Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  “Footprints?”

  “Yah.”

  “Think he heard us?”

  “Nah; he’ll be too catched up wit’ findin’ deer.”

  “Anything special about the tracks?”

  The old man paused. “Look like itsy bitsy kittle tracks.”

  They both understood the scenario: A jacklighting crew had been slowrolling, had seen a deer out in the cutover with their spotlight or headlights, and popped the animal. They had dropped off a man to find and maybe gut the animal and marked the place in a way only another violator would pick up on. The fetch would drag the deer back to the marker and await pickup. When the vehicle came back, the muscle would jump out and help the fetch throw the animal into the bed of the truck. Experienced three-man crews—driver, fetch, and muscle—could load and hide an animal in seconds and continue on almost as if they had never stopped, as quickly and efficiently as an Indy crew, and some of them practiced the skills to reduce exposure time to a minimum. While he couldn’t admire it, he always wondered how such people of single purpose might fare if they turned their discipline and focus to legal pursuits.

  “How much time, you think?” he asked Allerdyce.

  “T’ink short to pig-up, mebbe half hour. Da get-guy in dere now, headin’ back out.”

  Service found a place ahead, backed in, and shut off the engine.

  “Youse don’t know dey come out dis way. Might go back out same way come in.”

  Allerdyce was right, but this wasn’t a sure-thing business. You had to make guesses and assumptions. “We’ll play it this way and call your get-guy the fetch,” Service said.

  A cackle from the passenger seat. “We spick differ’net lingo,” the old man offered. “I keep with get-guy, youse don’t mind.”

  “Go. I’m going to hide the truck better and lock it. You take the get-guy side of the road, and I’ll take the marker side.”

  “Not much time, speck,” Allerdyce said; he opened his door, closed it without sound, and fell into the darkness like a frogman into the sea.

  Service moved the truck, locked it, got out, and found his partner between a couple of humps of debris, just up from the marker stick, which was like a black snake protruding into the two-track. It would stand out on lighter colored sand, or snow. He knelt by a stump, suspecting their wait would be a short one.

  Three minutes later a pickup truck came silently and darkly up the road in the same direction they had come. The whole thing was predictable, such patterns developed by violators over generations and eventually discovered by game wardens. Jacklighting crews always made a right-side pickup. If this was the same crew, they would stop. But if this was a different crew, they would move on past; they didn’t. Service heard the new marker stick snap and the truck stopped.

  He charged directly to the driver’s door. Drivers in this situation were supposed to be watching the road ahead, but most of them rarely did. Human nature being what it was, most drivers turned to see what kind of deer had been killed. Predictably, all the pickup’s windows were down.

  Service got to the driver’s window, paused, heard mumbles and a strange, off-key thump in back; he thrust his hands through the window, turned off the engine, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and threw them up the road. Only then did it occur to him that the sound in back was not exactly the right sound, but done was done. In these situations you had to act fast and without hesitation.

  “Hey!” a voice yelped from the truck cab, the voice followed quickly by three inhuman shrieks that rent the night air and his eardrums. He unlocked the driver’s door, grabbed a puny shoulder, and jerked the surprisingly small driver down to the road, where he pinned the driver in place and growled, “Conservation officer, DNR! Do! Not! Move!”

  He could hear Allerdyce on the other side of the truck and then, “Got da fetch. Geez, oh Pete, Sonny; dis ’ere’s little kittle girlie!”

  Service dragged the driver around the front of the truck to the passenger side and grabbed at a figure scrambling to get into the truck. “Who’s the crew leader?” he thundered.

  “We ain’t no crew, we’re sisters,” a high-pitched youthful voice shot back, this from the muscle, who he had snagged at the passenger door. They moved all three prisoners to the front of the truck and lit them with their Surefires. Three young girls, none of them more than a hundred pounds. Talk about firsts.

  “You scared us,” the driver complained.

  “You’re killing deer at night. You don’t get to be scared.”

