by Lee Schultz
In the evenings we would sit in the screen enclosure attached to the side of the RV and she would stay quietly by my side, but watching intently everything she could see. Irish Wolfhounds are "sight hounds," and locate their prey by sight rather than by smell like most of the dogs I was familiar with, but even when a cat strolled by, she stayed put, keeping the cat in sight until it disappeared behind another rig. I was in awe of this beautiful animal.
And on a more prosaic note, I felt safe with her. You’d have to be a fool to mess with someone who had a dog this big with her all the time. Night noises which up until then had disturbed my sleep, went unnoticed now. Anyone who might have had ideas about my vulnerability quickly discarded them when they saw my hundred-pound friend. I knew that even if I were sleeping soundly, she would alert me to anything nefarious. And I enjoyed the looks of astonishment at rest areas and campgrounds as she unfolded herself out of the motor home door.
22
Even though my kids have been adults and on their own for some time now, my "something’s wrong" radar still works. You know, like how a mother can sleep like the dead but become instantly alert at her child’s first cry. Holy Wah’s low rumbling growl roused me from a deep sleep and, just as I did when my children were babies, I was instantly alert, all senses straining to pick up something, anything. I heard the crunch of boots in the snow.
After the urge to wet myself passed, I slid out of bed and silently padded to a window. There was a little light from the three-quarters moon, and I could see my truck, the woodshed, the outlines of the trees. Breathing shallowly, I listened so hard my head hurt. Not a sound except the thudding of my heart. Maybe I imagined that footstep, maybe it was a critter foraging, maybe snow sliding off the roof, maybe – there it was again. Crunch. Pause. Crunch. Pause. Then silence again. Nothing but the bowel-loosening terror that comes from being utterly alone in the dark.
I crept to the door where I kept my rifle. I knew it was loaded and ready to fire, as I always kept it there in case I had to chase off a predatory bear – or a predatory human. My hands were shaking as I picked it up and I clicked off the safety as I silently padded back into the shadows of my living room. I leaned up against a corner and waited. All I could hear was the ticking of the wall clock I envisioned the black cat, tail acting as pendulum, googly eyes moving left to right to left to right with each ticking swing of the tail.
After about a hundred years, I decided that the whole thing was a remnant of a nightmare, a product of an overactive imagination and too many crime novels before bedtime.
I hadn’t taken three steps toward the bedroom when the sound of shattering glass exploded the silence. I involuntarily shrieked and jumped back, hitting the wall and almost dropping the rifle. Whatever had come through the window was afire and I could smell gasoline. An engine started and rapidly accelerated away into the night. A snow sled. Flames turned my living area into a scene from Dante and my mind was numb with disbelief. This couldn’t be happening!
Anger took over and the fear took a hike. Somebody was trying to burn me out, and it pissed me off. I grabbed an afghan off my couch - it had taken me almost a month to knit that one, oh, damn - and threw it onto the rapidly spreading fire. Then I dashed to the kitchen and started to fill a pitcher with water, then stopped. I mentally smacked myself on the forehead - you don’t throw water on a gasoline fire! I opened a cupboard and took out a sack of flour and raced back to the flames. I threw the flour on the fire, hoping I wasn’t setting myself up for an explosion. I raced back to the cupboard and grabbed a box of salt. Ran to the fire, dumped the salt. Ran back to the fridge and took out a pitcher of iced tea and one of orange juice. I raced back to where the afghan was smoldering with a few licks of flame beginning to eat through, and I dashed the tea and juice onto the afghan. The smell was awful - gasoline, burning wool, scorched flour and now singed orange juice. I started to stamp out the remaining tiny flames and then remembered my feet were bare. I raced back to the kitchen, grabbed my biggest frying pan and the now-full water pitcher, sped back to the mess and methodically extinguished every last flame and ember until all that was left was a sodden, reeking mess in the middle of my beautiful white pine floor.
