Hard Ground (16 page)

“Make a note, gentlemen,” said the professor. “I am a licensed fisher of the state of Michigan. You can check your RSS.” With that, he followed his wife up to the house.

Sharleton came back up from the pond, his flesh red and flushed. “I left the cages in the water,” he chuffed.

“We'll help you with the others,” Elray said.

“Furs?”

“You can leave the animals for now, come back later.”

“The traps are my legal property and these pelts will spoil fast in this heat.”

“You've caused enough trouble here, friend. Leave the traps,” Elray said.

“And my bill?”

“Civil court if you want to push it. We can't settle that. But, Reverend, to be frank, I doubt any judge or jury will buy a sales agreement being changed by God.”

“Huh,” Sharleton said. “Unbelievers in a country led by men intent on removing God from our nation. I guess this is a hard and costly lesson for me. Must be part of God's design and His plan to lift me up.”

“No doubt,” Skell said, having no idea what the man was referring to, nor particularly giving a damn.

•••

The final animal count was thirty-three. The reverend departed in his panel truck, without pay. The conservation officers found the complainants on their screened back porch making blueberry martinis, which they called Bluetinis.

Skell looked at his partner as they got back into the truck. “Remind me again why we can't just dispose of some people.”

“Against the law, partner,” Elray said.

“Too bad,” Skell said.

Life in Grays

After a decade married to Juney, Conservation Officer Colfax Mingo still had a difficult time deciphering her, the irony being that as an investigator he could interview people and extract information few other civilians or fellow lawmen could get. This skill set held for virtually anyone in almost any set of circumstances, just not at home, where his Methodist preacher wife kept him in a near-permanent state of kerflummoxation.
What the heck was missing?
Kids were great, sex life astounding, friends as loyal as your best dog, finances solid.

But understanding his wife? Not so much, despite her claims to the contrary. She was always telling him not to worry.

“Hey, Flat Line,” a voice said, interrupting Mingo's personal ruminations. Flat Line was his nickname among the officers, given for his ability to show no emotion, even under a falling sky. “Your boy wants a parley.”

Mingo had been called to the Newberry state police post at oh dark thirty. A troop named Brenda Joyntlet had picked off “Stonehand” Valiant, going 95 in a 55 mph zone, and by the time she got him pulled over and stopped, she saw blood and hair around the trunk lid and back bumper of the well-known violator's '88 Camaro. Mingo had no idea how many times he and other cops had arrested Valiant, but even with the man's vast rap sheet, courts had so far refused to brand the man a habitual offender and send him away for a long stay.

Harry Valiant's handle came from his youth, when his natural and only instinct in the face of authority or arrest had been to fight. Back then, he'd been pretty good at it, too, usually giving as good as he got. But now the man was old and presumably wiser.

The game warden stepped into the small blue interview room, and Valiant grinned. “They get youse out of bed, you old fart?”

“Yah, I was busy putting it to your old lady,” the CO said.

Valiant guffawed. “Might as well be youse. She sure don't give me none of that no more.”

Colfax Mingo had looked inside the Camaro trunk and found a sow bear and three cubs, each shot with slugs, probably a .20 gauge. “Your old lady don't give you none, so what, you developed a hankering for bear stew?”

“Don't know what youse're talking about,” Valiant said. “My son Chuckles been using my Camaro. Just picked it up from him tonight. Go ask the little shithead.”

Mingo held out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out. Valiant took it and tapped it on the table. Mingo slid over a lighter, and the man lit up and inhaled deeply. “C'mon, Harry, you and me go way back.”

Valiant nodded like a bobblehead. “Even porkin' same ginch, yah.”

“The thing is, Harry, no matter what you say, no matter what dingleberry lawyer you hire, we have you cold and sealed for delivery on this one.”

“Can't bullshit no bullshitter, Mingo,” Valiant said, grinning, puffing his cigarette, making small blue rings.

“Seriously, Harry. Every murderer leaves a minimum of twenty-seven forensic clues behind.”

“What kind of clues?” Valiant asked, stabbing with his cigarette.

“You know, scientific clues, forensic evidence, measurable, verifiable stuff.” Mingo picked up Valiant's cigarette butt, put it into an evidence bag, said, “Excuse me, Harry,” and stepped out of the interview room.

Brenda Joyntlet was sitting in front of the two-way glass. “You really porkin' his old lady?” she asked.

“Brenda, it's an interview, a
pose
for God's sake. Just chill and watch me roll.”

