“Pilots can just go up and do their thing?”
“As long as the weather cooperates. Most of your shoe clerks don’t care to fly when the soup is in.”
“Shoe clerks?”
“Amateurs, blue-sky flyboys. People file flight plans or they don’t. Or they file false flight plans. Sometimes they use real call signs, sometimes not. Sometimes they use their transponders, sometimes not. Sometimes we get a body paint, sometimes we don’t. We also paint flocks of birds and even the occasional Amtrak if it’s up on a hill. And if the weather’s bad, forget painting aircraft; all we paint is rain or snow.”
“It’s dark blue, a Huey with no other markings.”
“Radar doesn’t see markings and unless a bird skates by the tower, we can’t see either.”
“Sounds like there’s not a hell of a lot of control,” Service said.
“Puts a choke-hold on your sphincter, doesn’t it?”
“You mean somebody can just take off and do what they want?”
“Well technically, if they’re VMC. Reg 19 CFR 122.32/33 requires them to land back where they started, even if they don’t file a flight plan. The reg is mostly a formality and gets treated as such.”
“Meaning locals ignore it.”
“Bingo. I’ll see what we have and get back to you, but no promises. Is this urgent?”
“I don’t know yet. We’re investigating a fire.”
“I’ll do it quick as I can. Do you have a time for the sighting?”
“We have a report that it was just after sunrise.” Service gave Green his card and reminded himself how COs were more and more being asked to act like a bunch of junior executives, handing out calling cards.
Service tried to remember if Jerry Allerdyce had been at his father’s compound the night they had arrested Limpy. He hadn’t been among the detainees.
Honeypat’s trailer looked abandoned, but Service drove up the long two-track and parked nearby. The woman emerged from the door as soon as he stopped. She was shoeless, wearing black pantyhose and no blouse. A faded green bay packers championship cap was tilted backward on her head.
“It’s you,” she said disgustedly. He noticed that her front teeth were shorter than her incisors, which hung down like fangs. “I got company coming and it won’t do for a fish cop to be hanging around.”
“Get dressed, Honeypat. We need to talk.”
She didn’t argue and he followed her inside. She put on a diaphanous silk robe, which hid nothing, sat on a bowed couch, crossed her legs, and lit a Camel.
“So talk,” she said.
“Is Jerry the company you’re expecting?”
She sneered. “No way.”
“Where is Jerry?”
“How would I know?” she said. “My s’posed to keep track?”
“Was he here last night?”
“He ain’t here any night. We’re whaddyacallit . . . separated.”
“How long?”
She frowned. “Since he knocked up some teenybop twat over to Iron Mountain. He done her doggy on the back of his Skidoo last New Year’s Eve.”
She was clearly peeved, which made no sense. While her husband was making it with some teenager, she was sleeping with his father. He wondered if this was a cause-and-effect thing, then put the thought out of mind. It was what it was.
“Have you filed for divorce?”
She tapped a teetering ash into a beer can. The only ashtray in sight was already overflowing with butts. It said soo antlers. “Haven’t gotten around to that yet.”
Which technically made her next of kin. “Honeypat, Jerry’s dead.”
Her eyes flashed momentarily, but her face remained impassive. “Yah?”
“I expect you and Limpy will want to make funeral arrangements when the body is released.”
“Pitch him in the dump for all I care.”
It was curious that she asked no questions. “I’m sorry to have to bring you the bad news.”
“I guess I won’t be needing to pay no lawyer now.”
So much for that, Service thought. He wondered how his ex would react if she heard of his death.
“Can I call anybody for you?”
“Just split,” she said. “I got company coming.”
“Could be your husband was murdered.”
The woman fumbled her cigarette.
“Did Jerry have a problem with anyone?”
“Besides me? The asshole had problems with everyone.”
Service put a business card on her grimy kitchen counter. “Call me. I need to know who he hung out with.”
She laughed strangely. “He hung with any chick would drop her gear,” she said through clenched teeth, her first sign of real emotion.
The pot calling the kettle black? “They’ll hold his body a while and they won’t announce his identity until the preliminary investigation’s completed. There will be an autopsy. You got the name of that girl in Iron Mountain?”
She mashed her lips together.
Meaning, Get lost. “Call me if you change your mind,” Service said.
He passed a red truck on his way out. He recognized the driver as a barber from Marquette. Married.
Limpy was tight-jawed when Service met him. Honeypat apparently had called ahead and given him the news about his son.
“You hear about Jerry?”
“Hear what?” Allerdyce asked.
Lying through his teeth. “He’s dead.”
Allerdyce wouldn’t look at him.
“He was shot in the back.”
No response, no questions.
“He was in the Mosquito, Limpy. After he was shot, somebody set him on fire. Could be they knocked him out and torched him while he was still alive. We don’t know all the details yet.”
“That’s all?” Allerdyce said, still not looking at him.
“The county isn’t going to release the body for a while.”
“I gotta go,” Limpy said, getting to his feet.
Service stepped outside the jail and had a cigarette. The bank clock said 5 p.m. He called Kira from a pay phone.
