Running Dark

by Joseph Heywood

  “Looks like somebody already tried to get you,” the governor shot back. “Where’s Walter?”

  “En route,” Maridly said. “Allegedly.”

  “Late,” Service said. “Karylanne is almost as bad as Mar. Have you figured out how to balance the state checkbook yet?”

  Timms smiled. “If I eliminated everything in the state except health care, we still couldn’t make up the deficit.”

  Service held up his glass. “Sam Bozian.”

  Governor Timms laughed. “He didn’t do it all by himself, Grady.”

  Service was surprised when Odd Hegstrom walked into the room, leaning on a cane. He had to be in his mid-eighties now, and except for a limp, he had not changed much since the last time Service had seen him.

  Rose brought Hegstrom a small glass of tomato juice and introduced him to Maridly. When she turned to Service, Hegstrom said, “Grady and I know each other.” The distinguished-looking attorney looked over at him and added, “I hear you’re still in the heart of the fray.”

  “I’m going to name Odd to take the remainder of Jeremy Vigo’s term,” Timms said. Vigo was a longtime member of the Natural Resources Commission, a hay farmer from Chippewa County. Commission members were appointed by the governor and as a group steered policy and other matters for the Department of Natural Resources. Vigo, who had died just before Christmas, had been a well-known champion of tribal causes, a position which often made him unpopular around the state.

  Hegstrom seemed to guess what Service was thinking. “Contrary to popular belief,” he said, “my firm has never had the tribes as clients for their casino interests. My involvement was strictly personal and pro bono to help with the feds and the treaty issues. I told Lori I’d take Jeremy’s term to represent all constituencies, not a narrow few. We both know how legends grow once they start,” Hegstrom concluded.

  Legends. Service cringed at the word.

  Hegstrom plucked a folded fifty-dollar bill out of his sport coat pocket and held it out with an unwavering hand. “Pete Peletier bet me in 1976 he would never be cited by the DNR. This morning he called me and told me about the tickets. He said his fifty was in the mail, so I thought you should have this now.” Service did not reach for the money. “Pete can be obstinate, but he’s also a man of his word, and I see, so too are you. Please take it.”

  “I don’t want the jerk’s money,” Service said.

  “It’s not his, it’s mine,” Hegstrom said.

  “Wiggle words,” Service said.

  Hegstrom bowed slightly. “Some professional habits are ingrained.”

  “It was your bet, Counselor, not mine. Besides, isn’t there a statute of limitations on bets?”

  Hegstrom smiled. “We’re both gamblers, Detective, and I never thanked you for what you did for Anise Aucoin,” he said, adding, “I was at Cecilia’s memorial. That took courage on your part. It was audacious to put Pete on the spot like that. After that, mistrust spread like a virus, and a lot of the residents down there admired your being there—knowing it was a tremendous risk to you. I think things started to open up for your folks after that.”

  Service had never seen it that way, and changed the subject. “You knew Anise Aucoin was innocent and you knew Lapalme was involved. You asked me some questions that day in the interview room.”

  “Cecilia said you were aggressive and a man of integrity. I simply planted seeds and you took it from there.”

  “When it finally sank in,” Service corrected him.

  “Never discount luck in any undertaking,” Hegstrom said, and when Service continued to ignore the money, he slid it back in his pocket and smiled. When Service sat down at the table, there was a dented metal thermos in front of him, crudely stenciled with the word shuck. Hegstrom looked at it deadpan, but Service knew it had been Hegstrom who had repatriated the thermos, probably from one of his Garden clients—perhaps even Peletier.

  Vince had grilled a pork roast on a bed of apples and onions. The perfume rolling off the plate left Service salivating and wondering. The loose teeth had rattled in his mouth all day, and he wondered if he dared bite into it. The pork would be soft enough, probably, but the baked potatoes would have to be skinned. This tooth thing was a pain in the ass.

  He was trying to decide what to do about the food when Walter and Karylanne rolled in. Vince said, “We were just sitting down, so sit. It’s gettin’ cold, eh?”

  Walter was seventeen now but looked older. His time at Tech had already matured him, and Service approved of what he saw. Karylanne and Maridly both talked so fast their words thickened into verbal pudding.

  “Hey, Pop,” Walter said, eyeing his father’s untouched food. “If you’re not going to eat that, I can help you out.”

  Service pushed back from the table, folded his napkin by his plate, and glared at his son. “Touch it and you will become permanently left-handed.”

  He went to the bathroom, pulled some tissue paper out of a box, opened his mouth, and yanked the teeth one at a time. Both made a grinding, ripping sound, but came out. He rinsed his mouth with water until there was no more blood. He wrapped the teeth in tissue, stuffed them in his pocket, returned to the table, and attacked his dinner.

  When he looked up he found everyone staring at him. “What?” he said.

