AHMM, March 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I'm not worried, Stan. If you can't handle local yokels like the LaRoche clan, Vic Russo's way out of your league.” He winced, massaging his thigh.

  "Are you all right?” Frankie asked.

  "This damned leg gives me twinges when I sit too long,” he admitted, rising. “It reminds me why I don't do government work anymore. Gotta go, I'm supposed to stand night watch. I'm ... sorry I didn't call you, Frankie, I should have."

  "You had a lot on your mind."

  "I still have,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Maybe we can talk about that sometime."

  "Look, I didn't mean to interrupt—” Wolinski said, starting to rise.

  "Stay put, Stan,” Luke said. “I'm not very good company these days anyway. Take care, you two."

  Luke stalked off without a backward glance, moving through the crowd, tall and straight with only the faintest trace of a limp. Frankie hadn't noticed it earlier, but she was aware of it now. Watched Luke all the way out the door. And realized the sheriff was staring at her.

  "What?"

  "I don't want to see that boy get in trouble over this Russo business, Frankie. Any chance you can talk sense into him?"

  "I never could, Stan."

  "I thought you two had, you know, a thing going."

  "A long time ago. He's different now. I don't know this guy at all."

  But she did, of course. Knew him right down to the ground. First loves may not be truest or best, but they're always first.

  When Frankie was in veterinary school at Michigan State, she and Luke started dating during the summers, a heated affair that began as friendship, then caught fire, an overload of adolescent chemistry. They were the sweetest summers of her young life. Making love, being in love. They never discussed the future, but Frankie knew they'd have one.

  Until the summer of her junior year, when she began to sense his restlessness.

  "You'll be graduating with a degree next spring,” Luke said quietly. “You'll be somebody. But what can I do, Frankie? Lumberjack for minimum wage? Guard pot fields for the LaRoches or mule their weed downstate to Saginaw or wherever? I know you love the North Country, but there's nothing for me up here."

  "I'm up here,” she countered, trying to josh him out of his mood. “Don't I count?"

  "You mean one helluva lot,” he admitted, cradling her head in the crook of his elbow. “Everything a guy could want."

  Or almost everything. Luke wasn't much of a talker, but he voiced his dissatisfaction at being stuck in a small town more than once, musing about Ontario or Alaska. Anywhere but here.

  Frankie tried to hold him with her body, giving herself to him with a savage abandon, exploring and experimenting in superheated sessions that left them both exhausted. And exhilarated. And satisfied, she thought.

  When she returned to school that fall, she expected his restlessness to pass. But when Luke's Christmas card said he'd enlisted in the Army, she was shaken, though not entirely surprised. On some level, she'd always known that he'd leave.

  So she told herself it had only been puppy love anyway and tore into her studies, maintaining a 3.9 grade point average, graduating with honors. Working through the heartbreak and wreckage of her first love affair. Putting it all behind her.

  Moving back to Algoma, she'd opened a small clinic and was holding her own, building up a practice. Doing just fine, thank you.

  But now Luke was back. And injured or not, he was as magnetic as ever. Perhaps more so. Even in the middle of their affair, when they couldn't keep their hands off each other, he'd never truly needed her. Or anyone else, really. He'd always been so quietly confident, so ... complete.

  Not anymore. There was a brooding darkness to him now, a vulnerability. Yet he was still Luke, with the same quirky smile, the same boyish heart. And from the moment he'd stepped out of that barn into the sunlight, she'd known that nothing was over for her.

  Her feelings came rushing back in a flood. Anger and anguish and longing. Love, or something like it. Maybe this time they'd have better luck. This time, they'd get it right and recover what they'd lost.

  But there was no time.

  * * * *

  Frankie's bedside phone jangled her out of a dream at four in the morning.

  "Frankie? It's Sheriff Wolinski. We need you out at Buffalo Country right away. We've got a helluva mess out here, a lot of animals shot up. Can you come?"

  An ambulance speeding out of the game farm nearly ran her off the road as she wheeled into the Buffalo Country entrance. Up ahead, total chaos. State police and Algoma County sheriff's cars blocking the gate, strobe lights flashing madly. Abandoning her Jeep outside the line of police cars, Frankie grabbed her bag and trotted into the compound searching for Sheriff Wolinski. No problem finding him. In the glare of the game farm's halogen yard lights, the grounds were lit up like a prison break.

