“He goes by the name of Frank Fisher, but his real name is Frankus Fish. He was a Rough Rider, a sergeant with a foul temper and a taste for torturing his own men.”
“And you think he’s here why?”
“I know he’s here, not why. He came in as an Ascher detective, but that may be only a story. I don’t know. I saw him once coming out of Moriarty’s at night.”
“You were at Moriarty’s?”
“Not exactly there, but we talked.”
“Where?”
“In his privy.”
Hepting grinned. “Talk about taking away a man’s dignity.”
“I talked to Moriarty early last month, not long after Fisher is supposed to have shown up asking questions about Pinnochi.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know that. Could be he’s looking for me.”
“Why you?”
“Bad blood.”
“Man with a grudge?”
“Could be.”
“Why?”
“I stopped him from doing what he liked to do.”
“What happened to ‘forgive and forget’?”
“Some men never forget anything. Zakov and I are going to put the heat on Cap’n Hedyn.”
Hepting cringed visibly. “Not a good idea to bite the bulldog.”
“Depends on how hard you bite,” Bapcat said. “Alone, he’s less than inspiring. I already met with MacNaughton.”
“How?” Hepting looked surprised.
“My take on the book.”
“What book do we refer to?” Zakov asked.
John Hepting said, “The one everyone quotes and few read. You want my help, Lute?”
“Your hands are full with the strike. Just keep an ear out for Fisher.”
En route to the hill, Zakov said, “You are an exceedingly complex man.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Much of both, I think.”
“The days ahead could get intense and messy.”
“There is no revelation in these words you choose. When you killed the Spaniards in Cuba, how did you feel when it was done?”
“Unhappy; happy; sad, maybe; glad; a little sick to my stomach.”
“When I dispatched my general, I felt nothing but elation,” Zakov said. “Then and now.”
“You mean, for walking him toward the enemy troops?”
“I don’t like leaving critical things to chance, wife. It was coincidence only to those back in our lines. The shell exploded a split second after I put a bullet in the back of the monster’s head.”
“You left your escape to chance.”
“My personal survival was never the point,” Zakov said, “only his death.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
The Russian took his hands off the steering wheel and the truck began to slide wildly around before he took control again. “I like staring into the unknown and unpredictable,” he said. “This is no doubt a serious character flaw.”
103
Redridge, Houghton County
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 5, 1913
Rollie Echo called John Hepting, who called Petermann’s store in Allouez. Petermann sent a messenger up to the hill, telling Bapcat to call Echo as soon as he could. They called from Petermann’s and immediately raced to Houghton to meet the assistant prosecuting attorney.
“Solid but unverified information,” Echo told them in his office in the county courthouse. “Your Davidov is allegedly holed up in Redridge. I have detailed directions.”
“You’re coming with us?”
“It behooves one to occasionally leave the confines of his office and mingle.”
No idea why the back-office man suddenly wanted outside, but so be it. “Where in Redridge?”
“There’s a backwater off the dam pond, a cranberry bog off the backwater on the northeast side, an abandoned cabin on the property, and a barn.”
“Who owns the property?”
“Champion Mining sold it to Philamon Hedyn.”
This stopped Bapcat in his tracks. “The captain’s brother?”
“So it appears. The purchase was completed this past summer, in June.”
“Is there a connection between Davidov and Hedyn?”
“Unknown,” the assistant prosecutor said.
It was midafternoon when Zakov bounced the truck through a stump field along a rutted wagon track off the main road from Houghton. The stump field connected to the cranberry marsh, and the house and barn sat atop a slight rise above the bog, which was covered with a layer of thin black ice over black muck, making the footing look secure, which it wasn’t.
The log house was two floors with a cedar-shingle roof and a chimney. A ladder had been affixed to the roof to allow for snow removal.
“Apparently we’re about a quarter-mile due east of the village,” Echo announced.
“You’ve been out here before?” Zakov asked.
The prosecutor said, “My point is that this place is not nearly as isolated and remote as it appears from this vantage. How will you gentlemen go about this?”
Bapcat looked at Zakov. “House first, then the barn. I’ll take the front, you take the back. Mr. Echo, place yourself down that way so that you can see the barn, but stay close to the truck. Are you armed?”
“Some people rely on prayer,” Echo said. “My personal preference is to run when danger looms.” There was almost a smile.
Zakov and Echo nodded at Bapcat’s plan, and the game wardens headed for the unpainted building. Vigorous knocking brought no response from inside the house. Bapcat tested the front door, pushed it inward, and peeked inside. Dark, little light. He walked through to the kitchen to the back stoop and waved for Zakov to join him in searching the house. Bapcat saw that Echo was positioned to watch the barn.
The game wardens searched methodically.
