Killing a Cold One

by Joseph Heywood

  Tree and Noonan tromped in behind him, muddy and tired, shed their clothes, grabbed beers, and flopped down in their long johns. Allerdyce came along later as Service was serving the stew. Limpy grabbed fresh coffee and joined them.

  “Make your delivery?” Service asked.

  Sharp nod of the chin. “Done what youse tole me.”

  Service watched the old man play with his coffee cup, sensed he had more to say. “Varhola there?”

  “Up in house, mebbe. Shop, she was dark.”

  Service looked at the others. “You too?”

  “Tire,” Allerdyce said before the others could answer.

  Service looked at the old man. “What?”

  “Foun’ tire.”

  “Where?” Service felt his blood pressure spike.

  “Don’t get crimp in youse’s panties. Was out back behind woodshop.”

  “And?”

  “Like tracks dat day out Bloody Crick.”

  “Where Johnstone’s tracks disappeared?”

  “I’d say.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Jes’ know, is all.”

  “What kind of tire?”

  “Snow-skinny, wrote down name.” He took slip of paper from his pocket. “Nookie.”

  “What the hell is a Nookie tire?” Service asked. The old man made him tired.

  Allerdyce handed the piece of paper to Service. It read nokian hakkapeliitta.

  “T’ink dat one dem ’pensive Finnlander tires,” Allerdyce added.

  “You think these were the tracks at Bloody Creek?”

  “Wore real bad. Must’a got new ones.”

  Service looked to the others for help but spoke to Limpy. “Nokian equals . . . Nookie?”

  “Could,” Allerdyce said.

  “How many tires?”

  “Jes’ one I found.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “T’irty yard back shop, in willows.”

  “Badly worn?”

  “Such t’in tread, she no good no more, ’specially for snow.”

  “You know this tire? I never even heard the brand name before.”

  “Seen in book one time, got Mork’s Code pattern, letter F tread, dot-dash-dot.”

  Dot-dash-dot? “You mean, Morse Code?”

  “Jes’ said dat: dot-dash-dot.”

  “You saw the same pattern at Bloody Creek?”

  “Yeah, just din’t ’member till see dat tire back woodshop.”

  “Somebody sells these in the U.P.?”

  Allerdyce shrugged. Service got his phone book, called Cully Klock, owner of Cheaper Tires in Gwinn.

  “Cully, Grady Service. You ever hear of Nokian Tires?”

  “Finnish company; what about ’em? Don’t see ’em much around here.”

  “Who sells them?”

  Service heard Klock loudly exhale. “Pretty sure Griz Harris will know. Owns World Tire Wholesale, down to Tee-See.”

  “You know Harris?”

  “Met ’im coupla times.”

  “Has a store in Traverse City?”

  “Yeah, over by the airport.”

  “Thanks, Cully.”

  Service called Elton Sape, a hard-charging CO in Grand Traverse County.

  “Sape, Service. What you up to?”

  “Clipping my toenails. Why?”

  “Do you know the owner of World Tire Wholesale?”

  “Sure, Griz Harris. What’s that old fart done?”

  “Nothing. We need his help on a case. Can you call him and ask if he sells Nokian Hakkapeliitta tires? If he does, ask him to go to his office and get a list of anyone in the U.P. who bought that brand from him in the past five years. Think he’ll cooperate?”

  “No problem. He’s a good guy. He’ll grumble and I’ll grumble and then he’ll do what we want.”

  “This could be real important, Elton.”

  “I’m all over that shit,” the CO said. “Bump you back. Harris lives way out on the Old Mission. Will take him a while to get to town. Been snowing like an SOB here all day.”

  “Thanks.”

  Service rubbed his eyes and looked at Allerdyce. “Anything else from Blood Creek that you forgot to mention?”

  “Yeah, I was t’inkin’—Vulva wagon.”

  “Vulva? You mean a Volvo picked up Johnstone?”

  Allerdyce pointed at his stew bowl. “Can I eat? All dis grub get cold, eh.”