“Are you okay?” she asked through a deep sniffle. “What happened with the fire?”
“It’s out, but we found a body in the fire. It looks like he was shot.”
“My God,” she said. “I never thought about COs handling that kind of stuff.”
Most people didn’t. “I’m not handling it. But he was on state land, which makes it my business. One more stop and I’m headed for home. Do you feel any better?”
“Still shaky, but recovering, and of course you’re immune.”
“Yep,” he said. “Be there soon.”
On the drive back to Honeypat’s, he radioed Nantz. “How’s Bravo?”
“Shook up. It’s her first like that.”
“Happens to all of us,” Service said. He had noticed that Nantz hadn’t shied away from the corpse, and he again wondered what sort of experience she had.
“Even you?”
“Plenty of times.”
“Macho with feelings,” she said. “I like that. The aerials will be shot tomorrow if the weather cooperates.”
“Make sure they go upriver from the log slide too,” Service said. “One to two miles.”
“What’s up there?”
“I don’t know, but that’s where Voydanov said the chopper was.”
“How do we pinpoint a spot?”
“Good point,” he said. “I’ll head down there in the morning.”
“I’ll join you,” she said.
He wasn’t going to argue. “Park where we were today, five a.m.? Tell the pilot we’ll be in place to guide him at ten a.m. See you there.”
“Count on it,” she said.
Honeypat was sitting on the stoop of her trailer, drinking from a can of Colt .45.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I just got off twice,” she said. “That helps.”
She was incredibly blunt. “I really want to
talk to that pregnant girl.”
Honeypat shrugged. “You’ll find her at Limpy’s camp. Her people kicked the slut’s ass out after the bunny bit it.”
“What’s her name?”
Honeypat’s eyes went glassy. “Saila Kalinen.”
“I appreciate this.”
She nodded curtly.
“Who’d Jerry hang out with?”
“He was a loner, except for pussy. Like Limpy.”
“Did Jerry work?”
“Not regular. Tended a little bar, sold some venison, logged some pulp.”
“What bar?”
“I don’t remember. He never lasted long. He’d work, ball one of the waitresses or the boss’s wife or daughter or mother, get himself canned. Ask around, they’ll all know him.”
“Who’d he log with?”
“Some guy named Ralph. An old pal of Limpy’s. He lives over to Christmas, I think. There were others too, but I never knew their names.”
“Was Jerry a good logger?”
She stared off at the forest. “One of two things he was good at. He could work like a dog when he set his mind to it.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I always am,” she said.
Kira waved through the window and opened the door. A huge black thing bounded out and Service instinctively turned away and braced himself against the fender of his truck.
“Bear!” he shouted.
“It’s a Canary Island mastiff,” she said. “Her name is Newf.”
“Tell it to get back.”
“She likes you. Her owners are moving down to Midland and can’t keep her. They dropped her off today. I told them I’d find a good home for her. Tell her to sit. She’s very well behaved.”
“Sit,” Service said tentatively.
Newf flopped down and panted.
“Get her away.”
“She won’t bother you.”
Service slid cautiously along the side of the truck, jumped onto the porch, rammed through the door, and slammed it behind him. The dog continued to sit.
Kira kissed him on the cheek and hugged him. He looked out the door again. The dog was still there.
“You can let her in,” she said.
“Like hell.”
Halfway through his soup, Service went to the door and opened it. “Come on,” he said.
The 130-pound animal walked through the door, her tail wagging, went to Kira and looked at her.
Service said, “Sit.” The dog did as instructed.
When he finished his pasta, Service said tentatively, “We can’t keep her.”
“I know,” Kira said.
“I mean it,” he said.
“Of course you do,” she said, patting his hand.
12
The dog shadowed Service around the cabin in the early morning, staying close and watching, but not interfering.
“Take her along with you today,” Kira said sleepily from the bed. “She’ll be good company.”
“I can’t. It’s against regs.”
“Don’t be so contrary. Just tell her what you want. She’s better trained than you.”
His legs felt rubbery. His fear of dogs was entirely irrational, but it had always been there; he had tried several times to conquer it, to no avail. “Okay,” he said, pushing open the front door. The mastiff followed him out. When he opened the passenger door, the dog jumped up and sat down. It was embarrassing to be a conservation officer afraid of dogs.
“You’ll do as I say,” Service said to the dog as he slid behind the wheel.
The dog woofed softly, taking him by surprise. “You don’t understand a damn word I say. That was coincidence.”
The animal woofed again and stared at him.
“This is my truck and I’ll do the talking.” Damn Kira.
Nantz’s truck was already there when Service pulled in. Her feet were sticking out the driver’s window. The sky was suggesting gray, morning twilight under way.
“Skeeters will make you their breakfast,” he said, tickling one of her bare feet.
Her feet recoiled slightly. “I’ve got a lot of testosterone,” she said. “It keeps skeeters and men away.”
He smiled. “I doubt that. Were you here all night?”
She sat up, pushing a lock of hair out of her face. “I kept dreaming my forest was burning. Needed to be here. This job is making me crazy.” She opened her door, put on her socks and boots, got out and stretched. She sniffed one of her armpits and made a face.
