by Lee Schultz
Agent Heikkenen’s eyes bored into mine. Agent Walker was looking out the window at three deer which were standing so close to the window he could have reached out and touched them.
I shrugged. "I haven’t the faintest idea. I don’t know any of them, have never heard of them, and if I had shot them, I would have dumped them on someone else’s property." I grinned just to show I was making a weak joke. Neither agent grinned back. Walker looked at me with a humorless expression that definitely resembled suspicion.
Walker said nothing, letting Heikkinen take the lead, but continued to study me as if I were an insect under a magnifying glass. I was definitely not comfortable. Maybe he wasn’t so tasty, after all.
"So," Heikkinen said, a note of disbelief creeping into her voice, "two bodies in two days, on your property, which is miles from anywhere and hard to find, and you know nothing about it." Her look dared me to argue with her.
I crossed my arms over my chest. "Look, I don’t know anything about either the people or the reasons they were dumped here. I have never met either of them, and to my knowledge I’ve never represented a family member of either of them. I live out here by myself, mind my own business, and in my wildest imagination I cannot think of a single reason for why things happened the way they happened."
Heikkinen rolled her eyes in a "yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all" manner, and I bristled.
"Do I need a lawyer here? Even though I am one?"
Walker blinked. "You’re a lawyer?" When I nodded, he asked "What area of practice?"
"Mostly paper stuff, wills, deeds, stuff like that, but I take the occasional court appointed criminal case."
It was as if I had flipped a light switch. He leaned forward intently and asked "Oh, yeah, Molly Meagher - from downstate, right?"
I sighed. "Yes, from downstate. But I’ve been up here for the last six years." I was surprised at his recognition. I had got a lot of newspaper and TV coverage after the murder of my client, and there had been a spate of nastygrams to some of the papers about how men were always getting shafted by their wives’ lawyers, and maybe it was too bad the guy hadn’t killed me instead of his wife. For a lot of the time, I was in a hospital, so I didn’t get the stuff while it was fresh. I saw most of it after I had been pronounced recovered and sent home to finish healing. Even though I knew it came from people whose solution to every problem was to kill some group of people or another, it still stung. What about all the wives who get thoroughly screwed by husbands who hide assets, beat their wives and kids, or convince the court their wives are unfit parents so they won’t have to pay child support? Where are all the indignant letters then?
But I got over it. Took me awhile, but as my body healed, I learned to let things go instead of gnawing on them like a dog with a bone. So the thought that the FBI might be looking at me as if I were a suspect, while unsettling, didn’t bother me as much as it could have.
Agent Heikkinen looked at her partner quizzically, a line appearing where her eyebrows were scrunched together.
"Tell you later." he said. Turning back to me, he asked, "Do you know anything about the people who own the property just east of you? " My eighty borders on two sides with land owned by some corporation or another. I never paid much attention to who owned the property along the third property line. In fact, I’ve never seen anyone go into the property in all the time I’ve lived here.
"Nope, I don’t know anything about them. Every once in awhile I hear a plane flying really low, or a big vehicle, a Hummer maybe, in that direction, but I’ve never actually seen anyone using the road along the property line. Timber companies own land on both sides of mine, but I’ve never seen anyone go in with a logging truck, either. I don’t think I’ve even seen anyone on any of the roads that might go into the property. Why? "
From the look Heikkinen gave me, I expected her to harrumph and say something like "We’ll ask the questions here." I guess I’ve watched too many cop shows.
Instead, she shrugged. "Just curious. Wondering if maybe the bodies were meant for someone else."
I pondered that one. "Well, there are a dozen two-track roads in and out of the timber company’s property, where they cut the timber before my time here, but I’ve never seen anyone go in our out. They could have entered from Section 6 Road, or US 2, or from the snowmobile trail. A snow sled will go anywhere it can squeeze through, and even pulling a small trailer like the S&R one - "
"S & R?" Walker asked.