“Hey, I
know
that, Cole, but you being married to a drop-dead gorgeous preacher-lady, I figured you're all about the path of righteousness, the old straight and narrow. But, dude, if you're, like, into some occasional strange, where's the sign-up sheet?”

“Dadgummit, Brenda.”

The Michigan State Police Officer gave him a wink and vamped, pursing her lips and making an obscene gesture with her hand. Mingo said, “Give me ten minutes, step into the room, and tell me the test came back positive.”

Mingo went back in with Valiant. “Well, it's been taken to the hospital lab. Won't be long now.”

“What?”

“The cigarette butt with your DNA.”

“Hey, you can't take my DNA without my permission,” Valiant complained.

“You're a suspect in a killing.”

“Not no people, I ain't.”

“I guess we'll see what we'll see,” Mingo said quietly and let his words stand.

“
Seriously
, a killing? Jesus, Mingo!” Valiant said, tapping his fingers on the table top, blinking furiously.

“
Did
you kill someone, Harry?”

“
Fuck
no, I din't!”

Mingo held out his hands the way Juney did when she wanted him to accept one of her assertions. “Hey, I have to ask, Harry. Nothing personal. Maybe it was an accident. You know, shit happens?”

“Listen, asshole . . . er, sir, I . . . did . . . not . . . kill . . . nobody!”

“Good to know, Harry. Outstanding. You didn't kill anyone, I can dig that, but you killed some
things,
right?”

Valiant tilted his head slightly. “I ain't talking about nothing till we get this killed-somebody shit straightened out and off the fuckin' table.”

“Understood, Harry. We're working in that direction, we truly are. Like I said, twenty-seven forensic clues left at the average murder scene.”

Valiant slammed his right fist against the table, his eyes wide and wild. “There
ain't . . . no . . . fucking . . . murder . . . site, dude!
”

“Yet there is a forensic evidence chain, and it will tell us the story, no matter what you contend.”

“I don't contend shit.”

“Contend, Harry. It means claim.”

“Claim, shit. I ain't capped nobody, swear to God on my mama's sweet memory.”

“You hated your mother, Harry. You used to beat the tar out of her.”

“Just one time, man, and it weren't as bad as it looked. One time I missed pulling back one shot, caught her forehead, and she bled like a fucking pig is all, an accident, not my fault.”

The conservation officer sighed. “Your fist, your fault.”

“Old news,” Harry Valiant said.

Brenda Joyntlet stepped into the room and said, “The test came back positive.”

Colfax Mingo said, “They're certain?”

“Had them do the PCR twice,” she said. “To be sure.”

“What the hell's a PCR?” Valiant asked, looking panicky.

Joyntlet smiled at the prisoner, closed the door, and left the men alone.

“Okay, Harry, the test results prove you handled the bears in the Camaro's trunk.”

“Big whoop. So what about all that murder shit?”

“We'll get to that.”

“Jesus Christ, this is a nightmare, sir.”

“DNA tells us you killed the animals and perhaps someone else. Powder from your shotgun gets on bear hair and into the animal's DNA. Then from hair to your skin.”

“You ain't took no skin.”

“Skin absorbs DNA from your bloodstream, Harry.”

“You ain't took no blood neither.”

“DNA goes all over inside your body, even into your spit.” Mingo let the man contemplate this and connect dots for himself. “Spit or saliva gets on a cigarette. You know that, right?”

Valiant put his hands over his face and mumbled, “Faaa-uck,” pushing the word into an elongated double syllable.

“DNA can tell us exactly when and where you did your killing,” Mingo said.

Valiant was missing a couple of front teeth but showed the ones that remained. “That's bullshit.”

“Don't believe me?”

“No way.”

“Make a bet?”

“What sort of bet?”

“You write on a piece of paper when, where, and what you killed. I'll write what evidence says on another piece of paper. We'll trade notes. If they don't match, you can go, and we'll drop the murder investigation.”

“I ain't heard no actual charges, have I?”

“Bet or no bet?” Mingo asked, pushing a pad of notepaper and a pencil across the table. Harry Valiant was eyeing him with deep suspicion. “What do you have to lose, Harry? If you haven't killed anyone, you're good to go.”

Valiant said suddenly, “Hell, yes I'll take that bet,” grabbed a pencil, and scribbled away as he gnawed his bottom lip.

The two men traded papers. Valiant wrote only that he had shot the bears, where, when, and with his shotgun, an off-book .20 gauge he kept at his girlfriend's house trailer.

