Blue Wolf In Green Fire (28 page)

“Would you like for me to talk to Davey or his superiors?”

“No sir, not at this point. I think Carmody is close to bringing the case to a conclusion and I want to keep him engaged. Davey has instructed me to have Carmody call him, but I have a meeting with the man and I want to see where we are. If he's not close, I'll have no choice but to tell him to call Davey.” Actually what Davey said was that Carmody should get back to him. He didn't specify that the contact be by phone, or ask for precise timing, all of which gave him room to maneuver, Service tried to assure himself.

“And if the man is close to resolving the case?”

“I'll deliver Davey's message when it suits us.”

The captain grasped his knees and leaned toward Service. “Has it occurred to you that you may be making the same sort of decision that the federals are faced with?”

Service didn't understand. “We need the undercover, sir.”

“Perhaps the FBI and Fish and Wildlife have needs they must satisfy as well.”

“Are you suggesting that I tell the undercover to contact Davey?”

“I am suggesting only that another man's motives can sometimes appear dubious. Think about what's gone on from their perspective, Detective. Whatever you decide, I will support, but think it through, and whatever you decide, bear in mind what it is that we are all trying to accomplish.”

The captain made sandwiches of Finnish bread slathered with butter and stacked with sweet onions and cheese. “I have elevated cholesterol,” he said as he set a crock of pickles beside the sandwiches. “My doctors would object if they saw this repast, but they aren't here, are they?”

Service nodded, wondering if this was some sort of veiled message to him.

Later in the afternoon he stopped at the house in Gladstone to check on the animals and rest before heading west to be nearer to Carmody when the call came through tonight. Newf was all over him, while Cat gave herself a bath, but she did so sitting on the end of the couch where she could see him. “You don't fool me, you misanthrope,” he said to the cat. “You missed me.” Cat ignored him.

25

Nantz telephoned at 4 p.m. with deep concern in her voice.

“Honey. What did you do for Thanksgiving?”

Service said, “Thanksgiving?”

“Today? You know . . . the holiday?”

He had completely forgotten. “I had lunch with the captain,” he said.

“Did you have turkey?”

“We had onion and cheese sandwiches.”

“Good God,” she said.

“And Scotch,” he added. Thinking back on it, the sandwiches did seem like a pretty poor Thanksgiving dinner, but they were what the captain wanted. What kind of life did Ware Grant lead away from work?

“I've got great news. The doctors say my bone density is normal,” she said.

“You were able to talk to a doctor on Thanksgiving?” he said.

“Fae invited Robbie to dinner and he brought me the test results.”

“Robbie?”

“Doctor Caple.”

“Oh.” The chief's wife invited another man to Thanksgiving dinner with his girlfriend? He felt a surge of jealousy, which he immediately tried to ignore. “How do you feel?”

“Achy and sore, but it's getting better. I have even better news! I've been relieved of duty with Task Force 2001 and returned to the DNR for training. I can start back at the academy as soon as I get medical release. Robbie is going to send my records to Vince so he can monitor me. This means I can come home, honey!”

Vince Vilardo was an internist and the appointed part-time medical examiner for Delta County. Vince and his wife, Rose, had been Grady's friends for years and since summer had taken to Nantz almost like adoptive parents.

“Vince is a good doctor,” Service said. “How long are they giving you?”

“A month if I need it. It'll be great to be home and together, won't it, hon?”

One month, with two pins still to be removed? This wasn't the time frame the chief had talked to him about. She was being overly optimistic, and he decided to let her think what she wanted until he had time to talk to her about the realities. It would be good to be normal again, even for a month.

“When do I pick you up?”

“Robbie's already given me the test results, so I don't need the appointment Monday. Isn't that great?”

“Do you want me to come get you now?” He wished she'd stop calling the punk doctor by his first name.

“Can you?”

“I'll be there,” he said.

“You'd better, Detective.” Her voice sounded husky and playful, back to normal. No woman's voice had ever had the effect on him that Nantz's did. She added, “Get this. Sam sent me a personal note apologizing for the task force thing. He said it was a clerical error.”

Typical government, Service thought, to blame things on people at the bottom of the totem pole. “That's good.” He had no doubt that the original order had come from Bozian. The action and note were no more than ass-covering, and Service knew he owed Lorne O'Driscoll for confronting the governor at the hospital. It seemed that he was suddenly accumulating debts to people—Captain Grant, O'Driscoll, Freddy Bear Lee.