  "Where's Luke?” she demanded. “Is he all right?"

  "He's in one piece, but he's about the only one who is. We're holding him until I get a handle on what happened."

  "What did happen?"

  "According to Luke and Vic Russo, two LaRoche brothers came bustin’ out of the woods, shooting at the main house, shooting at the animals, shootin’ at anything that moved. There was one helluva gunfight, like something out of World War II. Vic's nephew, Mitch, got a scratch and Vic went with him in the ambulance to the hospital. Mal and Arnie LaRoche are both dead. One round apiece in the head. I'll have to see a ballistics report, but I'd guess Luke took them out."

  "But it must have been self-defense!"

  "Looks like it, but there has to be more to this. The LaRoches are thugs, but they're not crazy. Why the hell would they do a thing like this? Why would anybody do it?"

  A buffalo cow bellowing in pain drowned him out, which was just as well. Frankie had no answers for him.

  The next hour was a whirlwind of madness as she tried to tend the wounded animals. More than a dozen buffalo had been hit by stray rounds in the wild firefight, but strangely enough, none of them fled. They gathered near the barns instead, the only shelter they'd ever known.

  In the wild, death comes to the bison on silent paws, as wolves pull down the young or sickly in a rush of snarling savagery. But on a game farm, the killers strike from a distance. High velocity slugs punch through muscle and bone, mushrooming deep inside the body cavities, pulping vital organs, smashing the great beasts down to thrash out their lives, bawling, struggling vainly to rise as the reports echo through the forest.

  But bison never make the connection between death and the distant thunder. They have no reason to fear the humans who feed them, and in Buffalo Country the crack of rifles was as commonplace as a car backfiring on a city street. So even amid the bloody madness, the wounded and dying bison huddled near the outbuildings, forming small defensive rings with their young in the center, vainly trying to protect them from a threat they couldn't comprehend.

  They weren't the only ones who couldn't understand it. Frankie ran out of Socumb, the sodium phenobarbital used to put down animals, in the first fifteen minutes. After that, Vic loaned her one of his deputies, Earl Nightcloud, a full blood Anishnabe, to follow her around with an AR-15 and administer a coup de grace, a bullet in the brain of the hopelessly injured beasts.

  A savage business, nothing humane about it. Bison have incredible constitutions, and even the grievously wounded didn't die easily. Bawling, they floundered about, spraying Frankie and Earl with blood and brains. A half an hour of steady slaughter ended the agonies of the terminally injured on the grounds, but a number of blood trails led off into the forest, and she had no doubt there were more wounded brutes out there dying in the dark.

  Some of the buffs had caught stray bullets, but a good many more had been gunned down deliberately with a single round to the vitals. And from the pattern of dead and injured animals, it was clear the shots had been fired from the edge of the forest where the LaRoches had emerged.

  They'd come charging out of the woods like
mad dogs, slaughtering everything in sight. Utter insanity, as senseless as the Columbine killings or the murders at Virginia Tech.

  With one major difference. The LaRoche brothers weren't faceless strangers. Frankie knew them. They'd been to her clinic. She'd seen them at the supermarket and the hardware store. Even in Tubby's. She froze as an image flashed across her memory. Then she went in search of Stan Wolinski.

  He was on the porch questioning Luke when Frankie stalked up.

  "Were the LaRoches brothers alone?” she demanded.

  "Arnie and Mal were the only ones we found,” the sheriff said. “Why?"

  "Virgil,” Frankie said, “Mal's halfwit son, sixteen or so? Pale kid with hollow eyes? Whenever I see the LaRoches, Virgil's usually tagging along after them."

  "You're right,” Stan said, glancing around warily. “You sure it was only these two, Luke?"

  "Hell, I don't know, Stan. I saw muzzle flashes from two weapons shooting at us from the treeline in the dark. I returned fire. If the kid was with them, he wasn't shooting."

  "Maybe he got spooked and took off,” Stan said.

