Shadow of the Wolf Tree

by Joseph Heywood

  Tahti was not at all what he had been led to expect.

  Water boiled and tea bags steeping, Service said, “You have some sort of problem with Art Lake?”

  “Was my ukki had issues with them.”

  “Ukki?”

  “My grandpa Tahti. Ukki’s a Finnish word.”

  “That would be Helveticus Tahti.”

  “Hell himself. You knew him?”

  “My old man did, long time back.”

  “He was a mean sonuvabitch, but he was always good to me after my old man died.”

  “You say he had problems with Art Lake?”

  “They stole property from him.”

  “He call the police, get a lawyer?”

  “That wasn’t Hell’s way, and what would have been the point? The Art Lake people had all the skids greased around here in those days.”

  “What sort of property?”

  “Personal hunting and trapping territory—deer, bear, rats, beavers, otter, his sugarbush, berries, south of the lake.”

  Sugarbush was a Native American term for maple trees, their traditional source of sugar. “He owned the land?”

  “Not exactly, but everyone in these parts knew it was his winter territory.”

  “Ownership by use.”

  Rigel Tahti smiled and nodded. “That describes it. It wasn’t the sort of land he thought anyone would actually ever spend money for—especially city whites.”

  “I got a sense that maybe you’ve had your own trouble with the Art Lake people.”

  “Figured that’s why you humped all the way out here.”

  “Nope, I was just passing by.”

  Tahti laughed out loud. “Sounds like a line of bull to me. I wouldn’t call what happened real trouble.”

  “What would you call it?” The kid seemed intelligent, well-spoken, friendly, and not in the least bit hinky.

  “A by-product of urban sprawl. I bought some land out here while I was in the service. It touches Art Lake property. They don’t like having anyone so close. I bought the land from a friend of my aunt’s, and later she heard that Art Lake wanted it and their lawyers confronted my aunt’s friend, but I’d already bought it legally, and done’s done.”

  “They could’ve made you an offer.”

  “Nope, but they did fire a couple of warning shots in my direction.”

  “At you, or in the general direction?”

  “I heard the rounds nip the tree branches. Two shots, one to my right and one to my left, bracketing me. I took them as a message for me not to come any further north, even on my own land.”

  “You should have called the cops.”

  “Like I said, Art Lake has influence, and I’m a Tahti. Who would be believed? Why waste everyone’s time? No harm, no foul. I got their message.”

  “But you thought they called me.”

  “It’s how they do things, I hear.”

  “You just let them shoot at you and slough it off?”

  “I was in Fallujah,” the young man said matter-of-factly. “The hajis were always sniping at us. Over there we considered it a form of intercultural communication,” he explained with a wry grin.

  “This place is a long way from nowhere,” Service said.

  “How’d you find me? This shack isn’t easy to locate.”

  “Luck,” Grady Service said. “How much land do you have here?”

  “I inherited four hundred acres from my dad and bought another hundred and twenty while I was overseas.”

  “The cabin looks like it’s been here a while.”

  “It was one of Hell’s trapline shacks. He had a dozen of them all over the U.P. After Art Lake took his hunting land, he moved here, just a little bit south of them, and kept at it. He was pretty stubborn. I used to snowshoe out here with him in wintertime when I was just a wee guy. I loved being in the woods with him.”

  “You’ve got a house in Sidnaw.”

  Tahti narrowed his eyes and his young face hardened. “You seem to know a lot about me.”

  “How’d you get out of your enlistment? We keep hearing bout stop-loss.”

  Tahti took on a vacant stare. “My discharge was honorable, but let’s just say that we had some brass who didn’t appreciate some questions I asked, which they construed as criticism. I thought I was raising legitimate issues on behalf of my guys. They didn’t. All of my buddies were held over, but they cut me loose. Who are you, and what exactly do you want?”

  “I’ve got some questions,” Service said.

  “What kind of questions?”

  Service considered pressing the man, but decided not to. “I was hoping you’d been inside the Art Lake property, but that doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve given me a way in.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Shots fired, reckless discharge of firearms.”

  “But I haven’t filed a complaint.”

  “It’s not necessary when public safety is at issue. You told me about it, now I’ll have to look into it.”

  “I don’t want trouble. I just want to be left alone.”

  “To live off the grid?”

  “Why the heck would I do that?”

  “You know how word goes around up here. You’ve been spotted out this way several times.”

  Tahti shrugged. “The gossip up here is pure bullshit. I’m engaged, and my fiancée would like to have a camp out here, so I’ve been coming out to look for a good cabin site and figure how to cut a road into it. She’s a grad student at Northern, and I’m enrolling in the fall on the GI Bill—if it comes through. I’ve been waiting a long time already. I could afford it on my own, but it seems to me it’s a matter of principle. I did my duty, now Uncle Sam needs to step up and do his. I filed before I was discharged, and they’ve made me re-file twice more since I got out. I figure they’re just yanking my chain because they can.”