“I'm glad all this happened,” Nantz said.

“You are?”

“It's a test, honey. The things we want most always require us to pass a test.”

“Does that include us?” he asked. Was Robbie part of his test? he wondered.

She laughed her infectious laugh. “God, Service. Don't be so thick. We
are
the test!”

Her voice suddenly dropped an octave. “Remember what you said when you thought I was out of it . . .”

“I remember.”

“I'm holding you to it, Service.”

“Just holding me will be enough,” he said.

“You betcha. I'd better go. I'm helping Fae tonight. We're taking turkeys down to some gospel mission. I love you.”

“See you tomorrow,” he said, thinking he needed to get gas and call the captain. He hoped Carmody wouldn't want a meeting tonight.

“I'll be as nervous as a lifelong virgin before her wedding night. Take care of yourself, hon.”

Nantz. She was a live wire and he still didn't understand what she saw in him.

An hour later she was on the phone again. “Never mind picking me up,” she said.

“What?”

“I tried to get a commercial flight but on such short notice I couldn't work it out.”

“That's okay. I can drive.”

“You don't need to drive all the way down here, hon. I talked to a friend, Tucker Gates. He's ferrying a bird down to Lansing for Big Bear Air on Saturday. He'll deliver that bird and he'll fly me back in mine. Pretty good, huh? I can get a rental car for the time I'm home and leave my truck here. Tuck will pick me up Saturday morning and we'll be back by dinnertime, which is probably a good thing. The forecast is calling for some nasty weather swinging down from Alberta on Sunday. Heaps of snow!”

“Is this Gates guy safe?” Big Bear Air was a small contract outfit based at the Delta County Airport near Escanaba.

“He's an old boyfriend, Grady, and the best pilot I've ever known. He flies Warthogs for the air guard out of Battle Creek.”

Service pictured a swaggering fighter pilot, full of himself. “How did you meet this guy?”

“Are you jealous, Service?”

“Just asking.”

“He's done contract work for the department and he really wants to get on full time. We went out a few times years ago. He's a great guy. Don't worry, okay?”

“I'm not worried.” Shaken up, irritated maybe, but not worried.

“I love you, Grady Service. I can't wait to see you.”

God, life could be complicated, he thought.

At 5:30 p.m. it was beginning to rain as Service aimed his truck northwest up the M-69, thinking it would help to get closer to Carmody when he called.

Between Felch and Foster City a deer suddenly bounded out of the heavy brush on the side of the road. Service knew from long experience not to swerve. The deer had sealed its own fate and struck the Laramie nearly dead center of the steel deer guard. He felt the animal dragging beneath the truck and braked to pull to the side of the road just past where the road passed over Quarry Creek.

He left the motor running as he got out and shone his flashlight under the vehicle. The animal was still alive, its sides heaving and breath forming clouds. He decided to take some time to let the small button buck settle and got back into the cab. If the deer wasn't hurt badly it would recover and crawl out on its own. If the blow were lethal, it would die. He had no desire to get kicked trying to extract an injured animal from beneath the truck. He lit a cigarette, turned on his flashers, and checked his watch. It was just after 6:30 p.m.

Listening to the motor, he reminded himself to get more gas up the road.

All he could do now was wait for nature to take its course. Nantz was coming home. He reminded himself that she was hurt and would need to take it easy. The rain turned to snow.

Fifteen minutes later a slow-rolling truck came up behind him, passed, and immediately pulled over and parked on the shoulder just ahead of him.

A figure shuffled back toward Service's truck and stood just beyond the reach of his headlights. The figure wore a ratty long coat with a hood. When the man got close, he knelt and looked under the truck, then struggled back to his feet. Service got out.

“Cheaper to shoot 'em,” the figure said with a familiar croaky voice.

It was Limpy Allerdyce, the poacher who had once shot him and served seven years in prison because of it. The previous summer Service had solved the mystery of the murder of Allerdyce's son. The old man was the leader of a clan of poachers and lawbreakers who lived in a primitive compound in the most extreme reaches of southwest Marquette County. Allerdyce had known Service's father and claimed to have had an “arrangement” with him, implying he had been one of his father's informants.

“Just like your old man,” Allerdyce said. “Always in a pickle, eh? You want me to take this critter off your hands?”

