Ice Hunter (Woods Cop Mystery 1)

by Heywood, Joseph

  “That’s generous, but Honeypat looks like she could use a long rest.”

  “That one don’t never need no rest,” Allerdyce said, letting loose a long belch. “Coming here wasn’t too smart, eh?”

  “I figured you’d be looking for an escort back to Jackson, Limpy.”

  Allerdyce stared at the fire and rocked back and forth. “You think you can put me back in there?”

  “You’ve already broken your parole, Limpy.”

  “How’s that?” Allerdyce asked, ever so slightly raising an eyebrow.

  “You are gathered with armed ex-felons. I’ve witnessed the reckless discharge of firearms. You want me to keep on with the list?”

  “That’s just so much chickenshit,” Allerdyce said.

  At that moment Luticious Treebone emerged from the background, stepping up to the other side of Allerdyce.

  Allerdyce looked over at Treebone and said, “Youse brung a nigger here to my home?”

  “This nigger’s glad to make your acquaintance,” Tree said.

  “I ain’t done nothin’,” the old man said. “I been away.”

  “You’re under arrest,” Service said to Allerdyce. “Put your hands out in front of you, Limpy.”

  Allerdyce was deathly still, his eyes darting around, a crooked grin forming.

  “Are you deaf?” Service said.

  “Put out your hands,” Treebone added.

  The old man did as he was told. Service cuffed Allerdyce and radioed for backup while Treebone stared down the crowd with a leer.

  Service transmitted, “One-ninety, this is DNR 421. Come on in.”

  There was the muffled wah-wah of sirens in the distance.

  “Take you an army and a nigger to get an old fart like me?” Limpy asked, looking up.

  “You should understand,” Service said. “You do what you’ve got to do.”

  “I ain’t goin’ back,” Limpy said.

  Service didn’t argue with him. He helped him up from his rocker, frisked him, informed him of his rights, and started him east toward the trail.

  “You best leggo, fish pig,” Honeypat said, jumping in front of him. “He’s stayin’ with us.”

  Treebone stepped toward Service, withdrew his pistol, and touched it to Allerdyce’s head. “Here’s the deal, ma’am. You can have him without his ugly, toothless head, or he can go with us and keep it. You pick.”

  Honeypat glared at the gigantic vice cop.

  Four deputies came huffing into the camp.

  “Nigger,” Honeypat shrieked.

  “Work on your vocabulary, sister,” Tree said. “That shit’s getting old.”

  The deputies stared in amazement at the Allerdyce clan. “Fuck,” a deputy named Linsenman said to Service.

  Limpy suddenly jerked free from Service and ran, screaming, “Scatter!”

  The clan burst apart like a covey of quail, going in every which direction.

  Tree swept Limpy’s spindly legs before he could get three steps. Allerdyce went down like a sapling under a logger’s double-bit ax.

  The deputies didn’t have to move. Service had anticipated the breakout attempt and had deployed the cops in two waves. Only four had come into the camp. The rest were in the surrounding woods, waiting.

  Minutes later, seven other deputies came out of the woods, bringing the fleeing Allerdyces back at gunpoint.

  Service led a silent Limpy out of camp to where the county police cruisers waited and stuffed him carefully into the backseat of the first squad car he came to.

  “You ain’t got me yet, young fella.”

  “Get him out of here,” Service told Deputy Linsenman. “And keep him apart from the others.” The others were being stuffed into other cars and a police van.

  It took the rest of the night to go through the camp. They found sawed-off shotguns, dynamite and blasting caps, illegal game and fish, and, in a shallow grave dogs had dug open, a newborn baby wrapped in rags and stuffed in a green plastic trash bag.

  The baby had numerous deformities and had not been long dead. The sight turned Service’s stomach.

  “Was a weak one was all,” one of the women explained. “Poor thing just couldn’t make it. How God planned it,” she added.

  It was a misdemeanor not to report a death.

