The Run to Gitche Gumee

by Robert F. Jones

  Cora came bustling up to us. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d met my daughter?” she asked. “And that you’d almost been eaten by that dreadful fish-eating warthog?”

  “It’s a salamander, Mother,” Molly said. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  I chose to ignore the interruption. “Frankly, my dear,” I told Cora, “we couldn’t get a word in edgewise once you and Wanda started talking this afternoon. And you never told me you had a daughter.”

  Ben had slipped away. I spotted him in a far corner, tête-à-tête with Wanda. He was hooked, no doubt about it. Ben was right. We should have stayed on the river.

  “Whatever,” Cora said. “Come on, I want you to meet the Elephant.”

  You couldn’t miss him. He towered over everyone else in the room, his gray hair cut short but balding, with a long massive face as smooth as a teenager’s despite his years. He was dressed in London’s finest and sipped his mineral water—Pellegrino by the size of the bubbles—with an air of faint hauteur that bordered on distaste. His bodyguards stood nearby, eyes flicking right and left, reading faces. I noticed Ned, the baby game cop, standing behind them, staring at the heads on the walls.

  Cardigan’s hand was limp when we shook, and he fluttered his eyelashes. “Cora has told me so much about you, Doctor,” he drawled in an affected uppercrust lisp. “I understand you thpent a pleasant few hours this afternoon murdering birds.”

  “Pardon me?” I cupped a hand to one ear, feigning deafness.

  “Slaughtering our fine feathered friends?” he bellowed. “You know—bang bang?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “One bang is usually sufficient.”

  He looked down on me with walleyed contempt. I was a hunter. I was a fisherman . . .

  Fritz Cardigan not only swallowed his “r”s but elided his hard consonants.

  “Vewy cwever, I’m sure,” he sneered. “Bwavo!”

  I smiled and bowed. “You know, Fritzie, I had a speech impediment myself when I was younger,” I told him. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. A few sessions of speech therapy can clear it up, just like that. You’d be surprised what they can do nowadays. Look at Tom Bwokaw! You musth do something about it, if only to bootht your thelf-estheem.”

  His eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

  “Excuse me!” he said, and turned away.

  We watched him go his wide-assed way.

  “That was rude, Harry,” my hostess said, her eyes sparkling. “Good for you!” She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tight.

  For the first time in months I felt a tingle.

  Cora and I went out on the veranda. Down below a chef was tending the barbeque pit. A huge side of roast beast turned on the spit, sputtering fat into the coals.

  “How much has Molly told you about that problem upriver?” I asked her.

  “You mean at the headwaters? Not much, only that this creature, whatever it is, seems to have wiped out the brook trout up there.”

  “Which means that the state has no grounds left for protecting the area. And if the river gets cleaned out of trout and salmon clear down to the estuary . . . it’ll be open to developers all the way. But how did those monster salamanders get there in the first place? Somebody must have planted them. Molly doubts that they could have reached the upper river in any other way.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  I outlined my possible scenarios for her.

  “Who could be bastard enough to do such a thing?” she asked. “And why?”

  “For solitude?” I said. “For control of the river? Or in the way these rabid anti-abortion protesters can commit murder and claim it was necessary to save the lives of the unborn, a rabid anti-bloodsports type might kill an entire population of trout just to prevent anyone else from fishing for them.”

  “Of course,” she said. “The Elephant. And he’s not the dweeb he seems to be. Fritz has been suspected of worse than killing trout. A few years ago, when a young, virtually penniless computer nerd challenged his patent on some new software development, claiming Fritz had pirated it from him, the Juggernaut began rolling. Literally. A double-rigged semi conveniently squashed the kid’s 1962 VW bug one night when he was returning from court in San Francisco.”

  “Who did the rig belong to?”

  “One of Cardigan’s companies.”

  “Didn’t the police suspect something?”

  “Fritz feels he’s above the law,” Cora said. “A few megabucks dropped in the right laps and the investigation was declared a dead end.”

  A chill ran down my spine. This man was a megalomaniac, as dangerous as they come. How could we possibly get Fritz Cardigan out of the Firesteel Country without actually killing the bastard-or worse, getting killed ourselves? That was the scope of the problem.