Valiant looked at the paper Colfax Mingo gave him. “Hey, there ain't nothing wrote on here.”

“You win, Harry; there will be no charges for murdering anyone, but those bears, we can't let you walk on that, hear what I'm saying? I mean, four bears beats hell out of a murder rap, yes?”

“I guess,” Valiant said, chewing his bottom lip.

Mingo gave the man a larger pad of paper. “You know the drill, Harry; write us the story of the four bears, every detail, every moment.”

“Do I get me a lawyer?”

“For what, murder charges?”

“I didn't murder nobody, and I just proved her, eh?”

“That's right, you did indeed, and I believe what you say, but do you really need a lawyer for some measly bears? I mean, we'll call one if you want, but do you really want to go to trial, have it in the paper how Harry Valiant killed three cute little bear cubs and their mama?”

“Who the fuck are you, Walt Disney's butt buddy?”

“Do you?” Mingo repeated.

Valiant shrugged and began writing.

Colfax Mingo stepped out of the room and rubbed his buzz cut. “You're a woman, right?” he said to Brenda Joyntlet.

“Is that, like, a trick question?” she answered. “You want me to show you undeniable proof?” she joked, reaching for a blouse button.

“No, no, I just want a female's point of view. My wife claims I sometimes don't know black from white, that my whole life is lived in gray. What's up with that?”

The state trooper grinned and pointed at the mirror. “You just lied to and faked that dumb bastard into a confession. And maybe violated his constitutional rights.”

“That's my job,” he said.

“I think that's what your wife's saying,” the troop said.

“Huh,” Colfax Mingo said. “Sort of a Mars−Venus thing?”

Brenda Joyntlet shook her head, patted his shoulder, and walked away.

Damn Near Russian

Manbear Faks studied his crew as they gathered around the fire at Cornbeef Junction. Manbear, twenty-eight, had served two weeks in the Marines before blowing out a knee and being dropped so he could rehabilitate and return. But the recruit had chosen to not go back, and, hey, what was the big deal, once a Marine, always a Marine, right? Faks had lasted long enough to prove to himself that he had what it took. The rest of boot camp was just a detail. It was a matter of principle, right?

Manbear, despite his Marine Corps training and leadership abilities, knew his posse was less than impressive. None of them would have lasted two weeks in Boot the way he had, and all of them were skittish as girls when it came to possible confrontations with DNR officers like Loco Joe Traynor, who worked the south end of Chippewa County and treated the Gem of the Huron like his own damn personal crown jewel.

The only way forward here was to disabuse the little pricks of their fear. “You dudes afraid of Traynor?” he asked, spitting into the fire.

“Hell, yes,” Clegg Pokryfyke said. “Two weeks ago Skateboard was practicing over to the Raber Bay boat launch, and Loco Joe come by and told him get the hell out, or else!”

Skateboard was Lance Ross, a small-time meth dealer who consumed more of his own product than he sold. He'd once been bigger than life. No more. Too many dead brain cells. “Or else
what
?” Faks challenged.

The man shrugged. “You know. Fucking Russians don't gotta tell you nothing specific. They just, like, grin, come back to your house at night, kick your ass, haul you off, and nobody ever sees your sorry ass again.”

“Where do you
get
that shit?” Faks shot back.

Pokryfyke puffed up defensively. “Everybody knows, dude.”

“
I don't know any such shit
,” Faks said. “Fuckers come around my place after dark, I'm gonna shoot first, talk later, aim above the chest and below the waist. That'll stop that fuckin' Traynor right in his damn tracks.”

“And what if the game warden's got on leg armor, you know, like a robo-cop man or something?” Holo Balum asked. Holo was short for Holomite, a takeoff on dolomite, the high-grade limestone that comprised the island's base. Dolomite eroded and became holey under weather, like Balum's brain, which had seen a few too many meth moments over his thirty-six worthless years.

“A fucking robo-cop man? Where do you come up with this shit?”

“Seen it in a movie,” Balum said defiantly. “Like Iron Man, dude, in that one movie. That fucker had leg armor for sure.”

“He was, like, a billionaire, man,” Faks said. “Don't be such an asshole. We're talking serious shit here tonight. When we do our deal, the fucking Russian Commies in green ain't gonna touch us.”

“How come if they're real Commies, they wear green?” Pokryfyke asked. “Commies is red, ain't they? Waddup widdat green shit?”

