“Possibly. We’ll let you know. Thanks for this meeting, and Service—tell that ole boy Treebone I’m glad he made it.”
After Ghizi left them by cutting south into the forest, Service looked Sedge in the eyes. “Thoughts?”
“You know Alice in Wonderland?”
“Neither personally, nor biblically.”
“Not funny,” Sedge said.
“Not sure I ever actually read it.”
Sedge took a deep breath and continued. “Alice is talking to the Cheshire Cat and she says, ‘Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’ The Cat says, ‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.’ And Alice said, ‘I don’t much care where.’
“ ‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat. ‘—So long as I get somewhere,’ Alice explained.
“ ‘Oh,’ said the Cat, ‘you’re sure to do that, if only you walk long enough.’ ”
Service grunted. “You want to know where somewhere is, or how long it will take us to get there?”
“Hell, I think we know where somewhere is. Don’t we?”
“Nighthawks,” Service said. “Maybe we need to revisit Mr. Delongshamp and find out more about what’s been buzzing around out by his place at night.”
“Sunday work for you?” Sedge asked. “Tahq Park, tall-falls area, at two?”
“Works for me.”
17
Harvey, Marquette County
SATURDAY, MAY 12, 2007
“This gives hit-and-run a whole new meaning,” Tuesday Friday said, her leg draped over Grady Service’s hip as it invariably was after sex. “Do you have to go back tonight?”
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “We’re in mole mode with the case,” he said, fighting sleep.
“Progress?” she asked.
“Maybe,” he said, not wanting to talk.
The next thing he knew it was morning, they had made love again, and her leg was back over his hip.
“Good thing this is the weekend,” Friday mumbled. “My brain is like in atomic Jell-O-mode.”
Service looked at her clock radio. “It’s the next day!”
“God, you must be a detective! You were in a deep sleep and I couldn’t bring myself to wake you up.”
“You woke me just fine this morning,” he said.
“That was for my mental health. How long will this darn case go on?” she asked.
He shrugged, lay his hand on her flat belly. “You know,” he said.
“Yeah, it is what it is. She good-looking?”
“Who?”
Friday punched his upper arm. “Sedge, you jerk.”
“I think so. Are you jealous?”
“Should I be?”
“Not yet.”
She laughed out loud. “I asked for that one.”
“Probably.”
“Is she competent?”
“I think so, but she’s young.”
“Do you remember what it was like to be young and new in your job?”
“I was born old.”
“I remember,” she said. “We normals are filled with insecurities, so go easy on her.”
“You are young,” he said, giving her a playful shove.
“An me so haw-knee,” she keened. “So haw-knee …” taking the lines from a Vietnamese Vietcong hooker in Full Metal Jacket.
“No time,” he countered.
“Make time to make time,” she whispered, kissing his shoulder. “Make me.”
18
Tahquamenon Falls State Park, Chippewa County
SUNDAY, MAY 13, 2007
Sedge would meet him at the state park at two o’clock, but first he wanted to find a more-direct route to Delongshamp’s cabin on the Shelldrake River. He trailered his RZR up to West Betsy Road, unloaded it, locked his truck, and headed north, halting at a gate marked LAMBS OF THE LORD A bearded man in faded blue jeans was kneeling in a flowerbed, but popped up to greet him.
Service, in civilian clothes, showed his badge. “DNR.”
“Charlie Nickle,” the man said. He was thin, tall, straight-backed, well past sixty.
“You in charge here?”
Nickle smiled. “The Lord’s in charge.”
Service wished he had not stopped. “Do you know a man by the name of Godfroi Delongshamp?”
“Yes, of course—The Lost Sheep.”
“Part of your group?”
Nickle smiled again. “Not part of any group, at least not one I can identify.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“In a litigious society with privacy laws, nada. Sorry, Officer.”
“Hard feelings between Delongshamp and your group?”
“Not on our part.”
“How many people are here?”
“That particular number varies. Right now it’s seven, maybe eight.”
“Young folks?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Have you ever had problems with vandalism or break-ins out here?”
“The Lord protects us from youthful indiscretions.”
Youthful? “What’s your role here, Charlie?”
“Priest-handyman—Father Fix-it, if you will.” Nickle shrugged. “Actually, I don’t have all that much to do. God sends us retreaters with a magnificent array of skills. What can we do for you, Detective?”
“Just wanted to introduce myself. You mind if I work my way north across your property?”
The priest frowned. “No motorized vehicles are allowed. Silence is the cornerstone of solace and introspection. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, Father. We all have our rules.”
“Call me Charlie.”
“Okay, Charlie. Is there a ford near here?”
“Section Fifteen. Cowlspel owns the property, and there’s a bridge for snowmobiles and four-wheelers. He doesn’t mind people using it. It’s a halfmile north of our property line.”
“Thanks.”
“You ever need a truly quiet place, son, we’re always here.”
“I appreciate that, Charlie.”
“If you happen to see a disrobed woman walking around north of here, please don’t be alarmed. She’s trying to work through some personal issues. This behavior is part of her recovery, but it can be rather upsetting to some people.”