  10

  VIOLATORS

  Dinner was a Caledonian delight. Smoked Firesteel salmon for the fish course. A consommé of capercailzie. Braised woodcock breasts, studded with slivers of fresh ginger, served on crisp slabs of home-baked garlic toast. Dollops of well-seasoned haggis spooned from the boiled gray stomach of a sheep and consisting of the minced lungs, heart, and liver of said creature mixed with oatmeal, onions, and suet. Few tried it but it was good.

  And then the pièce de résistance—Barbecue of Beast, blood rare, of course.

  A whole new crew of waiters circled the tables now, men this time, bearded, clad in Scottish kilts and tam-o’-shanters, pouring room temperature ales and rare continental wines whether one was ready or not. Bagpipes crooned softly in the background.

  I kept my eye on Fritzie, who had brought along his own eats. He nibbled at his mix of mesclun, artichoke hearts, radicchio, shaved fennel, and marinated sun-dried tomatoes, dribbling on occasional splashes of an extra virgin olive oil and lemongrass vinaigrette. But his proudly proclaimed vegetarianism was as suspect as his hoity-toity speech defects. At the height of the feed, when he thought no one was looking, I saw him snatch a bite of salmon from Cora’s plate. A little later while her head was turned he filched a nibble of her woast wisent. The crispy curly part of course. Yet when one of his aides tried to sneak a bite for himself, Cardigan jealously poked his hand with a sharp-tined fork.

  Molly was seated to my left and while we ate I tried out my salamander scenarios on her. As usual she wouldn’t commit herself one way or the other.

  “Your first theory is remotely feasible,” she allowed. “Freighters and supertankers do indeed sail nonstop to the Gulf of St. Lawrence from Asia without pumping their bilges. We have investigative reports to prove it. And despite the best efforts of both the U.S. and Canadian governments they still blow their ballast in the seaway. How else account for this plague of zebra mussels? It’s also possible that cryptobranch larvae could survive such a long migration through the Great Lakes, though it’s not likely that many would make it all the way to Lake Superior, much less to the headwaters of the Firesteel. Our salmon and steelhead populations would pick most of them off like canapés, and trout would eat the rest. But yes—randomness being an ineluctable factor in all scientific calculations—it’s conceivable that a pair of them might have reached the Firesteel, thus accounting for our breeding couple. Your secondary suppositions, however, smack of conspiracy theory, I’m sad to say. Too typical of laymen in many fields.” She drained her glass, a pricey French Bordeaux that was, in my estimation, slightly “corked.” So was Molly.

  “Could you pass the wine please?” she queried with a tipsy tilt to her eyes and forehead.

  I poured her another glass. “What’s the matter? Has the baby game cop been giving you trouble?”

  “Oh, that little shit,” she blurted. “I saw him talking to Cardigan’s bully boys before you got here. Thick as thieves. I think they’re all in cahoots. The state doesn’t have enough money to restock the headwaters of the Firesteel even if we do eliminate the cryptobranchs. Cardigan will snap up that property as quick as your so-called bull newt the moment we lift its sanc
tuary status. And Ned was looking at some videotape earlier this evening, provided by Fritzie’s crew. It was all very hush-hush, but I gathered from what I could overhear outside the door of the screening room that it dealt with illegal hunting. On my mother’s land!”

  We didn’t have long to wait for the trump card. While the kilted menservants were circulating with dessert—plum duff—Fritzie’s minions wheeled a VCR and an outsized television set to the center of the lounge. Ned stood up from Cardigan’s table and cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please?” His trick eye was blipping in and out like a message in Morse code. “I am afraid I have some rather grave and upsetting news to announce. If you would please direct your attention to the video monitor on the dance floor for a moment, all will soon come clear.”

  The TV screen snapped on. The image blurred, wavered, then focused. There we all were—Cora and Wanda, Ben and I, and Tony trailing behind with his gamebag. Jake quartered in front of the guns. Two birds flushed. Ben raised his AyA and fired. The birds dropped. Jake picked them up, one after the other, and trotted back to his master . . .