“Uncle Joe Stalin wore green,” Faks said, “And he was the baddest Commie motherfucker of all.”

“Your uncle Joe?” Balum asked.

“I ain't got no Uncle Joe,” Faks said disgustedly. “Jesus, I'm talking frickin' history here, rock brain. Stalin was, like, governor-king-in-chief or some shit of all the Russian Commies. He killed thousands to get himself a job paid only one dollar a year.”

“If he was Russian, how come they paid him American money?” Pokryfyke asked. “Don't they got their own money?”

“Too fucking dumb to figure out their own money, so they just steal ours—like the state does down to Lansing. They steal our fucking taxes and hire goddamn Russian Commie cops to hassle our asses.”

“Lansing pays them Russian cops same as our American cops, you know, like state troopers?” Balum asked.

“More,” Faks said.

“Well, that sure don't seem fair to me,” Balum lamented, “Russian pigs getting paid more than American pigs. What's wrong with this damn country?”

“Not near enough damn guns is what, nor the will to use 'em,” Faks said. “Face it, boys, and I hate to mention this out loud, but we have, and it even pains me to say this, we have become a nation of pussies.”

“I ain't no pussy,” Pokryfyke said with a growl. “I won't even
eat
that shit.”

Nation of pussies
, Faks thought, has a nice ring to it. He'd write it down later, keep it in his leadership repertoire. “You're right.
We
ain't no pussies, but look around. I put out the summons to battle, and it's just us three here.”

“Kind of cold tonight,” Balum said, stepping closer to the fire and folding his arms across his chest. “Just our luck Loco Joe will show up and beat da shit outta all of us.”

“One against three?” Faks said incredulously. “You afraid?”

Pokryfyke said quietly, “Not afraid, cautious is all. It's okay even for brave men to be cautious. Otherwise them Navy Seals wunta got old bin Laden, sayin'?”

The three men heard a badly muffled four-wheeler surging northward on Glen Cove Road. Faks said, “Koney Tomarck. When's he gonna get that piece of shit muffler fixed? Can't work with people gonna hear his ass coming a mile off, for chrissakes.”

The visitor turned out to be not Koney Tomarck, but his Hamtramck cousin's friend Gilbert Horseman.

“We thought you was Koney,” Faks greeted the new arrival.

“His old lady got him throwed in the tank.”

“What for this time?” Pokryfyke asked.

“I guess he knocked her around some, and she called the nine one one, and in come the storm troopers, led by Loco Joe Traynor, who just happened to be closest when the call come in.”

Faks said, “Fricking Traynor, and everywhere we look we got Loco Joe and those damn Russians.”

“Koney resisted,” Horseman said, “but Loco Joe beat up on him real bad and real quick.”

“Where's a man's rights?” Pokryfyke asked. “I once seen this movie 'bout a country where a woman fucked anybody but her old man, the law let him brand her head with a H for horticulturess, and if he wants, the old man can kill her sorry ass, all legal-like.”

“You gotta stop watching movies,” Faks complained. “They'll just tie knots in your mind.”

“Yah, well, I seen the same damn thing on a video game, and everybody knows they can't put nothing that ain't true in video games, you know, the ones that are s'posed to be, like, real life. That's the law.”

Video games? Sweet Jesus God.
“Hank, shut your damn beer hole before we all kick your stupid ass.”

Pokryfyke shrugged. “I try to enlighten you dudes, but you don't wanta know; ain't no sweat off'n my balls.”

Faks looked at his crew. Clegg and Holo he'd known his whole sorry life, but Gilbert Horseman was an outsider. He'd shown up a year ago with Koney Tomarck's cousin and come north now and then since that time. A union guy, he worked tool and die outside Flat Rock and seemed okay, but he was an outsider, and Faks couldn't get past that fact, which put his nerves on edge. As a leader, you had to be damn careful with so many Russian stooges and informers around.

“How long you up this time?” Faks asked Horseman.

“Month, GM's got model changeover going on. So, what we got going for giggles and profit?”

“We?” Faks shot back. “You ain't no we, Horseman. Leastwise not yet. And what's with that faggy name? You tribal or what?”

“Yeah,” Horseman said. “Fuckawee tribe: Where the fuck are we, eh?”

Pokryfyke and Balum laughed at the old joke. Faks didn't. “How you know Traynor was first to get to Koney's place?”

“His old lady told me.”

