Force of Blood

by Joseph Heywood

  “What is it?” Service leaned close to look at a brown lump, maybe an eighth of an inch long, looking more like a rock than anything else.

  “That, my boy, is a genuine wampum bead. You can’t see it, but you can feel it. Only the Iroquois scored their beads with indentations.”

  Service saw that Katsu was looking absolutely triumphant.

  “And we conclude what from this, Professor?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Shotwiff said. “But on the basis of this bead and five others we uncovered, I would petition the State to core-sample this area and sink some test pits, see what providence gives up.”

  “The battle could have been here?” Service said.

  The professor nodded. “You know, of course, that Iroquois Point has never been excavated or fully explored for aboriginal artifacts?”

  “But it carries the name,” Sedge said.

  “Gives one pause when it comes to cementing any confidence in history or historians, yes?”

  Shotwiff looked up at Service. “Did I mention Miss Ence at the University of Oregon?”

  Why doesn’t he just spit it out? “I believe you did.”

  31

  Slippery Creek Camp

  THURSDAY, JUNE 7, 2007

  Shark had taken the professor back to Silver City last night and Grady Service ended up at his camp alone, with his dog and cat. He’d roasted some chicken breasts and thawed mole sauce he’d made and frozen last winter, pouring the dark, unsweetened, peppered chocolate over the meat.

  Newf sat beside him with drool streams hanging almost to the floor like stalactites at high risk of breaking away.

  Friday had wanted to join him, but he’d needed time to sort out all the case items.

  As he cut into the chicken, Limpy Allerdyce walked into the cabin unannounced and sat down. “Geez, it dinnertime already, sonny?”

  “Get a plate,” Service said with resignation. “You got your teeth in?”

  “You seem to do okay with yours out,” the old poacher said. Service had fallen into a river some years back, gone through a culvert in spring run-off, and broken all his teeth, all of which had been removed and replaced. He hated the false teeth and wore them as infrequently as he could get away with. Or he wore only the upper halves, when he could.

  Service dished up a serving and shoved it in front of Allerdyce. “Don’t be sneaking any to the dog.”

  “Youse decide ’bout dat errorhead stuff?”

  “Not yet.”

  Allerdyce pursed his lips. “Jus’ tryin’ help.”

  “You know anything about live-trapping deer?”

  “Why I know dat? Youse know my job ta kill ’em, eh. Deer ain’t no pets.”

  “Okay, theoretically.”

  “You mean like make-believe?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “Aromatically, mebbe I might heard some pipples use dogs run ’em into nets, and some use four-wheelers.”

  “Then what?”

  “Trank in ass, wrap ’em up tight, and get ’em where dey need go fast, keep somebody in back keep ’em alive.”

  “Good money in this?”

  “Heretically,” Allerdyce said.

  “How much?”

  “Dunno. I don’t keep track of no make-believes.”

  “High mortality from tranks?”

  “Speck ’pends on who makin’ drug dose, eh?”

  He had a point, and a certain degree of practical information that suggested his knowledge was far from just theoretical.

  “Theoretically this was done up here in the Yoop?”

  “We don’t got big deer like da old days, youse know dat.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I ’pose it could happen here or dere.”

  Service grinned at the man. “I’d love to lock up your ass again, old man, and throw away the key.”

  Limpy winked. “Youse caught me once, but even youse ain’t good enough ta catch Limpy twice, and ’n innyvint, I retarded and reformed, ’member?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Hurts my feelins’, dat attitude.”

  “You’ve got no feelings, old man.”

  “Mebbe more den you tink.”

  “What about your pal and the errorheads?”

  “You pay?”

  “RAP will pay something. I don’t know how much.” RAP was the tollfree state Report All Poaching line.

  “Errorheads ain’t poachin’. What dey gotta do wit’ dee-enn-are officers?”

  “If it’s something illegal and we get a conviction, there will be a reward.”

  “You guarantee dat?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “Once upon time,” Allerdyce began.

  “I didn’t ask to hear a fairy tale.”

  “Ain’t fairy scale, is by-God fact. Once upon time might could be somebody fum diffident state pay good cash money fellas dig up Indi’n graveyards.”

  “That so?”

  “Fact, sonny.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Five years at least.”

  “Makes for old, cold trails.”

  “Might could if ’n weren’t stuff ta be found where it don’t belong.”

  “And you’re gonna give me a name.”

  “Homesteader Pioneer Museum west of Trout Lake.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Private, ain’t public. Gotta call somebody ta see it.”

  “You got a number for me?”

  “Got pal who does,” the old man said, holding up one finger. “Cost a hundred.”

  Service dug out his wallet and peeled off two fifties.

  Allerdyce studied the money. “Dis crap marked?”

  “Jesus, don’t be paranoid; it was in my wallet. I didn’t know you were coming over.”

  Limpy folded and pocketed the bills. “You seen billboards ’round town?”

  “I see lots of billboards.”

  “Ones about dee-enn-are.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Well, dey makin’ hot talk wit’ some—if youse get my point.”

  “No, I don’t.” But he did. “Tell me.”

  “Some pipples, dey tink now’s time ta help seffs ev’ting in woods.”