  The old man defied all categories. “Anything else?”

  “Nope.”

  Service got out the plat books, stared at the Ecumenicals property in south Houghton County.

  Allerdyce wiggled his fingers, his mouth full, and Service slid the book over to him. The old man chewed loudly with smacking sounds, said with a full mouth, “Used ta be cathouse on dat proppity. Compete wit dat cathouse over west Kenton, up hill from Jumbo, eh. Dat one burn down, jes’ chimley left now.”

  “There was a cathouse on the property owned by the Ecumenicals?”

  Allerdyce nodded. “Still dere fiffy-one, I come back Korea. Nice, clean girls.”

  Service studied the man. “You were in Korea?”

  “Inch’on, took fiffy bit in side leg, took me up Nipland, fix me up, send me back my spittoon.”

  “Outfit?” Treebone asked.

  “First Marine Divison, Fifth Marines. I get back down wit’ da boys, fight nort’ ’til Red Chinks join Red Gooks. Had pull back fiffy miles, fight hull damn way. Spittoon down to five men. Carry our el-tee last ten miles. Assopolis guy, twinny-one, no bullshit, fair, do your job, help your fuckin’ buddies, helluva man. Cancer ate ’im dead nineteen and fiffy-nine. Survive chinks and gooks, onny den die cancer.”

  Service thought he detected a choking sound and some tears welling.

  “Dey send me hospital We’t Coa’t. Gotted da ice bite fingers and tootsies, last few days. Rifles frozed up. El-tee tell us tie K-Bars to mittens, fight by hand, keep moving. No warm food, whole mont’, no good sleep, no clean socks, no baths. Cou’n’t hardly walk. I come back U.P., go cathouse up dat proppity, fix me up wid big girl fum over Ironwood, good gal.”

  The room was still until Tree said, “Semper fi, you racist old motherfucker.”

  Allerdyce’s head rolled like a bobblehead as he wheezed and coughed.

  How long have I known this man? Never heard any of this, never suspected, which might now explain his old man’s alleged affection for a fellow vet. Limpy Allerdyce: Brother Marine. Good God. Focus.

  “Great big ole log cabin, burnt down, and dat was dat, had go elsewhere.”

  “When the hell were you born?”

  “ ’Round nineteen and twinny-nine. Join up Marines forty-nine when I twinny. Next year my butt over dere bloody Korea.”

  Allerdyce is seventy-nine? He looks older, moves around younger. “Other buildings on the property?”

  “Not den.”

  “Been there since?”

  “Once. Had t’ree new cabin, big barn.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Long time back.”

  Service retrieved the plat book.

  “You told me about a Czech—Ulupov, right?”

  Allerdyce nodded. “Yep.”

  “What lake was that?”

  “Corbin Lake, last I hear. Don’t like dat guy,” the old man added.

  “Think we could talk to him?” Service looked at the plat, saw no property listed for anyone named Ulupov. Corbin Lake was a few miles east of the Ecumenicals.

  “Ain’t much of a talker. Likes ta shoot firs’ sometimes,” Allerdyce said.

  “He own the property?”

  “Dunno. Mebbe belonged some church in the way-back.”

  “Which church?”

  “All s
ame me, cross up top, Jesus guy down below.”

  Service called Friday and informed her.

  “You gonna see this Corbin Lake guy?”

  “He sounds like a real wood tick, and you know what they say.”

  She laughed. “No, enlighten me.”

  “Wood ticks have big eyes.”

  Elton Sape called back. “I’m with Griz Harris, and he wants to talk at you.”

  New low, growly voice. “Harris.”

  “Service.”

  “I sold one set of Nokian Hakkapeliitta tires last summer. I don’t carry the tires here and had to order them. These are an old model made only two or three years. Had to get them from the home office in Finland.”

  “Customer’s name?”

  “Flirty, flitty broad named Jones.”

  “Lamb Jones?” Service felt his heart racing.

  “Linda Jones, my ’puter tells me.”

  “Marquette address?”

