He had no idea. “That’s a good question.”
“Do you have a new call sign?” she asked.
Another question he couldn’t answer. “I’ll let you know. Use the old one for now. Sheena’s going in for us. She’ll get a room at the Beartrack Sunday night. Monday oh eight hundred we’ll meet her at Fiborn, north side.”
“Tell her she can bunk with with me, save motel money.”
“She’s a bituva loner, but thanks.”
“She going in alone?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Wired or not?”
“Unwired. Too early for wires. We don’t have enough for a warrant. This visit’s strictly exploratory, and we don’t want to trip her up.”
“No takedowns, just recce—affirmative?”
“Right,” he said. “How long on those prints?”
“Monday afternoon earliest, probably Tuesday.”
“You talk to Katsu after we left?”
“He was strutting, but he had an interesting suggestion. He said we ought to ask Toliver to do the digging job the professor suggested, see how he handles it professionally.”
“You agree?”
“Makes some sense, I think.”
“You want to call Toliver?”
“This all has to be cleared through the state archaeologist.”
“I know, but you can walk Toliver through what’s under consideration, ask him to come up with a plan.”
“And if he uses this as a quid for his own digging?”
“Hell, let him do his own dig. He already has permission, yes?”
“You think about inviting Wingel to the shindig?”
He had not considered this. “Maybe. I’ll think on that.”
“You do anything about Wingel and Oregon yet?”
“Plan to put an iron in that fire today. If not today, Monday. After Monday’s gig we may want Sheena to see the artifact field, brief her into it on-site.”
“Good idea,” Sedge said. “Think she’ll replace you in Wildlife Resources Protection?”
“This is just a plainclothes job, like we all do from time to time.”
“You pick the master sergeant yet?”
How can she have so damn much information? “That’s in the works.”
“Smart money’s on Bearnard Quinn.”
“You don’t say.”
“Hey, I want in the pool; give a girl a hint.”
“That would be insider trading, which is against the damn law,” Service said.
“Tight ass,” Sedge muttered. “See you in the morning.”
• • •
Oregon. He knew only one person in the state, and that man had been a fish and wildlife trooper named Whybus. Ence/Wingel, Shotwiff claimed, had started her education at the University of Oregon. Eugene? Corvallis? Can’t remember. He could try going through the university, but he felt more comfortable with law enforcement types, especially those he’d worked with successfully.
He called information and got a number for Oregon Fish and Wildlife in Salem. He dialed it, expecting to encounter a computer menu, and was surprised by a friendly human voice. Like the old days when people were assets to organizations and not mere expenses.
“My name is Service,” he explained. “Chief Master Sergeant, Michigan Department of Natural Resources. I’m trying to locate one of your troopers. Name’s Whybus.”
“He’s not a trooper anymore.”
Shit. You keep forgetting how long it’s been.
“He’s Captain Whybus these days.”
“Chook is a captain?”
“David Whybus is the captain’s name!”
“I always called him Chook.”
The operator laughed. “That’s him, but not many have the nerve to call him that.”
“What do you call him?”
“Captain … sir.”
Service laughed. “Is there any way I can get in touch with him, a number, leave mine, anything?”
“You say you know him?”
“We worked a case many years ago.”
“Ordinarily I’d take down your name and pass it to him, but our captain is a different cat than past captains. Got a pen handy?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He wrote down the number she gave him, thanked her for her help, and dialed the new number.
“Whybus residence,” his old colleague answered. Whybus was a Northern Paiute, raised in a tribal community on the Malheur River. He had gone to college at Gonzaga in Spokane on a combination academic and basketball scholarship.
“Sorry to bother you so late on a Saturday night, Captain. This is Grady Service.”
Long pause. “Are you pulling my leg?”
“Nossir.”
“My God, man! How many years has it been?”
“Ten, twelve—I’m not sure anymore.”
“Boy, did I get ribbed when they imported a white man to outtrack an Indian!”
“I got lucky.”
“Yeah, that’s what I told everybody too, but we both know you were a Shadow Wolf. Hell, I’m Indian and I’ve never gotten that honor. Never will.”
Shadow Wolf was a designation bestowed on only a handful of Americans who had demonstrated unparalleled skills in tracking and manhunting. The case he had worked with Whybus had been in the high desert, two lost hikers, one of them a prominent national politician. Service had found them alive after an exhausting four-day search in an unseasonal deluge of freezing rain.
“What can I do for you, Grady?”
“There’s a woman, Ladania Wingel, now a PhD, who started school at the University of Oregon, but something happened and apparently she left. I have no idea what happened, but we suspect it has some bearing on a case we’re working involving illegal trafficking of Native American artifacts.”
“Huh,” Whybus said. “Time frame?”
“Sorry—no idea, and to be honest, this could well be a wild goose chase. The tip came from a retired professor who is helping us, and he seems eager for us to follow up with the university.”
“Didn’t care to spell it out for you?”
“Not even with a broad brush.”
“Typical academic—cowed by lawyers and fearing for his reputation.”