  “They do?”

  “Holy wah, you betcha.”

  “What about you?”

  “I smell rat—some kinda trap.”

  Service suppressed a smile. This was the legendary sixth sense that made Limpy Allerdyce so difficult to catch.

  “Have you shared your paranoia with your colleagues?”

  “My what? I’m retarded fum all dat. Let udders learn hard way.”

  “How long to set me up with your pal with the private museum?”

  “Ain’t pal. Call you in da mornin’?”

  “This just a look-and-see place, or do they deal?”

  “Wun’t surprise me dey deal, but not cheap.”

  “Who owns the place?”

  “Nobody know dat. Guy runs it name Morrie Clatchety.”

  “He live on the premises?”

  “Nobody live dere. Just stuff.”

  “You ever seen this place?”

  “Jes heard.”

  “They got breakheads?”

  “All kinds good stuff.”

  “Ever hear the name Delongshamp?”

  “Frog name,” Allerdyce said.

  “Frog?”

  “Yeah, Frenchie—right? Why you look me so funny?”

  Allerdyce. “What about Brannigan?”

  “Joe Paul?”

  “Joseph Paul Brannigan.”

  “I know ’im.”

  “Some call him Kermit.”

  No reaction. “I call ’im creepy. He ’round again?”

  “He was here and left?”

  “Heard he was ’ere mebbe ten years back, den nuttin’. ”

  “He got a specialty?”

  “Whatever make money,” Limpy Allerdyce said. “Weren’t picky.”

&nbs
p; The poacher shoveled down his food, got up, belched loudly, patted the dog on the head, and walked to the door. Looking back, he said, “I ain’t no Larry Bird.”

  “Adjust your hearing aid,” Service said.

  “I ain’t got the AIDS neither,” Allerdyce declared, and was gone.

  • • •

  Grady Service called Sedge after midnight. “God! What the hell do you want now!” she yelled into his ear. “Don’t you ever fuck or sleep?”

  “What’s either got to do with a phone call?”

  “Jesus mercy,” she said disgustedly. What do you want?”

  “Homesteader Pioneer Museum, west of Trout Lake.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “You never heard of it?”

  “Duh.”

  “A good source suggests the place deals artifacts.”

  “We going to break down the door?”

  “I’m gonna send in plainclothes, see what we can wedge loose with smiles and the promise of cash.”

  “Who?”

  “Gotta check with Milo Miars first. You get any prints yet?”

  “Going first thing tomorrow. Partnering with you is a full-time job.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Don’t kid yourself.”

  “If you get prints, get them over to the Troops ASAP. They can fax them to Marquette or Lansing.”

  “And the museum? I don’t even know where the hell it is.”

  “Don’t worry about that now. I’ll get more details, get back to you.”

  “Okay, done. Now can I go back to what I was doing?”

  “What was that?”

  “That is none of your damn business, Chief Master Sergeant.”

  • • •

  Service next called his former boss, Milo Miars. “El-Tee.”

  “Jesus, Grady, we’re trying to sleep. Congratulations on your promotion. I’m glad I don’t have to pry reports out of you anymore.”

  “I want Elza Grinda to replace me.”

  Miars was silent. “Does she want the job?”

  “She did at one time.”

  “If she wants it, I’d love to have her. If not, we’ll find somebody else.”

  “I’ll have her call you in a few days.”

  • • •

  The next call went to Conservation Officer Elza Grinda in Iron County. Her longtime boyfriend, CO Simon del Olmo, answered the phone sleepily.

  “Grinda there?”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Grady.”

  “Shit, it’s Super Sarge himself. Sheena’s on patrol,” del Olmo said, using Elza’s nickname.

  “Got her private cell number handy?”

  “Burned into my steel-trap mind,” del Olmo said, and gave it to him.

  Grinda answered after a couple of rings.

  “It’s Grady; are you busy?”

  “I’m sitting on a boat trailer at a launch right now. What’s up?”

  “I’d like for you to do an undercover job.”

  “Where and when?”

  “Trout Lake. I hope to have the timing set by tomorrow.”

  “What’s it entail?”

  “I want you to go into a private museum and see if you can buy Native American artifacts.”

  “When did that become part of our jobs?”

  “Always has been.”

  “Nobody told me.”

  “Welcome to the ship of the often-misled and massively clueless, but that will change soon—especially if you can get some action out of this dealer.”

  “I assume there’ll be a more-detailed briefing at some point.”

  “I do too, but that doesn’t mean it will happen. You may have to go in with very incomplete information. Would that be a problem?”

  “I’d prefer complete, but I can rock-and-roll either way. Should I congratulate you on your new position?”

  “Only if you still want my old one.”

  “Detective? Absolutely.”

  “Good; think of this as a warm-up.”

  “Don’t tell me this is some half-assed audition or some such crap.”

  “Nope. You’ve already got the job; this is just a taste of some of the work you’ll be doing.”

  “Don’t tell me I already have the job if I don’t!”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  “You drive us crazy,” she said. “Who?”

  “Almost all of us.”

  “I’ll bump you when I get the timing squared away—cool?”

