Shadow of the Wolf Tree

by Joseph Heywood

“Penny Provo,” Service said.

  Allerdyce stared at him. “What about ’er? You gettin’ some of dat, too?”

  Allerdyce claimed to have had sex with just about every female he’d ever met, true or not. Ironically, a lot more of his claims were true than most people understood. “We need to talk.”

  Allerdyce held open the door and let Service step inside. Two years ago the old man was keeping company with an author-professor from Northern Michigan University. “Where’s your soul mate?”

  “Gone back North Cargoliner. Up here for da year semenatical, write da book.”

  The old man’s twisted syntax, offbeat vocabulary, and frequent malaprops made him seem a fool, but conservation officers knew him to be smart, his behavior no more than an act honed as sharp as a flensing knife.

  “Cuppa mud?”

  “If some’s made.”

  “Always got mud,” Allerdyce said, taking a pot and pouring two cups. “Been a while since I seen youse, sonny.”

  Some years back he’d caught Allerdyce, gotten into a scuffle, and accidentally been shot in the leg by the old man, who spent seven years in prison before being paroled. Since then Allerdyce had tried to be his snitch, with mixed results.

  “Provo back U.P.?” Allerdyce asked.

  “Did I say she’d left?” Service countered. Any conversation with Allerdyce was a joust, each probing the other for weakness and information.

  “Was Natural Guard, Kingsford. Was off ta some trainin’ ting when she got canned Trout Creek. Heard she trew away uniform, bugged out. Wimmens,” the old man added, as if gender explained everything.

  “Rankin Box,” Service said.

  Allerdyce lit up. “Howse dat ole coot doin’?”

  “You know him?”

  “Go back long time.”

  “Colleagues?”

  Allerdyce chuckled. “Just chums. Box is gun guy, not no real cedar swamp savage like youse or me.”

  “He claims he referred Provo to you to learn guns.”

  “She in the army; why she need me learn her guns?”

  Indeed, Service thought. “Don’t bullshit me. I’m not in the mood for your asshole games.”

  Allerdyce held out his hands. “Trut’, sonny. When was it she was ’posed ta come over dis way?”

  “Late nineties.”

  Limpy shook his head. “Yeah, sure, I got pass from warden down Jacktown, droved up here jes to meet wit’ ’er.”

  “She was directed to your camp. I thought maybe she dealt with one of your people.”

  “Only one it woulda been back den was Jerry.”

  The son, Jerry Allerdyce, a career criminal and philanderer, had been murdered in 2001 by perpetrators of a diamond mining scam.

  “Was Jerry, won’t never know, him bein’ up heaven, or some such,” Limpy said. “You got case in fire?”

  “I don’t need your help, old man.” Jerry Allerdyce in heaven?

  Allerdyce had his teeth out and rolled his jaws for a minute. “Lemme guess. Dis about dose booby traps down Sout’ Branch Paint, hey.”

  “What booby traps?”

  “Wasn’t in paper, but word gets ’round, eh? Ain’t no secrets You-Pee. Spring guns, I heard. Also some cables strunged crosset river.”

  As it always was, the accuracy of the old poacher’s intelligence network was both astounding and depressing.

  “Say dis, sonny: Only shit-balls use spring gun.”

  Service was fairly certain that the booby trap information had been effectively buried. He also knew he’d probably heard all he was going to hear from Limpy without applying some real pressure. “Thanks for the help,” he said sarcastically. When he stood up, he added, “So when was it you and Provo mixed bodily fluids?”

  “Gen’leman don’ ’posed ta say.”

  “You’re not a gentleman.”

  “Could be she heard how good Limpy is.”

  Service poked his finger at the poacher. “The question is, when?”

  “Sonny-boy pissed?”

  “See, I’m thinking you saw her after she left the army, and I’m just guessing here—that Army CID will want to talk to you.”

  “I’m pubic-minted citizen,” Allerdyce said. “But army got no say my life.”