  "If he's out there, we have to find him,” Frankie said. “If he stumbles into a wounded buffalo in the dark—"

  "Let me help you search, Stan,” Luke said. “Please."

  "No way,” Sheriff Wolinski said. “For now, you're under arrest."

  "I'll wear handcuffs if you want, but this place is a thousand acres, and nobody else knows the game trails. We have to find that kid."

  "I'm going too,” Frankie said. “Virgil knows me."

  "He may be armed,” the sheriff warned.

  "All the more reason to have somebody who can talk to him,” she insisted. “He could be wandering around in the dark right now, scared out of his wits."

  "Or waiting for us with an assault rifle,” Luke added grimly. “Let's go."

  * * * *

  A trek through hell. Luke in the lead with a halogen spotlight, Stan next, rifle at the ready, followed by Frankie, with Earl Nightcloud acting as the rear guard. Silvery light beams slashing across the surrounding forest like sabers, the sudden thunder of buffalo blundering away from them in the darkness, and the pitiful bawling of wounded animals.

  And they left them there, suffering. To die in agony. Afraid that more gunfire might drive Virgil deeper into the forest. Luke had no trouble keeping to the path, the bison had trampled virtual highways through the forest, marked by trampled underbrush, piles of buffalo dung, and empty cartridge cases from the LaRoche brothers’ mad rampage.

  But no sign of Virgil. An hour of steady hiking brought them to the game farm's back fence line. But not to the end of the trail. An ancient poplar, struck by lightning, had toppled across the fence, flattening the wire. The buffalo trail led across it, into the state forest beyond.

  "What do you think?” Sheriff Wolinski asked Luke.

  "They came through here,” Luke said, focusing his beam on a spent cartridge, “and they were already killing when they did.” Raising the beam, he picked out the blood-soaked hulk of a dead bison, forty yards off in the brush.

  "For God's sake, why?” Frankie asked.

  In the distance, a dying buff bellowed, then fell silent. As they pushed on, their light beams began picking up marks on the trees, gouges made by gunfire. Luke and Stan exchanged baffled glances.

  A dozen yards farther on they broke into a clearing. An unnatural one. Rows upon rows of marijuana plants, four to six feet tall, were concealed beneath the forest canopy. Buffalo had obviously been grazing here, many of the plants had been chewed or trampled down.

  "Virgil?” Frankie called into the darkness. “It's Dr. McCrae. Nobody's going to hurt you. Virgil? Can you hear me?” No reply.

  "Something's wrong about this place,” Earl Nightcloud murmured uneasily, shouldering his rifle, making a slow sweep scanning the forest. “Big-time wrong."

  "Looks like your buffs have been doing government work whether they knew it or not, Luke,” Stan said dryly. “Lucky thing they didn't eat all the evidence...” His voice trailed off. “Sweet mother of God,” he whispered.

  In the woods beyond the clearing, Stan's flashlight was locked on a truly ghastly sight. The body of Virgil LaRoche. Or what was left of it.

  Half buried in a shallow grave, the boy's face had been shattered by gunfire. Most of his lower jaw was missing, baring his upper teeth in a horrible, lunatic grin.

  Kneeling beside the corpse, Stan reached for the boy's throat to check his pulse, then withdrew his hand. It was pointless. His bloody wounds had already blackened, he'd clearly been dead for a day at least. Flipping open his cell phone, Stan notified the state police of their grisly find and asked them to dispatch an evidence team from Lansing.

  Dazed, Frankie glanced around the clearing, trying to make sense of this final madness, and realized Luke had moved off alone to the edge of the clearing, leaning against a tree, hunched over, utterly ashen.

  "Are you all right?” she asked, touching his shoulder.

  "No,” he said softly. “This is my fault, Frank. All of it."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The other night at Tubby's, you asked me if Russo's nephew could have popped that bull with birdshot. And I got to wondering about that. Vic doesn't keep any shotguns on the place, so I guessed our fence might be down somewhere. Figured the buff had gotten out, raided somebody's garden, and caught a face full of birdshot for his troubles. I should have checked it myself, but my damned leg was acting up...” He shook his head grimly.

