Ice Hunter (3 page)

THE PRESENT

4

He drove the tote road with his lights off, as he almost always did when he patrolled, and suddenly the conservation officer saw a glint of light and knew there was a vehicle snugged into the side of the overgrown lane ahead. There was a smidge of moonlight, but not quite enough. The silhouette looked like an older Caddy. Grady Service checked his watch. Ten straight up. McCants would be along any moment and they would be needing privacy to cut from the lane over to the Sand River to get set up for poachers. Kids, he figured. Didn't they have homework any more? Definitely a Caddy. He slid out of his double-cab and walked stealthily toward the vehicle ahead.

He was several feet from the Caddy when he heard the springs squeaking. He thought, When a Caddy's rockin', don't come knockin'. Midnight, windows down. He approached from the left rear panel and peered in before clicking on his light.

The woman had light-colored hair. She was a top-rider, her chin jutted out, head back. Great, he thought.

He shone his light into the backseat. The woman didn't flinch, but there was plenty of scrambling beneath her.

“Whose vehicle?” he asked.

“Mine,” the woman said, squinting directly into his light.

“Can I see your operator's license, registration, and proof of insurance?”

“We don't need a license for what we're doing,” the woman said. She didn't take her eyes off Service and she didn't move either. She was a cool customer.

“I need to see your license,” Service said. “Please.” Conservation officers were expected to be calm in all circumstances and taught to be polite, nonthreatening. But the book didn't cover walking up on backseat boffers.

“All right,” the woman said, irritated. She crawled over the back of the front seat and slid behind the steering wheel, making no attempt to cover herself. Service observed a well-defined tan line. Artificial, he decided. Or a flatlander. There hadn't been much sun so far this summer. Service switched his light to the backseat. The man had a thick neck and covered his face with his hands. Despite the attempt, Service recognized Jerry Allerdyce and felt his skin crawl.

The woman thrust her license and registration out the driver's window.

“Stay here,” Service said.

“You care if we finish up while you do whatever it is you do?” she asked.

He didn't answer and fought a smile as he walked back to the truck. He called the county's centralized dispatch to check plates and find out if there were any outstanding warrants on the driver. Her record was clean and clear. Her license said her name was Laudonia Capacelli, with an address in Royal Oak, a Detroit suburb.

Seeing Jerry Allerdyce did not sit well. He had not thought about the Allerdyce family in a long time. Jerry was the eldest son of Limpy Allerdyce, now serving a stretch in Jackson. Jerry was tall with angular features on a triangular face, long hair in a ponytail, and a ratty goatee. It was hard to understand Jerry and the woman in the Caddy, but Grady Service had seen enough life to know that expectations and reality rarely intersected. What attracted a particular woman to a particular man was impossible to generalize. Given Jerry's reputation with women, however, Service was nearly certain that Cadillac Lady was not unattached.

Back at the Caddy he handed the woman her documents. She was still in the driver's seat. “Get dressed and go.”

“We like it here. No law against it, is there?”

“Leave it alone,” Jerry said in a pained whine from the backseat.

“Never mind,” the woman said. “Mood's sorta shot, I guess.”

“Find a more private place next time,” Service said.

“We thought we had,” she said haughtily.

Service walked back to his truck, got a cigarette, lit up, and stood outside. People, he thought. In this job you just never knew what was next.

The Caddy made a lugubrious stop-and-go turnaround on the lane and came back toward him. The woman had not bothered to dress. She leaned out her window, smiled, and winked as the automobile slid by.

Service waved her on. Down the road they could be arrested for exposing themselves, but that would be the county's problem. He had his own business to attend to.

Ten minutes later he heard another vehicle moving up behind him, lights out. McCants.

As soon as she got out of her truck, she said, “Was that Caddy back here?”

“Coitus interruptus,” he said, holding out a pack of cigarettes.

There weren't many smokers left among other COs. Especially among the young ones, who seemed annoyingly health conscious. CO Candace McCants was an exception. Four years on the job, she was Korean born, five-six, a muscular 160. He liked working with her. She wasn't afraid of anything and had inordinate common sense, a rare combination.

“Kids?” she said, lighting her cigarette.

“Something like that.”

“You write 'em up?”

“For what?”

She laughed. “Getting more than us?”

“People wanna bonk in the boonies, no problem for me. We've got enough to do tonight.”

“What did the guy look like?”

He jabbed her shoulder. “Jerry Allerdyce,” he said. “Ready to work?”

“Jerry? Yuck!” she said. “Lemme grab my gear.”