“Someone’s been here,” the Russian said. “Tobacco on the kitchen floor, bread crusts in the snow off the back stoop. Some kind soul likes to feed small carnivores.”
They heard Echo yelling, and ran outside to see him gesturing north.
“A man came running out of the barn,” Echo shouted excitedly.
“Shall we lose the packs?” Zakov asked, smiling.
“Your leg up to this?”
“It seems strong enough most of the time. We shall see.”
Snow was dusting the frozen ground, and they ran parallel to the fleeing man’s prints, which showed his gait getting longer, suggesting he was taking longer strides and tiring. Afraid, confused, not used to running, looking for a hide, Bapcat told himself, and signaled for the Russian to stop and kneel.
“Let us hope he finds no second wind,” Zakov said, his chest heaving.
“You all right?”
“At the moment, but the future is at issue. My style is more plodding than fire-eating pursuit.”
They sat quietly, scanning the area ahead of them, a broad field and a tree line. They could smell smoke from the town’s mill and feel the dull thud of mill presses crushing tons of rock hauled in from the Baltic Mine.
Rumbling ground was such a common thing in mining towns that it was rarely acknowledged, but this time something about the vibration nipped at Bapcat’s subconscious. Sound beneath the stamp-mill vibrations, softer, more rhythmic, thut-thut-thut.
Train?
Before he could say anything, the Russian was running forward, yelling, “Train—hear it?”
He did.
“Trainman on the run,” the Russian said over his shoulder. “He doesn’t have the patience to sit. The train means distance, safety.” The Russian pointed at the rail bed ahead and the running figure. “He’s making for the train.”
They pursued across a swale and through a maple tree line into an expanse of barren fields with several small wooden houses. They could see the elevated track bed and a train chuffing westward, a black locomotive, coal tender, four cars, and a caboose.
Bapcat stopped, looked left, and saw a stick figure running hard, two hundred yards in the lead, on an intercept course for the train at a place where the tracks seemed to dip, which would make it easier for a man to board, especially a tired man.
Bapcat tore past Zakov. “Get back to Echo and the truck. Get into Redridge, fast!”
The Russian immediately peeled off and headed back toward the house while Bapcat fixed his mind on the run and nothing else. Lungs burning, he tried to empty his mind and keep pounding forward. Impossible to gauge how long he had been running when he realized the runner would catch the front part of the train before him, and rifle in hand, he put his head down and tried to run without thinking, to glide until he began to approach the train. Only then did he turn his attention to the challenge.
The last car had platforms front and back. He thought he had a chance at the front platform of the last car, and if he missed, there was an outside chance he could recover sufficiently to grab the back of the caboose as it passed by. He knew if he put all his effort at the tail end, a miss would mean he’d lost the man, which was all he could think about.
Closing on the train, he picked a place on the front step and platform of the last coach car, ran up the incline, and leapt, banging his shoulder on a rail and going down hard on his knee on a metal step. He was immediately up and moving to the third car, where he shouldered open the door and entered in a low crouch, rifle up and ready.
What he saw were rows of small pink faces looking back at him, mouths agape, eyes wide. Children. He flashed his badge, said “Game warden,” and all the children’s arms and hands pointed forward in unison.
“What is this train, girl?” he asked a child as he advanced.
“School train, sir, Atlantic Mine, Redridge, Beacon Hill.”
Easing his way into the next car, he held up his badge and all the children again pointed. He ran forward and found Davidov facedown on the platform of the second coach, his left arm bent in an unnatural position, his head covered with blood.
Bapcat pulled the man inside the coach, propped him in a seat. The children stampeded when the man shrieked in pain, and Bapcat told him, “Shut up. These children have more courage than you.”
The game warden said to a little girl nearby, “Scarf.”
She immediately handed him a yellow bandanna. The game warden used the cloth to fashion a sling to immobilize Davidov’s injured arm, and told the man to stop whining.
The girl came over to him. “Mister, did you hurt him ’cause he was naughty?”
“He hurt himself.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, kid.”
When the train jerked and chugged to a stop at the Redridge station, Zakov came hurtling aboard and helped him get the injured man down to the ground.
“Who are all the brats?” the Russian asked.
“School train. They helped me.”
Zakov stopped and dramatically held out his hands. “Thank you, our dear friends. You are now all hereby appointed honorary Michigan Forest Scouts, the first in county history.”
The children had spilled out of all the cars to watch what was happening, and when Zakov spoke, they all began to cheer and clap, and wave their hats.
“I am a regular Pied Pipersky,” the Russian proclaimed.
“I had no choice; they gave me no choice,” Davidov cried.
Assistant Prosecuting Attorney Echo studied the man and said, “You will have choices from us, sir, but you may not find them to your liking.”
“My arm hurts bad,” Davidov said, and Zakov immediately slapped the arm hard, making the man scream and wince with pain.