I sat there, on the floor, breathing in short, sharp sobs, while the adrenaline and rage ebbed. Then I picked up the phone to call 911. Nothing. The fuckers had cut my phone lines. Apparently they didn’t know that I had invested in some fancy equipment which gave me really great cell reception, because it only took a few seconds to call the sheriff’s office with a brief description of events and a request for help.
Holy Wah came out of the bedroom. I hadn’t even given her a thought from the moment I heard that first footfall. She padded over and put her head in my lap and gazed up at me through her eyebrows. I put my arms around her, laid my cheek on the top of her head, and bawled like a baby.
23
Once again, blue and red lights strobed in my front yard, lighting up the trees and dancing across my home. It gave me a headache. A blue State Police car. A white and brown sheriff’s car. Even a blue and white Crystal Falls car, even though I’m way out of the city’s jurisdiction. We believe in mutual aid up here. Especially on a slow night. The MSP crime scene investigator was taking photos, the flash of his camera adding to the visual din. People were going through the living room, picking up samples of burned muck, broken glass from the window and the jar from the Molotov cocktail. I idly wondered about Molotov and why a firebomb was named after him. I knew the answer, but for some reason I couldn’t remember. I figured it was either early Alzheimer’s, or post-adrenaline-rush numbness.
Sheriff Pace strolled over, his eyebrows almost merging into a unibrow, his face a study in serious concern. "How ‘ya doing, kiddo?" I snorted. I’m a year older than he is. "You gonna be okay here?"
I wanted to say hell, no, I’m not okay, somebody just tried to burn my house down with me in it and I have no idea who would do such a thing or why anyone would want to do this to me and I don’t know what to do next and....But instead I said "Yeah, I’m not hurt, and the damage to the house isn’t serious. I’m lucky the dog woke me up or we’d all be crispy critters. Oh, shit!" I had just remembered the cat. I ran back into the house calling "Here, kitty, c’mon, JP, where are you?" I went to the fridge, took out his can of cat food, and whacked the rim with a spoon, frantically calling "Jeeeeeezo, kittykittykitty." Crap. I’m becoming one of those old ladies I always sneered at, acting like their cats and dogs were their children. But I would be heartbroken if he was hurt or had run away in the excitement.
A small squeak came from under the sofa. I lay down on the floor on my stomach and peered under the couch. Two yellow eyes blinked at me. I reached under the couch and stroked his head until he started to purr. I murmured nonsense at him, relieved to tears that he was okay and hadn’t been scared out into the woods by all the commotion. I heard footsteps behind me and looked up.
Sheriff Pace stood there with his hands on his hips, grinning and shaking his head. "Trust you to be more worried about that cat than about yourself." I didn’t say that worrying about my closest companions was what kept me from curling up into a ball, pulling a blanket over my head and spending the rest of the night whimpering in the corner.
I got to my feet, grimacing as pain shot through my hip and lower back. Pace caught the look and asked "You need to go to the clinic and get yourself checked out. For smoke inhalation, those burns on your arms, stuff like that."
I shook my head. "I’m okay, I just need to rest a bit. My joints aren’t getting any younger and they take serious issue with tonight’s sort of exercise." I turned to sit down. A lightning flash of pain seared through my back and hip and that was all she wrote. My legs buckled as a lightning bolt shot through my lower back and hip, and I hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. Before I knew it, two husky cops - one state and one county - had lifted me to my feet and were half-carrying me to Pace’s squad car and we were getting ready to hea
d down the road toward Iron River. I protested feebly, worrying about the cat and dog. Pace reassured me they would be okay, and even instructed the deputy on the scene to be sure that both animals were inside when the place was closed up. He assured me that somebody would tack heavy plastic over the broken window to keep the winter out until I could get somebody in to replace the glass.
I tried a last resort. "But I don’t have clean underwear on!"
Pace roared with laughter "Your mother told you that, too?"
I nodded. He gave me a gentle shove toward the patrol car. "Get your fanny in there."
I got my fanny in there and we pulled away from the commotion.
"You got your cell phone with you?" he asked. "Can you call someone to pick you up at the hospital so I can go back and help with the investigation.?" I nodded. ‘I’ll call someone once we get to the hospital."