“The woman, now Wingel, was Ence at the university.”
“That’s her maiden name, Ence?”
“Sorry, Captain. I just don’t know.”
“Hey, it’s Chook, not Captain. The woman’s name is Wingel now?”
“Right, Dr. Ladania Wingel.” Service spelled it for him. “She’s one of those who screams racism every time something doesn’t go her way.”
Whybus said, “Next week okay for you, Grady?”
“Yessir. We really appreciate this.”
“You must be close to retirement,” Whybus said.
“That’s what some people tell me.”
“Tough to abandon a way of life, old friend.”
“Amen to that. What about you?”
“Was on my way out the door when our last captain fell over dead. I was asked to step in on an interim basis, and then they made it permanent. I’ll give it a couple more years. You ever think about starting a tracking school when you put away your badge?”
“No.”
“You ought to. Hell, every state would send people to you—feds, too. Great hearing your voice, Grady. Back at you next week. Ence/Wingel, something that happened at Oregon.”
“Yessir.”
Last year the Keweenaw Ojibwa had extended an unofficial offer for him to head up their tribal game warden force. But a tracking school? Worth thinking about? Maybe, but not yet. Retirement for any reason’s not an option yet.
33
Teaspoon Creek, Luce County
SUNDAY, JUNE 10, 2007
Grady Service barely fit into a canoe, and found it impossible to squeeze into the cockpit of a standard kayak. In lieu of this, he used a kayak that let him sit on top and keep his legs free. He’d slept for shit last night, and by the looks of her
, so had Sedge.
Early morning, heavy air, even though it was dry, birds singing, no wind, the thick scent of fish water and cedar engulfing them. “Pete’s Creek,” Sedge said. “We float this down to where it merges into Carlson, then follow that to the Teaspoon.”
“How far?”
“Three miles, crow, maybe ten river miles; pretty good current, we should zip right along if we don’t have to crawl over too many logs. The creeks are real twisty and overgrown.
“Let’s get after it,” he said, using his paddle to slide his plastic craft into the current.
They drifted and paddled, the only sound the creek’s natural flowing hydraulic music or the occasional water dripping off their paddle blades.
Service found himself hardly working, but perspiring heavily. Sedge’s face was flushed. “You coming down with something?” he asked her.
“The fabled curse,” she said.
“Oh.”
“Sorry you asked?”
“Pretty much.”
“Have you looked at the vegetation? It’s as dry as I’ve ever seen it,” she said.
He had half-noticed, but not made a mental note. Now that she mentioned it, he could really see it. Naturally the entire state was understaffed with fire-control personnel for the woods. “July rain will help,” he said.
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Sedge said. “Up here Mother Nature always seems to have PMS.”
• • •
Five hours of combing the area around the camouflaged cabin produced nothing other than a piece of faded orange plastic cap Sedge found near where the metal ring was fastened to a pipe in the creek. She held it up for Service to see.
“Litter,” she said. “You seen enough here?”
“Let’s boogie,” he said. “What’s the plan?”
Sedge said, “Down the Teaspoon to the Tahq, then downstream. Sergeant Bryan and the fire-control officer moved my truck to our get-out. I’ll drive you back to yours.”
• • •
She dropped him at his vehicle and was leaning against the back gate while he smoked a cigarette. “You know, you’ve got the same litter I’ve got,” she said, opening the Tahoe’s back door and picking up an orange plastic cap.
Service looked at it. “I found that out by the Five-Pack. I threw it back there and told myself I’d dump it with the other trash when I got around to it.”
She said, “The same orange cap—one on the Teaspoon, one on the Five-Pack. What’re the chances of that? Let’s tag ’em and bag ’em.”
“Knock yourself out.”
“You get the Oregon thing started?”
“I did. Should know something next week, if there’s anything to know.”
“What are you going to do the rest of the day?” she asked.
“Thought I might drive up to the church camp, talk to the priest there about Delongshamps.”
“Kermit the frog,” she corrected him.
Whatever, he thought. Tomorrow they would meet Grinda on her way to the Rock Shop. Meanwhile he wanted Sedge to stay calm.
34
Lands of the Lord Camp, Chippewa County
SUNDAY, JUNE 10, 2007
Grady Service found Father Fix-it, Charlie Nickle, where he’d found him the last time—on his knees, pulling weeds already browning without rain.
“Father?”
The priest looked up and wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm. “This ground is hard and dry,” the priest said. “Can’t ever remember it being this dry this early. What can I do for you, Officer? It’s Service, right?”
“Godfroi Delongshamp.”
“Yes?”
“Last time here I picked up some vibes. You mentioned something about a litigious society.”
“I did.”
“I would like for you to spit out what it is you have to tell me, Father.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Delongshamp escaped from jail in Wisconsin. He’s wanted in Texas and we’re looking for him. I found him that night out in the woods. Someone beat hell out of him and trashed his camp. When I mentioned this the other time I was here, I asked if you had any vandalism problems. Do you remember what you said to me, Father?”