  Service looked over at the old man. “What do you know about wolf trees?”

  This seemed to catch Allerdyce by surprise. “Know what dey are, ’course.”

  “But you’ve never set one?”

  “I like wolfies,” Limpy said. “Dey make it easy find deer. Why I catch poor tings in traps?”

  Service believed him about the wolves. “If you hear anything about a wolf tree, give me a call.”

  Allerdyce broke into a huge grin. “Holy wah—youse’re askin’ Limpy’s help?”

  Service hung his head. “Don’t gloat.”

  “Bin waitin’ long time dis day, youse betcha!”Allerdyce said, slapping his hands together. “Youse finally ’cep Limpy changed.”

  “Not for a Mackinac minute,” Service said, getting up. Allerdyce would never change. He couldn’t. “When your memory improves on Provo, give me a call; otherwise, I’m passing the information on to CID, and you’re on your own with the feds after that. Call by five today, or adios, motherfucker.”

  Limpy’s mouth hung open.

  Service drove from Limpy’s camp to Slippery Creek, got mauled by his dog and cat, and slept uneasily on the footlockers that served as his bed.

  15

  Three Lakes, Baraga County

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 2006

  First thing in the morning Service stopped early at the hospital in Marquette. Denninger was in a semiprivate room.

  “You doing your physical therapy?” he asked.

  “It hasn’t started yet,” she said.

  “Make sure you do it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s what I’ve been telling you,” she said, laughing. Then, in a serious tone, “The doctors are telling me I could be out of action for six months. Will I get laid off if I’m out that long?”

  “It doesn’t work that way. They’ll stick you in an office with a phone, and give you light duty until you’re ready to go back to a regular schedule.”

  “Thank God,” she said. “I love this job, and the other night I didn’t mean to make this sound like your fault. I chose when to check out that place, and I stepped on the stupid trap. My fault alone.”

  “All jobs are about mistakes, especially our jobs,” he said. “The trick is to not make the same ones, and learn from those you do make.”

  “Have you learned from yours?”

  “Tried to. That’s the best any of us can do.”

  “How’s Little Mar?”

  “My granddaughter’s fine.”

  “She reading yet?”

  Service smiled. “Only at sixth-grade level, but she’ll get better.”

  Denninger waggled a finger at him and reached up with her arms. “C’mere, you.”

  He went over to her, bent down, and reciprocated with a long hug. She whispered, “I know I can be a bit of a pain in the ass.”

  “A bit?”

  “You haven’t even been to bed with me yet,” she said with a wink.

  “If you need anything, call Fern LeBlanc at the regional office, or Candi McCants.”

  “Your thing with McCants—it’s really not a thing?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re still friends?”

  • • •

  Baraga County sheriff Bruce “Pinky” Barbeaux had been elected in a landslide after retiring from a distinguished twenty-five-year career as a conservation officer, having finished as the lieutenant for a district in northeast Michigan before moving back
to his hometown of Herman, one of the snowiest, coldest places in the U.P.

  After visiting Denninger, Service dropped Cat and Newf at Kira Lehto’s vet clinic and headed west for a talk with Barbeaux. They rendezvoused at the Moseying Moose in Three Lakes, just a few miles into Baraga County.

  Barbeaux’s county SUV was already parked and the sheriff inside, holding court with the local morning coffee klatch, regaling them with stories of the exploits of his “boys.” Barbeaux was a gregarious, natural leader the DNR had sent to a prestigious FBI school for non-federal law enforcement officers. Service had always thought that Barbeaux would become the DNR’s chief when Lorne O’Driscoll retired, so the fact that Lorne was still on the job and Barbeaux had retired five years ago—and had subsequently been elected to sheriff the year after that—had come as surprises.

  “Folks,” Barbeaux bellowed when Service walked in, “meet Grady Service. You don’t ever want this big bugger on your trail.”