  The driver said indignantly, “We did not kill anything from the truck. We stopped, got the rifle from the bed of the truck, and shot.”

  “You used a light.”

  “Did not; that would be cheating.”

  “And breaking the law.”

  “We don’t care about stupid law. We got our own standards, and we don’t ever cheat or play dirty.”

  “Shooting at night is playing dirty.”

  “We beg to differ,” one of the girls said.

  He took a deep breath of cold night air. Encounters like this were inherently dangerous for all involved. Kids? Girls? What the hell? He shone his light into the fetch’s face, but she looked away. Allerdyce gave her a little push and she snarled, “Keep your hands off me, you old asshole!”

  The girls were runts in jeans with flapped mad bomber hats nearly obscuring their tiny faces. They wore boots and layers of oversize sweatshirts with hoods.

  “I suppose you guys are checking your trap lines?”

  “What?” the driver yelped.

  “Your hats, trapper hats? It’s a joke.”

  The driver said, “That is not funny, and this is not a joke. We’re working here. Besides, they’re mad bomber hats, not mad trappers,” she added.

  “That certainly polishes your image.”

  “Don’t look at me,” the fetch yelled at Allerdyce.

  “Got us three bad-ass little bunny rabbits,” the old violator said.

  “We need names,” Service said. “All of you calm down. I need driver’s licenses, but obviously none of you is old enough to drive legally.”

  “We have our hunter safety cards,” the muscle said. She was the smallest of the three.

  “Okay, hunter safety cards and your deer licenses.”

  “Dude, no can do. You two must be the worst game wardens in like . . . the universe.”

  Was this real? “What? Let me see some ID.”

  “Dude, we don’t got ID. We’re like, not hunting. We’re making a documentary on poaching and cop abuse for YouTube.”

  He blinked. Are they naïve or accomplished liars?

  Allerdyce rooted around in the truck’s glove compartment, came to the front to Service’s side. “Ain’t got no registration inside, nor no plates.”

  “Whose truck is this?” Service asked the girls.

  The driver said, “None of your business, dude.”

  From the great roundup tonight they had descended into this . . . whatever it was, which was anything but clear. The girls looked very, very young. “What’re your names?” he asked politely.

  “Up yours,” the driver said.

  “NOW!” he roared like a drill instructor intent on delivering dire bodily harm.

  The driver froze and looked down. “J-June,” she whispered in a reluctant voice.

  “YOU!” he roared at the muscle.

  “I’m July?” the girl said.

  “July question mark, why the question mark? Are you July or are you not, YES OR NO?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m July.”

  “I’m January,” the fetch contributed in a whisper. “Please don’t yell at us. Everybody yells at us.”

  “June. July. January. Last name, RIGHT NOW!”

  The girls joined hands. Driver June said, “Can we go now, or does your savage male ego require that you verbally abuse children in order to make you feel like real cops?”

  He almost swore, but suddenly realized he was being baited.

  �
�Addams,” the fetch blurted. “We’re the Addams family.”

  “The entire family unit or just the sisters part?”

  He saw the girls exchanging glances. They said nothing.

  “Dese guys got da lockjaws,” Limpy said.

  “What year is this truck?”

  Allerdyce said, “Ninety-nine, I t’ink.”

  Service hit transmit on his radio and spoke into his chest mic. “Central, we’re out on a logging track off Stalling Road. We’ve got a ninety-nine Chevy stopped, color dark blue, no plate and no registration. The people claim their name is Addams.”

  The dispatcher came back, “Is that two dogs for d, or one?”

  “They say two, but run both.” He was losing patience.

  “Easy, Sonny,” Allerdyce whispered. “Just kittles.”

  Central dispatch came back, “Nothing on the truck, Twenty-Five Fourteen. Can you get the VIN? Is this for real, or is it that movie thingy?”

  Real or that movie thingy? What the hell is going on?