Say what? “In other words, don’t bust her for public nudity.”
“If you would be so kind,” the priest said.
• • •
The Delongshamp cabin was empty and trashed again. Service found two four-wheeler tracks nearby and covered them so he and Sedge could pour plaster casts later. There were no footprints, only griddle-like markings in some soft dirt patches. He had no idea what had caused the cross-hatching, but something inside told him he ought to know.
Service followed the four-wheeler trails northeast toward Vermilion, and when he cut across a soft sand two-track, he saw where the machines had been loaded on a trailer and hauled away.
• • •
Sedge met him in the parking lot of the “tall falls,” her term for the Upper Tahquamenon Falls. A man in a dark green DNR shirt was with her.
“Jeremy Cugnet, Grady Service. Jerry’s the park manager,” she explained.
“Bolf works for you?”
“He works here, but not directly for me. He’s seasonal—cuts grass, does miscellaneous maintenance chores.”
“Been here long?”
“His third season.”
“Before here?”
“Sleepy Hollow State Park, Clinton County.”
“Clinton?” This was downstate, near Lansing.
“Yep, that’s the one.”
“What did he do there?”
“Pretty much the same job.”
“Why’d he move?”
“Divorce, wanted a change of scenery.”
“Somebody recommend him?”
“Sammy Pinto, my
counterpart down there. Said he’s a good worker, doesn’t cause trouble, shows up every day, never a problem. Why?”
“He’s the friend of someone we have an interest in.”
“Huh,” Cugnet said. “Bolf isn’t the pally type. Stays to himself. He’s a trapper.”
“Is he a good employee?”
“A little slow by my standards, but reliable enough.”
“Working today?”
“Nope. Works twelve-hour shifts, Tuesday through Thursday.”
“Do you know Godfroi Delongshamp?”
Cugnet pursed his lips. “Can’t say I do.”
“What about Father Charlie?”
“You mean Father Brightsides out at LOL? Yeah, I know him.”
“Brightsides?”
“Power of positive thought, God is always at your side, the glass is half full, bad shit is good, all that sunshine-lights-up-your-ass stuff.”
“You disapprove?” Sedge asked, intervening.
“I’m opposed to zealotry in service to ambiguous celestial beings.”
“Where’s Bolf live?” Service asked.
“Fire number 32 on West Lost Lake Road, about six miles east of here,” Cugnet said. Sedge wrote the address on a piece of paper. “He’s got a pack of dogs,” Cugnet added. “Pit-bull mixes.”
Fuck, Service thought, feeling his stomach lurch.
• • •
There was a red fire number on West Lost Lake, but no name. A grassy two-track led back through some trees. The trailer sat at the far end of what looked to be a ten-acre parcel. No vehicle at the trailer, no Bolf, no dogs.
“This is productive,” Sedge said.
“Let’s take a good walk around before we decide what to do next,” Service suggested. Moments later he added, “No fresh dog shit. Looks like no dogs have been here for a while.”
“Maybe I wrote down the wrong fire number,” Sedge offered.
“Or Cugnet had it wrong,” Service said. “Bump him on your cell. Find out.”
Sedge walked down the grassy road, looking to get enough bars to call out.
“This is the right number,” she said when they met again.
Service circled the trailer, looking into dirty windows. “The inside looks dusty, lots of spiderwebs. It looks abandoned.”
“So he moved,” Sedge said.
“Possibly. Call the County, see if they have the same fire number.”
“That’s paranoid,” she said.
“Just filling squares,” he told her.
Service found steel stakes, no chains. He could see where dogs had been restrained, but the worn areas looked old, and what dog feces he could see were dessicated and faded white with age. Dust to dust, he told himself. Animal scat was a preview of the process that lay ahead for every living thing.
Walking a spiral route he found two rectangular holes, eighteen inches by three feet. Sedge caught up with him. “There’s no such fire number. What’re the holes—graves for elves?”
Service knelt and felt around in the holes, coming up with a wood sliver, which he showed to her. “Military footlocker,” he said. “Whatever was here was temporary. Government footlockers rot fast in the elements. Cheap Chinese knockoffs rot even faster. Let’s walk a rough grid from this point,” he suggested.
“Are you thinking warrant to get into Bolf’s trailer?” she asked.
“No evidence of a crime and no missing person report. I think we’ll have to wait until he’s supposed to report to work Tuesday.”
She said, “Forty-eight hours is a long time.”
“The law and the Constitution can sometimes be downright inconvenient,” he said. “I think one of us needs to talk to other employees about Bolf, and the other one needs to talk to Chippewa County, tell them we might be looking for warrants. Find out if they’ve had contacts with Bolf or Delongshamp.”
“I checked the Retail Sales System,” she said. “Bolf doesn’t have a fur harvester’s license. Didn’t have one last year either.” RSS was the database for all state outdoor licenses and a quick way for officers to determine if people were off the legal reservation.
“Cugnet says he traps.”
