What was it with white hillbillies trying to dress, talk, and walk like a lot of black of black city kids?
No reaction to the dope comment. The smell was heavy. “Who pays for your house?”
Andrew grinned demonically. “We work, dude.”
“Doing what?”
“This, that, sayin’?”
“Like dealing skunk?”
“Fuck ’em,” younger brother chimed in. “Don’t say shit.”
A dep came out of the house. “Baggies all over the place, and some very odd things in one of the bedrooms.”
Service followed him into the house, which reeked of skunkweed, the cheapest and poorest quality of marijuana. An old door was laid between twin beds in a bedroom. There were three plastic bags filled with arrowheads and flint points. And two rusted ax heads.
“You got any idea about this shit?” the deputy asked.
“Native American artifacts.”
“Legal?”
“Depends on how they came by them.”
Back outside, Service said, “Nice collection in there, Andrew. You buy them or deal for them?”
“We don’t do drugs,” Andrew said.
“We do,” one of the young girls volunteered. “You dudes got some?” she asked hopefully.
“Get Dad!” the younger brother shouted.
“Your father’s in jail,” Service said, “and you two are adults.”
“Drunk tank,” the deputy added. “I heard it on the radio last night. Pissing on church steps.”
“We’re placing you under arrest,” Grady Service announced to the boys. He took a laminated card out of his wallet and began to read the boys their Miranda rights.
“Arrest for what?” Andrew asked.
“Grave robbery—to start,” Service said.
“We did not rob no graves, dude,” Andrew said emphatically.
“Stuff on the beds in there says differently.”
“Dude, we just picked that shit up from the ground. We did not dig up no fuckin’ graves.”
“And that motherfuck stiff us on the job, too,” younger brother chimed in.
“Who?”
“The Frogman,” Andrew said. “We want a lawyer.”
Service finished reading them their rights and stepped over to the girls. The girls stared up at him. “You sure you two are eighteen?”
“We don’t look it?” one of them asked.
“I need to see some ID.”
One of the girls snapped her string bikini bottoms and her gum. “Where we gonna carry ID, dude, like up our twat pockets? Whyfor you hassle them boys?”
“They’ve been robbing graves,” Red Ring said.
“Eeeeww!” the girls said in unison. “That is so nasty!”
48
Allegan, Allegan County
SATURDAY, JUNE 16, 2007
Former DNR lieutenant Eugene McKirnan had retired fifteen years ago. He had a summer home near the Allegan dam, and wintered in south Texas. Service dropped off Professor Shotwiff with his retired colleague and headed for the county jail to talk to the Kerse brothers.
The two were still being processed into custody when Service got to the jail. The shift sergeant greeted him with a nod. “You want them booked?”
“Not if I can work a deal. They call a lawyer yet?”
“Nope. They’re pretty quiet and behaving right now.”
“Weed?” Service asked.
The dep said, “Was speed we’d be goin’ rounds with ’em. You want ’em separately or together?”
“Together will work.”
The sergeant pointed down the hall. “That room.”
“Their old man still here?”
“Is indeed. Bail bondsman said he’d come see him Monday. You want him in this powwow too?”
“Sure, we’ll make it a trifecta of assholes.”
The sergeant laughed and left him.
• • •
The three sat at one table, not looking at each other. They wore orange jumpsuits and paper slippers.
Service introduced himself to the father, Arno Kerse. “Your boys tell you what they’re doing here?”
“Me and them two ain’t got much to say.”
“No gratitude for them kicking the ass of the guy who was schtupping your wife?”
The father looked at the boys. “You done that?”
“We wasn’t lettin’ him get off free,” Andrew said.
“Stiffed us, too,” brother Al added.
Service announced, “They’re being charged with grave robbery, a federal Class A felony, ten years for each count.”
Arno Kerse looked befuddled. “Them two ain’t no angels, but they don’t dig up no damn dead bodies.”
“Artifacts at their place tell a different story,” Service said.
The father looked shocked. “Arrowheads. This is about arrowheads?”
“Artifacts,” Service said. “You can’t take them off public land.”
He had not had time to run down all the technicalities of charge possibilities and was making this up as he went. His gut said these three were meaningless, but that they might point him somewhere important.
“People pick up arrowheads all the time,” the father argued. “You can buy them anywheres up there. Hell, the Boy Scout leader here has crates and bottles filled with that shit.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Service said, “but laws pertain.”
“Look, my boys’re all pussy when it comes to dead bodies, graves and shit.”
The sons glanced at their father. “We ain’t no pussies,” the younger one said defiantly.
“What law did they break?” the father asked, ignoring his younger son.
“Archaeological Resources Protection Act, the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, and the Michigan Penal Code.”
“Dude,” the eldest son said. “There wasn’t no bones. No bones and no damn graves.”
“Which is a good thing,” Service said quickly. “Otherwise the charges would be a lot more severe.”
Arno’s voice was rising. “Some dumb brave drops his goddamn quiver, the arrows rot, and my boys find the points like a million years later, and this is a fucking felony? Are you fucking serious? What’s happening to this country?”