  “Movie thingy?” Service hissed into his microphone.

  “Sorry,” Central said. “Wasn’t supposed to say that over the radio. You get that VIN?”

  He had no desire to crawl around looking for the manufacturer’s vehicle identification number. “Stand by,” he said.

  The dispatcher said, “Don’t know if this helps, but we have a BOL out of Marquette for three runaways, sisters, Adams with one dog for d.”

  “June, July, January?” Service said.

  “Affirmative, Fourteen.”

  “Ages on the BOL?”

  “Fourteen, thirteen, and ten.”

  “Thanks, Central. Fourteen clear.”

  He turned to the girls.

  “See,” the fetch said. “We didn’t lie.”

  “Whose truck is this?”

  “We have permission,” the driver said.

  “None of you is old enough to drive legally, so permission is irrelevant.”

  “We have not stolen anything,” the driver said. “Deer belong to the citizens, which means us.”

  “You don’t even pay taxes yet, which doesn’t qualify you as persons, and you’re too damn young to be driving, much less blacked out at night.”

  “Mere technicalities,” the driver said dismissively.

  What is it with kids these day that so little intimidates them? Okay, stay calm, let them take out some line. “Okay, documentary sisters, where’s your camera?”

  The group was suddenly illuminated by bright lights, and Service had to squint to see. “We’re here,” a male voice said from the dark beyond the lights in front of the truck. “Still rolling.”

  Service saw Allerdyce grinning. The old fart is enjoying himself? Good grief.

  “Conservation officer, Department of Natural Resources. Kill those lights now, step forward, and identify yourselves.”

  A tall man came in from the driver’s side of the road. “I’m Doctor Jay Jay Emerson Adams, assistant professor of film at Northern. These three desperadoes are my daughters. My lovely wife, Doonoona, is up the road with the camera. Our sons Augie and March are handling the sound.”

  Service could hardly contain his rage. “You think this is a game?”

  “No, Officer, we take this to be a very serious film effort.”

  “Do you have any idea how easily your girls could have gotten hurt? Driving dark at night and taking deer is not just illegal, it’s all dangerous as hell.”

  “You’re arguing theoretically. No one got hurt here. This has all been expertly rehearsed, and it went down like clockwork, thanks to you two fellas. Actually we thought you were our actors, but apparently they got lost—and what happens? Real game wardens show up. How cool is that?”

  Seething, trying to hold it in. Service walked back to the truck bed, flipped up the corner of a plastic tarp, and found a heavy Styrofoam deer target. No wonder the sound had seemed off. It had squeaked, not thumped when it landed in back of the truck. He looked out at the field. “Bring the camera to me.”

  A woman came forward. “We’re sorry if we’ve upset you, but this has been a wonderful and delightful learning experience for our children.”

  “You could make the same claim for funerals,” Service grumbled. “Somebody could’ve died here tonight.”

  The woman didn’t acknowledge him. “They’re gifted, you know, and living up here in Nowhereland. I’m certain you can’t imagine how difficult it is to find the necessary educational opportunities.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I can’t imagine. Give me your camera.”

  She handed it to him. “How many disks are there?” he asked.

  “Three.”

  “Put them in my hand.”

  The woman hesitated. “This is private property. Tell the man, Jay Jay.” “Give the man the disks, Doo.”

  Service felt two disks in the palm of his hand. The woman said, “Two plus one in the camera, which you already have. Do be careful. That is a valuable, professional-grade piece of equipment. You can’t just abuse private property.”

  “I can’t?” Her tone grated him. “You just participated in a conspiracy to mislead law enforcement in the process of doing their jobs. That’s a crime.”

  “Oh pish,” the woman said. “We just hurt your feelings because the girls had you guys fooled. Men are always so damn sensitive, and you are blowing all of this way out of proportion. Tell him Jay Jay.”

  The professor kept quiet.

  Service said, “Bring your boys forward. I want the whole family right here in front of me.”