  The camera zoomed in on the kills. They were, of course, Scolopax rusticola—Ben’s nifty double on those woodcock.

  “Since you’re all hunters,” Ned said, “I’m sure you recognize these birds as woodcock. Unfortunately the Wisconsin woodcock season has not yet open. Today is September 22. Woodcock aren’t fair game until tomorrow. We also found three dozen of these birds in the kitchen freezer, dressed and plucked and ready for the oven, so obviously this illegal harvest has been going on for quite a while. These so-called ‘sportsmen’ are in clear violation of both state and Federal law, as are those who killed the earlier birds. Thus I can only assume that everyone associated with this establishment, owner, staff and guests alike, is also in violation as aiders and abettors of the offense, if not indeed perpetrators.” He looked over at Cora and withdrew a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. “Mrs. Bellefont,” he said, “I have here a warrant for your arrest. You are charged with violation of the Migratory Bird Treaty of 1916, a Federal crime, and of the applicable Wisconsin statutes as well, as are all your guests and employees, on charges of complicity in this act. Except for Mr. Cardigan, of course,” he added. “And his, uh, entourage.”

  “Bwavo, Officer Ned!” Cardigan cried. He rose to his full imperious height and brushed breadcrumbs from his vest. “It’s about time someone put an end to this twavesty.”

  The baby game cop nodded, blushed, then continued: “Since we do not yet know who killed the other woodcock, the ones we found in the freezer, it’s my duty under the law to confiscate all firearms on the premises.”

  After a long stunned silence, the room erupted in an outraged chorus.

  “He can’t take our guns, can he?” someone yelled.

  “Oh yes I can,” Ned said. He held up a copy of the Wisconsin game regulations. “Not only your guns, but your cars and trucks as well. Anyone who is aware of a state game violation and does not immediately report it to an enforcement officer is considered equally guilty, until proved innocent.”

  “We had nothing to do with this bird hunting!” screamed the Spudnuts. “We’re big game hunters!”

  “Woodcock can be killed by rifles as well as shotguns,” Ned said. “Since the birds in the freezer have been decapitated, we don’t know if some sniper among you didn’t shoot their heads off.”

  “Those are European woodcock,” hollered Carlo Sears, “imported birds! Exotics! The statutes you cite don’t apply!”

  Dorsey Diffendaffer, fumbling for his cell phone, fixed Ned with a stern senatorial gaze and said, “The governor will hear about this, right now!”

  Fritz Cardigan smirked. “Don’t waste your valuable phone time,” he said. “I’m playing golf with the governor tomorrow—it’s our usual date—and I’ll relay your protest to him in person.”

  Django Quagga: “I’m only here to ride horseback.” His film crew was busy with their minicams, working the room for reaction shots.

  “This will set the pharmaceutical industry back to the days of leeches and mugwort,” Chester Cheatweed predicted, envisioning tomorrow’s headlines in the New York Times Business section and the consequent collapse of C&B stock.

  “That Holland and Holland double rifle of mine is worth a quarter million,” Gus Kohlfresser mumbled. He was slumped at our table, pale with shock. “It belonged to the maharajah of Chingapoor. It’s chased in gold and studded with emeralds.”

  Cora folded her napkin. “Mr. Sears is right,” she said to me sotto voce. “Those birds are European woodcock, Scolopax rusticola, so they don’t fall under any U.S. or state laws. They haven’t been drawn or plucked yet. They’re in the cooling room with the others we shot this afternoon. I’m going to set that self-righteous little twerp right. Once he sees the difference he’ll have to drop these absurd charges. Why don’t you fellows slip out through the kitchen and go back to the bungalow? I’ll meet you there in a while.” She turned to her daughter the scientist. “Come along, Molly. I’m going to need your help.”

  Ben ripped off his tie and threw the monogrammed blazer in a corner. “Goddamit, Hairball, I had it all set to shack up with Wanda tonight,” he said. “Nothing works for me anymore.” He started repacking his duffel. “I told you we should never have left the river. I don’t know about you, but I’m heading back to the water as soon as I can. Fuck this mickey mouse bullshit!”