  “Green Garden Road.”

  Lamb for sure. “You remember her?”

  “Don’t tell my wife, but sure do. Good-looking, friendly, and offering it up, not that I could do nothing.”

  “She alone?”

  “Nope, with a guy in a Red Silverado. Loaded the tires myself. Guy in the truck never said a thing, never introduced himself.”

  “Did she say the tires were for her?”

  “Nope, something about getting them for her uncle.”

  “Did the uncle order them?”

  “I guess, only I got her name wrote down, not no uncle.”

  “How’d she pay?”

  “Cash money.”

  Who owns a red Silverado? He called Friday and told her about this development.

  Friday said, “Quigley drives a Red Silverado. I’d better visit him tomorrow.”

  “We still in circumstantial land?” Service asked.

  “Yes, dear, but we may be getting closer. What’s your next step?”

  “Hit the woods, try to talk to a wood tick.”

  69

  Tuesday, January 20

  CORBIN LAKE, HOUGHTON COUNTY

  The temperature was pegged at 7 degrees, tiny snowflakes fluttering straight down, no wind to divert them, six or eight new inches on the ground, and more falling at a steady, leisurely pace. Friday called as they drove west from Marquette. She told Service that Quigley had acted like a wolf in a trap, head down, tail between his legs. Yes, he had driven Lamb down to Traverse City—as a favor. No, he didn’t know who the tires were for, or care, but she might have said something about an uncle over near Covington, and yes, they had overnighted at a bed-and-breakfast in Harbor Springs.

  “You explain about Varhola?”

  “He said we lack physical evidence, but he’ll push through search warrants if we ask and insist.”

  “Physical evidence, such as?”

  “He refused to specify.”

  “Gaming us?”

  “I don’t think so. Where are you guys?”

  “Limpy and I are east of Sidnaw. Tree and Suit are headed to other sites to look for more neoprene. Allerdyce and I will have to hike in to see the Czech. It’s fairly high ground between Booth and Corbin Lakes.”

  “How far?”

  “About a mile in and a mile out.”

  “Snowing?”

  “Yep. Eight fresh down, more falling. We’ll lug snowshoes on our packs, but I doubt we’ll need them. There’s not much of a base here.”

  “Call when you get out, and be careful.”

  “Got our 800s,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”

  •••

  Allerdyce wore a Marmot down parka, dull and black, with a pair of old bear-paw snowshoes. Service had modified metal bear-paws on his pack. He took the shotgun instead of the rifle. Not a bad load. He checked his compass, saw they were northbound by a few degrees above east. “Thought we were headed to Corbin Lake.”

  “Nort’ bit fum ’ere, up on da high groun’. ”

  Service guessed they’d find a cabin on the south exposure of a hill, and he was close. They moved along the crest of a long sharp ridge that ran east to west, paralleling cedar swamps and tag alders below them. “We get close, we’ll pull up and figure out our next step,” he told the poacher, who seemed to be able to maintain a hard pace no matter what. Seventy-nine, my ass.

  The shack was small, made of logs aged black, had been in place a long time. Had a rotten-looking shingled roof with a steep pitch. There was a black tar-paper sweat lodge in a clearing just to the east. Looked like a dark Twinkie, and as old as the cabin. A long woodshed was piled with neat rows of firewood. Two other sheds, one metal, one with smoke tendrils fighting up into the snow. They weren’t seventy-five yards away, and both put trees between them and any trouble.

  Allerdyce took off his chopper and blew on his hand. “Las’ time dis galoot got two, mebbe t’ree dogs in dere.”

  Service cringed.“I don’t hear dogs.”

  “Best kind defend the proppity. Dey jes’ suddenny dere, get youse by t’roat.”

  “What breed?”

  “Wolfie crosses, last I seen. Bruisers.”

  Grady Service felt a chill. “We’ll go in about ten yards apart. You call to him and ask him out.” Service’s boots felt like they were weighted with cement. Fear, he told himself. Use it. Stay calm.