The priest looked at the ground, a common attempt to collect thoughts.
“How much acreage are you folks gardening?” Service asked, switching directions without segue or warning.
“Uh, several plots … maybe seven or eight acres at the most. But in this drought …”
“Corn?”
“And beans, and various root veggies.”
“Growing season here is really short.”
The priest nodded.
“What you told me, Father Nickle, was that God has protected your group from youthful indiscretions.”
“Is that what I said?”
“I never mentioned kids or youth.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s my job,” Service said.
“This place is beautiful,” the priest said, “but it’s not paradise.”
“Meaning Delongshamp?”
“There were … run-ins….”
“Explain.”
“Perhaps some of our members were overzealous in trying to bring Jesus Christ into the man’s life. In my heart I know it was well intentioned.”
Service decided to let the priest talk and work his way to whatever it was he was trying to find the right words for.
“One of our members, a fine woman I would hasten to add, ended up going there a lot, and over time she remained. Not to proselytize, you understand?”
“I think so. Is she married?”
“Yes, with two teenage sons. They went there and tried repeatedly to force their mother back to the family. I told them to trust in prayer, but you know how headstrong teens can be—all those hormones and the devil vying.”
“Tell me what happened, Father.”
“The woman ended up leaving that man, and the area.”
“With Delongshamp?”
“No, alone.”
“And her sons went after Delongshamp?”
“I really don’t know the details, Officer. The boys are gone, and so too is their father.”
“Did they confess?”
“If they did, you know I can’t talk about that.”
“All I need are names.”
“Sorry, Officer Service. I can’t do that. As far as I’m concerned it’s over and done with. I just hope the family can reconcile and find peace.”
“A court will give me a warrant to get the names, Father. The church may be tax-free, but you still have to abide by the law.”
“Then you will have to get your warrant, and we will still not turn over the names. My bishop will call in our lawyers. All this will have to take place in court.”
“You should think about that, Father Charlie. Do you really want to fight this in the public, what with all the problems the church has had with some of its priests?”
“This is different.”
“It won’t be in the public’s mind,” Service said.
The priest rubbed his mouth. “I must consult with the bishop.”
“All we want are names, Father. We’ll give you till the end of the week.” Service offered a card, but the priest refused it, saying, “I have the one you gave me last time.”
“Take this one too, Father. It’s free.”
35
Fiborn Quarry, Mackinac County
MONDAY, JUNE 11, 2007
The forest condition indicator outside the Newberry DNR Service Center said that fire danger was EXTREME, and that all fires were banned in the eastern U.P. until further notice. Usually it was late summer before such restrictions were levied.
Service made his way south through Rexton and turned north down one of the U.P.’s worst washboard roads until he circled the quarry, which had once mined pure limestone and been owned by a former Michigan governor. It had operated from just after the turn of the century
into the mid-1930s. Once there had been a town in the area, and some limestone caves, which attracted adventurous locals.
Grinda’s gray truck was parked next to Sedge’s patrol vehicle. The two women were carrying on an animated conversation. As far as Service knew, the two had never met. He still didn’t understand the social gene in women that seemed to enable them to take up conversation with just about anyone, at any time.
“Morning,” he said, getting out and lighting a cigarette.
“The state’s super sergeant shouldn’t be smoking,” Sedge said. “You need to set a good example for the rest of us.”
“She’s right,” Sheena said.
“Knock off the tag team,” he grumbled.
“We’re serious,” Sedge said.
I don’t need this. His granddaughter was already riding his ass about smoking—and shaving.
“All right, we have two damn hours, so let’s get to work,” he said, trying to assert control.
“Jingo’s already told me a lot about the possible case.”
“I stopped at the Troop house this morning,” Sedge added. “They ran the prints. They come back to an operator’s license for an Annie Kerse out of Pullman. No wants or warrants; she’s an upstanding citizen. There are also prints for one Andrew and one Allen Kerse, also in Delongshamp’s camp,” she added.
“Kermit was banging Mrs. Kerse,” Service said.
“How can you know that?” Grinda asked, scrinching her face.
“I went to LOL and talked to Father Nickle. Last time there I got vibrations something had happened. This time he talked. Mrs. Kerse was trying to harvest Delongshamp’s soul, and he ended up harvesting another part of her.”
Sedge’s mouth hung open.
“The lady has two teenage sons, Andrew and Allen, and they took exception and tried to bring mum home, but she had already bugged out for parts unknown, so they apparently took their frustration out on Deslongshamps—which is when I entered the picture. The prints seem to confirm the priest’s account.”
“And Kermie hit the road,” Sedge said.
“Yeah, well, so did the boys and their father, and the priest refused to give up their names, so I told him we’d get a warrant for his records, and he told me the church wouldn’t cooperate. I reminded him that the church doesn’t have the most stellar public record in recent years, and that they might find cooperation a better road than a public fight in court. He said he would talk to his bishop, and I gave him until the end of the week. Where’s Pullman?” he asked.
Force of Blood Page 18