  With considerable interrogation and games to get them blaming each other, there were enough charges to put many of the clan members away, some of them for a long time. But this was secondary. During Limpy’s long absence, the family had been almost docile.

  It was just after daylight when Service and Treebone got to the Marquette County Jail to do all the paperwork, talk to some of the suspects, and sort out charges.

  Grady Service stopped in to see Limpy, who was housed alone in a single cell.

  “I got grandkids,” Allerdyce said. “What’s gonna happen to them?”

  “Social Services will take good care of them.”

  “I take care of my own.”

  “Not this time, Limpy.”

  “I don’t want to go back to that place.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you went back to the camp.”

  “Them are my people.”

  “You’re a convicted felon on parole, Limpy. You know the rules.”

  “A man’s got a right to be with his family.”

  “Not your family.”

  “You make a trade?”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “Maybe I got something you’d be likin’ to have.”

  “Thanks, but I like my women with more than two teeth.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. Enjoy your stay, Limpy. Before long you’ll be back home in the Jack.”

  “Humanity,” Tree said, shaking his head as they got ready to depart.

  8

  The two men bought wine and flowers in Marquette before stopping at Service’s cabin to shower and change clothes. Kira Lehto lived in a small frame house less than a quarter mile up the road from her veterinary clinic. The house had two large bedrooms, a huge modern kitchen with an island, which she had added at great expense, and a screened porch that wrapped around three sides. Lisette McKower had gotten there before the two men. Lehto and McKower were on the screened porch drinking martinis from glasses with six-inch-long stems.

  “How far ahead of us are you?” Service asked, as he and Treebone pushed open the porch door.

  “Way far,” McKower said. “We’re women.”

  “Oh man,” Tree said. “That feminasty shit again.”

  McKower raised her glass in a toast, then got up and gave Treebone a long hug.

  “You, in a skirt?” he said, grinning. “You’ve actually got legs.”

  “Don’t let word get around,” she said in a low voice. “You two look pretty satisfied with yourselves.”

  “It was some sort of postapocalypse git-down,” Treebone said. “Nekkid redneck booty and all of them doin’ the deed and howlin’ at the moon. It was like Devil’s Night in Detroit, only greener.”

  “That doin’-the-deed part sounds good to me,” Lehto whispered as Service kissed her on the cheek.

  Service glanced in McKower’s direction. “Allerdyce made noises like he wants to make a deal,” he said.

  “As in, what for what?”

  “We didn’t go into details. I figured it would be better to let him sit and contemplate going back to Jackson.”

  Sergeant McKower looked thoughtful. “Seven years inside. It’s not unthinkable he has something to trade.”

  “Not likely anything to interest us.”

  “I’ll make sure Doolin knows,” she said. “You never know.”

  It was a relaxing evening. Treebone regaled them with stories of pimps and hookers, crack houses and the antics of his four daughters, and he had them laughing until their stomachs ached. Lehto served carrot soup with dill and sour cream, grilled skirt steaks with parsley jalapeño sauce, red potatoes, steamed corn, and blueberry cheesecake. />
  Tree got too far into the martinis to turn back before the wine, so Service appointed himself designated driver.

  “Lisette can drop Tree at your place,” Lehto said, running her hand along the outside of his right thigh.

  Service was tempted, but there was a part of him always pulling against what he wanted.

  “We’ve got to go into the Tract in the morning.”

  Treebone hummed a few bars of “Beans and Corn Bread” and insisted McKower dance with him.

  “That’s not dance music,” she said.

  “Is for me.”

  “What would your wife say?”

  “She says I dance white, which, no offense intended in present company, is not a compliment.”

  He faked a stumble as they danced.

  “Your wife’s right,” McKower said.

  Treebone roared with laughter.

  “He’ll be a big help in the morning,” Lehto told Service.

  “He heals fast.”

  “Good thing,” the veterinarian said.