  Odd Hegstrom tapped his glass with his spoon and said, “Every legend deserves a monument.”

  Vince Vilardo hit a light switch and a grove of paper birches between the house and river flooded with light. Service stared at dozens of shiny yellow things dangling from the branches.

  “Are those floaties?” Karylanne asked, giggling.

  Service tried to act annoyed but ended up laughing as hard as the rest of them, and leaned over to Nantz and whispered, “McCants dies.”

  Maridly Nantz squeezed his arm and rested her head against his shoulder.

  Grady Service felt content as he half-listened to table banter, but his mouth hurt and he still ached from his encounter in the culvert. The reality was that his body was failing him, no matter how hard he worked to stay in shape. How long could he keep doing this? He worried about Nantz and his son, but these were regular worries. Something deeper inside him was gnawing, a sense of dread growing, that despite all he had seen and gone through over the years, something even worse lay ahead.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book is not intended to be a history, but as a work of fiction I hope it captures the rancor, frustration, and nastiness inherent in the events of what I have chosen to call the Garden War, which began in the late 1960s and stretched on into the 1980s.

  As wars go, it was relatively bloodless, and no one died. But the violence, tensions, and conflict were real and intense, and if the reputation of the Garden Peninsula and its residents continues to be one of lawlessness, it is the fault of a few, who willfully and repeatedly break laws. In talking to people it is clear that what went on was a form of domestic insurgency, and it was waged against conservation and other police officers who did not make the rules but were merely trying to enforce them.

  To step out of the shadows of bullies and thugs takes a special kind of courage, but some courageous citizens of the Garden eventually did so.

  In some ways I can understand the anger and frustrations of legitimate commercial fishermen who were threatened by politics and science, neither force in their favor, and both aimed at putting them out of business.

  But I hold no sympathy for the rats.

  The poaching of spawning fish continues in Big Bay de Noc and surrounding waters, and the illicit sale of illegally taken fish floods markets each spring and drives down prices set by legitimate businesspeople. Fish stolen from the citizens of Wisconsin and Michigan still find their way to Chicago and New York City fish markets.

  Poaching is theft, driven by greed, and reveals a da
rk side of the human character. No race has exclusivity in this dirty business, and until it ends, game wardens and conservation officers will be out there to stop it—in conditions that defy description—with the support and understanding of their leadership in Lansing, and sometimes, when necessary, without it.

  Conservation officers, unlike poachers, are rarely motivated by money. They work because they believe in and love what they do. Officers do not always agree with the rules and regulations they are asked to enforce, but enforce them they do.

  I owe debts of gratitude to veterans of the Garden War who so selflessly and patiently gave of their time, sharing stories, memories, impressions, and yellowing clippings. Most of all, I thank the erudite late chief, Rick Asher, whose untimely death in 2003 touched us all. Others who tried their best to educate me include: Lieutenant John Wormwood (retired), Sergeant Ralph Bennett (retired), Officer Dave Vant Hof (retired), Lieutenant Tom Courchaine, Sergeant Darryl Shann, and officers Grant Emery (who introduced me to running dark, and took me on my first Garden patrol on an eighteen-degree “spring” night), and Steve Burton (who taught me the ins and outs of Wilsey Bay Creek).

  I would also like to thank the DNR’s media spokesperson, Brad Wurfel, who was helpful in countless ways (and whom I had the great pleasure of watching hook more than fifty king salmon with a fly rod in just one October day on the Muskegon River).

  Others who have helped me gain a better understanding of the life and challenges of Michigan’s Woods Cops include: Sergeant Tim Robson, Sergeant Mike Webster (retired), and officers Bobbi Bashore, John Huspen, Phil Wolbrink (retired), John Wenzel, Paul Higashi, Dave Painter, Ryan Aho, and Sergeant Gene Coulson (retired).

  Any errors in the story are mine alone, a reflection of my failures as a student, not those of my teachers.

  I sometimes worry that my stories of criminals and scofflaws in the Upper Peninsula will leave readers with the impression that the people who live in that harsh environment are all lawless and antisocial. They aren’t. The majority of Yoopers are independent of spirit, passionate with opinions, adventurous, tough, loyal, and caring, and I am privileged to have so many as friends and fishing partners.

  The mother of an old friend—a lifelong Yooper from St. Ignace—has taken exception to my calling the U.P. a wilderness. I told her I would happily refer to it differently if she would provide an alternate description. So far she hasn’t produced, so I continue to say it is a wilderness that’s easy to love, and I am glad we have it.

  If nothing else, I hope these stories make people interested enough to take a look at the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and appreciate how lucky we are that its geography and people are a part of our state and culture.

  I also thank my kids for putting up with my continual meanderings, and my agent Betsy Nolan and editor Lilly Golden for making me better than I am.

  Joseph Heywood

  Portage, Michigan

  November 9, 2004