It was quiet for the rest of the ride, until Pace asked. "What the hell are you doing that’s apparently pissing someone off?" He looked deeply troubled.
I shook my head. "I have no idea at all, Sheriff. I’ve racked my brain trying to come up with someone, maybe someone from my old life, but I’m coming up with zip."
He started to say something, then stopped. I didn’t ask.
24
"Christ on a crutch, can’t you stay out of trouble?" I smiled at the voice. Ah, friends. My best friend, a hermit-type almost-reformed lawyer like myself, is, like myself, a woman of a certain age (both of us past the big six-oh, that’s how certain) who after a rather colorful life out West, chose to live in the U.P. for the rest of it. Theodora McLaughlan - Teddy to everybody but judges - is a don’t-fuck-with-me, I-can-do-anything woman with whom I formed an instant friendship. She is a paramedic with the local ambulance service, and I am an emergency medical technician and EVO - emergency vehicle operator. They don’t call us ambulance drivers anymore. Teddy and I work as a team whenever the scheduling permits.
We’ve got to the point where I can anticipate what she’s going to do even before she decides to do it, and be right there with the right equipment. Almost like a long-term marriage. Which is interesting, since neither of us has been all that successful in the intimate relationship arena. She’s been divorced three times and has given up on men entirely, preferring to live alone – gee, does this sound familiar? - and use the energy it takes to maintain a relationship to do the things she likes. Like me, she doesn’t lawyer full-time anymore, but takes the occasional court appointed indigent client, and does the odd will or deed. She works in EMS, is president of the Village of Alpha (the village equivalent of mayor) and sits on various boards and committees. She teaches knitting classes at a couple of national knitting conventions, and we both knit for various charitable causes like caps for preemie babies and cancer patients. She does occasional case evaluations for a local ambulance chaser. She has a wicked, ribald sense of humor and a laugh that starts at the bottom of her feet and works its way upward. She’s always got a new Yooper joke to tell me. Life seems a little better with her around.
"Hey, Teddy, thanks for coming." I smiled weakly, a tad giddy from the absolutely lovely pain medication coursing through my veins compliments of the emergency department. The on-call doc and I have the sort of mutual respect which lets him take me at my word. If I say I’m in agony, he heads for the real stuff, forget the Tylenol or Motrin. When he asked me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten, I told him twelve, and if there was anyone in labor down the hall I’d happily trade with her. A few minutes later I was sighing with relief as my clenched muscles, now relieved of most of the pain, began to finally relax.
"You okay?" Teddy asked. " I mean relatively speaking, of course." She grinned at me.
I just smiled foggily and said "I think so. Wrenched my back putting out the fire."
"Got a joke for you."
"Oh, goody," I said, "a real joke, or a "you might be a Yooper if" joke?
"The latter. You might be a Yooper if you burn your kid's Statistics text book as pornography because it had a whole chapter on standard deviations. They will learn about leather, whips , and sheep soon enough!"
I groaned.
"And," she continued, forestalling any comment, "you also might be a Yooper if you think that "The straits of Mackinac" refers to the heterosexual population on the island, and you think that the Mackinac Island Ferry refers to, well, you know."
"AAAAAH!" I mock-screamed. "I can’t take any more!"
She sat on the edge of the cot and waggled her fingers at me. "So what have you been doing to piss someone off? Tell all."
So I told her everything, from finding the first body, to the interviews by the FBI, to last night’s attempted barbecue. She listened intently, frowning occasionally, and shaking her head in disbelief that such a thing could happen here in Yooper Heaven.
"And so," I concluded, "I still don’t have the faintest idea of who, or why, or what I can do to stop it, or if I’m even safe at home. I don’t know if they’re just trying to scare me, or kill me, or what." I stopped as the tears threatened to flow. "I just - I just..." I could go no farther. We sat in silence for a bit, then Teddy drew herself up and squared her shoulders. "Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do."