Service was dozing when McCants touched him to wake him.

“What?”

“Doors slamming.”

Service blinked to clear his eyes and mind and hit the
on
button. They had a surplus Russian night-vision scope bought from a forestry professor at Northern Michigan who ran a side business selling surplus Russian military equipment, offering it to sportsmen at huge profits but at cost to COs. The equipment was excellent, all digital, and would hook into a VCR. Whatever happened, they could freeze-frame and print excellent black and whites. The state also issued American-made night scopes. Most COs preferred the Russian models.

Through the lens, the world appeared in shades of green.

“Who is it?” McCants asked.

“You don't wanna know.”

“Jesus. The Veldcamps?”

“In the flesh.”

“I hope not literally. We got them here last year. Same damn spot.”

“They haven't done anything yet.”

“They will,” she said. “Bone stupid. Can you believe they're back in the same spot?”

“Maybe they believe lightning won't strike twice in the same place.”

“If so, we are definitely going to mess with their minds tonight.”

The Veldcamps were first cousins, both in their early forties. They lived together in a cabin below Gwinn, the place surrounded by discarded tires and automobile parts. They were both members of some half-baked militia group and longtime poachers. Taking away their hunting and fishing privileges didn't stop them from doing what they had always done. In some ways Service could sympathize with them, but the law was the law.

From their blind in the tag alders beside the creek, Service could see the Veldcamps wriggling into their waders, like too small casings for way too much sausage.

Last year they had arrested the pair for firing shotguns into a school of spawning whitehorse suckers. Now that the suckers were back for their June spawning run, so were the cousins, as predictable as the sun every morning and not as welcome.

The creek rose from a spring pond about a mile above where they were hidden and flowed down to a culvert under the hard-packed dirt road. Just below the culvert was a wide bend and a hole where suckers tended to stack up. Service had seen as many as a hundred fish at one time here. This was the only such place for a good thirty miles and not ten miles from the Veldcamps' cabin, a natural gathering place for fish, poachers, and law officers.

Service watched the two men wade into the stream. Then the splashing and cursing began.

“What?” McCants asked.

“I'd say . . . softball bats.”

“Idiots,” she said disgustedly.

“
Your
idiots, this year.”

“Let's just shoot 'em.”

“Out of season.”

“I meant just in the legs.”

“
Out of season
,” he repeated with emphasis, smiling.

“Ooh-kay,” she said with mock disappointment.

“Be careful,” he told her. She answered with a soft grunt.

While she cut over to the road, Service put down the night scope and made his way quietly through the tag alders to streamside.

The two men Bambied when Candy's spot lit them up.

“Who?” one of them said.

“DNR,” McCants said, moving toward them. “Put the bats on shore.”

Sonny Veldcamp poked his bat into Win Veldcamp's chest, knocking him backward into the water. “I
told
you these fucking bats were too loud!”

McCants stepped down to the streambank. “Put it down, Sonny.”

“Oh Christ! It's that gook bitch again,” Sonny Veldcamp yelled. He immediately took a step toward her, brandishing the bat.

McCants stood her ground.

“Drop the bat,” Service said from behind Sonny.

“Fuckers!” Sonny screeched. He lunged for McCants but as he put a foot up on the bank, she gave him a sharp kick in his support leg and sent him back into the water.

Service hopped into the water and pushed Win Veldcamp under the surface long enough to make his point. Win came up snorting water from his nostrils.

Sonny stared into the light. “We own these fish, you fucks. We pay taxes.”

McCants laughed out loud. “You have to have a job to pay taxes, Sonny.”

“We're Americans, rice nigger.”

Whoops, Service thought.

McCants stepped toward Sonny, took hold of his shirt, and jerked him forward. He went down like he'd been headshot. She dragged him onto the grass, folded his arms behind him, and cuffed him.

Service pushed Win forward to join his cousin.

“You're not gonna arrest us,” Win said. “We got no fish.”

“You like hockey, Win?” McCants asked.

“What of it?”

“It's like spearing.”

“Huh?”

“Intent alone will draw a penalty.”

“What spears?”

“Bone stupid,” McCants said.

“Shit, man.” This from Sonny.

“Quiet,” McCants said. “The UN troops in the woods may hear you.”

Militias believed that the United Nations was conspiring to take over the United States and had troops hidden all around the country.

“You hear that?” Win asked Sonny.

“Give 'em Miranda,” Service told his colleague.

