Red Jacket

by Joseph Heywood

  “OKAY!”

  “See the bats yet?”

  “NO!”

  “You feel ground yet with your feet?”

  “YEAH, DARK—GET ME OUT, DON’T LIKE THIS!”

  “Good Lord, son. It’s dark out here, too. Remember, this is your reward, and wait until Herman hears. Relax, all right?”

  “DON’T WANT TO RELAX!”

  The captain said, “Let’s go, Phil, this storm’s stiffening.”

  Hedyn let go of the rope and it snaked across the white snow and dropped into the darkness.

  “UH . . . OH!” came a shout from the hole.

  The Hedyns walked side by side toward the fire, and Bapcat got to his feet and into step behind them in the darkness. They needed to get Fig out, but couldn’t do that until the Hedyns and Fish were accounted for. He hoped Zakov was close by.

  The meat on the fire was pungent, and as Bapcat sniffed there was a shot near the fire and Philamon Hedyn collapsed to the ground.

  “My brother,” Madog Hedyn said unemotionally.

  “No witnesses,” Fish said. “Those are our orders.”

  “I give the orders,” Madog Hedyn retorted with a snarl.

  A shot cut him down beside his brother, and Fish said, “No witnesses, little man.”

  It was all silent, but as his heart slowed, Bapcat heard the wind through the trees, some limbs beginning to bend and chatter and crack in the wind, the meat popping and the small cooking fire hissing. When another shot rang out, he instinctively ducked behind a tree and fought to catch his breath, his heart pounding, breathing too fast.

  He eased forward, and reached over to check Philamon for a pulse. Finding none, he crawled over to Madog, who had a small pistol in his hand, and no pulse.

  Zakov said, “I’ll check the other one, then . . . Nothing. He’s gone. Where is number four?”

  “Underground,” Bapcat said.

  “Fish is hit in the head. In this dark, pure luck for the shooter.”

  Bapcat’s hands shook as he tried to roll cigarettes. “What just happened?”

  A distant voice echoed behind them. Bapcat said, “Fig!”

  They went to the hole. “FIG!”

  “GET ME OUT!”

  “We’re going to get you out.”

  “DARK! I . . . DON’T . . . WANT . . . TO . . . BE . . . HERE . . .”

  “Fig, it’s Bapcat and Zakov, the game wardens. Remember us?”

  “HELP!”

  “Get a rope,” Bapcat said, and Zakov took off to fetch their packs while Bapcat tried to keep the man below as calm as he could.

  Zakov came back, panting. “Snow’s getting heavier.”

  They each carried hundred-foot-long loops of half-inch hemp in their packs. Bapcat sat down and quickly spliced them together.

  “No lights,” Zakov said. “How will he feel the rope?”

  Bapcat thought for a moment, grabbed a snowshoe, and tied the end of the rope to the toe brace.

  “This is crazy,” Zakov said. “Is the wood strong enough?”

  “It’s ash, cut in August, which is as strong as it gets. I want him to sit on the shoe and hang on. As we pull him up, the shoe will act like a small platform. It’s narrow enough that he may be able to hook his feet underneath.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “It seems to work in my mind.”

  “I find no reassurance in hypotheticals.”

  “Fig, stand where you are! We’re lowering a snowshoe on a rope. When you get hold of it, put it on the ground. Put the toe forward, the skinny part, and get a good hold on the rope. It’ll be like riding a broom horse, You ever do that, Fig, ride a broom horse?”

  “YEAH!”

  “When we begin to pull you up, wrap your legs around the snowshoe and cross your ankles. You’ve got to hang on tight. Are you hearing me? Don’t let go of the rope, no matter what.”

  “DARK!”

  “Fig!”

  “OKAY!”

  “You understand what we’re going to do? You have to help us to help you.”

  “OKAY!”

  The game wardens launched the shoe over the lip into the black void.

  “How the hell will he see it?” Zakov asked.

  “Fig, are your hands out?”

  “OKAY!”

  They played the rope out slowly and deliberately until it began to oscillate.

  “Fig, tell us if you can hear anything.”

  “HEAR YOUSE!”

  “Fig!”

  “OKAY!”

  “About halfway,” Zakov reported. “A hundred feet, give or take. We’ve got to be close.”

  “I HEAR!” Verbankick screamed. “I HEAR!”

