Force of Blood

by Joseph Heywood

  “Eight,” Service countered.

  The man eyed him with a slight grin. “Twenty, hard.”

  “Ten. Last chance or we’re out the door,” Service came back.

  The man exhaled. “I’ll be back. Please wait.”

  “Hired gun,” Service whispered. He checked his watch, told her the time. “Help me remember this.”

  “Ten thousand dollars?” Grinda said.

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head, honey,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes in disbelief.

  The man came back somber-faced. “Ten, but only for cash.”

  “Deal,” Service said, opened his wallet, pulled out and counted off twenty crisp McKinleys.

  The man stared at the money. “You want the box wrapped?” he asked.

  “Nah, the wooden box is fine, “Service said. “Receipt?”

  “You want a paper trail?” the man asked.

  “Suit yourself.”

  “What about the staff?”

  “Not interested,” Service said.

  “Thirty, special deal just for you.”

  Aitch has asked for twenty-five plus fifteen handling fee. The owner isn’t Hectorio. Is this guy one of Hectorio’s competitors? “That include your handling fee?” Service challenged.

  “It’s customary,” the man said. “The offer is thirty, this day only.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” Service tapped the box. “This is sweet.”

  Out in the truck Service said to Grinda, “Take the box to Forensics in Marquette on your way home, ask them to analyze the soil for content, and ask about carbon dating.” They double-checked the time the man had left them, presumably to use a phone.

  “Subpoena phone records?” she asked.

  “If it comes to that.”

  “You were almost drooling over the war club.”

  “I think it’s very rare, the same one the USFS described to Sedge and me.”

  “The feds are involved in this?”

  He nodded.

  She stared at him. “Grady, where did all that money come from?”

  “I got it legally. That’s all that matters.”

  “Do we have a plan here?” she asked.

  “Put bad guys in jail,” he said. He saw she was not smiling. “I’m hoping the soil in that box will match our site. I’ve seen this before,” he said. “So has Sedge. Katsu had it at one time. It came from the site, he said, and I want to confirm that. And if they can carbon-date, that might tell us something more.”

  “I didn’t even notice the dirt,” she admitted. “This is another strange case you’ve latched onto.”

  “I think this one came looking for me,” he said.

  “Any notion why?”

  Wish I did. “No, ma’am.”

  56

  Halfway House, Chippewa County

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1, 2007

  Things had been hectic and complex, like the gods were frowning and thumbing their noses on the area and the project, though Service didn’t believe literally in higher powers. DEQ sent the signed permit to Toliver in Paradise, but the messenger had a heart attack, wrecked his government vehicle near Gaylord, and ended up in the hospital in Traverse City. Sometime during the emergency and resulting chaos, the permit had disappeared, causing a new one to be issued and signed and sent, the second messenger finally delivering the goods, which served to finally settle a seriously rattled Toliver.

  No word from Marquette on the soil sample from the war club box. Service had not shown the weapon to Toliver and did not plan to do so.

  Shark Wetelainen again fetched Professor Ozzien Shotwiff from Silver City and promptly disappeared to secret brook trout water allegedly somewhere south of Newberry, which might or might not be the truth. Shark was a master of misdirection in his outdoor forays; when hunting he would walk a mile the opposite way of his blind, then double back two miles just so it would be a chore for anyone to follow him. His ways made Service shake his head.

  Toliver’s people had erected a giant new Cabela’s wall tent at the dig site, and ten smaller three-man shelters around it, reminding Service of a goose and her goslings. His team was comprised of college kids, happy to be, in Toliver’s words, “on the verge of trying to bring clarity to history.”

  Limpy had gone who knew where. Katsu was being polite and attentive to Toliver. Tomorrow the archaeologist would begin organizing the excavation grid. “We should be sifting sand by Monday,” he’d announced officiously to Sedge.

  On the surface the whole scene was one of peace, organization, and purpose. Toliver and Shotwiff were even talking to each other like respectful colleagues.

  Service plopped down on a driftwood log by the edge of an uncharacteristically quiet Lake Superior. Sedge came down and stood beside him as he lit a cigarette and took a hit.