"Oh, sorry. Search and Rescue. You know, the trailer they use to haul people and bodies out of places trucks won’t go? Anyway, it wouldn’t be that difficult to get in and out on a four-wheeler or sled, probably without being detected. But again, why? As far as I know, there’s nobody even there to get a message, if indeed that’s what the body drops were."
"And that," said Walters, "is why we’re talking to you."
I ignored him and turned to Heikkinen. "So just because you can’t think of anyone else, you’re liking me for it, huh?" I gave her a challenging glare.
Heikkinen said seriously "We can’t comment at this stage of the investigation." She looked at me quizzically when I burst out laughing.
"Sorry," I said contritely, "That was SUCH an FBI thing to say."
The corners of her mouth twitched. The momentary tension was gone. "You’re right. But that’s how it is. We don’t give information, we only get it . So if you think of anything, I’d appreciate a call."
She rose, handed me her business card, and walked to the door, Walker right behind her. As he passed through the doorway, he turned and looked at me levelly for a moment. Then the two of them went out to their sinister-looking black SUV with tinted windows. I watched them as they carefully made their way along the snow-lined road. I watched until they were out of sight, and stood there until I could no longer hear them. I was vaguely uneasy but couldn’t put my finger on exactly why.
I decided it was time for popcorn and Guinness.
10
Yooper computer language:
LOG ON: Makin da wood stove hotter at camp.
LOG OFF: Don't add no wood.
MONITOR: Keep an eye on da stove after you log on and open da draft.
MEGAHERTZ: When a big log drops on your bare foot in the morning.
CURSOR: What da wife calls you when dat big log drops on your bare foot.
I’m running through the woods, terrified. Of what, I don’t know, I just know that my heart is pounding, my lungs are burning, my eyes are tearing up from the cold and there is something behind me, relentlessly gaining ground. I can see my house in the distance, but hard as I try, I cannot move any closer to it. I hear the pounding of footsteps behind me. I risk a glance over my shoulder and see that whatever it is, it is close enough to reach out and -
I wake up as the cat bats me on the cheek. He is sitting on my chest, pawing at me. He only does this when I moan and whimper from pain or bad dreams. I emerge from the mire of the nightmare and sigh with relief to be back in my own bed and not out in the woods fleeing for my life. I try to recapture the dream to see what was pursuing me, but it fades away until I can’t remember anything but the fear.
The next couple of days were uneventful. The rumor mill had nothing new to add to what was already old news, no more bodies turned up on my doorstep, and the weather left another foot of snow on the ground. I left the road unplowed for two days and enjoyed the feeling of being completely unreachable. I spent a lot of time sitting by the window, watching the deer come in for the corn I put out for them.
One morning a low growl from Holy Wah alerted me to the presence of two wolves checking out the area. I watched the beautiful creatures as they sniffed around the shed, the garage where the truck was kept, even coming right up to the deck. They must have heard something in the woods, because their heads came up, and they spun around and took off on a dead run. They looked well-fed and sleek, and I figured the Road Kill Café had done a booming business this wint
er.
That’s something I find pretty neat - in the morning you’ll see a dead deer by the side of the road, and by afternoon something has dragged it into the woods for lunch. I get no small satisfaction from knowing that those lovely, graceful deer who had the misfortune to have a close encounter with a motor vehicle, had not died in vain. At least they provided food for another creature.
A couple of days later I was out back hauling in a few days’ worth of firewood, when I saw something bright flash in the trees to my right. By the time I had completely turned in that direction, whatever it was, was no longer there. Sort of like when you see something out of the corner of your eye, but when you turn to look at it, it disappears. My first impression that it was a reflection off a polished surface began to ebb, and by the time I hauled in the last chunk of wood, I had convinced myself that it was just a woodland animal passing through. It was the dead of winter and there was a snowpack of over three feet, so it was highly unlikely that any human would be out there, except maybe on the trails I made with my skis and snowshoes. It had to be an animal.
I was partially right but the animal had only two legs.
