“He’s nowhere near your territory,” she said. “And?”
“His story checked out. He had a nasty war. Air Force jock. He got the Silver Star, two Distinguished Flying Crosses, a passel of Air Medals, and a Purple Heart. The Silver Star was awarded for his behavior as a prisoner of war. He was an example to others and frustrated the hell out of the North Koreans.”
“Maybe he got tired of serving as a good example,” Nantz said.
“Who knows? He’s a strange old bird, but he knows bears and trapping better than any man I ever met. Maybe he signed off to get a break from people, got set in his ways, and couldn’t find his way back.”
“Like you?” she said.
Service shot her a look. “We’re not talking about me.”
“It will be a pleasure to meet your friend,” she said with her customary optimism.
“It will be something,” Service said, “but I doubt pleasure is the right word.”
Betty Very owned a small farm south of Rockland, on the precipitous banks of the Ontonagon River. Pure copper had been discovered in the craggy hills around 1840, and fifty years later the population was a thousand souls, complete with Michigan’s first and then only telephone system. A fire before the turn of the twentieth century had been a major setback, but the decision by copper mining companies to abandon the area and push west was even bigger, and brought the town’s death knell. Now there were fewer than two hundred people in the village and land was so cheap that one local bought an entire city block just to grow flowers.
Service considered many of the residents to be of the artsy-fartsy persuasion, most of whom spent summers on the Rock and fled at the first burp of winter. Service thought of them as aging hippies who were time-trapped in the sixties. With only two bars in town, the only persistent problem for local law officers were bush dope farms, and even these seemed to be on the decline.
Bearclaw dealt with more problem bears than any other CO in the state and had the scars to prove it. She was forty and lived alone on the old farm with a menagerie of goats, sheep, llamas, dogs, and cats. When she retired she planned to open an animal rehab sanctuary.
There was a small brick house in disrepair and a new pole barn gleaming beside an older wooden one that leaned precariously toward forty-five degrees. One of these winters it would finish falling.
Very came out to greet Service and Nantz. She was in civvies and did not look happy.
“The sooner you get that sonuvabitch out of here, the more likely he is to keep living,” she said loudly enough for it to be heard a hundred yards away. She gestured toward the old barn, making a chopping motion of her hand.
“What’s the deal?” Service asked.
“I was scouting and I ran across him. He was sitting on a blow-down not far from the river.”
“Did he seem disoriented?”
“Nope, just irritated. I could see he was blind and there was nobody around and we were a mile from the road, so I told him I’d help him out, but he didn’t want to come. I wasn’t about to leave him. He wouldn’t say why he was there alone or how he got there, so I dragged him out and he demanded to talk to you.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Service said.
“You know him?”
Service nodded. “He lives in north Iron County. My old man used to take me to see him and now and then I stop by to see how he’s getting on.”
“What’s he do?”
“Used to trap. Mostly he just doesn’t like human company.”
“Is he the one who baits in bears for biologists to study?”
“He baits them in because it pleases him. Doing something for others isn’t part of his modus operandi. Jet is for Jet, period.”
“The smell of him’s enough to make a vulture trombone,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
Which explained why she had him in the old barn. Betty Very was one of the most polite and considerate officers he had ever met, able to accept people for who and what they were, but she was also a believer in cleanliness and the old man would never meet her standards along those lines.
“I smelt youse comin’,” Trapper Jet rasped when Service stepped past a door hanging from a rusty hinge. The old man was wearing faded, tattered brown Carharts. The stench radiating from him almost made Service retch.
“You got coose with you,” the old man warbled before Service could speak.
Maridly stepped in beside Service. “I’m Nantz,” she said.
“How do,” the trapper said. “Got the curse, have ya? Smelt blood soon as youse gotten outten da truck.”
Nantz stared at him. “You like to shock people, do you?”
“I’m thinkin’ youse ain’t of a kind to shock,” the old man said with a mischievous chuckle.
“You wanted to see me, Jet?” Service asked.
“You, not the coose.”
Nantz stuck out her jaw. “I have a coose, but I am not the coose. Nor am I his coose.”
“Got a mouth on her,” Trapper Jet said.
Nantz parried, “I can’t figure how’d you’d trap anything smarter than a spruce grouse.” A spruce grouse was generally considered the dumbest animal in the forest, a fact attested to by how few remained.
Trapper Jet stared up at her through darkened eyes and grinned. “Coose with fire,” he said, shaking with silent mirth. “I didn’t think it possible.”
“You’d have to double your smarts just to be stupid—” Nantz started.
“Stop!” Service said, raising his hands. “Jet, what the hell are you doing here and what do you want?”
“You could start with givin’ me a lift back to my place.”
“That’s not exactly on our way.”
“You think my being up here is on my way?”
“Why are you here?”
“Got no idea.”
“Why’d you call me?”
“Who else I’m gonna call, eh?”
The trapper obviously wasn’t ready to talk. They loaded him in the truck, rolled the windows down, got a smile of relief from Betty Very, and headed out.
