“I never saw rocks here before. Not like those,” he said, stunned by his own ignorance.
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “There’s only a couple of places in the Tract like this—this one and another back east a bit. They could all be connected down deep. Glaciers moved through here and dumped all kinds of shit on the bedrock. Hell, in some places you’ve got to dig down two, three hundred feet to hit bedrock. The fact is that underground, everything is connected in one way or another. The granite here is what makes for the steepness. Back when loggers briefly used this, they probably understood the rocks would hold up and this would be a great spot to dump their take into the river.”
Service wasn’t listening. Granite here? It was yet another instance where he suddenly understood that he still had much to learn about his wilderness. Every time he thought he knew it all, he found out that he didn’t. The price of hubris, he chided himself. How did she know so much about the Mosquito?
“Why would somebody intentionally burn this over?” he asked.
“Crazy people have crazy reasons,” Nantz said, “but they’re still reasons.”
He grunted and wondered if the stranger with the camera and hammer was connected to this. “Aerial photos might help,” he said.
“I can try,” she said. “Why?”
“I’m not sure. Different view, maybe. Sometimes a little distance or time or a different angle help us see more clearly.”
She shrugged. “It can’t hurt and it’s early in the season. I still have budget. If the fires get going this summer I can always appeal to overspend. I’ll get on it right away. You going to hang in here?”
Her understanding of budgets tagged her as veteran. “For now. This was about five acres?”
“That’s a WAG, but it’s close enough for government work.”
“How long would it take to dig a fire line around five acres?”
“That depends on the severity of the burn, the number of people working, the weather, their experience, and their equipment.”
“Let’s say there were one or two people.”
Nantz rubbed an eye socket with the back of her hand. “There are a lot of roots and crap and it’s steep as hell in parts. I’d say one or two days of hard, steady work.”
“Meaning somebody would have to be here for a while before they torched it. If they wanted to avoid involvement, they’d wait to dig the line straight through, then set the fire and split.”
“Makes sense to me,” she said, studying him. “What’s your point?”
“If somebody was here for a couple of days, or came in several times to dig a little at a time, they’d risk being spotted.”
“Witnesses? That’s a long shot.”
“Long shot or not, we have to consider the possibility.”
“How?”
“Use the media maybe.”
“Reporters seldom get anything right,” she said disgustedly. “Make that never.”
He continued to think out loud. “If somebody was here more than a day,” he said, “they probably came in and stayed. They wouldn’t come and go. They’d want to minimize discovery. That’s what I’d do.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Meaning they’d have a camp nearby?”
“Not a permanent camp, but a temporary resting spot. And they’d be dropped off rather than park in the area and risk their vehicle being spotted.”
She wiped her mouth. “I think I’m following you.” The sparkle was returning to her eyes.
“One person would be a lot less conspicuous than two or more.”
Nantz nodded. “So the guy gets dropped, treks in, stays till the job is done, lights the fire, and hikes out to be picked up.”
“It could be just like that,” he said.
“More than one person would make it a conspiracy,” she said.
“Maybe, but the second person might not know what the first one was up to.”
Nantz motioned for him to follow. She took him to a tree stump just inside the fire line. “That’s fresh. Done with a chain saw and, judging by diameter, not a small one. The second person wouldn’t be blind to such a huge chain saw.” She showed him the top part of the tree on the other side of the line. The bottom had been trimmed to keep it off the fire line.
She was right. “Yep. Two people at least.”
“Should we look for a place where somebody rested or staged?”
“We’d probably never find it,” he said. “All they’d have to do is get up in a tree.”
Nantz’s radio squawked. She answered with her name.
“Fire sweep,” she said to Service. “Okay,” she radioed. “My people and the arson crowd will sweep the burn.”
She led him to the southern edge of the burn behind where the sweep began. He saw eight people spread about twenty yards apart. Service recognized the chiseled features of Sergeant Robo Peterson, the UP’s chief arson investigator. Peterson looked over from the center of the line and saluted, but immediately returned his gaze to the smoldering ground ahead.
Service and Nantz squatted to observe.
Someone shouted from the west side of the sweep line.
“It’s Bravo,” Nantz said. “She’s second in. Let’s move.”
Service followed her. She crossed the burned ground as gracefully as a deer.
Bravo was a tall black woman with her hair done in intricate cornrows. She held a baseball cap in her hand and looked glassy eyed. When Nantz got to her, the woman pointed over her shoulder and vomited, spewing on Nantz’s leg. Nantz immediately put her arm around the woman and bent her forward at the waist. She looked at Service and nodded for him to check ahead.
The area was rocky as hell, but he was surprised to see a narrow crevice among the granite outcroppings. At the bottom he could make out the figure of a human being, but it was eight or ten feet down and on its face. And the rocks were hot. He took off his shirt, spread it out and wrapped both hands in it, and then climbed down using the shirt to protect his skin. At the bottom he found that the body was badly charred, its clothes burned off. Nantz appeared above him.
“Call the county,” he said up to her.
Service checked for a pulse. None. He knew from experience not to disturb the corpse. Too much experience.
“Dead?” Nantz asked calmly from above.