That afternoon I went into the village of Alpha, a once-vigorous iron mining town perched on a hill. Today its thousand-plus population has dwindled to two hundred if you don’t count the dogs, and the huge open-pit mine is now filled with water and lined with numerous hardwood trees. Occasionally I take my kayak out on the water where it is peaceful and quiet, with only the swish of my paddle blending with the sound of birds, and, usually, a breeze.
a convenience store, seven small shops which sell everything from quasi-antique furniture to handmade soap, half a dozen apartments and a small restaurant which serves breakfast all day, which is why I like to eat there. I don’t do early with any grace whatsoever, and now that I’m not clocking in at a regular job, I find that noon is a great time for breakfast.
The buzz in the café was still the bodies which had been found. Apparently it was a slow week for rumors. There were as many theories about the bodies as there were coffee drinkers. I got ribbed about watching my back, because I could be next. I shrugged it off. I couldn’t imagine who would want to do me in, or why. I had no known enemies; I imagine there has to be somebody out there who doesn’t like me, but I haven’t the foggiest notion of who it would be. It’s a given that there are old criminal clients who’ve been told by jailhouse lawyers that I should have done this, filed that, subpoenaed whomever, got them off, yada yada. But I couldn’t think of any of them who had the drive or the resources to kill people and plant them on my property. Hell, they probably didn’t even know how to find me. So my overall feeling of security did not diminish. This wasn’t Milwaukee or Chicago, this was the U.P., this was Iron County, where the only time people got killed was in car crashes or hunting accidents. Except for the odd teenager killing his girlfriend then himself, or the unfortunate victim of a robbery-murder. But those were anomalies and besides, nothing like that was going to happen in MY boring life.
Hoo, boy, was I ever wrong.
11
Life, for me at least, went on as usual for the next week or so. I’ve had enough excitement to last me a long lifetime, and I have finally learned how to just BE instead of DO. To do very little, very slowly. This keeps my blood pressure where it should be, and my stress levels are practically nonexistent. Well, except for recent events. My days were without plan or pattern and the quiet of the winter woods soothed the rough edges of my soul. When the Weather Channel advised a severe weather alert, a huge snow storm heading my way, I brought in extra firewood and made sure I had plenty of food for the critters. Being snowbound doesn’t scare me at all. In fact, I sort of enjoy it, even if there’s no power. I can use my gas barbecue to do any cooking, and being out of touch with the outside world is more of a blessing than a curse. As long as it doesn’t go on too long.
Thursday afternoon, however, the sun was shining brightly, and it seemed impossible that a storm could be heading this way. It wouldn’t be the first time a weather person made the wrong call. But I dug out extra blankets and put a pile of firewood by the fireplace so it would be dry if I needed it. Just in case. Then I dug out a couple of novels, and put kerosene in my three lanterns. I like being snowbound, but I like the creature comforts, too. I spent the rest of the evening deep into the latest Terry Pratchett and a bowl of popcorn. Pratchett’s weird British humor kept me in high spirits until I finally crawled into bed. I was asleep in seconds. I slept through the night, and didn’t even have to get up to pee, a non-event worth marking on my calendar. I vaguely remembered registering Holy Wah’s low growl, but she did that if deer or bear came through, so my Danger Alarm didn’t go off.
When I woke up, it was gray and silent. Holy Wah stood at the door, peering intently outside. I rose and went to the window. The weather man hadn’t been wrong this time. There was at least two feet of new snow. And a strange vehicle in my driveway, covered with snow as if it had been there all night. I was surprised. I hadn’t heard a thing. I didn’t recognize the car, but could see that it was a black SUV of some sort. I’ve never been very good at identifying vehicles other than to sort them into categories of "truck," "van," "SUV," and "car." I wondered vaguely if it was the same vehicle the FBI agents had driven, then shook off the thought. If they were out here, they would have made their presence known. I let H.W. out for her morning constitutional, then dressed, put the kettle on for coffee, and went outside to shovel off the deck.