  “Cool,” she said, and he closed the connection.

  She’ll make a great detective; much better than me.

  • • •

  He called Tuesday Friday. “Hey, baby, wanna have phone sex?”

  “Are you jagging on coffee?” she asked. “We’re trying to sleep here.”

  “Don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “In fact I do, and telefornicating is not even close to the real deal. You sound like adrenaline’s pumping through you like a high-pressure fire hose.”

  “Pretty damn close,” he said.

  • • •

  He was way too wired to sleep or even think about it. Zero three thirty: He made a list of names and one jumped out at him. He picked up his handheld 800-MHZ-radio and dialed in the channel for Station Twenty. “Station Twenty, Twenty Five Fourteen; is Nine One Oh Three on duty?”

  “Yessir, Twenty clear.”

  Service set the freq for District 9. “Nine One Oh Three, Twenty Five Fourteen.”

  “Nine One Oh Three.”

  “You got bars?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Got my personal cell number?”

  “Roger.”

  “Give me a bump; I’m at my residence.”

  “Nine One Oh Three, clear.”

  The phone rang minutes later. “First Fucking Shirt, are you shitting me?” Sergeant Bearnard Quinn shouted into the phone.

  Bearnard was a Gaelic name that translated to “strong as a bear,” and Quinn in Gaelic meant “wisdom.”

  “Bernie, how long you been a sergeant now?”

  “Since me ma spit me from betwixt her legs, ya ugly bastard.”

  “Well, try this on for size: Master Sergeant Bearnard Quinn, Himself.”

  “Getouttahere!”

  “No, the stripes are yours if you want them. You’re the best sergeant in the state. Should be you with my job, so when I go, you’ll take it, which is the way it should have been in the first go-round.”

  Silence on the other end. “What’s the mission?”

  “Float, evaluate officers for development to sergeants, sergeants to el-tees.”

  “Just us?”

  “We recommend to the chief and his assistant chief.”

  “Pretty much us, eh?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “We fuck up, it’s just our asses and our heads, yes?”

  “There it is.”

  “Then sign me up, ya big galoot, and point me at the guns!”

  “You got pass days soon?”

  “Old lady and I planned to go to Toronto for a few days, starting next weekend.”

  “Can you meet me over the bridge?”

  “Say when and where.”

  “Back at you tomorrow. You the man, Master Sergeant Quinn. Congratulations, you old warhorse.”

  “An’ sure if he don’t tink ee loiks da sound a’ dat,” Quinn said in a poor stage brogue.

  Quinn had been awarded the state medal of valor at least twice, the only police officer in the state to be so decorated more than once, and he had five or six life-saving awards. He never balked, never took shortcuts, and the people who reported to him would have followed him into the maws of hell. I’d follow him too, Service thought.

  The dog bumped his leg and he let her out. A wolf sang and Newf answered.

  “Get back in the house,” Service said. “If I’m not getting laid tonight, neither are you.”

  Newf had once had puppies
by a wolf, and he had been forced to give them to a wolf rehabber in Wisconsin. No way are we going through that again.

  32

  Slippery Creek Camp

  SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 2007

  Limpy Allerdyce called before sunrise. “Morris Clatchety will meet youse Monday, ten in morning, one person only. Meet front B.J.’s Rock Shop, Trout Lake.”

  “Price of entry?”

  “Hunnert go t’ru door.”

  “I remember giving you two fifties last night.”

  “Door-open fee, dat.”

  “I thought this was a pal of yours?”

  Allerdyce asked incredulously, “You Jew me for peanuts?”

  Eye on ball. “What’s Clatchety look like?”

  “Never put eyes on man afore.”

  “He’s the manager, yes?”

  “Way I heard. Who youse send?”

  “Friend of mine, artifact expert. Think it’ll be okay with Clatchety?”

  “Only cares sell crap, make money I hear, dat one. Your trooper squeeze be okay.”

  “I didn’t say I was sending a woman.”

  Allerdyce chuckled. “Know how youse t’ink, sonny.”

  Service tried to recall the diminutive Trout Lake’s village geography. “Rock shop just west of the IGA, right? Old wooden building, needs paint?”

  “Dat’s da one; been dere long time, eh.”

  Allerdyce hung up and Service called Grinda at home. “Monday, ten a.m. in Trout Lake, meet first at zero eight hundred at Fiborn Quarry, north end on perimeter road where the karst society has its information boards. Where the old town used to be.”

  “Uniform of the day?”

  “Show skin.”

  “How much?”

  “Hell, it’s summer, and don’t ask me! Do what will work, right?”

  “Sometimes I wonder about you, Grady. I’ll drive my personal ride, no radio, computer, nothing.”

  “Don’t forget your snubbie.”

  “Always close by.”

  “Better bring your handheld, too, and lock it in your vehicle.”

  “I’ll get a room at the Beartrack in MacMillan Sunday night.”

  “It’s a plan. Be careful.”

  • • •

  Jingo Sedge called. “I just dropped prints at the Post. They were all over the place. Post el-tee wants to know who will pay?”

  “Tell him to send invoices to my office in Marquette.”

  “Your new job carry its own budget?”