  “Don’t you think we should wait to hear what Cora has to say? Otherwise there’ll be a posse after us come morning.”

  “We can be halfway to Gitche Gumee by then.”

  “And then what do we do? Listen, Fritz Cardigan is behind all this. He’s got Baby Ned in his pocket. He wants to drive Cora out of business and lock up this whole river system for his own private playground. But maybe we can turn the tables on him.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He must have had all those big brook trout netted out of the spring holes, maybe sold them on the black market, then planted the bull newt up at the headwaters to cover his ass so he could gain control of that property. Now if he bankrupts Cora and buys her out, he’s got most of the river clear down to the estuary. Maybe he still has a stock of bull newts somewhere on his estate downriver, or files to show where he got them. If we can prove that, he’ll be in deep shit. What I’d like to do is infiltrate his place tonight and check it out. If we can’t find anything, we’ll just continue downriver as fast as we can and split for the Canadian line. From there we can go anywhere, Tahiti to Timbucktoo—my treat. I’ve got money to burn. What say?”

  “Can we take the girls with us?”

  “If they’re game, sure.”

  “Let’s do it. Anything to get out of this place.”

  Cora and Wanda came in a few minutes later. Baby Ned had refused to take Molly’s professional word for it that the woodcock in question were of a different, “exotic” species. After all, he said, Molly was Cora’s daughter as well as a state biologist—clear conflict of interest. He would send the birds to the state’s crime lab in Madision for DNA tests, which could take weeks. Meanwhile, his arrest and confiscation order stood.

  “The little rat turd,” Cora said. “I’d like to do a DNA test on him—say, on a core from his measly, weaselly heart!”

  We put the proposition to them. The raid on Cardigan’s castle. They were more than willing. They’d round up Molly and bring her along. She’d be an unimpeachable witness before a fair-minded tribunal if we found what we were looking for.

  “Get out of those party dresses,” Ben told them. “Wear pants and boots, something dark.”

  When the women slipped out the back door of the bungalow, Ben smiled. His eyes were bright—at the prospect of action?

  “Not really,” he admitted. “I’ve just got to blow this pop-stand. I haven’t wanted out of a place this bad since Hagaru.”

  “Where’s that?” I asked.


  He stared at me and shook his head.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  11

  THE SOLID-GOLD CADILLAC

  We walked down to the river. The moon was just sinking behind the spruce spires to the west. Jake, delighted to be out of the bungalow, sniffed, cocked a leg, pissed. Did I have to drain the weasel as well?

  No. I’d been taking my Micturatrol religiously.

  Tony Mezzoni was with us. “Cardigan and his guys are still in the dining room,” he said, “celebrating their triumph, I guess. That snotnose game cop’s making the rounds, collecting hardware from the customers. He told me to turn yours over to him, but don’t you guys worry. I gave him a couple of Ariettas. We keep ’em on tap for the johns without guns.”

  Mezzoni’s men had dropped a tree across the only road leading out of Shikaree. That would further delay Cardigan’s return to his estate.

  Our canoe was already in the water. One of Tony’s guys had loaded the gear. An Avon raft was pulled up on the beach. Weapons glinted in the starlight. Tony handed Ben a BAR—“You’re good with it, I’m told”—and me a wicked-looking little machine pistol. “A Bushmaster,” he said, “5.56mm. Just in case you need it.”

  “Let’s hold the gunplay to a minimum this time,” Cora said. “Shoot only if you have to, and then please be sure to fire high, just enough to keep their heads down. I don’t want any dead men on my conscience.”

  We looked at her.

  “Whatever you say, dear,” I said. She turned away. I winked at Ben and Tony.

  “He’s got guards on watch—twenty-four/seven,” Tony told us. “Surveillance cameras everywhere. Sound sensors. I’ve scouted the place, though, and I know how to deactivate them. There’s also guys that walk the perimeter. They have to check in every half hour. We can deactivate them too—I’m bringing a couple of my boys. But time is going to be tight.”

  “Were you by any chance a Marine?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah. Fifth of the First. Vietnam and Grenada. You?”

  “Same outfit, but the Seventh BN. Korea.”