“Nantz, make the call,” he said sharply.
She left and Service climbed back up the same way he had come down.
Several people had gathered on top, but Nantz was shooing them away to continue the sweep.
“The ME will eventually pull the body out,” he said. “Don’t let him leave until I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To talk to Voydanov.”
Bravo was still on her hands and knees gagging. Nantz looked down at her, then at Service. “Catch you later?”
Voydanov’s damn dog raised a ruckus, but Service heard the octogenarian tell the animal to hush.
“’Nother fire, eh?” the old man asked when he opened the door. He immediately stepped outside and closed it behind him. The dog stopped barking, but continued to scratch at the door from inside.
The sound gave Service the willies. “You knew about the fire?”
“I seen the vehicles and equipment going by.”
“Did you walk your animal last night?”
“Nope, me and ole Millie parked ourselves in front of the TV.”
“The last fire, when you saw that vehicle parked back in the trees, you said you thought the driver might be fishing at the log slide. Why?”
Voydanov grinned. “Path of least resistance, I guess. Park there an’ you can walk a circular route, along the contour to the log slide. It’s longer that way, but it’s also faster. You go direct and you have to bust a gut down through the bush. My kids and me used to hike around the contour. Pretty open walking all along that route.”
Stupid me, Service thought. As a CO he spent so much time off trails that sometimes easy routes did
n’t register. It had never occurred to him that the stranger he’d met had come downriver, but now he realized that he may have. His mind that night had been locked on fishing for his own enjoyment, not on his job. Dumb. When he was a kid his old man had taught him to bodycheck. Said, “Forget the bloody puck and lock your eyes on the man’s chest.” He hadn’t done that this time. Good thing the old man was gone; he’d be disgusted by his son’s performance.
“Have you seen any other vehicles?”
“Not around here.”
Service evaluated the answer. “Somewhere else?”
“No cars, no trucks.”
“Some other kind of vehicle. ORV or ATV?”
“Just that chopper.”
“You saw a chopper here?”
“Not here, back in the woods. I thought it belonged to you people.”
“By the log slide?”
“Nope, farther up.”
“Our chopper. Markings?”
“Nope, just a chopper and the bird.”
The bird? Talking to Voydanov was like traveling a labyrinth with a blind person leading. “What bird?”
“Under the egg beater.”
“There was a bird under the chopper?”
“Right, flying right under it, like a fat old goose, long neck and everything. You ever see that movie about some Canadian girl teaches geese to fly, then leads ’em down south with one of them udderlights?”
Movie, udderlight? “Ultralight?”
“That’s what I said. Damn birds flew right along with that kid.”
“You saw a bird flying with the chopper? How close?”
“Underneath, maybe fifty feet, maybe a hundred. Close.”
“Upriver from the log slide?”
“Yep, a mile or so, maybe two.”
“When?”
The old man pursed his lips in thought. “That would be the day before yesterday, right after sunrise.”
“What color was it?”
“Mostly gray, with a long neck.”
“I mean the chopper.” Geez.
“Blue but not like a bluebird sky.”
“With DNR markings?”
“Nope, no markings at all. I just assumed it was you fellas. Who else would be hovering over the Mosquito?”
“And this was yesterday?” Service asked, testing him.
“Couple of days ago, right after sunrise, early in the morning. Me and Millie was fishing.”
“How long was it up?”
“One hour, two, but not covering a bunch of ground.”
“Hovering?”
“More like moving real slow. He’d fly north, then south. Maybe a hundred yards apart each time. Maybe more, but that’s close. He was being methodical.”
Service fought his frustration. “What shape was the chopper?”
“It was a Huey,” Voydanov said confidently.
“Are you sure? There are all kinds of choppers.”
“This was a UH-1H Iroquois, made by Bell, single engine, old fart. Bell called them the Indian name, but the grunts called them Hueys and if they didn’t have weapons they were called Slicks.”
“How do you know so much about Hueys?”
“My son flew one in Vietnam. Two tours.”
“He make it back?”
“His body did,” Voydanov said sullenly. “Part of him’s still over there, I think. Guess that damn war done that to a lot of our boys.”
Service gave the old man a business card. “You think of anything else, call me. Anytime, okay?”
When Service got back to the burn at the log slide, the medical examiner was still working on the body and photographs were being shot. Service got a cup of coffee from the cook fire, which Nantz had rekindled. He left the ME alone to do his thing. Science types could be quirky and needed their space to do their jobs. Nantz came over and sat beside him.
“ID yet?”
“No,” she said.
“Voydanov told me that he saw a chopper upriver of here two days ago, a dark blue machine with a bird flying underneath it. The old man thought it was ours. Is Forest Management doing any work in here?” Forest Management was the DNR group charged with taking care of state forests and the group that controlled fire marshals like Nantz.
She puffed her cheeks. “Not that I know of. A bird beneath a helicopter? That’s weird. Was the old guy sober?”
“He’s just old, which sometimes is a lot like being drunk.”
“You think the chopper is connected to this?”
“I don’t want rule out anything yet.”
“Roger that,” Nantz said.