  The people stared at him as Pinky pumped his hand. “Sorry for your loss,” Barbeaux whispered as they sat down. “What brings you over this way?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Yeah, I heard. A wolf tree, for chrissakes. How’s your officer?”

  “Her name’s Denninger, and they moved her to Marquette last night. She should be okay.”

  “I’m thinkin’ the boys and girls in green and gray are gonna hammer a giant-size pole up someone’s keester.”

  “It would help to have a suspect.”

  Barbeaux nodded. “I feel your pain.”

  “Art Lake,” Service said. “What do you know about the place? Seems to me the sheriff of the county would have more insight than anyone.”

  “Seems that way to me, too, but we’d both be wrong. Got no clue what goes on over there.”

  “You ever been inside?”

  “Once, right after I got elected, I got a letter inviting me on a certain date. I drove over and a Chicago lawyer named Evers Gorsline met me, took me through the gate to a giganto lodge, and a spread of chow that a sumo with a tapeworm couldn’t get down. Middle of the bloody day. Gorsline’s in his sixties, fit, tall, smooth, makes small talk, the man-for-any-situation type. When we’re having coffee and brandy and cigars after the meal, he says, ‘We of Art Lake relish our privacy. In the unlikely event your department gets a call for assistance, you will check with me first. I am available by telephone twenty-four/seven.’ ”

  “You agreed?”

  “He handed me a check that paid for three new cruisers for my road patrols. I told him I’d keep his request in mind. If there’d been a call I wouldn’t have called him, but there’s been nothing. So I never had to make that particular decision. The place is quiet.”

  “They have a gate with security?”

  “Electronic. Di’n’t see any people. Honking big fence all around the place. My people tell me they’ve seen surveillance cameras on some of the stanchions. What’s your interest?”

  “The proximity of the wolf tree, my gut, curiosity—not sure. You still got Gorsline’s phone number?”

  “The Van Dalen Foundation has bought us new patrol vehicles every year I’ve been in office, and all sorts of commo and equipment upgrades. Without their generosity, my department would be hurting worse than it is.”

  “Officer down, Pinky.”

  Barbeaux gnawed his bottom lip, took a deep breath, grabbed a napkin, and wrote a number with a Chicago area code.

  “You ever see him again?”

  “Just the one time.”

  “Anybody else there with the two of you?”

  “Just us, but I saw three vehicles.”

  Service raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t jot down their plate numbers?”

  Barbeaux grinned. “I think I got ’em in a file somewhere. I’ll call you with them—fair enough?”

  “Thanks, Pinky.”

  “Don’t be shittin’ in my honey hole, Grady. I know you and your people got a job to do, but try diplomacy. It actually works.”

  Me and my people? He retired as one of us. “What was your impression of Gorsline?”

  The sheriff bobbed his head. “Limpy Allerdyce in a three-piece suit. If he could scare you off with just a cap gun, he’d use napalm.”

  Service said, “Diplomacy.”

  “Good lad. Keep me tuned in, eh?”

  Interesting, Service thought. Pinky met the man only once, but doesn’t have to look up his phone number?

  16

  Redlight Creek, Ontonagon County

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 2006

  All sorts of things seemed to be dancing just out of view in Grady Service’s brain, and having gotten a name from Pinky Barbeaux, he knew the only way ahead was to follow every lead, talk to every person with even the thinnest theoretical relevance. One thing a cop learned was that the old thing about six degrees of separation between all people was more true than not. If you kept poking, it was amazing the connections you could find. What he needed was to find a flash of red under the ice, but he doubted it would happen this time.

  There were two kinds of history in the U.P., and this was of the second type, by far the most difficult to bring to light. Someone had nearly killed Tree, and had killed another man. Tree was recovering and had moved over to his camp in the eastern U.P. Two skulls had been found by Newf, the skeletons sprinkled with gold dust. And Denninger had been attacked. His gut whispered: Linkage! The evidence, however, remained mute.