  “Careful with those ashes,” she cautioned.

  “Everything okay at camp?” he asked her.

  “For the moment. Jane Rain and I talked.”

  “She reveal she’s a fed?”

  “Too professional for that. Right now, everyone seems to be playing nice.”

  “Then why does it feel like a tsunami of shit is rolling our way?” Service retorted.

  • • •

  The dig team wanted a campfire at dusk, but Sedge told them no. They had small butane stoves to cook with. The land was too dry for open fires. The college kids weren’t happy, but accepted her declaration.

  Right at dusk Service saw a figure in the gloaming to the southeast. Allerdyce. Where the hell had he come in from?

  “Scary dry out here,” the poacher greeted him through tight lips. “You know dis Lost Boy Point, eh?”

  “Who calls it that?”

  “Nobody knows trute,” Allerdyce said. “Is real name, Lost Boy Point.”

  Service was confused. “This is the halfway house area,” he said.

  “You know you-pee, eh. Lost Bay on some old county maps never got fixed back up. ’Pose to be Lost Boy. Long time back Indi’n pipples lost some kid, come here find ’im, but come up on dere enemas an’ shit hit fan.”

  Enemas? “Right, this is the place.” Service pointed at the camp area.

  “Dis place, sonny? Geez oh Pete, who tole dat?”

  “It was here, not at Iroquois Point.”

  “Dat lighthouse tourshit place? Not dere eder. Ain’t near no water. Bad guys leff canoes here mebbe, but da fight was back in woods over dat hill I just walk down.”

  Oh God. Crazy old fart.

  “You tink Limpy don’t know trute?”

  “You’re the only one who thinks this.”

  “Bullpucks. Pipples out here woods long time, dey all know trute.”

  “You’re telling me this is common knowledge?”

  “Old clans, sure.”

  “Your chum from Raco an old clanner, as in Ku Klux?”

  Allerdyce grinned. “You funny, sonny. My chum, he knows. We all know trute. You want to see?”

  “You can take me to it?”

  “Not dat far, just over hill dere.”

  Service debated a cigarette and felt lightheaded. “Tell me your fairy tale again.”

  “Not my story—trute,” Allercyce insisted, and repeated the story of the lost boy and the alleged chance encounter that led to a battle.

  “Wait here,” Service said, and went to fetch Professor Shotwiff. “Got a few minutes?”

  “Got forever,” the old professor said with a grin, and Service led him out of the camp to the woods. “Limpy Allerdyce, Professor Ozzien Shotwiff.”

  “Ding Dong Disney, bear-man?” Allerdyce said, grinning widely.

  Shotwiff’s face darkened. “Ding Dong Disney?”

  “Don’t mean spittley-spot,” Allerdyce said. “Glad to meet youse. Youse teacher man?”

  “Retired.”

  “Me too,” Allerdyce said, causing Service to choke.

  “Tell the professor your story.”

  “Local kittle gone
missin’. Chips here look for him, see bad boys, set up ambush, kill all their asses.”

  “Right,” Shotwiff said, “This was probably the place.”

  Allerdyce jerked his thumb toward the hill. “Not down here. Up dere.”

  Service and Shotwiff exchanged glances. “He says he can take us to the location,” Service said.

  “Might as well look,” the professor said. “Nothing to lose, eh?”

  “What’re the chances?”

  “In my time I’ve learned not to overlook any reasonable possibilities.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call this one reasonable,” Service said.

  “How far to the place?” Shotwiff asked Allerdyce.

  “Not far, just over hill.”

  “You’ve seen the place?”

  “Go now?”

  Shotwiff laughed out loud. “How about we wait for daylight?”

  Service said, “Shall we let Toliver know?”

  “Would you?” Shotwiff asked. “The man’s a horse’s ass.”

  • • •

  Service later pulled Sedge aside and told her what was going on. “Jesus,” was her mumbled response. “Let’s talk to Katsu,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “He seems so sure about this site, and Ladania Wingel pinpointed it too.”