  The GI Bill had been similarly plagued in the wake of Vietnam. This kid did not seem at all like an OTG type. “I didn’t think you had the look of a buckskinner,” Service said, “and you’re not the first vet to be screwed after the dirty work’s done.”

  “I’ve had enough of living rough. You a vet?”

  “The Suck, same as you,” Service said. “You ever buy a hunting license?”

  “I always hunted and fished with Hell when I was a little guy, and he didn’t buy licenses. Said his birth certificate was all he needed. After he got killed I got into team sports and had no time for the woods, but I’m going to start again. My fiancée hunts and fishes,” he added proudly.

  “Have you ever actually talked to the Art Lake people?”

  “Only seen them at long range.”

  “And you’ve never been on their property?”

  Rigel Tahti stared at his boots. “What’s the statute of limitations on trespass? Hell took me in there more than once. Like I said, he couldn’t tolerate fences, and felt the territory was his to use.”

  “Do you remember what you saw inside?”

  “It was a long time ago and I was scared, sneaking in with him.”

  “Still.”

  “Big log building on a rocky hill, a pond created by the dam on the feeder creek, which is where we went in. There was a long skinny pond with little log cabins built along the banks, almost at the water’s edge. Big brook trout in their pond.”

  “Ergo, your grandfather’s interest?”

  “We took a lot of them out of there, that’s for sure. He poached inside their fences all the time—his idea of payback, I guess. Hell was big on revenge when he felt he’d been wronged.”

  “Did Hell ever tell you anything about the Art Lake people?”

  “Called them Commies,” Rigel Tahti said. “Anybody who didn’t th
ink his way was a Red in his mind.”

  A common attitude in Helveticus Tahti’s heyday. “They ever come on to your property?”

  “Not that I know of, but I haven’t been out here that much.”

  “You ever walk their perimeter?”

  “Not with guards hanging around.”

  “You’ve actually seen guards there?”

  “I’ve heard their voices from time to time, but you can’t see through their fence.”

  “Where were you when they shot at you?”

  “Northeast corner of my property.”

  “You saw muzzle flashes?”

  “No, but like I said, I heard both shots, and having been in Fallujah, you get a good feel for what’s coming from where, or your ass ends up dead.”

  “Did Art Lake have guards in your grandfather’s day?”

  “Yes, and word was they were always recruited from outside, never locals.”

  “The guards live on the grounds?”

  “Can’t really say for sure.”

  “How’d you and your grandfather get through their fence?”

  “We paddled a canoe up from the Perch River, stashed it in the tags and cattails, and waded up to their outlet dam. The bottom was firm, the water shallow. Ukki said the amount of water coming over the dam was decreasing over the years. He wasn’t sure why, but it really pissed him off to think they might dry up that pond and kill all those fish inside the fence. The dam was an easy way in, and I don’t think the Art Lake people ever realized it was a weakness. Ukki specialized in exploiting the weaknesses of others.”

  “I’m going to talk to the folks at Art Lake about the shots fired. You want to make out a formal complaint?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Why’d you join the marines?”

  “It seemed like the right thing to do. My dad served in Korea, my ukki in World War Two. Ukki was captured in the Battle of the Bulge and was a POW in Germany until 1945. He was a lawless SOB, but he was also a patriot. I think they both expected me to serve.”

  “Write down what happened and I’ll take it from there. Having your statement will help me to get a warrant if it comes to that.” Which I hope it does.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Rigel Tahti said.

  “Want to show me where you were when the shots happened?”

  Having seen the site, Grady Service concluded the Art Lake people had fired blindly, or, as Tahti thought, the shots were meant to warn. Either way, it had been reckless behavior, and Service knew he had grounds at least for a visit to Art Lake. Added to this, the old poacher’s shack was inside the 450-foot no-hunting-or-shooting buffer law, which meant no shooting within that distance from occupied buildings without the occupant’s permission. Of course, it could be argued that Tahti’s shack wasn’t fully occupied, but it was a wedge he could use, and he intended to do just that.

  48

  L’Anse, Baraga County

  FRIDAY, JUNE 16, 2006

  Pinky Barbeaux was jawing with a couple of his deputies when Service walked in. The deputies departed without being dismissed and Barbeaux offered him a seat and a cup of coffee, both of which he refused.

  “The people at Art Lake took a couple of pot shots in the direction of Rigel Tahti,” said Service.

  The sheriff showed no reaction.

  “Someone needs to talk to the Art Lake people,” Service concluded. “It’s more your bailiwick than mine.”

  Barbeaux didn’t move. “I think I prefer to leave the matter in your capable hands,” the sheriff said.

  “You’ll have an easier time getting inside than I will.”

  “I won’t argue that, but don’t assume my getting in would be a gimme.”

  “You won’t be talking to Gorsline, letting him know I’m coming?”

  “Whose team do you think I’m playing for?”

  Service left the question unanswered.

