Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  He also issued a ticket for the camp bait pile and ordered the men to clean up the over-baits at their blinds.

  “Din’t speck all dat,” Limpy said as they headed for Harvey.

  “Me either,” Service said. “I just wanted to talk to him.”

  “You t’ink dat bastid see big pitcher now?”

  “One can only hope.”

  “Dis camp bin dirty long, long time.”

  “You never said anything.”

  “Youse din’t never say where we go, eh. When I see dat camp sign, I t’ink, ‘Geez, oh Pete; dis might be fun.’”

  “You know what the Italian on the sign means?”

  “Est. 1949. Fortyeth year. I like check buck poles part dis job, but not all dat jaw-jaw youse got do. Youse’s old man was bullshit jaw-jaw; youse all bidness jaw-jaw. He couldn’t done what youse do.”

  “Times change, jobs change,” Service said.

  His final words to Sandy Tavolacci had been, “I plan to talk to your client in the morning at nine. See you there, Sandy.”

  The lawyer looked at him with a stone face, a rare moment for such a volatile personality.

  To Allerdyce, “One thing we know about that family.”

  “Eh?”

  “They can’t count for shit. The number of years since the camp was established is sixty, not forty.”

  “Wah,” Allerdyce said, cackling.

  CHAPTER 46

  Marquette Über Dem See

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 29

  The plan was to have a quiet night to think about the impending Buckshow interview, but a call from Special Agent Neutre killed that and sent them in another direction.

  “Pymn was at the house this morning,” Neutre said. “I thought he was still here, but a silver minivan drove in just a few minutes ago and Pymn got out. I don’t know how he got out of here or when the car got moved. I don’t believe in magic. I am thinking that this van is full of cigarettes and they’ll soon unload. We need to get in there now and catch them with the contraband.”

  Service told her it would take forty minutes to an hour to get to her from their present position. The woman grumbled and reluctantly acceded. “I’m moving my blind to the bottom of the hill directly across from the driveway opening. They’ll never see me.”

  He called CO Angie Paul on his cell phone. With 800 MHz scanners now available to the public, COs were reduced to old methods of keeping operations secure. Paul answered and he gave her a quick rundown on the situation. “There’s an ATF agent sitting on the place. She’s got a hidey-hole across from the driveway, about eighty yards south of the house. There are two more houses up the hill from there, both unoccupied, with good driveways. Duck into the one up the hill on the southeastern side of the road. You’ll have a garage to block anyone seeing you from Cair’s place. When we come in dark, I’ll give you a radio bump and you can jump in behind me. I’ll stop to pick up the agent, and we’ll turn up the driveway and make contact.”

  “Shall I call Volstaad to help? He’s in this part of the county today, working a processor follow-up.”

  Young legs. “Good call; have him jump in with you.”

  “How far out are you?” she asked.

  Typical of the U.P. to ask for a distance but really wanting to know the time involved. “Three zero mikes if I keep pushing it.”

  “Is this on some kind of urgent timetable?”

  “For the ATF, not for us.”

  “Be careful,” the young officer said.

  Service heard her call Volstaad on the district frequency and ask if he was available for a TX, to which he replied, “Affirmative.”

  Neither of the young officers had radio diarrhea. They didn’t waste words. He liked that.

  • • •

  Given the sudden intersection of circumstances, there was little time for careful thinking or chitchat. What the hell is Pymn doing at Cair’s, and what does Neutre know that she’s not giving up? It was still pretty much standard for Feds to withhold information, never mind declarations of transparency between law enforcement agencies in the wake of 9/11. That was lip service and little more. Nothing much had changed if you weren’t considered part of the varsity.

  Service pulled up to the end of the driveway dark. Allerdyce bailed out, and the special agent took his place. Paul and Volstaad were black and directly behind him.

  “Where’s he going?” Neutre wanted to know. She was visibly nervous.

  “Recon, and don’t worry; he’s invisible.”

  “A physical impossibility,” she said.

  “Granted, but it is what it is. I want him in there first.”

  Ten minutes later, Allerdyce was beside the truck and the special agent was muttering, “Where the fuck?” Allerdyce leaned in and whispered, “Got the bloods all over sout’wes’ side dere grudges, blood’n hairs on four-wheeler backside, more blood’n hair all over two plastic barrel.”

  “You look in the cans?”

  “No need see. Can smell, Sonny. Deer parts in cans; smell head up on firewood pile. Got tarp froze down over top, ’nother buncha parts furder nort’ along grudge wall. Lights on inside, pipples talkin’, ’lectric saw buzzin’, chains rattle. T’ink dey cuttin’ one up.”

  Service turned to Neutre, “They’re probably not even thinking about cigarettes.”

  “Where did that man come from?” the agent asked incredulously, pointing at Limpy.

  “He’s got superpowers.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You just told me his being invisible was a physical impossibility.”

  “You can trust his words, take them for gospel?”

  “If my partner says that’s how it is, that’s how it is.”

  She looked and sounded a little flustered. All that time alone and cold, and now all this action all around her. He knew how she felt, had felt it himself many, many times. You never got used to going from solo to team in a finger snap.