  "So I sent Mitch and one of his goons out to look for the break. They're no good in the woods, but you don't have to be Dan'l Boone to follow a damned fence. But they must have run into Virgil out here. He probably fired a shot to warn them off, they shot back, killed him, then tried to cover it up. Only city boys would be dumb enough to think they could hide a body or anything else from the LaRoche brothers in the forest. When Mal and Arnie came looking for Virgil, they read what happened as easy as most folks read a newspaper. Then they came after the guys who did it. My fault. I should never have sent those two out here alone."

  "You've got to tell the sheriff—"

  "No!” he said, gripping her arm like a vise. “I have to tell Vic first! I owe him that. He trusted me when nobody else would, and none of this is on him. It's on me! We can't tell Stan, Frankie. Not yet. Promise me."

  She hesitated, knowing it was a mistake. But he seemed so desperate, so lost...

  "All right, talk to Russo first if it's that important to you. But in the morning, either you tell Stan or I will."

  "Thanks, Frankie,” he said gratefully. “Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

  And he swept her into his arms, holding her close, keeping the madness at bay, and for a moment it was just the two of them again.

  But only for a moment.

  * * * *

  The next morning, radio and TV news stations were running nonstop stories on the shootout at the Buffalo Country Game Farm, the deaths of Arnie and Mal LaRoche, and the discovery of the boy's body half buried in the forest.

  And Luke Sevier's confession that he'd killed the LaRoche brothers. All three of them. Including Virgil.

  * * * *

  "You know his confession is bogus,” Frankie insisted. “If he killed Virgil, why would he lead us to the body?"

  "I don't know and I can't ask him,” Sheriff Wolinski said. “Luke's lawyer is driving up from Detroit. I can't question him until he gets here."

  "From Detroit? Did Luke choose this lawyer? Or did Russo?"

  "All I know is, Luke requested counsel, the attorney's on the way, and there's not a damned thing I can do about it."

  "Then maybe I can. He doesn't need a lawyer present to talk to a friend, does he?"

  "No, ma'am, he certainly doesn't."

  * * * *

  The small local jail had no visitors’ room, so Stan gave them the use of the coffee room. Floors and walls tiled in institutional green. One small table
, a few vending machines. And even wearing faded jailhouse fatigues, Luke looked good. Much more like the boy she remembered than the haunted vet who'd come home from Iraq.

  "Hey, Frankie."

  "Hey yourself, Sevier. What in hell do you think you're doing?"

  "Don't start with me, Frankie. I told you I'd handle this, and I will."

  "Going to jail is your idea of handling things?"

  "My lawyer says we can cut a deal with the prosecutor. I won't face charges for the two oldest brothers if I plead guilty to killing Virgil."

  "But you didn't kill Virgil! You weren't even there!"

  "I'm still responsible, Frankie. Vic trusted me to run things and I let him down. Whatever I get I've got coming, for Iraq, if nothing else."

  "Iraq has nothing to do with this!"

  "It has everything to do with it, Frankie. My life went wrong there, maybe this is my chance to turn things around. Try to see—ah hell, why am I wasting my time? You don't get it. You never did."

  "Get what? Look, I understand you feel grateful to Russo but...” She broke off, staring. Because suddenly she did get it. She looked away, swallowing hard. Not trusting herself to speak for a moment.

  "How much?” she managed at last. “How much is Russo paying you to take the fall for his nephew?"

  "A lot more than the Army ever paid. Enough that we'll be set when I get out. A nice home, a nice car—"

  "I never cared about money, Luke. I still don't."

  "That's because you've got a profession, a future. What do I have? Hell, I'm not even a whole man anymore. This is the only chance I've got. Anyway, it's settled. Done deal. I won't be gone that long, Frankie, and when I come back—"

  "You aren't coming back, Luke. Not to this town and not to me. We're finished. I know you didn't kill that boy, but you're protecting the thugs who did. There are a dozen more LaRoche brothers and cousins and shirttail relatives. If you come back here, one of them will kill you, or you'll kill him. It'll never end."

  "But what about us? Doesn't what we had mean anything to you?"

  "More than I can say. But even when we were together, you were looking to move on, Luke. If it hadn't been the Army, it would have been something else."