“Might be the first legal one you ever took,” Service said.

“Old farts grow wise,” Allerdyce croaked back. “They all eat good, eh?”

Service knew Allerdyce would never change, and he had forged a truce with the miscreant; for the moment he wasn't interested in knowing why the old man was out in his truck in the rain. Not that he couldn't guess. Probably road hunting at night, but Service wasn't going to press it. By law the Michigan State Police could issue a permit to allow motorists to harvest a deer killed by a vehicle. Service doubted Allerdyce would bother with such a formality. The old man had pretty much ignored all laws all of his life.

The buck struggled momentarily beneath the truck and Service knew it was still alive.

“Poor thing's done in,” Allerdyce said.

Service thought for a minute and decided.

“Take it,” he said.

Allerdyce looked frail, but he immediately dropped to his knees and rooted around beneath the truck. Then he shuffled back to his truck and backed it up. He left the motor running and came back with a rope.

The animal made no more sounds.

Allerdyce ducked under the truck again, got up, and began pulling against the dead weight of the animal, which he hauled to the rear of his pickup. He opened the top half of the gate on the cap, reached down, hoisted the deer, and pushed it in. It landed with a loud
plop
.

“You're a good man, Sonny. Your old man he woulda been proud. I guess both of us is gettin' wiser, eh?” Allerdyce let loose a little cackle.

Service shone his flashlight into the bed of Allerdyce's truck. There were two small bucks inside, plus the one the old man had just loaded. The throat of the newest addition had been cut.

“All of them hit by vehicles?” Service said.

“Youse bet. She's a bad night for da deers oot on da blacktop, eh. And a good night for da supper table.”

Service knew he could cite the old man; probably there would be a rifle in the cab, uncased and loaded. As a paroled felon, Allerdyce was not allowed to handle firearms of any kind for any purpose, but the animal was out from under his truck and Service thought it a fair trade, given the circumstances.

Allerdyce stood still, waiting to see what Service would do.

“Thanks, Limpy.”

Allerdyce cackled. “Just like his old man.” The poacher started to move toward his cab, but stopped. “You hear inna-ting 'boot a blue wolf runnin' over to da Skeeto?”

Service tensed.
Skeeto
was Limpy's term for the Mosquito Wilderness Tract. “A blue wolf?” Service answered. If there was a blue wolf in the Mosquito, McCants would have told him.

Allerdyce chuckled. “Yep, a blue one. Just thought youse might like to hear what's passin' mouth ta ear, eh.”

With that, the poacher was on his way with three deer in the bed of his truck. Sometimes you had to look the other way, Service told himself, grimacing at his sudden pragmatism. Maybe age was catching up to him. Compromise at any age amounted to surrender, pure and simple, and Service was never comfortable with surrendering to anyone over anything. Except for Nantz.

And a blue wolf in the Mosquito? Doubtful, but possible. If anyone knew, it would be Allerdyce. The old man was a sociopath, but he knew his craft. Still, why had he brought it up?

The snow kept coming. Service was parked in the hamlet of Alberta by 9 p.m. There were lights on in most of the small houses and a few vehicles coming and going. Henry Ford had built the town during the depression, and it had become a lumber camp during World War II. Little had changed in the village since then.

The call came precisely at 9:30 p.m.

“Service.”

“Finally at your post, boyo. I haven't long to chat, but the lady has put out a reward for anybody who can find a blue wolf—not to bag it, but to find it. Once it's found, I'll be going along with her to do the business.”

“When?”

“She's just gotten word that the animal has been seen in a place called the Mosquito. We'll be moving over there in a day or so.”

“There are no wolves in the Mosquito,” Service said.

“There, elsewhere, it doesn't matter,” Carmody said. “Sooner or later her finders will locate it.”

“It's not that simple,” Service said. “Her finders?”

“It's the lady's plan, not mine.”

“Is her other half involved?”

“Couldn't really say yet. Me gut says it's her show, but I couldn't swear to it.”

“You need evidence.”

“I know my job, Service.”

Grady Service decided not to relay Barry Davey's message. He needed Carmody to finish before the end of deer season, when most of the heavy poaching would stop. It was now or never. “When will we meet?”

“When I decide,” Carmody said in an almost amused tone. “Worried, are you?”

“I'm not comfortable being out of touch so long.”