  “Can we go now?” she asked impatiently, her voice clipped.

  Service whispered to Allerdyce, “Tell Angie and Jop to park behind us but go around to the front door and knock. Tell Angie to ask if they can come inside to talk, and after they’re inside, find a reason to continue talking in the garage.” He could see the door was up on one of the garage bays.

  “Me?” Allerdyce said.

  “You push past the stuff you found, post out on the front of the house to the north. Don’t let anyone get past you.”

  Allerdyce was gone in a blink.

  “We’re wasting time here,” the ATF agent complained.

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Then chill. We have to finesse our way into this place, and our stuff will be the ticket to opening doors for you. Let’s go about this thing deliberately. No rushing. Step by step.”

  From the driveway they could see one bay in the four-car garage open, and Service could see part of a silver van in the easternmost bay. The westernmost bay was closed up, but lit inside.

  “We need to get inside,” Neutre said.

  “Angie will get us in. People always want to please her.”

  “She looks twelve.”

  “Maybe that’s the key.”

  Allerdyce came back by, whispered “Okay,” and raced up the driveway ahead of the trucks.

  “I can’t believe how fast that old man moves.”

  “This is nothing,” Service said. “You should see him when he’s trying to get away from the law.”

  Service stepped aside as COs Paul and Volstaad went by to the front door, which was to the east of the bank of garages.

  He couldn’t hear the conversation as it happened but would later hear it played back on CO Paul’s digital recorder.

  AP: Address, time, about to seek entry. Knocking could be heard, then a woman’s voice.

  Voice (later identified at Kerny Pascal-Veyron): “Yes?”

  AP: “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’m Conservation Of
ficer Angelina Paul, Department of Natural Resources, and we are here to investigate shots that have been reported up here in the hills. Have you heard anything?”

  Voice: “You mean like tonight?”

  AP: “Yes, ma’am. Tonight, any night recently.”

  Voice: “I’ll have to think about that.”

  AP: “Is your husband here? Maybe he’s heard something.”

  Voice: “He comes and goes. There’s no clock to punch here.”

  AP: “Does he hunt?”

  Voice: “I don’t really know. You’d have to ask him.”

  AP: “Do you hunt?”

  Voice: “No.”

  AP: “Has your husband gotten any deer this year?”

  Voice: “I think, maybe. You’ll have to ask him.”

  AP: “Is he here?”

  Voice: “I already said I don’t know.”

  AP: “Can we come inside and talk? We’re letting cold air into your house.”

  Voice: “Oh, thanks. Please do come in. Would you like some coffee? It’s already made.”

  AP: “No, thank you. Where does your husband process his deer?” Voice: “I stay out of all that business.”

  AP: “That’s a sweet pup you have there.”

  Voice: “She’ll jump all over you. She’s just five months, a Rhodesian ridgeback.”

  AP: “Lion-hunting dogs. My uncle had one. I’m a dog person. Can I pet her?”

  Voice: “Sure. Rhodie, be nice to the lady.”

  AP: “She’s so soft. Do you think we could talk in the garage. My partner and I are kind of overdressed to be inside.”

  Voice: “I suppose.”

  AP: “Is this the door into the garage area?”

  Voice: “Uh, yes.”

  AP: “What space. I dream of such space! You have a gorgeous home. It looks new.”

  Voice: “Thank you. We built it a year ago, but Parm’s already making noises about building a newer, bigger place, ya know, with more privacy?”

  AP: “This looks quite private to me.”

  Voice: “It’s a mirage. When all these lots get sold and other plat houses built, this will be just like other neighborhoods. We need real space and privacy.”

  AP: “You have plenty of both right now.”

  Voice: “Who are those people outside our garage?”

  AP: “Don’t be concerned. They’re our colleagues.”

  Voice: “But why are they here?”

  AP: “A gorgeous house like this, you don’t mind if we look around, do you? When you’re on the state payroll, you can’t even think about places like this.”

  Voice: (tentative answer) “I guess . . . it would be all right.”

  AP: “There’s some kind of blood and hair all over the garage floor.” Voice: “It’s always a mess this time of year.”

  AP: “You mean during deer season?”

  Voice: “I guess, yes.”

  AP: “Other times of the year too?”

  Voice: “Parm can be more specific. He’s got a steel-trap memory for everything he does.”

  AP: “That’s a real gift.”

  Voice: “I told him that.”

  AP: “Do you ever hunt with him?”

  Voice: “With who?”

  AP: “Your husband.”

  Voice: “I never hunt with my husband.”

  AP: “Never?”

  Voice: “Well, we used to, you know, as something we could do together? But I get too cold too fast.”

  AP: “Me too.”

  Voice: “You poor thing, and you must be out in the cold all the time.” AP: “More than I’d like.”

  Voice: “God, I know. I have the hot flashes and all that.”

  AP: “My mom went through the change. She said cold was good for hot flashes.” Service heard Angie call the woman on the cold thing, then change directions. Great technique to keep the subject off balance. “There sure is a lot of blood and hair in here. It looks fresh.”