Her forest?
“I could use a bath,” she said spying the dog in his truck. “Who’s that?”
“Her name is Newf. I’m just watching her until she has a home. You interested?”
“No way.” Nantz opened his truck door. The mastiff jumped down and licked her hand and rolled on her back.
“She’s friendly. Soft.”
“Let’s go,” Service said. The dog immediately got up and trotted ahead, stopped and looked back to make sure they were following. When he nodded, the animal ran on, but constantly circled back to keep them in sight.
“How long have you had this dog?” Nantz asked.
“One day, and she’s not mine.”
“If you say so,” Nantz said.
It was going to be a hot, muggy day. Usually the humidity didn’t settle in until July. They cut over to the river above the log slide, crossed and followed the eastern bank north, looking for some sort of landmark with which to guide the light plane that would take the aerial photographs.
At 9 a.m. the dog began barking loudly and wouldn’t shut up or come when Service called. He went to her and found her perched on a granite outcrop more than six feet tall. The dog wagged her tail.
“Good girl,” Nantz said as she caught up. “There’s a row of cedars north of us. The pilot should be able to see this,” she pointed out. “We couldn’t have picked a better spot.”
“Pure luck,” he said. “That’s all.”
Nantz slid off her pack and looked around, wiping sweat off her forehead with a purple kerchief. “Just this one outcrop,” she said. “What’s it doing here?” The top of the granite was discolored, an off brown. The rock was similar to those where the fire had been, only this was a single outcrop and not a dozen.
“They’ll never see it from the air,” Service said.
“I’ve got smoke,” Nantz said. “I wonder how much more granite is around here?”
Service had never noticed granite anywhere in the area before the fires began.
The dog trotted down to the river, waded to a shallow gravel area beside a log near shore, and loudly began slurping water and pawing at it.
Service checked his watch and scanned the sky. “We have an hour to wait, give or take.”
Nantz nodded and followed the dog into the river.
What was it his old man used to say? The Tract has everything if a body learns how to see. Some father he was, rarely home and then spouting psychobabble and scientific terms and him with barely a high school diploma. Tiger Service he was called. He had served in the Pacific as a marine sharpshooter. In life, Grady had never been close to his father, though he realized later he had adored him. Now look. He was also a former marine and a combat vet and now a CO, not to mention the latest Service to be the self-appointed Tract keeper. Just like the old man. How had this happened?
Nantz peeled off her shirt and began splashing herself with river water. After a few splashes, she sat on the log, took off her pants, and lay them over the log.
Service looked away.
“It won’t be long till there’s a plane with a camera overhead,” he said.
She said, “They’ve never seen a girl in her skivvies?”
“Jesus, Nantz.”
“Okay, okay,” she said.
The dog was pawing in shallow water fifty feet downriver.
Nantz moved to a deadfall less than ten feet from Service and sat down. She had no modesty. He tried again to look away.
“She’s just exploring. Leave her alone,” Nantz said. “You ought to appreciate adventuresome females.”
The dog splashed back upstream and dropped a mouthful of pebbles at Nantz’s feet.
“Thank you, girl,” Nantz said, rubbing the animal’s dripping snout. She reached into the water and grabbed a handful of the pea gravel and picked through the stones in her hand. “Nice,” she said. “We girls like pretties, right Newf?” The dog wagged her tail and ran off into the river to explore some more.
Service took two energy bars out of his pack and tossed one to her. She caught it with a flick of her wrist.
“Wow, a breakfast date.”
“This isn’t a date,” he said.
She held up the bar. “It says right here, Breakfast date bar.”
“Let’s talk about the search.”
“Yessir,” she said, waving a sloppy salute at him. “Whatever you say, Sir!”
She let him do the talking, nodding as she nibbled on her breakfast bar.
“How the hell do you know so much about the Mosquito?” he asked, surprised that the words had slipped out.
She eyed him before speaking. “I grew up in Cornell,” she said. Cornell was a farming village on the Escanaba River, a spot that had been made into a quality fishing area. “I got my B.S. in forestry at the University of Colorado and an M.S. in ecology from Oregon. Two summers as a hot shot out of Oregon, three as a smokejumper in Alaska. I did my master’s thesis on the Mosquito ecosystem. I spent a summer here and I think I walked every square foot a hundred times. I wasn’t searching, just looking. It’s amazing what you notice when that’s your only goal. I had a publisher in Eugene who wanted to publish the thesis, but I said no. The one conclusion I reached was that this area can’t stand a lot of human intervention and if I published I was afraid it might draw more people in than are already here. After the master’s, I got a job with FEMA. I was assigned to Denver, but they sent me all over the place. It seemed like I was always in on the cleanup. After three years, I decided I’d rather fight and contain, not mop up. I heard there were openings in Michigan not far from home, and here I am. Since I arrived this spring I’ve spent every spare minute out here, looking around, surveying the turf, getting reaquainted. I guess I’m sort of partial to it.”
Ice Hunter (Woods Cop Mystery 1) Page 12