  The dogs came out of the tree line three abreast, ears back, heads up, ruffs swollen. A man came out of the larger shed, the one with the smoke, at the same time. Wiry, small, clean-shaven, faded camo, rust-colored Carhartt bibs, Pac boots, blood on his hands. The man ignored Allerdyce, made a clucking sound, and the dogs melted away.

  “You are the big dee-en-arr preek, Service, the one they talk about,” the man said. “Is about time you come finally to do your work.”

  “Sir?” Service countered.

  “Yes, of course,” the man said. “The holy impostor in the Kaisits.”

  “Kaisick Holes,” Allerdyce interpreted, his voice a strained rasp.

  Service knew about the so-called Kai-sits, but had never been into them. It was an area of deep sinkholes and foliage grown so tight it was dark as night even midday. It was said you had to belly-crawl to get through some places. “I am Service. What holy impostor?” He was glad the dogs had ducked away, but guessed they were close and watching events.

  “The pretender from Assinins.”

  “A lot of people up there.”

  “Varhola, the priest.”

  “What about him?”

  “Unspeakables everyone talks of.”

  “How does this concern the law?” Service asked.

  “He brings the women.”

  Service felt his heart do a stutter beat. “You’ve seen women in the Kai-sits?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Grown women or girls, and with the priest?”

  “Yes, of course,” the man said.

  “Brings them where?”

  “Old church land.”

  “Ecumenicals?”

  “Yes, of course, but he prefer Kai-sits most times.”

  “You know where he takes them?”

  The man nodded.

  “On foot?”

  “Has weehicle—Svedsky.”

  Swedish? “Saab, Volvo, something else?”

  “Wolwo.”

  “New model or old?”

  “They all look like square box. Old, I think.”

  “Square shape, you say?”

  “Yes, like box.”

  “Color?”

  “This changes. Now is white, long kind.”

  “Wagon?”

  “Jo.”

  “He drives them here in the Volvo?”

  “Jo, he keeps parked here. Comes on four-whee
ler.”

  “Why haven’t you told anyone this before now?”

  “I am telling you now.”

  Allerdyce coughed. “Comrade.”

  A knife magically appeared in Ulupov’s hand, a deadly-looking Finnish puukko, and the two men stared each other down. Service went to the man, grabbed his wrist, and took the knife. “Let’s get this little item out of the formula.”

  “This insolent pig has insulted me,” Ulupov said. “I fought Soviets. I am good Catholic, not communist.”

  Got to calm things. “What did you do in Czechoslovakia?”

  “Teacher of young minds.”

  “But you don’t teach here. Your English is good.”

  “Is not important,” the man said. “You come to do something about dem priest or not?”

  Service walked over to his companion and gave Allerdyce a furtive push to create more space between the three of them. “Is there a license plate on the Volvo?” he asked Ulupov.

  “Ne, he is keep on wall in shelter.”

  “But this is Varhola’s Volvo?”

  “Was Dede’s first.”

  “I don’t know Dede.”

  “Father Andre Beauclerc; his friends called him Dede.”

  “The priest before Varhola?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he die?”

  “His heart stopped beating.”

  “Before Varhola arrived?”

  “Jo, two years.”

  “Did Dede spend time in the woods, out here?”

  “Ne, he was shepherd of his people.”

  “And a woodworker?”

  Ulupov shrugged. “Dede had no skills. His people looked after him, and he watched over their souls.”

  “Did Father Beauclerc keep the Volvo at the rectory?”

  “By the church, jo.”

  “But Varhola keeps it here. Did he build a garage?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Service triggered his 800 to talk to Friday. “Can you check with the Secretary of State on an emergency basis, see if there was an old Volvo registered to Father Andre Beauclerc, or to Varhola’s church?” He spelled the late priest’s name for her.

  “I’ll have Lansing run it.”

  “Don’t know how our service will be out here for the 800 or the cells. We’re sort of off the grid.”

  “Got a year or model?”

  “Old is all we know. And white, but it changes colors.”