She stopped speaking, and stared at the open door to my room. Agent Nate Walters stood there, this time apparently alone. "Mind if I come in?"
"Would it matter if I did?"
Teddy poked me in the ribs and whispered, "Are you crazy? Look at this guy! Just looking at him should make your pain go away!" She waggled her eyebrows lewdly and looked back at him. "Sure, c’mon in. I was just leaving."
I grabbed Teddy’s hand. "Don’t go, please stay?"
She put her finger to her lips . "Shhh. I’ll go get some coffee and be back in fifteen. You talk to Mr. Eye Candy." With that, she went out.
Walters pulled up a chair close to the bed so he didn’t have to talk to me from what seemed like ten feet up there. One’s perspective gets skewed when under the influence of drugs. "How’re you feeling?" He actually sounded like he cared.
I grunted. "Okay, now. Before the drugs? Like I’d been run through a wringer. Nothing really serious, just screwed up my back temporarily." Talking was taking an effort.
"No more ambulance runs for awhile, hm?"
I nodded. "And that’s what I do for fun."
He smiled. . "Agent Heikkinen and I have discussed the situation at length with our supervisors, and they’ve given us the green light to share some information with you."
I put my hand on my chest and feigned a heart attack. "Oh, no, the world is coming to an end! The FBI actually giving information?"
He smiled ruefully and raised his eyebrows. "Don’t think this is setting a precedent, counselor. This is a one-time thing." He adjusted himself in the chair and leaned forward. He smelled like Irish Spring. My favorite smell on a man. He said quietly, almost under his breath, "Besides, it gives me an excuse to see you."
Before I could even take that one in, he went on.
"You hit the nail on the head when you asked if we were looking for drugs, arms or illegals. Actually, it’s all three, and we think there’s a connection to the property behind yours."
I put up a hand. "Wait, wait, wait a minute. Why on earth would anyone run stuff through Iron County? It’s not close to a border, it’s winter most of the year, and we’re not near any urban areas. Sounds to me like the last place anyone would want to run stuff."
He nodded. "That was my thought, too, but there are too many little things pointing this way, and it may be that whoever’s behind it is counting on us pooh-poohing the idea because Iron County is not a likely spot. They probably figure we’re using our limited resources to patrol the borders, not inland. And they wouldn’t be far wrong. Here’s what we know so far."
It seemed that there was a huge gap in a major drug pipeline, as if someone cut out a section. The drugs could be traced from Mexico to Chicago. There the trail d
isappeared. It was only by chance that information came to light to show that the drugs which disappeared in Chicago were surfacing in Seattle. "We believe that contraband is somehow making its way northward and then west. We think they’re using US 2 to travel because the traffic is lighter than using interstates, and patrol is consequently lighter. We speculate that they’re using a variety of methods - snowmobile trailers in the winter, RV trailers in summer, semi trucks made to look like Wal-Mart and Home Depot trucks, things like that. So far we’ve not been able to stop anyone we suspected because we’ve had no probable cause. They’re very careful. "
I asked "What, no broken tail lights or expired registrations?"
He shook his head. "No, if we’re looking at the right people, they use newer vehicles in excellent repair and make sure they don’t break any traffic rules. What we suspect and what we need in order to stop and search aren’t even within hailing distance."
"So, you said drugs. What about arms and illegals?"
"We think the illegals are traveling in those up-market horse trailers and there again, we can’t ever find a reason to bust them. We’ve followed several of them for days and never been able to get anything to go on." He took a breath. "And the worst part is we think they are distributing women from places like Bosnia to the various people who rent them out."
I grimaced. "Like the ones who lock them up in a house and basically make slaves out of them?"
He nodded grimly. "These women are recruited in their home countries by people who promise them good jobs in offices or restaurants, then smuggle them over in cargo ships. By the time the women find out there are no such jobs, and they have nothing to look forward to but a few years of sexual slavery until they’re no longer saleable. God knows what happens to them after that. Except we do know that a lot of them end up dead, thrown away like so much garbage into lakes, rivers, dumps and, on the coast, the ocean."