  They had a perfunctory kiss good night by his truck. “How about Saturday at the usual place?” he asked. “On your lunch break.”

  “You could just stay here tonight.”

  “I can’t.”

  She made a face and hugged him less than enthusiastically.

  On the drive home Treebone mumbled, “Ain’t no law against it.”

  “Is that you talking, or your booze-bro inner twin?”

  Tree grunted. “Blood kin fucking. No law against it. Can fuck and howl at the moon all they want. Just can’t get married.”

  “You make that up?”

  “You think that’s the first time I’ve seen that shit? What I wanna know, who s’posed to be makin’ the laws in this state?”

  “Good question.”

  “I hate the woods,” Treebone grumbled. “Makes people go crazy.”

  Service felt the same way about cities.

  They spent the next morning driving the perimeter roads of the Mosquito River Wilderness. Treebone mostly leaned against the window and took Motrin tablets every couple of hours. Each time Service found a parked vehicle he stopped and called in the license plates. By year’s end he would have to turn in his truck for a new model that would carry an electronic package enabling Lansing to track his vehicle’s whereabouts every minute of the day. The system was tied in to the Global Positioning System network of satellites in stationary geosynchronous orbit above the earth. Some COs already had the system and were using tuna cans to disable the antenna so that they could avoid Big Brother’s unbroken attention. Service knew that when his time came, he’d have his own tuna can primed for duty.

  Service hoped to come across a full-sized Bronco, Blazer, or Dodge Ram, but no such luck.

  They stopped for lunch on US 2 at a place called the Rose River Eatery. The corpulent waitress had coarse gray hair tied back in a bun. She handed them each a menu and said, “I’m your waitress, not your server.”

  Treebone took more painkillers, washing them down with ice water. “You got greens and black-eyed peas?”

  The waitress laughed. “We got pasties,” she said. “That’s the only soul food above the bridge.”

  “I don’t eat titty tassels,” the Detroit policeman grumbled. “There is some very weird shit up in here, Grady.”

  “We prefer to think of our eccentricity as quaint.”

  “I don’t see how you can stand it here. What exactly were we doing this morning?”

  “Checking things out.”

  “They pay you for this?”

  “Twice a month, man.”

  “One time, we found this pimp down by Fort. Had a stiff in his trunk. A real stinker. Was his number one girl. She died from an OD of a black horse and he said he couldn’t stand to part with her. Said she was a good earner.”

  “Very colorful. Your point?”

  “We sent all our pimps up here, man, they’d die in days.”

  “Put that idea on paper and send it up the line.”

  “I might just file my papers,” Treebone said, taking another long pull of water.

  “Retire?” This was unexpected news. Service raised an eyebrow.

  “When I joined the department, we were at war with the city. Cops then were like ten percent blacks, ninety percent whites. We were an occupying force and hated by the people we were supposed to be protecting. Few years further on we were seventy percent brothers and sisters. Now it’s back down to just over half. We’re going backward and I just don’t feel like fighting that shit all over again.”

  “You’d be okay on your pension?”

  “I’ve got nineteen with DMP, one with the DNR, two with the state, and three years with the crotch, which also counts. I won’t be throwin’ garden parties at the Dee-troit Yacht Club, but we can get by. There’re a lot of private security firms now, and they pay real green for real experience.”

  “You could live without this?”

  Treebone laughed. “Man, you’re the only motherfucker who needs this shit. Not only is this not a great living, it’s a shitty life too.”

  “I don’t mind it.”

  “That’s why your old lady up and split.”

  “There was more to it than that.”

  “That’s what you say. So what were we looking around for this morning?”

  Service told him about the odd-acting man he had encountered on the Mosquito River.

  “No law against being strange, man. There was, that waitress would be doin’ hard time.”

  “I’m just curious is all.”

  Treebone shook his huge head. “We’ve been down that road together. I’m gonna hit the road for home tonight, stop at the bridge, do the state a favor, maybe blow that motherfucker to kingdom come.”