  “Is it close, Fig?”

  “DON’T KNOW.”

  “Keep your arms out, and yell if you feel anything.”

  The rope stopped abruptly and there was slack.

  “Fig!”

  “GOT ROPE, GOT ROPE, GOT ROPE!”

  “Feel the snowshoe?”

  “YEAH!”

  “Put it on the ground, toe pointed forward—away from your bum.”

  “OKAY!”

  Bapcat tested and felt tension on the rope. “We have weight,” he told the Russian. “Loop the other end around your waist.”

  Zakov did as instructed. “I hope we don’t all end up down in that hole.”

  “Fig, you holding tight?”

  “YEAH, TIGHT!”

  “Here we go, Fig. Be brave!”

  “BRAVE!”

  The two men started reefing and pulling, establishing a slow and steady retrieve and lift, backing away from the hole.

  “Fig?” Bapcat yelled.

  “YEAH!”

  “He’s getting close,” Bapcat told Zakov.

  When Verbankick slid over the lip into the snow, he began screaming, and he kept screaming as they dragged him away from the pit until he was clear. They dropped the rope, ran forward, grabbed him under the armpits, and hauled him to his feet. The man wept, covered his face and mumbled, “Ghosts!”

  Bapcat said, “Open your eyes, Fig. It’s us. We’re not ghosts.”

  Fig looked at them tentatively, and back at the hole. “Do that . . . AGAIN?”

  They hoisted the bodies of the dead men into trees and lashed them in place to keep the wolves off them. The venison was overdone, but they gave Fig some on a stick and he devoured it. They put out the fire, gathered their packs and the dead men’s weapons, and started hiking.

  “You okay, Fig?”

  “Ask Herman,” an exhausted Verbankick whispered hoarsely.

  113

  Eagle River

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 1, 1914

  John Hepting came to the door of his house with sleep in his eyes.

  “Make us some coffee, John,” Bapcat said. “A lot of coffee. And get some dry clothes and blankets for Mr. Verbankick.”

  The sheriff did as he was asked, and when cups of hot, fresh coffee were poured and Fig was in dry clothes, Bapcat said, “Don’t say anything until we’re finished. The Hedyns and another man are dead.”

  “You kill them?”

  “No. Be quiet, listen, and don’t interrupt us.”

  Bapcat turned to the little man. “Fig, you okay? Warm enough?”

  “ASK HERMAN.”

  “Drink your coffee, Fig. Why did they put you in that hole?”

  “ASK HERMAN!”

  “Herman’s not here, Fig. You have to tell us.”

  Verbankick sobbed and teared up. “THEY KILL HERMAN!”

  “No, Fig. Herman’s fine. He’s okay. He’s just not here right now. We need you to tell us what happened,
all right?”

  “Okay.”

  “They put you in the hole. I saw them.”

  “Reward!”

  “I don’t understand. What reward?”

  “BIG JOKE, HA-HA-HA!”

  “You made a big joke?”

  “YEAH, YEAH, YEAH! HA-HA-HA!”

  “At Vairo’s?”

  “YEAH!”

  “You yelled something—that was the joke, right?”

  “BEER!” Verbankick said, giggling.

  “You were upstairs?”

  “With lots of monkeys.”

  “No monkeys up there, Fig. Just children, kids.”

  “MONKEYS!”

  “Listen to me, Fig. They were kids, lots of kids. It was a party.”

  “Finns not people,” Verbankick said shakily. “Just monkeys.”

  Bapcat drew a deep breath and tried to steady himself. Neither Zakov nor Hepting moved, much less drank their coffee. “You yelled Beer, not Fire?”

  “No, Fire bad, Beer is joke.”

  He yelled Beer and it was heard as Fire, and now seventy-three people were dead. Good God.

  “The Hedyns wanted you to play a joke on the monkeys?”

  “YEAH!” Verbankick said, nodding animatedly.

  “Fig, you used to do everything with your friend Herman, but not recently. Why’s that?”

  “Reverend.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Tell Fig to stay away from Herman or they kill him.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t KNOW!”

  “Did you want to play the joke on the monkeys?”

  The man shook his head vigorously.

  “But you did.”

  “I don’t, they kill Herman.”

  “Who would kill Herman, Fig?”

  “Monkeys,” Verbankick said.

  “You want something to eat, Fig?”