  Barbeaux added, “Gorsline sort of expects a heads-up on such things—a matter of courtesy.”

  “And the price of new patrol vehicles?”

  “That’s not fair, Grady.”

  “Fair or not, it’s a fact. I understand your position, Sheriff, but you can always blame me after the fact for not being a team player.”

  Barbeaux chewed on his bottom lip. “I won’t call Gorsline, but have you got any notion of what can of worms you could be opening?”

  Odd question. “Is there something you need to tell me, Pinky?”

  “Just that we’ve got a nice balance in this county. Sometimes the status quo ain’t all you’d want, but it’s the best you can get.”

  “I doubt my visit to Art Lake will create anything like a tipping point.”

  The sheriff’s face suggested deep skepticism.

  49

  Art Lake, Baraga County

  FRIDAY, JUNE 16, 2006

  Service considered several scenarios and decided to keep it low-key, a simple follow-up on a citizen complaint. As a precaution, he asked Kragie and del Olmo to hover in the area while he went inside.

  Like the fence around the compound, the front gate was threaded with some kind of ballistic green fabric, which made it impossible to see inside. Service wondered who had the fence concession as he picked up a telephone from a box on a stripped cedar post and pressed a button.

  “Who are you?” a female voice asked.

  “Michigan Department of Resources, Detective Service.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but someone in there does—with me.”

  “And who might that individual be?” the voice inquired without emotion.

  Service growled. “It’s not gonna go this way. I have a complaint of someone shooting firearms recklessly from inside this compound. If I have to get a warrant, I can play it that way, but if it goes that way, I won’t be coming in alone. Right now I just want some questions answered, but I gotta tell you, your attitude is beginning to rub me the wrong way.”

  “Please stand by,” the voice instructed. Service lit a cigarette and stared up at a surveillance camera staring down at him from a post above the gate. He wondered what sort of discussion was under way inside.

  Friday called him on his cell while he waited. “Golden Lake doesn’t open until a month after the trout-opener, late May through October first. There’s a resident campground host couple all summer, but they don’t start until just before Memorial Day. Mike and I talked to the host. He’s retired and lives in Corpus Christi in the wintertime and comes up here summers with the wife. He said before and after official campground openings campers are still required to register and pay on the honor system. He says Ottawa National Forest personnel pick up the registrations and money. The host said not everybody follows the rules.”

  “Anyone get paper on our boys?” Service asked. Campers in various Michigan campgrounds had to fill out camp registration forms and openly display them near their campsites. Passing national forest personnel, COs, deputies, or other officials tore off the bottoms of the forms and held onto them in case emergency notifications were needed. Over the years Grady Service had delivered bad news to too many camps to count.

  Friday said, “Mike and I can call around and see if anybody might’ve.”

  “That would be good.” Do the work, he reminded himself. Do every little scut task, no matter how inconsequential it seems.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Waiting at the Art Lake gate.”

  “You think they’re going to let you in?”

  “I think that question is under active discussion.”

  “Have you got backup?”

  “Kragie and del Olmo are in the area.”

  Service heard a hum in the electric g
ate motor, said, “Later,” and closed his cell phone. A young woman with thick yellow hair squeezed through the gate opening and the gate immediately closed behind her. She wore frayed cutoffs and a white T-shirt emblazoned with the word Oedipussy.

  “Detective, I’m Alyssa Mears, retreat coordinator. What can I do for you?”

  Early thirties, small-boned, muscled, obviously fit; her dark blue eyes beamed directly at him, with no apparent anxiety over his presence. The closed gate suggested that her appearance was perfunctory, and that he was not going to be admitted. “We have a report of firearms being discharged from your property.”

  “There are no firearms on this property, Detective, and even if there were, it is not illegal, I believe, to discharge weapons on private property.”

  “It’s not legal if the discharges endanger neighbors, or if the discharge is within the 450-foot buffer protecting other private property.”

  “There are no neighbors near here,” the woman said.

  “You’re wrong. You have a security detail here.”

  “Is that a statement or a question?”

  “Don’t play games with me.”

  “We have security technology on the premises.”

  “And if a breach is detected?”

  “We would call 911 and notify the authorities.”

  Petite, polite, polished, resolute. “The state requires that for a complaint such as this, I come onto the premises and investigate. I’ve already looked at events from the other party’s perspective,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Detective, but you can’t come inside. It’s just not allowed.”

  “Maybe so, but I have state laws to follow.” Her attitude pissed him off. “Call Gorsline and tell him what’s going on. Tell him if I don’t hear something PDQ, I’m going to call for a warrant, and we will be entering, with or without your consent.”

  “A warrant based on a single individual’s allegation?”

  “That’s the way the system works. We don’t look lightly on the reckless use of firearms.”

  “I must repeat, Detective: There are no firearms on the premises.”

  “What we have here is something between intentionally aiming a firearm without malice and discharging a firearm without malice. Now if somebody intentionally fired a shot at an individual, the implications are different, and the charges would be far more serious.”