“Your legs okay?”
“Burning like motherfuckers.”
Service set up the rocket stove and melted snow. The burner weighed less than three ounces, but could boil a liter of water in less than four minutes. He dropped tea bags into insulated paper cups, handed Noonan packets of honey, and waited for the water to boil.
“This Allerdyce, he one of your bad guys?” Noonan asked.
Tree laughed out loud.
“Was,” Service said. Still could be. How can you know?
“He’s damn good out in this shit,” Noonan said.
No response necessary. The voice in his head said, I hope.
“How will we know when he’s coming in?”
“I’ll know,” Service said.
Noonan shrugged off his pack. There was a long white object tied to it.
“What’s that?”
“Close-in closer. Caught punks whaling on an old fella one night, up from Kentucky to see his grandson. He sent me an ax handle, made from musk wood. Works real good in close, poking or bashing,” the retired detective said. “I wrote a manual one time: How to Use an Ax Handle in a Fight. My division commander liked to rip my head off, said he never wanted to see it again. Ax handle helps you stop the biggest bastards flying on speed or dust. They can maybe fight through the lightning, but not the handle, man. I sold maybe a thousand copies of the manual over the years, five bucks a pop.”
Noonan was one very strange and intense bird.
Service sensed motion and heard a muffled sound. “Squirrel alerting call—sounds like a small crow with laryngitis,” he told Noonan. “That’s Allerdyce.”
Soon thereafter there was a whispered, “Slow.”
“Roller,” Service replied softly.
Allerdyce came out of the dark and sat down. Like them, he was decked out in white. “Youses got tea for a chum?”
The old man was wearing night-vision goggles.
Service made a quick cup for him, gave him four packets of honey and a 400-calorie Mainstay energy bar.
“Find him?” Service asked as the old man loudly slurped his hot tea.
“ ’Bout mile an’ a ’alf nort’, where Dry Wash, Little Silver, and Mountain Creek meet up. Dis trail youse on run along ritch, drops down to ’nudder finger ritch, where Dry and Little Silver meet. Steep drop dere to da east. He got him shack built just nort’. All cliffs to wess. Hard to get at ’im.”
“You see him?”
“Could smell ’im, eh. No smoke. He’s honkered, tight and quiet.”
“How close did you get?”
“Close ’nuff. Found catch wit white gas he hid.”
Service immediately guessed what the old man was thinking.
“Volatile,” Service said.
“Put a match on ’er, drive ’im out right quick, ’speck.”
“But not light us up in the process.”
“Fill water bottle wit’ white gas, make maltoshop contrail, pinhole in bottom, drop bottle down stovepipe.”
“We can get to his stovepipe?”
“She angled down a bit, but not enough. Be easy drop. Bottle first, den drop lit’ rope-wick behind ’er, cover pipe, boomph! Oot he comes!”
“We’ll have to try to talk him out peacefully first,” Service said.
“Youse talk, youse lose surprise,” Allerdyce said. “Dis chenkist polack jamoke fight, I t’ink.”
“Got to be this way, Limpy.”
“Got porch, overlooks crick. Bears, wolfies, deer walk down dere. He got baits. Only one door in, one door out. One window, side of door, smoked like pimp-car window.”
Noonan chuckled.
“Best time?”
“Four, five morning, when ’eads not so good.”
“If he gets away?”
“Won’t get far. Find trapper ladder built over near dere. He goes down to crick dat way, he have us on top ’im quick. I put traps in branches, chained dere. Pow-ful, take time get off, we hear ruckus. Two ladders, one next camp, udder couple hundred yard. He take dat one.”
Service leaned to Noonan. “You following this?”
“Yep.”
“You know white gas?”
Treebone intervened, “Naptha, flashpoint below thirty-two, heavier than air, vapor spreads fast but doesn’t persist. Makes one helluva pop. Water bottle will scorch his ass. A quart would probably kill him. We use white gas, he may not make it out,” the retired vice lieutenant said, and added, “It sucks to be him.”
Allerdyce cackled.
“Don’t forget, he got ’is Russkie pop gun,” Allerdyce said. “He come out bipbipbip, need have cover either side porch, heads down when he come out.”
“Let the others know what we’re doing?” Noonan asked.
“Not yet,” Service said. He wanted time to think, made more tea, and sat down. White gas could be deadly to use even when you knew what you were doing. He closed his eyes, tried to visualize events. Fuck! His mind hit a wall.
He whispered to the other men, “There could be evidence inside. We can’t burn out the place.”
“Won’t,” Allerdyce said, “Pipe go down to little woodstove, I t’ink, gas flatch dere, won’t spread much.”
“I don’t know,” Service said.
“Trust me, sonny.”
They each ate another energy bar before heading out, leaving their snowshoes stashed in some trees. Service was feeling some doubt, but decided the approach held the best chance for their own safety and getting Ulupov out of hiding. He’d know more when he actually saw the setup. He could adjust then.