  “ASK HERMAN!” he shouted. “Am I in trouble?” he asked sheepishly.

  Bapcat looked over at Sheriff John Hepting.

  “He’s not in trouble with me,” Hepting said.

  “Bad storm outside tonight, John. Can we bunk here?”

  “Sure, and we’ve got a bedroom for Fig.”

  With Fig put to bed, they made more coffee and smoked. The wind howled outside, buffeting the sides of the house, making windows rattle.

  Bapcat explained, “They used a rope to lower him into a mine opening and threw the rope in behind him. I think they wanted it to look like some sort of an accident.”

  “Tell me about the shootings,” Hepting said.

  “A man called Fisher, an Ascher detective, shot both Hedyns, but Madog didn’t die right off, and shot Fisher dead.”

  “You witnessed this?”

  “Both of us saw it,” Zakov said.

  Hepting pulled on a cigarette, took a sip of coffee, and leaned into the table toward Bapcat. “All right, what the hell is all of this?”

  “We’ll probably never know,” Bapcat said. “Madog was running the whole thing to deny food, fuel, and so forth to the strikers. His brother was helping. Fisher was there to oversee everything and clean it all up.”

  “Who brought this Fisher in?”

  “We’ll never know, but we can guess.”

  “You think he’s that ruthless?”

  Bapcat spread his hands apart, imploring. “Fig’s not responsible, John.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “Take him somewhere safe, set him up to live out his life.”

  “Herman?”

  “We tell him what’s going on. I think he’ll help.”

  “You think this can work?”

  “I don’t like the alternatives, and John, I’m figuring a whole lot of people already know, or will figure this out pretty fast. Fig was drinking at Vairo’s that day—overcoat, hat, mustache, Alliance button. Just the way some witnesses described. And then he was gone, and the panic began. I don’t think he yelled Fire. I think he yelled Beer.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Maybe the courts should handle this, make it official. There are places, asylums.”

  “Fig’s not insane, John. Everybody knows him and how he is. He would never do anything like this on his own.”

  “Seventy-three dead, fifty-three of them children,” Hepting said disgustedly. “For what?”

  “To crush the union,” Bapcat said, “no matter the cost.”

  “MacNaughton wins,” Hepting said.

  EPILOGUE

  Red Jacket

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 6, 1914

  “We got the trouble,” Dominick Vairo said with a pained sigh. “Ghosts upstairs. Nobody wanna drink with all those dead kiddies . . . nobody wants drink with ghosts.”

  Zakov said, “There are no ghosts, but for some reason, too many humans prefer feelings to facts.”

  “This fact clear,” Dominick said. “Me and Rousseau losin’ our shirts.”

  Hepting sipped his glass of Bosch and seemed preoccupied.

  “John?” Bapcat said.

  “Newspapers are saying Henry Ford down there in Detroit will pay five dollars a day just to put together his automobiles. That’s more than a sheriff gets paid.”

  “Or game wardens,” Zakov added.

  “Five dollars a day—that’s the nail in the coffin for the mines. They can’t match that, or won’t. Making cars would be a helluva lot less riskier for workers. Ironic. MacNaughton kills the union, and Ford kills the mine operations by taking Copper’s labor.”

  “You’re guessing,” Vairo said. “Ground here still got lots copper.”

  Hepting rolled his eyes and Vairo walked away.

  “Where’s Fig?” the sheriff asked.

  Bapcat said, “He has a younger sister. He’s living there now. We won’t see him again. But that hole we pulled Fig out of, there’ll probably be a lot of answers down there when the thaw comes.”

  John Hepting drained his beer glass and stood up. “I’ve arranged to have that hole covered when spring comes, Lute. Someday, someone may find it and figure it out, but until then, I say, sleeping dogs and all that. There are some answers the world can live without.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Joseph Heywood is the author of The Snowfly (Lyons Press), Covered Waters (Lyons Press), The Berkut, Taxi Dancer, The Domino Conspiracy, and all the novels comprising the Woods Cop Mystery Series. Featuring Grady Service, a detective in the Upper Peninsula for Michigan’s Department of Natural Resources, this series has earned its author cult status among lovers of the outdoors, law enforcement officials, and mystery devotees. Heywood lives in Portage, Michigan, and in the Upper Peninsula.

  For more on Joseph Heywood, visit the author’s website at www.josephheywood.com.