Ordinarily they'd just write a ticket for a court date, but the Veldcamps were multiple offenders and likely to go hermit. They were set up to watch the sucker hole all night so they called the county, who dispatched a deputy to whom they transferred custody of their prisoners. When they got back into their blind, they opened thermoses of coffee.

“Rice nigger,” McCants said. “That's a new one.”

“The cousins have a gift for language,” he said.

She laughed. “How many hours until we can stop having fun?”

“Quiet,” he said. “You'll ruin business.”

After a while she asked, “How have you done this job for twenty years?”

Service said, “Just like cons, one minute at a time.” Being obsessive didn't hurt either, he told himself.

The remainder of the night was quiet. They returned to their vehicles before sunrise, McCants looking as fresh and alert as if she had just had a full night's sleep. Youth, Service thought. All these kids joining the department. Young and competent. His youth was long gone and he needed to work harder just to keep up with them. It wasn't that he loved the job so much as it was all he had. Raised on duty, dipped in it, fire hardened in too many ways. Truth be known: This was all he wanted.

The night left him tired but not sleepy. He knew how to take care of this. As he drove back to his place, he ticked off his duty list for the next day. He'd sleep this morning. Then head over to the Mosquito. It had been a few days since he had been in the area, and to protect it you couldn't leave it alone too long. This had been one of his old man's axioms and now it was his.

5

The Mosquito River passed lethargically under US 2 to merge with Lake Michigan through a channel that bisected a series of low scabs of cobble and indestructible grasses. The river, which was seldom wider than thirty or forty feet and much narrower at the mouth, was stained orange by tannin from the hemlock forest upstream. From the highway bridge it looked like just one more shallow, slow-moving, mosquito-infested trickle, an appearance that belied its reality. The river ran more or less north to south through an area called the Mosquito Wilderness Tract. At the bridge it was a shallow, sluggish stream suitable only for suckers and spring smelt runs, not the sort of place to attract a casual sportsman motoring past at cruising speed. The name on the sign at both ends of the bridge added to the river's image of inhospitability.

On several occasions Grady Service had fought Lansing's tourist-hungry bureaucrats, who wanted to put up signs to mark the Tract as a wilderness area. So far he had succeeded in stopping them, but he had no doubt that the fight would go on. Ironically, the damn state outlawed billboards, then erected its own obtrusive signs all over the landscape. It made no sense, but he had learned over the years that Lansing's policies seldom made a great deal of sense.

The Mosquito Wilderness was one of the state's natural jewels, and it needed to be guarded as such. In his twenty years as a conservation officer Service had done everything in his power to see that the Mosquito was protected. Poachers and bushwhackers were not treated gently, and he pressed every charge he could. He also made sure the word was out: Screw with the Mosquito and you are fucked.

He had even talked the Mosquito Wilderness Preservation Association into creating a homepage on the Web, where it was prominently noted that the wilderness was a mosquito- and blackfly-infested hellhole as well as the single most heavily patrolled area in the state by COs and other law enforcement officials. He didn't care if it wasn't true; it was the most heavily patrolled area he had responsibility for and that's what counted. In law enforcement perceptions were often more compelling than reality.

Half a mile north of its outlet the Mosquito turned fast and twisty and was filled with wild brook trout whose beauty often left him speechless. Most of the area had never been logged and was filled with trees that were hundreds of years old, coyotes and bears, deer and moose, bobcats, martens, and mink.

He supposed if he had loved the women in his life with half the ardor he felt for the wilderness, his life might have been different. But he had never had a great deal of luck with women, and he was certain that this was due to his own deficiencies, not theirs. He had a tendency to get focused on one thing and exclude everything else. Often that one thing was protecting the Tract.

The failures of his love life aside, he knew with certainty that he loved the Mosquito Wilderness. His father had guarded it before him, and it had fallen to him to steward it for the next generation. Like most of the state's conservation officers, Grady Service took his responsibilities seriously and passionately. It was not so much about doing a good job as it was about upholding a sacred trust.

Parking his truck at a trailhead, Service locked up and headed into the bush on foot. There was a general belief among poachers and others in the state that conservation officers seldom ventured far off the roads. It wasn't true, and Service made sure that he covered the most isolated areas of his beat on foot as often as possible. It was impossible to calculate the PR value in word of mouth of a CO suddenly appearing in an area many miles from the nearest road. Over the years people got to asking how fewer than two hundred officers could be in so many places at one time. He had even had state troopers ask him the question, and he always answered with a provocative laugh.

Tonight there would be long light, until nearly 10:30
p.m.
And tonight, if he was lucky, there would be no fishermen to check. He could take advantage of having the river to himself.