They saw smoke when they were a half-mile from the trapper’s cabin on Mitigwaki Creek, a three-mile-long ribbon of water that connected Mitigwaki and Paint Lakes.
Service spied the smoke and seconds later the old trapper announced, “Somepin’s burnin’.” The something was Trapper Jet’s cabin.
“Dowdy Kitella,” the trapper said with a snarl when they got out of the Yukon.
Service knew Kitella. He was a bear dog outfitter out of Trout Creek with more run-ins with the law than Service cared to count. Kitella was an officer in a national group that promoted bear hunting with hounds, and the sort of man who didn’t care to share. If other guides set up too close to the imaginary lines that defined his hunting territories, he poured gasoline on their baits and sand patches. Guides spread sand on bear trails and smoothed the patches in order to see if animals were coming to their baits. The scent of gasoline and other chemicals pushed bears away. Kitella was known to be ruthless and equally difficult to catch. Most of Kitella’s arrests had come on domestic violence charges, but not once had a spouse or girlfriend pressed charges.
Once Service had read an arrest report where Kitella told the arresting officer that women were like dogs and had to be trained; if you went too easy on them, they’d never do their jobs. That time he’d broken several of a girlfriend’s ribs.
“You think Kitella did this?”
“It’s him,” Trapper Jet said.
“Why?”
“People like him got their own ideas.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I guess he don’t want me here.”
“You tinker with his baits, maybe?”
“I don’t hunt bruins,” the trapper said. “I entertain ’em. Besides—illeg
al to have baits out right now, am I right?”
“Maybe you encouraged some animals away from him?”
“Free country. Bears and people both got the right to choose, eh?”
“Maybe you’d better talk to me about this, Jet.”
“No time to yap. Gotta rebuild.”
“Alone?”
“Hell, I built her alone. I can rebuild her.”
“Blind?”
The old man shrugged and grimaced. “Don’t do no good to whine when you gotta eat shit sandwiches. Out here you work or you don’t make it.”
“What were you doing up on the Firesteel?”
The old man opened the door to the truck and got out. “Time I got to work.”
Service grabbed his arm. “Do you have a problem, Jet?”
The old man sneered and pulled loose. “Bein’ alive is the problem. I can take care of myself.”
“You’re welcome for the lift,” Service said.
The old man didn’t bother to approach the smoldering ruins. He walked straight into a cedar swamp and disappeared.
“You’re going to let him stomp off into the bush alone?” Nantz asked.
“He’s not totally blind,” Service said.
“What?”
“I watched him. He plays at blind, but I saw his hands moving when we approached turns. I baited him by making him think I was going the wrong way. He didn’t say anything, but he moved his hand or leaned in the direction he wanted to go. Maybe it’s unconscious, but I’m sure he can see something and he’s clammed up over why he was up on the Firesteel.”
“Who is this Dowdy Kitella?”
Service shook his head. “Bad as they come.”
“Worse than Limpy?” she asked.
Limpy Allerdyce was the leader of a tribe of poachers, mostly his relations, who lived like animals in the far southwest reaches of Marquette County. Limpy’s crowd had been known to kill bears and sell gallbladders and footpads to Korean brokers in Los Angeles for shipment to the Far East, where such things sold for prices most people would have trouble comprehending. Allerdyce and his clan killed dozens of deer, took thousands of fish, and got substantial money for their efforts from buyers in Chicago and Detroit. Despite their income, the clan lived like savages. Service had put the leader of the clan in prison for seven years and since his release last summer, Allerdyce had become a strange breed of informer for him, claiming that he had done the same for Service’s father.
“Not exactly worse than Limpy,” Service said. “More like a competitor.”
Service picked up his cell phone and punched in the number of CO Simon del Olmo, who lived in Crystal Falls. Simon had been a CO for five years now, and they had become pals over the past year. Like Gus, he was an officer who could be relied upon in any circumstances. The younger officer had been born near Traverse City to Mexican parents, migrant workers who spent summers in Michigan and winters in Texas. Simon had a degree from the University of Michigan and had been in combat with the Air Cav in the Gulf War.
“This is Grady, where are you?”
“Snake Rapids on the Net River. Got tips on some early baits—dirty to boot. Why?”
Dirty baits were those that used illegal materials or illegal amounts, or weren’t properly presented. No baits could be out until a certain number of days before the season began. “You know Trapper Jet?”
“Wish I didn’t. What’s up?”
“His cabin burned down today. Nantz and I are on site now.”
“Too bad,” del Olmo said sarcastically.
“Bearclaw found him up on the Firesteel last night. Wouldn’t say why he was there or how he got there. Nantz and I brought him back and found the fire. Can you get hold of the Troops and get the Arson unit out to the camp?”
“Roger that, but the thing was a firetrap and the old bastard’s as stubborn as he is blind. Billy Klesko cuts wood for him sometimes and Jet’s always bitching that the stuff’s too long and some day there’s gonna be a fire.”