  “If she told the truth,” Service said. “Let’s hold off on Katsu until we see what Allerdyce has.”

  “You think he could be right?”

  “It’s taken a lot of years, but I’ve grudgingly learned not to bet against him.”

  Service had had enough experiences with the old man to know he probably knew more about the physical U.P. and its detail history than anyone he had ever met.

  “Ironic,” Sedge whispered.

  “It’s always ironic with this guy,” Service said.

  “Where’s Allerdyce?”

  “God knows,” he said.

  “God or the devil?” she came back.

  “Take your pick,” he said.

  57

  Halfway House, Chippewa County

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 2, 2007

  First light and no sign of Allerdyce. Service looked at Professor Shotwiff and shook his head. “Coffee?”

  The professor smiled. “If the man’s not here, what was last night all about?”

  Service had no answer. Limpy’s mind was not like others, and he was entirely unpredictable. The two men watched Toliver assemble his youthful worker-bee team. Toliver talked while the others made breakfast on small backpacking stoves. One of them offered their leader a cup of coffee and he tasted it, made a sour face, and threw the liquid on the ground. “The plan is a walk-across survey. Flags are already set at the corners of the perimeter. We’ll record all visualizations and graph each on the master and section charts. Georgie will do the sketches for the record.” Toliver pointed to a small redhaired woman nearby. “I have marked twenty shovel test pits, which after gridding will be our initial tasks. Five teams of pairs, each with four shovel sites. Questions?”

  The young people looked eager, if half-asleep and a bit droopy-eyed. One of them asked, “If we go blank on all twenty shovel sites, what then?”

  “We won’t,” Toliver said confidently. “But if that happened, we would declare the site sterile, pack up, and go home. I doubt that will be the case here. Artifacts can be seen on the sand’s surface. Other questions?”

  He looked around. No takers. “Let us remember our cardinal rules, people, the main commandments of professional field work: First, everything is important at this juncture. Second, we work from the surface down, top to bottom, known to unknown. Third, our eyes are our primary tools; don’t just look, you must see! Questions?”

  Silence still reigned. Toliver pointed to a canvas tarp on the ground, went over and pulled off the cover. “Grid materials. We will lay out five-foot squares. Once the grid is strung and pegged we will begin shovel tests. From that point on it will be full trenches, which I will demarcate at the time. Everyone knows their job for gridding, yes?”

  They all nodded obediently as he looked around and adjusted his stained, worn Tilley hat. “Here we will uncover the past, dear colleagues,” he said solemnly. “Bear this in mind with every task. Nothing you do here is unimportant.”

  Service watched an impassive Katsu squatting off to the side and wondered what was going through his head. The sand is bleeding, Santinaw had exhorted him. If Allerdyce was right, the bleeding wasn’t here.

  Toliver clapped his hands loudly. “Go to it, people!”

  “Where the hell is Allerdyce?” Sedge whispered.

  Service shrugged and said nothing. “Everything look right here?” he asked the professor.

  Shotwiff stifled a yawn. “Blowhole epizootics aside, this is all standard fare in my business. Toliver is obviously experienced and confident, a dangerous mix with being a pompous ass.”

  58

  Halfway House, Chippewa County

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 2, 2007

  Allerdyce drifted toward the edge of the grid just after lunch. Service looked at his watch.

  “You’re late.”

  “Went ta talk ta my chum.”

  “The mystery man in Raco?”

  “No mystery me, sonnyboy. I know dat bird long time, eh. He tell me, ‘Naa-din esh-pen-eaag-wak’—you know dere singy-songy-jibberingo lingo?”

  “Some.”

  “Me I know pert good. Dis means get back what dey tink important.”

  “Your Raco bud is tribal?”

  “Never said dat,” Allerdyce chirped. “He said stay back from hill dere. I show youse dat place, gone rain bad luck from sky above.”

  Shotwiff looked at Service and said to Allerdyce, “If you believe that, we’ll stay away. Time has probably eroded and destroyed the site. It usually does.”

  “Da place right dere all right, skulks, all dat stuff.”