“Best stay clear of that stuff,” Faks said. “She's trouble, calls the law over spilt beer and such.”

“Beatin' on your old lady ain't no small thing these days,” Horseman said. “Cops and judges downstate take that shit, like, serious, sayin'?”

“Fuckin' Russians,” Faks said.

“Who?” Horseman asked.

“DNR, judges, all pigs, social workers, whole frickin' lot.”

“I heard down to the shop the DNR has special federal money to pay snitches,” Horseman said. “Couple million this year, the guys said.”

“Snitches,” Faks said, making a face in the firelight. “That's what I'm talkin' about, Russians payin' kids to snitch on their mommies and daddies, keep track of ever'body, ever'thing.”

“I thought the Russians went broke,” Balum said.

“You see that in a movie?” Pokryfyke asked.

“On the TV, I think. Fox mebbe.”

“Nah, they still got money,” Faks said. “Commies stole all the government's shit, mines, old factories and shit, and call themselves businessmen. Rob your ass just like corporate suits right here in America. Can't believe nothing on the damn TV. They all owned by corporations, says what the suits want 'em ta say.”

Balum protested. “But it was Fox News, that Glen what's-his-face, looks like a prairie dog sucked bad lemons?” Balum made a face.

They all laughed.

“Heard something else,” Horseman said. “Feds are afraid A-rabs got secret agents here by the hundreds. DNR's getting money to help Homeland Security root out towel-head spies, shoot their asses like wild hogs, no questions asked.”

Faks said, “Ain't no frickin' A-rab spies up here in these woods. There was, we'd know.”

“Boys in the shop said the DNR will use money to step on guns and violator crews. Feds think violators are supplying them Christ-hating Moslems with guns and ammo.”

Deathly silence. “Fuck we want to give our guns to towel heads for?” Faks asked.

“Cash. You know them Moslems got all that damn A-rab oil money, man. That's a fact you can look up your Winkiepedia.”

Faks said, “We ain't no terrorists, and we ain't no traitors. Not us. Hell, I was a
US Fucking Marine
.”

“Drummond Island's gonna be a top target for the DNR and Homeland Security,” Horseman said. “Just a short boat hop from Hockeyland across the lake.”

Faks mulled over what he had heard. Logic here was unwarranted yet seemed reasonable. The Gem of the Huron was just across the lake from Canada. “Who down to your shop told you all this shit?”

“Lotsa guys, and it was also in the
Detroit Free Press
. You didn't read it?”

“Fuckin' newspapers is Commie liberal tools,” Faks declared.

“Damn right,” Pokryfyke chimed in.

Faks hadn't read or heard any of this shit, but it had always rolled around in the back of his mind that the feds and state boys could team up and, like, bring
major
heat. “Okay, boys, that's it for tonight,” he announced.

“What about that job you got in mind?” Balum asked.

“We'll talk later,” Faks said. “I got to gather me some more facts and intel first.”

The men nodded, got on their machines, and headed into the darkness for their homes.

Faks used a shovel to knock down and extinguish their small fire. You couldn't shoot ducks, bears, wolves, or deer if the damn woods burned down. When the fire looked safe, he mounted his Polaris RAZr and raced away into the night.

•••

Horseman ducked into a camp off Johnswood Road. The DNR truck was backed up the two-track lane. Joe Traynor was smoking a cigarette, cupping it with his hand to hide the glowing ember. Horseman's real name was Kripp, a detective with the Department of Natural Resource's Wildlife Resource Protection Unit, and operating undercover as he had for the past three years.

“How're my boys?” Traynor asked.

“Dumb as bicycle chains,” Horseman said. “I gave them the story, and they split. Faks is cagey and real cautious.”

“Not cautious enough. His sister Engadetta tells me everything he's doing. She hates his ass.”

“Why bring me in?” Kripp asked.

“To save me time. If I can neutralize Faks with disinformation, I can spend time doing important things, not chasing those idiots.”

“Maybe those guys are right,” Horseman said. “We might operate a bit like the Russians.”

“Whatever floats their boat,” Loco Joe said. “They know I'm on the island?”

“Told 'em you put the whoop ass on Koney Tomarck.”

“Good, I'm gonna poke up into alvar country, spend the night out that way, catch the first ferry back tomorrow morning. You?”

“Last ferry tonight, head below the bridge, sleep with my wife; I hope she remembers how.”

“Do
you
?” Traynor asked his colleague.

Tripp snickered. “Guess we'll find out, eh.”