  “Your prejudices are showing.”

  “Man, it took all my life to learn how to read crazy black people. We don’t need redneck ridgerunners takin’ over the Lower Peninsula.”

  “Thanks for your help with Limpy.”

  “Somebody’s got to look out for your sorry ass. An’ while I’m thinking of your best interests, why don’t you marry your dog doctor and get it over with? Fish pig and dog doctor: Now, that’s a match made in heaven. Seriously, she’s a fine lady, Grady. Just this once, use your brain instead of your Johnson.”

  Service smiled but did not answer. He cared a great deal for Kira Lehto, but he wasn’t going to rush things. They had known each other less than a year.

  After lunch they stopped at the US Forest Service office near Indian Lake and used the copier. Service handwrote a note telling people to alert him if they saw any Broncos, Blazers, or Rams on the Tract roads, and he asked that the USFS people write down the license numbers. Then they circled the wilderness again and dropped more notes at several houses along the perimeter.

  “How many miles you drive a year?”

  “Right around forty thou.”

  “You’re lucky you don’t have piles and butt blisters.”

  After they got back to the cabin and his friend was gone, Service got out his briefcase and began writing his daily narrative report. Most of the time he didn’t mind doing the paperwork that went with the job, because the reports reminded him of the importance of what he was doing. More to the point, they helped him keep score, and Grady Service was a man who always kept score.

  9

  Cat hissed and swatted at the phone when it rang at 3 a.m. Service scrambled to answer it before she knocked it off the table.

  “Service.”

  “This is Maridly Nantz. I’m sorry to wake you, Service, but we have a fire in the Mosquito.” Nantz was district fire officer for the area that included the Tract. This was her first year in the district, and Service had only met her once.

  “Where?”

  “Ten miles upriver from US 2.”

  He tugged on his pants while they talked. “How big is it?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’m just leaving and I thought you�
�d want to know.”

  “On my way.”

  “You know the department’s policy on fires,” she said. For a moment he was irked to hear what sounded like a warning from a first-year fire marshal.

  “I know the policy,” he said grimly. The new USFS policy on fires was to let them burn themselves out and run their course, unless human habitations were threatened. The government had decided that fire was a natural phenomenon, like a bad winter or a tornado. Service understood the policy as it related to other places and other forests, but not to his Mosquito Wilderness Tract.

  “But if the opportunity presents, we can do something, right?”

  “We’ll see when we get there. That’s all I’m promising.”

  “Thanks for the call, Nantz.”

  He had learned long ago that fear was often worse than reality. There was no sense burning yourself out with might-be’s. They would deal with what they found. He also thought about Maridly Nantz, trying to picture her. They had met briefly when introduced by Doke Hathoot, the Tract’s supervisor. She had medium-length dark hair, a sharp nose, thin lips, an angular jaw. He guessed her to be in her early to mid-thirties. In some ways she looked very girlish, which made him wonder if she had what it took to deal with a crown fire. If she was like too many of the fire officers he’d worked with, though, she’d stay a season or two then move west to where the real fire challenges were, and if she did he couldn’t blame her. Michigan didn’t have that many major fires, and if fire was your passion, you wanted to be where the action was.

  It was not a large fire. Two, maybe three acres. But it was centered right on the Geezer Hole where Service had seen the man, and he was immediately suspicious. By the time he got to the fire, Nantz and a dozen forest service workers had pretty much contained it with pulaskis, a piss pump, and a small bulldozer. “We could’ve let it burn out, but I thought this would be good practice for my people.”

  “Thanks,” he said. She didn’t have to contain the fire but she had, and whatever her reason, he appreciated it. “Who reported it?”

  “A man by the name of Voydanov. He lives out on County Road 909. He said he was walking his dog and smelled smoke. He called it in on a cellular. How did we live before those things?”

  “Where is he now?”