The snow was wet and heavy, and I could hear the cracking of tree branches in the woods, as they finally gave way to the heavy snow. I would go through in the spring and cut off any broken branches and use them for kindling and firewood. I waded my way through the snow to the SUV. I could tell it had been there awhile, because there was at least a foot of snow on the hood. I mentally scratched my head in puzzlement. What would anybody be doing out here during a storm? I slogged around to the other side to see if there were any clues, but if there were, they were buried in the snow. Except I noticed a slight indentation. It looked like someone had left the SUV and walked into the woods, then their trail was overlaid with more snow.
I puzzled over the situation as I drank my coffee, ate my oatmeal, and pushed the bowl over to the cat, who purred appreciatively. I know, you’re not supposed to let your cat sit on the table while you’re eating, but I figure I’m old enough to do whatever I damn well please, and Mom isn’t here anymore to give me grief about it. I dressed appropriately for an extended trek into the woods; insulated coveralls, knee-high boots, Peruvian knitted cap with earflaps (it may look funny, but it keeps the ears warm) and insulated gloves. I put on my skis, grabbed my poles, and headed in the direction I thought my intruder had gone.
It was slow going, because the snow had broken off a ton of branches and I had to stop every few minutes to move a branch to the side of the trail. Holy Wah padded just behind me and to the left, in a modified "heel" position. We followed my trail for about twenty minutes. I couldn’t see the intruder’s trail anymore. I figured he must have gone into the woods off the trail, so I slowly examined the area for any clue as to which way he might have gone. By now, I had no sense of direction. The sky was gray, and despite being completely leafless, the trees were thick enough that I couldn’t see much beyond where I was standing. I removed my skis and leaned them up against a tree. I bent over and re-scanned the area. I’ve actually learned a lot about tracking since I’ve lived here, and it took me only a couple of minutes to see where the trail went off into the woods.
I cautiously stepped off the trail and followed the very slight indentation where he had gone. It was tricky, because if I stepped the wrong way on a rock or log concealed by the snow, I could twist an ankle, or break something, and be in really deep doo-doo, since I would have to rely solely on my own resources to get back home. Having been intimately acquainted with severe, prolonged pain, I was in no hurry to experience it again in the form of a broken b
one or torn ligament.
Then Holy Wah started scratching at what I had taken to be a fallen tree, pawing at the snow and whining. This was not at all like her. I slogged over to her, and she looked at me expectantly. I bent down and brushed away more snow where she had been digging,
"Oh, shit, not again!" I moaned, and began frantically clearing away snow from the waxen hand I had uncovered. It was a man, lying partially on his stomach, with the right half of his face on the ground. When I had cleared away enough snow, I rolled him carefully onto his back, just in case he had injured his neck or spine in a fall. I gasped. It was the hunky FBI agent. His face was waxy and his lips were blue. I squeezed my eyes against the sudden sting of tears. I HATE it when somebody I know dies, even if it is an obnoxious cop.
I remembered one of my EMT instructors admonishing "A hypothermia victim is not dead until he’s warm and dead." I felt for a pulse. At first I thought there was none, but then there was a faint fluttering under my fingers. I peeled back an eyelid. The pupil immediately shrank from the light. He was alive, but just barely.
I tried to drag him to the trail, but strong as I am, I’m no match for a guy a foot taller and who-knows-how-many pounds heavier than I am. My mind raced. I decided not to waste any further time trying to drag him. I peeled off my coveralls and rolled him onto them. Maybe it would stop the ground from sucking up any remaining body heat. I put my cap on his head – there’s a theory that we lose more body heat through our heads than any other place on the body. His fingers didn’t appear to be frozen yet, so I put my gloves on his hands.
Then I slapped on my skis and shot back toward home, going like the hounds of Hell were after me. I think I made a world’s record for cross-country sprinting.
I kicked off the skis, dropped the poles on the deck, and raced into the house. I grabbed the phone to call 911 - it was dead. I frantically tried to remember where I’d last set my cellphone down because of COURSE it wasn’t in the charger, and rummaged through the stuff on the table until I dug it out. No service. That happened during bad storms despite the booster system and antenna I had installed. I flipped a light switch. Nada. Power outage. Damn!