  “If that’s true, our knowing where it is can help us to protect the site.”

  “Dose Shinob tink dere gods do dat for dem pert good, I tink.”

  “They’re probably right,” Shotwiff said.

  Allerdyce cackled. “No dey ain’t. Shinobs don’t know shit! I’ll show youse, but just youse two.”

  “Is two the critical mass for the tipping point on bad luck?” Service asked.

  Allerdyce gave him a sour look. “Sometimes youse ain’t funny, sonnyboy. We gone go, les get went, eh.”

  • • •

  The site was in shallow swale at the bottom of a fairly large and eroded hill, with remarkably little sand on top. Through the swale there was a trail sunk in bedrock, an enfilade in military terms, a sort of shallow draw that would let you move unseen, or create a death trap for those unaware that you were on their flanks. As soon as Service saw the lay of the land his gut tightened. This was the perfect place for a lethal ambush, today or three and a half centuries ago. Some things don’t change.

  Shotwiff looked around, hardly moving his head. What had Toliver told his young team—the eyes were the primary tool?

  Allerdyce picked up a four-foot-long stick and poked in the sand. “Here,” the old poacher said, his voice barely a whisper, and difficult to hear.

  Service saw the skull top and nudged Shotwiff, who said, “I can see parts of four of them from here.”

  “He’s right, then?”

  “We’d have to excavate carefully to know for sure.”

  “Toliver can’t move his dig to here. His permit won’t cover this site.”

  “When I was doing this business, this is the sort of site I’d walk away from, make notes in my journal and leave it be unless sometime in the future there would be a reason to reveal it.”

  Allerdyce whispered, “We need ta skedaddle. Ain’t good stand in graveyard, piss off ghosts.”

  “People been helping themselves to things from here?” Service asked as they climbed back up the hill.

  “Dunno,” Allerdyce said, nervously glancing back at the place where the sk
ulls lay in the sand.

  • • •

  Sedge caught his eye back at the dig site, but he ignored her.

  The site of the grid was sheltered by trees, the air hot but not humid. The young people had stripped down to the bare minimum in clothing. “We weren’t here, they’d dig buck-naked and smoke their junk at night,” Sedge said with a chuckle.

  She was undoubtedly right. Many CO stops of anyone under forty produced dope and/or alcohol violations, often both. It made him wonder if today’s dope was akin to Prohibition’s booze.

  The grid had grown steadily since morning. Toliver worked tirelessly and patiently with his diggers, carrying a handheld GPS and now and then getting on his knees with a measuring tape and a plumb bob. The sound of mallets pounding metal pegs sounded like muted cymbals in the forest.

  Service lacked the knowledge to judge, but to his untrained eye it looked like Toliver knew his business.

  Service looked around for Allerdyce, but he was gone again, and Service had no interest in knowing where to.

  Late lunches were passed around in boxes. Peanut butter on fresh limpa rye bread from the North Star Brick Oven Bakery on M-123. In Service’s mind it was a sin to put peanut butter on such great bread, but it wasn’t his call. He had enough to think about. He rejected a sandwich offered by Sedge.

  “There’s another site,” he whispered to Sedge when they drifted away from the group with Shotwiff. “Just over this hill. We found skulls.”

  “And?”

  “Toliver’s only permitted to dig here.”

  “Katsu’s wrong?” she said.

  “Time will tell,” the professor said quietly. “But Toliver’s correct; he won’t come up empty at this site. He thinks this was some kind of temporary refuge and fishing village, and he’s probably right.”

  “I’ve got other things to do,” Service told the professor. “You can head out with me or stay here with Sedge. I’ll be back.”

  “Always liked field work,” the old man said. “I miss it. So I’ll stay and watch.”

  “Where are Toliver’s vehicles?” Service asked Sedge.

  “One mile due south,” she said. “There’s a forty-acre landlocked state parcel inside a Little Traverse Conservancy half-section. I remembered this, and that there was an old two-track to the state land. I called the conservancy and they gave Toliver permission to cross their land to stage from the other location. It’s a lot closer than where you and I parked.”