Klesko was a fish technician out of the Crystal Falls District DNR office. “Soon as we found the fire, Jet started making noises about Dowdy Kitella being responsible. When I tried to question him, he clammed up.”
“He still with you?”
“Nope, he limped into the bush, said he’s gotta rebuild.”
“Crazy bastard,” del Olmo said. “Kitella and Jet, there’s a combo for you. I’ll call Arson and get on up that way to meet them. You check out his dugout camp?”
“What dugout camp?”
“It’s on the east side of the high country just east of that little pisshole lake about a half-mile south of his cabin.”
“Never knew about that.”
“I think it’s his hideaway. I found it a couple of years ago when I was running surveillance on some of Kitella’s baits. I think I’ll check it out after Arson gets through.”
“Kitella’s baits are close to Jet’s places?”
“Damn straight.”
“Have there been conflicts?”
“Mostly carping and bitching, but I’ve always thought that sooner or later those two would tangle and we’d have us a major wreck to deal with.”
“Be careful,” Service said. His father had once declared when he was drunk that Trapper Jet was potentially the most dangerous man in the Upper Peninsula.
“Hey,” del Olmo said, “do I issue a congrats to the new daddy?”
Obviously word was making its way through the force. “The jury’s still out. He’s sixteen.”
The younger officer clucked in sympathy. “You can handle it, jeffe.”
“Knock off that jeffe shit.”
“Yes, Detective Dad,” del Olmo said.
Service clicked his cell phone closed and stared out the window.
“How’s Simon?” Nantz asked.
“Cute,” Service said.
“He can’t help that,” she said, smiling, “though I’d call him drop-dead buff.”
“Is everything a joke these days?” he said.
“What joke?” she responded.
They met Walter in front of his dorm. When he slid in beside Nantz, Service said, “You want to go to school here?”
“No problem,” Walter said.
“What does no problem mean?” Service asked. “You want to or you don’t?”
The boy rolled his eyes and glanced at Nantz. “No problem means no problem. Yes, I want to go to school here.”
His father said, “Good. I’ll call Blanck tonight and tell him you’ll redshirt for the year.”
“Don’t you think I should have a say in this?”
Service glared over his shoulder at his son. “Today I asked you point blank and you said you didn’t like the idea of redshirting, but it made sense and you like Blanck.”
“I didn’t say I agreed with it.”
“Well, you asked me to make the decision and I have, and there it is.”
Walter Commando rolled his eyes. “I wanted us to sit down and talk about it.”
“When? I had a call to handle.”
“No problem. But what about today—like now?”
“Okay, let’s talk.”
“Forget it,” Walter said, “You already made the decision.”
“But I haven’t told Blanck.”
“Your mind is made up. I have better things to do than argue with somebody whose mind is set and who doesn’t have any time to talk.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” Service growled.
“Boys,” Maridly Nantz said gently.
“I don’t need to go back to Gladstone,” Walter announced.
“Why, because you’re pissed at me?”
“It has nothing to do with you. Classes start tomorrow and I have enough clothes for the week. Let’s just grab some
dinner. I’ll come back to the house next weekend.”
“Are you sure you have enough for the week?” Nantz asked.
Walter grinned. “Shorts, T-shirts, flip-flops and socks, light jacket, baseball hat—the off-ice hockey uniform. Can we eat? Please?”
Being a father was a lot more difficult than Service had ever imagined. How had Gus raised three sons by himself?
They ate dinner at a cafe called the Steelhead Grille. Walter didn’t have much to say and ate fast. Nantz tried to engage him, but was unsuccessful. After dinner they drove him back to the dorm.
“Do we get to see where you live?” Nantz asked.
“No problem,” the boy said, leading the way up to his third-floor room.
The dorm was old, the brick face covered with ivy that wasn’t quite making it. The room was small, recently painted, fumes lingering. Walter flopped in a chair under the two-by-four loft, his bedspring above him.
“Looks like home,” Nantz said.
Walter shrugged and slouched in his chair.
A short boy with wide shoulders and long black hair came into the room carrying a McDonald’s bag. He wore a new Tech cap backward.
“S’up, Waterbug?” Walter said. To Nantz, “He’s a centericeman.”
The boy had a thick mustache that curled down to his jawline. “Halifax DeRoches,” the boy said, offering his hand. A gentle grip, nothing to prove. Service liked that. “Hi,” the boy added.
A young woman hung back in the doorway, looking awkward.
“Karylanne Pengelly,” Waterbug announced, nodding for her to come in.
“Hi,” the girl said. She was thin with long, straight black hair. She wore a loose T-shirt, no bra, denim cutoffs with holes, no makeup.
Service saw that she had eyes only for his son.
“Where are you from?” Nantz asked.
“Thunder Bay,” the girl said. “Other side of the lake, eh?”
“Engineering?” Nantz asked.
“Zoology.” Her eyes were definitely on Walter, not his roommate.
“Well,” Service said. “Guess we ought to be going. You sure you’ve got everything you need?”
Chasing a Blond Moon Page 6