Service sensed an opening. “Why don’t you tell me where the points were found. If it’s different than the site we have identified, maybe we can make an exception here.”
“Maybe we oughta get them a lawyer,” Arno Kerse said.
“That’s your right, Mr. Kerse, but no charges have been filed yet, which means we have time and space to talk. You bring in a lawyer, everything gets formal and no road leads home. Understand?”
Service could see that the man was trying to weigh his options. “What if my boys could tell you where and who they work for?”
“Depends on what they have to say, and how it checks out,” Service said.
“They won’t lie, will you, boys?” the father said, looking at his sons.
The younger son stared at the floor.
“Delongshamp,” Andrew Kerse said. “We set nets for him and that other weirdo.”
“Peewee,” the younger son contributed.
“Nets?” Service asked.
“For the big buck,” Andrew Kerse said. “Huge guy.”
“You’re telling me you both set capture nets?”
“Yeah, and we run some deer with our four-wheelers. Bolf, he’d come up on the radio and tell us where to go, and we’d go and yell and scream and drive crazy and run the deer at them nets.”
“You get any?”
“Wun’t let us see,” the elder brother said.
“But you knew there was a big buck.”
“They had pictures, ya know, from trail cameras over bait. A twelve-point.”
“What were they going to do with the animal? It’s in velvet, right?”
“They didn’t tell us nothing ’bout that.”
“H
ow would they get the animal out of there?”
“Little crick over east of Vermilion. They usta put a boat up there and park their truck in the public tourist lot.”
“In daylight?”
“Only night,” Andrew said.
“How often did this happen?”
The brothers made eye contact. “Four times—five?” Andrew said.
“For pay?”
“Beer and twenty bucks each, but las’ time, Frogman, he skip the lou on us, sayin’?”
Andrew added, “Then we hear Mom been scrompin’ wid dat Frog, and we went and give ’im da what-for. He say Bolf would pay what we earned, that it was an overbite or something. But we never seen them guys again,” the younger son recounted.
English as a second language. “So this happened recently?”
“Night before they defended my honor,” Arno said with an odd touch of pride.
Arno’s playing dumb. “Delongshamp told us we were done, that they was leavin’,” Andrew explained.
“And my old lady announced she was going with the Frog!” Arno shouted.
Service closed his eyes. “This is the sixteenth. You’re talking about the night of the eleventh, yes?”
“Afternoon. Don’t ’member date,” Andrew said.
“Delongshamp say what he and Bolf wanted with the big buck?”
“They didn’t talk much.”
“Where’d the arrowheads and axheads come from?”
“From where we was settin’ nets. They was just layin’ all over the ground.” Andrew Kerse seemed to describe the exact place Service and Sedge were dealing with.
“You saw a boat, or they told you about one?”
“We seen it. She was maybe twenty feet, had a deck built on the back, and two sawhorses on top the platform.”
“Sawhorses.”
“Looked like lat us,” Andrew said.
“You saw the men in the boat, or with it?”
“Nope, we just seen the boat one night.”
“Color, registration numbers?”
“Gray, a beater, we didn’t notice no numbers.”
“But the truck was black,” the younger son said.
“They had a truck?”
“ ’Lectrick. It was real weird, with a flatbed and more sawhorses.”
“Like the boat?”
The young men nodded and shrugged.
“That Frogman nark on us, man?” Andrew asked.
“He didn’t have to. If you cause physical harm and damage, the victim doesn’t have to file charges. We can do it for the victim.”
“We ain’t got nothin’ more,” Andrew Kerse said. “What happens now?”
“You sit tight and I’ll get back to you.”
Service left them together and went outside and telephoned Sedge and filled her in. “You gonna kick them?” she asked.
“I’m going to issue written warnings for illegal possession of Native American funerary objects.”
“We don’t know if it’s a burial ground,” Sedge said.
“I just need some flypaper to get them back if we need them.”
“You need cites from the penal code?”
“Yeah, but I’ll turn the tickets in at the court, and one of the magistrate’s people can help me find what we need.”
“Don’t bother,” she said. “Nobody’s gonna be working the weekend. Write them on 750.387 and 750.160. That will take care of it. Basically disturbing graves. Why were they out there?”
“Setting nets for Kermit.”
“No shit? Ribbit, ribbit,” she said happily. “They saw him use the nets?”
“Nope, they set them up and admitted to herding animals with their four-wheelers. Kermit and his pal Peewee had a boat stashed at Vermilion, and it sounds like it was outfitted similarly to the truck we heard about.”
“You want me to head over that way and look around?”
“Can’t hurt.”
“You?”
“Gotta get Shotwiff back and find home myself.”
“I’ll call you after Vermilion,” she said.
He and the professor would spend the night at McKirnan’s and head north in the morning. It felt like a year since he had seen Shigun or Tuesday. Balance, he told himself. Seek balance.