  Voice: “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  AP: “What does your husband do for a living?”

  Voice: “Imports and exports.”

  AP: “That sounds cool. Like what kind of stuff?”

  Voice: “I don’t pay attention to man-business. How do gals do your job?” AP: “We just copy what the men do.”

  Voice: “You’re a clever girl.”

  AP: “Do you have children?”

  Voice: “No, and it’s just as well, given Parm’s emotional struggles.”

  AP: “He has some health issues?”

  Voice: “Vietnam, you know? It turned him into a risk taker.”

  AP: “Really?”

  Voice: “Oh, yes. He’s a regular for counseling at the VA in Iron Mountain.” AP: “What’s through the door over there in the corner of the garage?” Voice: “That’s Parm’s man cave.”

  AP: “The lights are on. Is he in there?”

  Voice: “I would not know that, would I?”

  AP: “Have you had any visitors today?”

  Voice: “No, none. In fact, I’ve got cabin fever.”

  AP: “It sounds like somebody’s in the man cave.”

  Voice: “I don’t hear anything.”

  AP: “Mind if we look?”

  Voice (resignation): “I guess.”

  In real time, this is when CO Paul went through the side door into a garage bay littered with dozens of used latex gloves in several colors, all thrown around the floor; boxes and plastic bags with bloody cloth and paper towels; severed deer legs here and there; blood and hair; a legless carcass hung from a chain over a recessed drain in the floor, most of its meat gone and piled haphazardly on the floor. Service was behind her, heard her yell “Stop!” and saw her slide in blood on the floor as she scrambled toward an open side door to the outside. Special Agent Neutre was behind him, ordered Parmenter Cair to not move.

  Service went through the side door and found Paul and Volstaad, who said, “He came out the door, sprinted for the hill to the north and jumped. Your partner was posted north, saw him, and jumped after him.”

  There were two paths in the snow down the steep hill—two people who had slid down on their butts. Service hopped down and followed, hurtling pell-mell after them, not thinking before he committed himself. The rough descent lasted seconds and stretched close to a hundred feet at a steep angle that bounced him at the bottom, but he quickly got back on his feet and followed two sets of boot prints in the eight or nine inches of snow. He followed them downhill through a series of ravine bottoms until he heard something directly ahead; he turned on his Surefire and saw an Arctic Cat side-by-side ORV. Allerdyce was on his knees with a stick or something across Penfold Pymn’s throat; Pymn’s right leg was deep under the ATV and the left leg sort of half up the side of it.

  “What’s up?” he asked Allerdyce.

  The old man released his hold on the younger man’s neck, and Service saw not a stick but a crowbar, which Allerdyce dropped in the snow. “He mighta coulda bumped inta somepin’ kinda hard.”

  Service got down and looked at the leg. Compound fracture, some blood, swelling fast. It was ugly. Pymn wasn’t moving. “Is he alive?”

  “Wah, I t’ink he jus’ bump noggin’.”

  Service got on his radio, told Angie Paul to yell for EMS. Bump on noggin’ hell. How will I explain this one? His first task now was to splint and secure the leg so the injury wouldn’t be worsened when they moved Pymn.

  • • •

  They were all in the workshop; Parmenter Cair was studiously examining the floor, or his boot tops. Special Agent Neutre said, “We can clearly see cigarettes in the minivan.”

  “There’s no law against smoking.”

  “The cigarettes have Missouri tax stamps.”

  No response came from the man for a few seconds. “You can’t possibly see that from outside.”

  Neutre said, “You just told us.”

  Cair: “I did no such thing.”

  Neutre: “Not intentionally. Where are
the keys?”

  Cair: “It’s not my van.”

  Service whispered to the agent, “Pymn probably threw them when he ran.”

  “We have more than adequate probable cause,” she told Cair.

  “Again, that is not my vehicle.”

  “No? Whose is it?”

  “How should I know?”

  “It’s parked in your garage.”

  “One of life’s little puzzles,” the man said.

  “It was observed arriving here today.”

  “Not seen or driven by me. I don’t know anything about that vehicle.”

  Neutre said to Service, “He’s all yours for the moment,” and left the workshop.

  Grady Service said, “We’ve got Pymn, but he’s hurt.”

  Cair only shrugged and showed a quizzical look: “Pimp? I know no such person.”

  Service said, “He says he knows you.”

  The man looked at the ceiling before answering, “Ah, that Pymn? He’s shirttail kin to my wife.”

  “He says he’s done some work for you. He’s willing to talk, and he wants to clear his conscience,” Service said.

  Cair countered, “Prevaricator.”

  “He seems convincing to me,” the CO said.

  Cair grinned crookedly. “Donchu know that’s the first test of a liar?”

  “Are you telling me that if someone’s convincing, they’re telling a lie?”

  The man nodded. “Absolutely. You see it in the private sector all the time. Caveat emptor, right?”

  “So, if I find what you’re telling me seems convincing, that will be my way of knowing that you’re lying?” Service asked, playing the man’s own words back to him.

  “Not me! Others. I’ll be telling the truth. It’s others you have to concern yourself with. I’m a man of honor.”