Eventually the body was recovered and carried out. The stiff was in a black body bag, strapped to the litter.
The medical examiner was Vincent Vilardo, an internist from Escanaba appointed ME by the county board of supervisors.
“Hi, Vince. We know who it is?”
“Not yet. No wallet, but he’s still got fingers and teeth. I expect we’ll find out quick enough.”
“Can I take a look?”
Vilardo unzipped the bag.
Service found himself staring into the charred face of Jerry Allerdyce, the husband of Honeypat. Limpy’s son. This thing was getting more and more complicated and confused.
“You see a ghost?” Vilardo asked.
“It’s Jerry Allerdyce, Vince.”
“One of Limpy’s mutts?” Everybody in the U.P. law enforcement community knew about the Allerdyces.
Service nodded. “Do me a favor and run prints to be sure, but we need to hold off on a public ID for a while.”
Vilardo shrugged. “Just make sure you clear this with the county and your chain of command, eh?” he said. “We can say we aren’t releasing the name until we notify the next of kin. Arson will go along with us.”
“I appreciate this,” the conservation officer said.
“There’s something else you should see,” Vilardo said. He unzipped the body bag farther.
The body reeked and its chest was charred to a shiny black sheen, but Service could see a huge hole over the heart area. No fire caused this.
“Just a preliminary,” Vilardo said, “but I’d say subsonic, explosive-tip bullet. Shot in the back. The entry hole is teensy, but the bullet played havoc when it came out the front.”
A homicide? “Time of death?”
“You’ll have to wait. Seems to me somebody doused this poor bastard with gas and lit him.”
“Are you telling me the body was the POO?”
“Peterson says no, that this was in addition to the starting point.”
“Thanks, Vince.”
“Grady, you should drop by for dinner sometime, we’ll have some potato gnocchi with sweet pepper sauce. It’ll melt in your mouth. You stop, okay? Rose would love to see you.” Rose was his wife. Vince was the chef.
Nantz hiked out beside him, her shorter legs keeping pace. “What next?”
“We get those aerial shots and you get some sleep.”
“I’ll get on it,” she said. “If you need help, call me. You need anything, call me,” she added with a raised eyebrow.
“I will,” he said, trying to avoid her eyes as he got into his truck. He immediately got on the radio. “Delta County, this is Marquette DNR 421.” This was standard department commo. There were two sergeants in his area and one lieutenant. The LT was DNR 400. The sergeants were Charlie Parker, 402, and McKower, who was 403. The people who reported to Parker were 421, 422, and so on. Service reported to Parker, a fact which didn’t set well with either of them. McKower’s people were 431 and up. In the DNR, people had numbers, but county sheriffs and state cops went by the numbers of their vehicles. Communications tended to be pretty confusing to rookies in any uniform, and to everyone during a crisis.
“Go ahead, 421.”
“Patch me through to Joe Flap, in Gladstone.” He gave her the number.
Flap was an old-time CO, a true horseblanket who until retiring several years ago had been one of the few c
ontemporaries of his father’s still on the force. Flap was an experienced pilot who still flew an occasional mission for the DNR and always pitched in during deer season. Flap had flown combat in Korea and for the USFS in the West after that. He had also flown supplies to bush outposts in Alaska and Canada. He had crashed so many times and had so many close calls that other pilots called him Pranger.
The patch went through quickly.
“Joe, this is Grady Service. I need your help.”
“Air or ground?”
“Information.”
“Cost you a six-pack of Old Milwaukee.”
“I want to ID a chopper. Navy or dark blue Huey, no markings. It was seen two days ago over the Mosquito.”
“You think it’s down?”
“No, we just want to know who was flying it and who owns it.”
“Never seen it.”
“Could air traffic control paint it?” Service asked.
“That depends. Talk to Lonnie Green in Escanaba. He works the tower at Delta County; he’s the local ATC feed. Good man. I think they keep radar tapes nowadays.”
“Thanks. You’ll get that beer.”
“I’d better, and soon. I’m sixty-seven and getting older by the minute. I die, just plunk that six-pack in my coffin, okay?”
Service laughed and got a patch to Lonnie Green. He explained what he wanted and arranged to meet him. They met on US 41, just north of Rapid River. Green was a short, trim man with pale eyes, shiny pink skin, and a head of thick, unkempt white hair. Service spread a map on the hood of this truck.
“Two days ago there was a chopper up here for an hour or two. This was in the early morning. Is there any way to track it?”
“Do you know the altitude?”
“Low, right down on the deck.”
“Well, that’s a bitch. Below twenty-five hundred feet we have a hard time, unless it’s way out over the lake.”
“It was well inland. But you do have tapes?”
“Voice and radar. We keep the tapes for fifteen days and if nothing comes up, we tape over them. Thing is, if this guy is VMC—”
“VMC, you mean VFR?”
“Same-same. New term, visual meteorological conditions. If he’s VMC, there’s probably no way to find him. FAA reg fourteen CFR allows for all sorts of jobs to be done without filing flight plans, especially if they’re local. That fourteen CFR covers all sorts of stuff.”
Ice Hunter (Woods Cop Mystery 1) Page 11