PART III: BLACK WITCH
49
Strongs, Chippewa County
SUNDAY, JUNE 17, 2007
Sedge called as they were driving east of McBain angling toward US-127. “Katsu wants a meet at his place,” she announced.
“When?”
“Where are you now?”
“Approaching Vogel Center, west of Houghton Lake.”
“Okay then. Northbound is good.”
“Did you get out to Vermilion?”
“Not only that, I found the boat.”
“In the creek?”
“No, on a trailer on a road near old Whitefish Cemetery. Someone called it in.”
“Plates?”
“Reported stolen from downstate.”
“Where?”
“Okemos.”
Near Lansing. “What’s Katsu want?”
“He won’t say. He sounded kind of edgy. He asked about Shotwiff, and wants to talk to him too.”
“Good, we’ll be his daily double. You want to give me some directions?”
“Better. I’ll meet you at Strongs Corners on M-28 and lead the way. Bump me when you cross the big bridge.”
“Three hours, give or take,” Service said.
Shotwiff was watching him. “Sedge,” Service told the professor. “She says Katsu wants to see both of us. You in a hurry to get home?”
“It’ll still be there when I get there,” Shotwiff said. “Have you any idea why the Five-Pack Creek Band hasn’t gotten federal recognition?”
“It’s a slow process, I guess.”
“That’s true, but were I a betting man, I’d wager the Sault Tribe is blocking them. The Sault group takes umbrage at any of their Native American brothers getting any gains in power, real or imagined. The infighting between tribes can be quite nasty, and it’s vastly misunderstood and discounted by the government.”
“But the Five-Pack Creek Band is real?”
“It was. Makes you wonder if the Sault crowd understands the potential downside of Katsu’s site.”
“It’s that significant?”
“Not in the grand scheme of the planet, but in the American Indian world, it’s a big deal for sure. The Saulteurs have already made out how they led the battle against the Na-do-we-se in 1662, even though history suggests it was a combined, thrown-together force; in any event, most Saulteurs were way over in Keweenaw and not likely to be back this far east in any significant numbers. The lighthouse at Iroquois Point attracts tourists from all over. They shop and eat in Brimley and lots of them gamble at Bay Mills and over to the Soo. Take the battle away from the lighthouse site and what happens? Only hardheads would make their way out to Katsu’s remote site. The point is, word will spread that Iroquois Point isn’t the place, and that’s likely to concern Sault and Bay Mills leadership.”
• • •
Friday called as they refueled in Indian River. “Where are you now—Jamaica, Shanghai … Mars?” She sounded happy.
“Indian River,” Service said.
“Karylanne called.”
“Everything okay in Houghton?”
“Little Mar and her mom are fine. She was just checking in.”
“As in checking up on me?”
“Pretty much.”
“How’s our little man?”
“Hungry,” Friday said. “At this rate he’ll be six foot when he’s five. Are you gonna have some pass days when you get back?”
“I hope.”
“We hope, you dope. We. Home tonight?”
“We hope,” he said.
Friday giggled. “See, old dogs can learn new tricks. Where are you headed now?”
“Strongs. I called Shark a few minutes ago. He’ll be over
to spend the night, take the professor home in the morning.”
“God,” she said. “I loathe delayed gratification.”
• • •
Duncan Katsu’s home was precisely as Sedge had described it: a one-story box in the woods. There were seven or eight dogs of indeterminate lineage running loose and barking excitedly. Their presence made Service nervous about getting out of the truck, but the professor got out and the dogs mobbed him, tails wagging, like he was some kind of pied piper.
Katsu met them at the door and invited them in. He pointed at a table in a breakfast nook, made fresh coffee, and heated frybread in the microwave. Service looked around. No artifacts, little decoration of any kind, few personal touches, but the place was spotless and organized. Somehow, not what he’d expected.
“You wanted to see us?” Service said.
“Try the bread, sip coffee, slow down,” Katsu said.
Is he laid-back or uptight? Can’t read him. This is a new mood. Something’s changed.
“Very good bread,” Shotwiff said, chewing slowly. “You get a visit from the Sault boys?”
Katsu was caught off guard and stammered. “You privy to tribal drums?”
“I’m old, and believe it or not, experience counts. They don’t like your find, am I right?”
“They say I’m wrong—that tribal history says the original place was the site of the battle.”
“They come with carrot or stick?”
“Both,” Duncan Katsu said. “If I back off they pledge to throw their weight behind the band’s recognition drive.”
“And if you don’t?”
“The opposite—unspoken and unspecified, of course.”
“Their evidence for their site vis-à-vis yours?”
“Possession … tradition.”
Shotwiff grunted softly. “They come on strong?”
“More direct than strong, you know, calm and businesslike. The strongarm will come later, behind my back, hit and run.”
“Your criminal history,” Sedge said.
Katsu nodded. “One of their points, absolutely.”
“Are you asking us to back off?” Service asked.
“I just thought we should talk about developments.”
Vacillating, unsure. “How about this development? Our chief went to bat for you with the acting state archaeologist. With slight modifications Toliver will be allowed to test-dig.”
Force of Blood Page 24