“Interesting,” Sedge said. “I’m tight with some deps, the undersheriff, and the magistrates.”
“Okay, the park’s mine.”
“My place tonight?” she asked as he drove her to her truck at Tahquamenon. “The paintings are down and packed for transport to the galleries. You afraid you can’t control yourself?”
She likes to throw people off balance. “You walk around your joint in your whoopee suit?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” he said.
“You don’t want to see hunkus painting, but real hunkus is okay?”
“I like reality shows,” he said, fighting a smile.
“You are one strange dude,” she declared.
“Takes one,” he said, making her laugh.
“Check in around five,” she said. “I’ve got elk steaks we can grill.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said, watching her drive away.
• • •
Service found Cugnet in his office. “You sure Bolf still works here? There’s no recent sign of dogs or habitation at his trailer.”
“He’s still on the payroll.”
“The fire number you gave us doesn’t exist with the County, but the sign is there and it looks legit.”
“And?”
“The sign is identical to others like it. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look legit.”
“Can you translate that to park-talk?”
“Money.”
“What about it?”
“That’s the part I have to figure out. Who’s his boss?”
“Ingo Sailinen, up at the maintenance shop on M-123. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
• • •
Sailinen looked mean, with splotches of gray hair and a thick white mustache. “You interested in Bolf?” he asked.
Service nodded.
“Nobody knows the man. Does his job okay. Always looks like he’s deep in thought, though I always had the impression he don’t have a lot between the ears, eh?”
“Cause any problems?”
“Nah, he tows the line. Like I said, slow, but he’s not lippy or nothing.”
“You know he was a trapper?”
“I seen traps in his vehicle from time to time, but he don’t talk about it.”
“What’s he drive?”
“Ten-year-old white Datsun that’s more rust than metal. I think the thing’s held together with Bondo, duct tape, and baling wire.”
“You ever see his dogs?”
“Once, and they scared the hell out of me. Aggressive sonsabitches. We all stayed clear of his place.”
“You were there?”
“Just the once.”
“You ever hear of Godfroi Delongshamp?”
“Should I have?”
“Nope, just asking. Bolf working Tuesday?”
“Always does.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Sailinen nodded once and marched away.
• • •
He got to Sedge’s five minutes before her.
“The deps know him. Bolf drinks like a fish over in Bay Mills, but he’s never been busted for operating while intoxicated or under the influence. One of his dogs got loose last fall and killed a hunter’s English setter. The hunter threatened to kill Bolf’s dog and Bolf threatened to kill the hunter.”
“No cops?” asked Service.
“Later the hunter got to thinking and called the sheriff, and they talked to Bolf, who denied the whole thing. No evidence, just ‘he-said’ claims. The cops couldn’t do anything. The hunter threatened to sue in civil court, but so far he hasn’t.”
“You talk to the deps who handled it?”
“Yes, Tailor Tate handled the dog deal. She says Bolf’s a ticking time bomb, but he’s got no record.”
�
�And no trapping licenses.”
“What’re you thinking we do next?”
“Grill the elk steaks. I brought beer.”
“Works for me. You make it down to SuRo’s?”
“Nothing there. One request?”
She looked at him.
“Keep your clothes on,” he said as she opened her front door.
She grinned from ear to ear. “He breaks first!”
“You’ve got major pain-in-the-ass written all over you,” he mumbled, stepping past her.
“Why Chief Master Sergeant, I do declare … and here I was thinking you hadn’t even noticed little old me,” she vamped.
PART II: NIGHTHAWKS
19
Sault Ste. Marie, Chippewa County
MONDAY, MAY 28, 2007
He had not seen Jingo Sedge in two weeks, but they had talked by phone several times. She had gotten an unexpected late steelhead run up Lake Superior feeder creeks, which acted as a magnet for several crews of fish cheats.
Meanwhile, he had finished interviewing a Diorite man whom a Montana game warden alleged to have illegally taken two elk and a grizzly bear. It had taken several heated conversations with the man and the creation of a case that looked more menacing than it was real to convince the man to cop to charges, which he finally did in a flood of tears. And then he wanted a hug and totally disgusted Service. Damn fools in the woods.
Michigan was part of the Interstate Wildlife Violator Compact, which meant if a hunter had his hunting privileges revoked in one state, twenty-seven others in the IWVC would follow suit and also revoke. Service told the man Montana would consider not asking for revocation if the man confessed. This was partly true. The game warden he’d talked to repeated the words as Service dictated them to him, but drolly added, “I reckon that SOB won’t ever hunt the Big Sky again, even with a dang slingshot.”
Service didn’t feel sorry for the hunter. He’d known better, and two elk and a griz were, in his opinion, equivalent to grand larceny. In fact, the man had cried when Service had confiscated the elk meat and bearskin, which had been salted and packed in plastic. But what set the man off most was the confiscation of his hunting rifle, which he’d gotten from his grandpa when he turned twenty-one. Taking “grandpa’s gun” was often the straw that broke the camel’s back.
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