  Detectives Millitor and Friday were good partners, but he was pretty sure that somehow the outcome of all this rode squarely on his shoulders.

  All of this played through his mind during the one-hour drive from Three Lakes to Rankin Box’s camp on Redlight Creek.

  It was just after five when he got there, and as soon as he pulled down the drive and parked he sensed that something was seriously wrong. The cabin’s front door was open, and two coyotes were sniffing around the opening.

  “Beat it!” he shouted, and started forward. He smelled death and heard flies inside before he got to the door. He took a deep breath to calm himself and moved inside. He found Box still in his chair, slumped forward in a dramatic final bow. Flies were swarming all over the house. Don’t touch anything, he told himself, backed out, and got on the radio to Ontonagon County to report the body.

  A female Troop named Stone was first to arrive, soon followed by two Ontonagon County deps. Service held up his badge, took a hit on his cigarette, and pointed. “By the back window,” was all he said.

  “You touch anything?” Trooper Stone asked.

  He shook his head.

  Stone came back out quickly, looking a little green. “I’m calling our forensics tech. The deps are calling the ME. It will take everyone a while to get here. You were smart to not touch anything.”

  She’s what, twenty-something, green behind the ears? Then, chiding himself, thought, You were a rookie too. Back off.

  When Trooper Stone stepped over to her cruiser to vomit he didn’t look at her, and when she had composed herself, he offered her a cigarette and she took it. “First murder?”

  “How do you know it’s a murder?”

  “You’d have to be double-jointed to commit suicide with a shot directly in the back of the head. Rankin Box could hardly move, and couldn’t hold anything.” Service curled his hands into claws and held them up. “Arthritis.”

  “Box—that’s his name? You knew him?”

  “Met him once.”

  “Cyndi,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Grady,” he said, accepting it.

  “You’re DNR?”

  He nodded. “Detective, Wildlife Resource Protection.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Save the questions until we find out who ca
tches the case. I don’t like repeating myself.”

  By eight o’clock the camp yard was littered with vehicles. Tuesday Friday stopped on her way back from her Wisconsin meeting and looked concerned. “You all right?”

  “Better than old man Box. He took one round to the back of the hat,” he said. “Looks small-caliber. The ME’s just about done.”

  She asked, “What brought you back here?”

  “Hjalmquist called and told me about a contact he had with Penny Provo. Due to circumstances, I don’t think he saw the holes in her story, but I did, and some of the dates Box gave us didn’t seem quite right. I also talked to Allerdyce. He was in prison, and the most likely person Provo would have dealt with was his son, Jerry, now permanently dead. But I think Allerdyce has met her since then. When is still at issue.”

  “Were you going to press Box?”

  “Not press. I just wanted to clarify some things, see if I could jog his memory to glean more details.”

  Friday went away and came back after a few minutes. “Odd. The barn is open and it looks like some of the carvings are gone, but not the bear, and that’s the most valuable thing in there.”

  “Too heavy to lug, maybe. Or maybe it wasn’t a real robbery,” he said.

  She stared at him. “Does this have something to do with us?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

  A minivan came rushing down the driveway. A woman in her forties jumped out and came running forward, screaming, “Dad, Dad—oh my God!”

  A deputy blocked the way. Friday stepped toward the woman. Service said, “Not our case, Tuesday.”

  She ignored him, and huddled with the woman, who shuddered and cried silently.

  Friday called over a deputy. “Get somebody to drive her home?”

  “Not a problem,” the deputy said.

  “His daughter,” Friday said. “Works at the casino. Hadn’t talked to her dad since she called Mike for him.”

  “How was Eagle River?”

  “Productive,” she said wearily. “The company uses jobbers, thirty of them all over northern Wisconsin and the U.P. Two other companies sell wire up here. That’s the bad news. The good news is that only one company makes the model wire you found on the river. It’s made by Peachtree Enterprises out of Milwaukee, and is used almost exclusively by corrections departments for max-security facilities.”