yah, sure. Like when I was working in woods. I keep map on my table, mark down ever’t’ing I hear bout big bucks. Summer, fall, win’er; I talk postmans, deliver-guys, anybody seein’ anyt’ing anywhere, and I scribble it all down. Youse get enough dose over time, youse can start see picture.”

  “How do you decide when you have enough?”

  “Youse’ll jus’ know.”

  “What amount of more is better?”

  “More got to end somewhere.”

  “Infinite more is not as good as finite more, yes?”

  “Got no idea what youse’s talkin’ ’bout, but whatever youse say, I’m wit’ youse, partner.”

  Why am I blathering? Limpy’s looking at me like I’m infested with psychic fleas gathering to swarm him. “We’ll wait for Pancho, okay?”

  “Youse da boss,” Allerdyce said.

  Service stood for the longest time looking around and eventually saw a flash of shiny out by the road, away from the house and garage. He walked out to it, leaned down, and picked it up. My brand of cigarettes. You are a mindless pig, he told himself, and went inside.

  “Youse t’ink we get some slips tonight?” the old man asked.

  “We’re not going to roll tomorrow until we’re ready. Our schedule is our oyster.”

  “Our what?

  “Something a guy named Willie wrote a long time ago.”

  “Willie?”

  “Some claim he was once a poacher.”

  “Don’t know no Willie work up dis way.”

  “He didn’t work in this state, not even this country. He reformed when he grew up.”

  “Geez, oh Pete; I’m not only one to turn da leaf.”

  “Actually, he never said anything about any of that stuff in his life. Others talked about him and what he did or might have done, but Willie kept his mouth shut. Nobody knows for certain he actually violated. All we can do is speculate and imagine.”

  “Dat’s good; keep mout’ shut youse gone do dat junk.”

  “Your record isn’t rumor, it’s fact.”

  “Cheap shot, Sonny.”

  “Like you said, I learned that from my old man.”

  “Sometimes youse creep me out, Sonny. Dis Willie got last name?”

  “Shakespeare.”

  “T’ink dere was some Shakespeares over Painesdale back in da day of dose Cousin Jacks Welchingmans.”

  “Not related.”

  “Youse can’t know dat for sure.”

  “Actually, I can.”

  • • •

  Pancho Frye spent less than five minutes talking to the fire crew and fire marshal before joining Service and Allerdyce. Frye was an albino with a severe distaste for sunshine and daylight and a deep love of fires of all kinds and sources. He had pink eyes and white hair and was a small, compact man with feet meant for someone a foot or more taller and a hundred pounds heavier. It looked like he had been built from cast-off parts. The man’s voice rarely got above a hoarse whisper.

  “Big fire night,” Service greeted him.

  “Lots of dumbasses and booze in the old fire-tinder camps. Why am I here, Grady?”

  “Had a fire in my girlfriend’s garage just a few days back, and now this.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “No. I think both were intended as messages. When a firebug wants a body count, he targets the house, right?”

  “Could be, but bugs don’t think with consistent lucidity. Most of them don’t want to hurt anyone; they just want to make fire and get attention. They’re impulsive and obsessive.”

  Frye looked over at Allerdyce. “When did they kick you loose?”

  “Was years back,” Limpy said.

  “Had been up to me, I’d a kept you inside until you croaked,” Frye said with a frown.

  “Dat guy Jesus teach forgive people.”

  “You dare mention Jesus? You, the spawn of Satan?”

  “That ain’t nice.”

  “You catch this thing setting the fire?” Frye asked.

  “Hey, Frye, I ain’t no culvert,” Allerdyce chirped.

  Frye said, “It’s pervert, you moron, and hah!”

  “Wah, tell ’im back off, Sonny, or I wipe da floor wid ’im.”

  Service put a hand on both old men. “Knock it off you two.”

  Limpy said, “I go out wid his sis, long time back, but he don’t never forget shit.”

  Frye bristled. “Go out? Hell, you ruined that girl.”

  “Pancho, I don’t want hurt nobody, but youse’s sis, Jen-Jan, weren’t the Version Mary youse t’ink when me and her hook up.”

  Frye stepped toward the old poacher. “What’re you calling my sister?”

  “Jes say what youses don’t want see. She was normal good gal, not no statue of saint.”

  “But she went off with you!”

  “Youse ever bet on instant replays?”

  Frye looked from the old violator to Service. “What in the dickens is he talking about?”

  “Leave the past in its box,” Service said. “Now that you know about my two fires, any thoughts?”