“Was that necessary?” Bapcat asked his partner.
“For him, no. For me, yes, of course.”
A schoolboy approached. “Is that the man who cuts off deer’s heads?”
Bapcat looked at the boy. “What did you just say?”
“Is that the man who cuts off deer’s heads?”
“Does that happen around here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“Behind our school.”
“Where might that be?”
The boy pointed east. “Painesdale.”
“What’s your name?”
“Johnny Haluska.”
“You live near here?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know how to use a telephone, John?”
“They got one at Redridge Co-op.”
Bapcat gave him Vairo’s and Petermann’s phone numbers. “You see people with deer, call either of those numbers and tell whoever answers what you saw, who, and when.”
The game warden led the boy outside. “Show me your house.”
The kid pointed. “Third one on left, over there.”
“Let’s quick go see your ma.”
“My ma don’t speak good English. Am I a good Forest Scout now?”
“Our top scout, John.”
“Do I get a badge?”
“You bet, but not today.”
Bapcat told Echo, “We need to make a stop before we go back.”
“I want to lodge him and charge him as soon as possible. Get him in a cell, see if it helps his memory.”
“We’ve got to get him medical attention first,” Bapcat reminded the assistant prosecutor.
“Is it always this exciting?”
“This is quite uneventful, actually. He didn’t even want to fight,” Zakov said.
•••
The clapboard Redridge dispensary sat along the road between the steel dam on the Salmon Trout River impoundment and Lake Superior, both of which could be seen in the distance, great hulking gray presences. There was a greeting station just inside the front entrance, next to a waiting room for ambulatory patients, and a hallway with treatment rooms reaching off to the left.
Having Rollie Echo along helped get Davidov seen to quickly by a wizened doctor named Venelaste, who set the arm break, splinted it, sewed twelve stitches in the man’s head cut, and bandaged him.
“What about pain?” Davidov asked through clenched teeth.
“Endure it the way our savior endured it on the cross,” the enigmatic doctor said.
Bapcat could smell alcohol on the doctor. A lot of alcohol. “All right to talk to the patient?” he asked the doctor, who belched, shrugged, and shambled away.
“I had no choice,” Davidov said immediately.
“No choice in what?” Bapcat countered.
Davidov looked up at him. “The boxes.”
“What boxes?”
The man looked befuddled, and Bapcat could see him laboring to sort pain from his thoughts, his answer a heavy sigh. “Why am I here?”
“Trespass,” Bapcat said.
“But you and your partner were on the train from Marquette,” Davidov said, obviously still trying to clarify earlier exchanges.
“Yes, we were. Why were you hiding in the barn?”
“Barn?”
“I saw you come out and run,” Rollie Echo said. “Why were you in the barn, and why did you run?”
“I didn’t run,” Davidov insisted.
“I was right behind you,” Bapcat said.
“I was late for my train.”
“The school train?”
“I ride it to Beacon Hill and take it back to Painesdale.”
“Why would you go to Beacon Hill when you could wait right here for the train to return?”
“This is just how
I like to do it,” the man said vaguely, his eyes darting.
“You do this regularly, do you?”
“I’ve done it.”
“Prevarication provokes,” the assistant prosecutor said menacingly.
“It’s the truth, I’ve caught this train before.”
“By jumping aboard as it passed.”
“I’m a railroad man; we develop certain skills.”
“You broke your arm and cut your damn head. Those skills?”
“You don’t understand,” Davidov said.
“Have you caught the train after previous episodes of trespass?” Echo asked.
“I did not trespass.”
“You have permission to be on that property?”
“Of course. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
“Written permission?” Bapcat asked.
“Verbal.”
“From the owner?” Echo asked.
“Yes, from the owner,” the trainman insisted.
“Gerlach?” Bapcat asked.
“Who is Gerlach?”
“The owner. You said you had permission.”
“I do. Reverend Philamon Hedyn’s the owner, not someone called Gerlach.”
Bapcat watched the man’s expression and saw it change to one of deep concern as he replayed the exchanges and suddenly seemed to suspect he had given up something he shouldn’t have.
Bapcat said, “You said you had no choice, and they gave you no choice. Do you remember those words from the train?”
“I was in pain,” the man said.
“No choice but trespass, or something more serious?”
“I’m not saying any more,” the man said, lifting his chin defiantly. “I want my lawyer.”
“Why do you need a lawyer if you’re innocent?”
“It’s my right.”
“Is it? Why pay a lawyer when all you have to do is be honest with us. You claim someone named Hedyn is the property owner, not Gerlach?”
“Yes. I’m in pain, and I think you’re trying to trick me.”
“Trick you into what?”
“I’m not sure,” the man admitted. “I feel confused.”
“We know who owns the property, and when it was purchased,” Echo said.
Red Jacket Page 38