“When we get set up,” he told the men, “stash your NVDs so you won’t be blinded by flashes or fire.”
•••
The setup had been almost perfectly described by Allerdyce, and events happened fast. Service stood to the side of the door, knocked on the window. “Mr. Ulupov, Conservation Officer, DNR! We need to talk to you. You’ve got three minutes to come out, unarmed, hands up!”
Limpy was uphill at the pipe. Bluesuit was opposite Service. Tree was above near Limpy, and Noonan was crouched on the other side of the plank porch, down on a knee, bent at the waist, ax handle at the ready.
No response. Maybe he’s not here. Time.
“Limpy!” he shouted.
The wall left of the door, closest to Noonan, shattered, and an AK-47 ripped the air as the wall shredded. Service saw star-shaped muzzle flashes as rounds came his way, cracking over his head like slaps on the ass. Then came a bright light and loud pop, and blue-red fire leapt out of the opening that the man had made. A long tongue of fire flared up from the stovepipe, and Service heard the sound of bone cracking and a voice screaming, “Di-ben-ind-is-o-win!”
More shots sounded as Service rose and crossed the porch, until something smacked him in the upper arm, spun him, and knocked him off his feet.
Silence. Bite of cordite in the air, which means old ammunition, definitely the AK. He’d heard just the one gun-voice.
“Didn’t s’pect that!” Noonan said with a snarl.
“Up here, youses,” Allerdyce said.
They joined him. Ulupov was on the ground, facedown, a full wolf pelt stretched from his head to his waist, down his back. Service lit the man with his penlight and turned him to his side. His head was shattered like a melon. A stick protruded from his chest. Service took off a glove, checked for pulse. None. Why’s blood running down my left arm?
“You hit?” Tree asked.
“Nicked maybe, never went numb, burned like hell right away. Check for fire inside, Suit.”
Allerdyce took on a tone of voice Service had never heard before. “Put yore butt on ground, sonny!”
The old man helped him remove off his outer whites and his coat, shone a light on his shirt, then split the shirt with a knife. “Went t
’ru good. Let’s stop bleedin’, eh.”
Treebone was working alongside the old man. They weren’t arguing.
“First-aid kit in my pack,” Service told the old man.
Noonan came back. “No fire, stove confined it, mostly.” The retired detective handed Allerdyce a sterile bandage and antiseptic. The two men wrapped the arm and tied it off. Hurts.
Treebone triggered his 800. “We have him. Twenty Five Fourteen is down. You can see our rig on AVL. Trail’s a hundred yards behind the truck. Bring a snowmobile, call for EMS.”
Denninger’s voice. “Bus or wagon?”
“Wagon.”
“Stay put,” Treebone’s voice thundered. “Cavalry’s coming.”
“Sound the bugle,” Service quipped.
Service looked at the wood protruding from Ulupov’s chest. It was a foot-long sliver of two-by-four. Noonan said, “AK must’ve shattered it when he came through the damn wall, stuck him coming out. I didn’t even need to use the ax, I bet.”
Limpy stayed beside Service, not moving, talking quietly. “Youse ’member time youse an’ yore ole man stop by da bar, at Gwinn? Youses wass bellied up to bar, yore ole man knocking down beers, and somebody down way say, ‘What good’s a game warden?’ You come off stool like bottle rocket, smack guy right in da kisser, nose blow up blood, his buddies start punch youse up, yore old man jump in, screaming like jungle ape. I jes’ walk in when all happen, jump in help youse two. Youse were mebbe twelve, I t’ink, big dumb kid. We put all dem jamokes down on floor. Yore ole man cry that night, say he so proud, you gon’ be damn good man, not lush like him.”
Why the hell is he telling me that story? “Am I dying?”
“No, sonny, jes’ ’membered, is all.”
Service heard Noonan on the radio. “Better move your sorry asses,” and then it was dark and silent.
76
Monday, January 26
MARQUETTE
It was night when he was awake enough to make sense of his surroundings. He felt loopy and confused. “What the hell is going on?” he asked to no one in particular, but a second later he had Allerdyce and Noonan and Treebone in his face.
“You dumbass,” Tree said. “You kept yelling ‘flesh wound,’ but you lost a chunk of flesh and some muscle. Damn near bled out on the way here. Fragment of bone clipped blood vessels or something. They may have to do more surgery.”
“Bullshit,” Grady Service said. “I’m good to go.”
“Not your call,” Friday said, wading in. “Your door guards here have intimidated the whole damn nursing staff and all your doctors. They couldn’t do anything without the approval of the three musketeers.”
“I don’t feel so good,” he said, slumping into his pillow.
•••
He woke up to “You’ve been shot again!” It was Vince Vilardo, his doctor and friend from Escanaba, looking down at him.