  “That requires reports, point of origin, materials, accelerants, tactics, and all that other tiresome technical forensic stuff, but I’m thinking spates are usually one-bug campaigns.”

  “Meaning everything that happened tonight is connected?”

  “Could be. Some bugs get their rocks off on chaos, so they set a series and watch the world scramble to react—to him, his creations.”

  “Could it be the other fires tonight were set to take attention off this one?”

  Frye rubbed his chin. “Can’t rule that out. You want to get all the reports down to me?”

  “It’s deer season,” Grady Service told him.

  Frye grimaced and popped his forehead with his hand. “Plumb forgot that, I guess.”

  “You didn’t get out for the opener?”

  “Went vegan.”

  Allerdyce blurted out, “Like ’at pointy ear, Vegan Smock guy on Star Track?”

  Frye said, “I’ll get the reports myself. What’s your Marquette address?”

  “Tuesday Friday in Harvey; sorry to get you all the way up here for this.”

  “Good to be wanted,” the fire inspector said. “Gets the old ticker pumping thinking I can still help the cause, Grady. Don’t never retire. You suddenly got more time than God and no damn purpose.”

  Service smiled. Retirement? Not as long as I can still keep up.

  Grady walked the old fellow to his truck, and Frye said, “Everybody thinks this fire stuff is rocket science. It’s not even close. The breaks almost always come from some simple piece of evidence. But don’t tell nobody.”

  • • •

  They slept in the main cabin, fully dressed, and in chairs again, like a couple of hobos.

  It was full daylight when they woke up. They could still smell the stink of the fire. New snow was falling and some steam coming off the pile of black rubble. Service toyed with calling Tuesday, but this would just upset her. The first fire was enough on her shoulders.

  Allerdyce was mining the pantry and fridge. Service said, “I froze some blueberry-peach pancakes in September. Pop ’em in the microwave.”

  “Got sirple?”

  “I eat them dry, like Pop Tarts, out in the truck. I’ll make the coffee.” Both thermoses were on the counter.

  “S’owers?” Allerdyce said.

  “Why? We’ll just get dirty again.”

  “Where we go taday?”

  “Where’re the biggest deer these days?”

  “Mosquito, course.”

  “Not there. That’s covered. I’ve got Duckboat on my beat while I
’m working as acting detective.” Duckboat was CO Dan Tooman, who years before had bought an expensive laydown duck boat and tried to hide it from his wife, Suzanne. But she had figured it out and made him sleep in it for a month, as penance. He had been Dan before that and Duckboat ever since.

  “Kate’s Grade, Bryan Creek. Soon as shootin’ start, all big bucks head into da t’ick crap dere ta hide.”

  “Good a choice as any,” Service said.

  “T’ing ’bout dose big bucks. Mos fellas see one or two in life and can’t do nothing ’bout dem. Takes killer mind be ready all time for dat one moment, eh.”

  Service looked at his watch. “Oh nine nineteen; our schedule is our oyster.”

  “Why youse keep saying oyster stuff?”

  “Know what my pal Willie liked about oysters?”

  “No offense, Sonny. I don’t care.”

  “You can open them with your sword.”

  Allerdyce said, “Youse don’t start talk normal, I’m gone smack youse’s head, haul youse over to shrinkhead sawbones.”

  “I want to have another talk with Teddy Coppish.”

  “Kate’s Grade ain’t all dat far fum ’is camp.”

  “Very perceptive,” Service said. Why Coppish? He wasn’t sure. The old gut, mostly; something it had taken him a lifetime to learn to pay attention to when it started gnawing. As it was now.

  It was zero nine thirty when he called into service with Lansing and central dispatch. A twelve-hour day lay ahead, but he’d be paid for only eight of them.

  CHAPTER 30

  Kate’s Grade, Marquette County

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 19

  There were almost two inches of pure new snow and a light, snapping breeze out of the west, okay conditions for deer hunters. Too much wind made all animals wary and often made them stay put until the wind lay back down. They were cruising Kate’s Grade in the south county, home to big bears, big deer, some moose, and more than a few big jerks. A truck came flying by them and raced north, fishtailing on the less-than-smooth dirt grade, a heavily traveled road with deep gouged ruts that never seemed to disappear, even in the deep of the driest summer.

  “I know dat truck,” Allerdyce said. “Belong dat chuck-knuck Jerzy Urbanik, Da Polack vickam.”

  Service glanced at his partner. “The what?”