  When they gathered around, he asked the age of the boys.

  “Eighteen and sixteen,” dad said.“How did you all get out here?”

  The professor said, “We have a van parked near here.”

  “The real thing or movie thing?” Was the county somehow in on this bullshit, and if so, why? What’s up with this crap? Now he was really steamed.

  “This was not supposed to go down like this,” the man said.

  “Adams, it’s deer season and night in the ass-end of nowhere. This time of year, nothing goes down the way it’s supposed to. There’s a BOL out on your daughters. They’re runaways.”

  “That’s part of the script, and I suppose we should apologize.”

  Script? “Fool!” Grady Service said sharply.

  “I’m sure that attitude is unprofessional even by backwoods standards, and it is uncalled for rudeness,” the wife interjected icily.

  Service just shook his head, grabbed Allerdyce and said, “We’re out of here.”

  “Sir, Officer,” Professor Jay Jay said. “The keys to our truck?”

  Service said, “What keys?”

  The professor said, “Seriously, we need the keys.”

  “Look around. They gotta be here somewhere. My arm strength isn’t what it used to be.”

  “This is behavior unbecoming,” the wife said to their backs.

  They didn’t talk until they got into the patrol truck and started the engine. Service called dispatch, “Twenty-Five Fourteen is clear of the last, but you’ll hear from me again about this movie thingy.”

  The dispatcher did not reply.

  “Just great,” he said to his partner. “When this gets around, we’ll never live it down.”

  “Youse not gone arrest dat gaggle gooferballs?”

  “I’ll talk to a judge. At this time, I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  “Me neither either,” Allerdyce said. “T’ink dey let us watch da flick dey made?”

  “Shut up.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Slippery Creek Camp

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 21

  They slept in real beds, and when Service got up just after sunrise, he looked out front and saw a second black patrol truck parked next to his, its engine running. His truck was frosted over. The other one looked like it was just out of its new-truck wrapping, sparkling clean, no dents, no U.P. pinstripi
ng, and no character. Had to be Duckboat, who was anal about caring for his equipment, state and personal. He opened the front door and waved the man in.

  Allerdyce came padding past and went into a bathroom, cutting off the other officer.

  “Jerk,” Duckboat complained.

  “Age has privylatches,” Allerdyce called out. “Why you t’ink dat word got maked up?”

  Service moaned. His partner was exhausting to be with 24/7. Duckboat walked stiff-legged into the kitchen.

  “How long have you been parked out there?”

  Yawn. “Dunno, but I had this great dream going.”

  “You want coffee?”

  “Please.”

  “Gotta make it first.”

  “No hurry. How’s your season going? Mine is SO SLOW.”

  “Have you not talked to anyone?”

  “Texts, e-mails, cell phones, gossip; I hate all that shit. Just let me do my job and go home whole. What I want to know is what the hell you did to deer hunters in the Mosquito. There are some big bucks back in there and no hunters.”

  “Wasn’t me; McCants was in there before you. She was pretty hard on people.”

  “Point is, ain’t nobody coming in no more, which is a shame. I got two loaded guns on the perimeter road opening night, and since then, not a damn thing. I think you and McCants put a curse on the place.”

  “Work smarter.”

  “I didn’t come here for slogans or advice. What the hell is Allerdyce doing here?”

  “He’s my partner.”

  The poacher picked up the coffeepot, saw that it was empty, and made a face. “I got do ever’t’ing dis joint?”

  Duckboat said, “Are you crazy? Is it even legal to have the likes of him in your truck?”

  “I forgot to ask.”

  The other officer shook his head. “Seriously, Grady, what’s the deal with the Mosquito? There are big bucks in there, and nobody’s after them.”

  “No ORVs or snowmobiles allowed. It’s like a sanctuary, and nobody wants to make the physical effort anymore. The Mosquito makes you walk and rewards only those who do.”

  “That’s not fair. Not all hunters are lazy.”