“Lucky shot,” Service mumbled.
“For him, not you,” Friday said. “Ten inches to the right and you’d be . . . not here.”
“I wore my vest,” he said.
“Hapless,” Friday told Vince Vilardo.
“When do I get out?” Service wanted to know.
“End of the week, earliest. They want healing to begin, and to make sure there’s no sepsis,” Friday said. “And when you get home, you will rest.”
“I’ve heard this stupid speech before.”
“Not from me, you haven’t,” she said. “This time you will do as you’re told.”
Bluesuit Noonan stood at the end of the bed with a hangdog face. “My fault. Hit that motherfucker in the side of his head and he buckled, foot slipped in snow, spun him your way as he started spraying rounds. I’d hit his spine, he’da dropped right there. My fault.”
Service felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up. Tree was there, solemn, no words. Brothers didn’t need them.
77
Thursday, March 5
SLIPPERY CREEK CAMP
Captain Lisette McKower came to see Service, and they sat in front of the TV.
He said, “Guess what: No smokes in forty days.”
She shook her head. “Like Lent; brag this time next year.” Lis was an old friend, lover for a very brief time, his sergeant, lieutenant, and now field captain for lower Michigan. “Easier ways to quit than getting shot, lunkhead.”
“I expected an attaboy.”
“Attaboy. I heard you mailed your badge and ID to the governor with a note.”
“What of it?”
“Quote: I refuse to be a political football again. You panicked. No governor can panic, ever. Good thing you’ll be gone in a year. End quote. That’s damn harsh, Grady, even for you.”
“She put me into something I didn’t belong in.”
“She also sent fifty officers to help after Katrina, one-third of our whole field force, and they didn’t accomplish shit. She’s the governor. The people elected her. She can do these things. Listen to me, Mr. Self-Righteous: You could have told her the case was Friday’s, not yours. You didn’t. Don’t whine now.”
“She ordered me to hunt an animal,” he said.
“And you did,” McKower said. “A felon and two retirees for partners. You call that a team?”
“We break any rules?”
“I probably can’t count that high.”
“Lawyers got their snouts in this?”
“They tried, but Governor Timms stepped in and told them to back off. You’re all cleared, even Allerdyce.”
Service looked at her. “Listen to me, Lis. Limpy was the difference in this deal. Without him—”
“Understood,” she said. “I read the reports. What was the Czech yelling when he came out shooting?”
“Di-ben-ind-is-o-win. Freedom. Apparently the asshole convinced himself he was Indian.”
McKower set his badge and ID on a tray table. “You’ll need these things. You had a second surgery,” she added.
“Just cleanup; the cutting’s done. It’s all rehab from here on.”
She cocked her head. “They don’t have a rehab for the likes of you. No duty until April first, light duty until the last Saturday in April, start the day after the trout opener, full steam ahead. You get the trout opener off. Think of it as a reward.” McKower held the flat of her hand to his face, turned, and marched out smiling.
Biologist Cale Pilkington visited later that day. “Krelle’s coming back from Oregon, April first, here through June. She wants to track and monitor the new wolves, monitor breeding. She’s guessing these aren’t new. Allerdyce has signed on as her scout. Feds pay real good.”
“Wolf DNA?” Service asked.
“Gray wolf; not a crossbreed unless it’s so close to Canis lupus, the genetic markers don’t show it. Krelle hypothesizes this is a mutant: wide body, shorter legs, and with no inherent advantage, such a mutant will die out, the fruit of evolution at its starkest. Krelle wants to see it through for science. First thing Allerdyce did was hire young Donte DeJean as his assistant.”
Service smiled. At least the kid won’t be shooting deer or moose calves to feed the wolves. I hope.
78
Sunday, April 26
MOSQUITO RIVER HEADWATERS
Allerdyce had stopped by the night before, had a beer, muttered a few things, loved on Newf and Cat, and left. Yesterday had been the trout opener. Grady Service fished Slippery Creek for an hour and quit, wanting to save his energy for today.
How many years since he’d worked the Mosquito Wilderness?
At zero nine hundred, Service found the Peterson brothers, Dovey and Booby, with twenty brook trout each. The brothers were longtime violators out of Rock.
“Heard you was retired,” Dovey said when Service stepped out on them.
“You heard wrong,” he s
aid. “Who told you that?”
“Old Man Allerdyce,” Booby said.
Service wrote tickets, explained what they had to do to pay, and took their fish, which were over limit and undersized. Back in his truck, he laughed out loud. It had been Allerdyce last night who told him where the daffy Petersons would be. The sneaky old sonuvabitch had set them up and given him a gift.
The Mosquito River ran vodka-pure and clear, light dancing in the riffle. Service lowered the tailgate, sat on it, and let the music of the river and wind through the trees engulf him.
Home, he thought, and grinned.
Killing a Cold One Page 41