The last quarter mile to the river was swampy and choked by tag alders and wild vines. Service rarely followed established man-made or animal trails. Experience had taught him that it was better to take compass headings and strike out, making his own way. It was harder going, but it let him move unobserved and appear seemingly out of nowhere.

Fifty yards from the river he saw fresh bear scat near a fallen white cedar. The previous winter had been particularly harsh and the spring even worse, with a series of ice storms and high winds that knocked down anything with the slightest weakness. Like life, he thought. He was not afraid of bears, but it was early summer and he had no desire to play tag with a fiercely protective sow with cubs. He quietly moved on and steered a more direct route to the river.

There was nobody in sight when he reached the water, but he sensed someone close by. Tucking his fly-rod case into a hollow snag he had used for years, he worked his way down to a bend in the river with a deep hole on the outer curve, a place he called the Geezer Hole because of the very old and very large brook trout that lived at its head. It was one of the wider places on the river, with a large gravel bar mixed with reddish blue clay in the center and the greenish orange river racing by in long smooth glides on both sides. The purple color of the clay was unusual and had always seemed odd to him, but nature had her own ways and rarely shared her reasons.

An older man was hunkered on one knee at the far end of the gravel bar. No rod, just a camera around his neck and a strange hammer in a leather belt holster. He was scribbling furiously on a little notebook balanced on his knee.

“Hi,” Service called out.

The surprised man looked up and fumbled at putting his notebook away.

“DNR,” the CO said.

“I'm not fishing.”

“I can see that.”

“I'm just looking around.”

The man was nervous. “What exactly are you looking for? I know the area pretty well. Might be able to point you.”

“I don't think so.”

“Where are you parked?”

“On the highway,” the man said.

On the highway? It was a good ten miles of hard walking away—if you didn't get lost, which most people did.

“Are you camping in the Tract?”

“Haven't decided,” the man said.

There was no evidence of a pack or any gear other than the camera and the hammer.

“You have to stick to designated sites in the Tract.”

“I know the rules,” the man said irritably.

“The nearest camping area is three miles south.”

“Yes, I know.”

With experience, you developed intuition about people. Something was definitely hinky with this guy.

“Have you got a compass?” Service asked.

“Yes, in my pocket.”

“Best use it. I'd hate to have to mount a search.”

“Don't worry,” the man said. “I know what I'm doing.”

Service wanted to ask more questions, but before he could say anything the man got up, pivoted, and headed downstream, splashing carelessly as he went. So much for fishing the Geezer Hole, Service thought.

The man's brusque manner and unfriendliness had Service's curiosity at full glow. He decided to follow, but first he waited. Most people believed that a trail couldn't be followed in moving water, but they were wrong. This bottom had a lot of loose stones and enough clay, sand, and silt to make it fairly routine to follow just about anybody. Worst case, he could leapfrog ahead and watch for debris and clouds of sand tumbling downstream. If the water stayed clear, he would know the man had gotten out or stopped above him. He waited ten minutes and began to follow. This time Service decided to take the most direct line. What was this guy doing?

It didn't take long to see that the man had gotten out less than a hundred yards below the Geezer Hole. There were wet spots on the top of a dry log. An experienced man would wait until dark and get out, hoping that the lack of light would cover his sign. And animals didn't step on logs; only men did. This guy had jumped out fast. Their encounter had spooked the man. If his vehicle was ten miles south on the highway, why was he headed west? Definitely hinky.

The man's tracks showed that he was moving fast, using the trail for a while then going off trail, sort of zigzagging. It took an hour to find where the man had parked a vehicle. It was gone, of course, but it had been there. Judging by the width of the wheel base, it was a full-size Bronco, a Blazer, or a Ram, all models no longer in production.

Now Service was really curious. Cutting north, he jogged quickly back to his truck, drove out, and circled back to the road where the stranger was most likely to have come out. He found tracks that fit the ones he had seen back in the woods; the pattern showed a left turn. Service drove along the road for thirty minutes, but decided to give it up. The man hadn't done anything wrong. He had just acted strangely. So it went. Submitted to the same test, he would no doubt also fail.

It was time for home and sleep. Tomorrow he had to be in court on a case from an arrest he had made last September. Time in court was usually a pain in the ass, and this would be no different.

At the house Cat met him on the porch and hissed ostentatiously. He had found the animal in a bag of eight newborn kittens that somebody had drowned. Why this one survived was beyond him, but it had and had turned into a feline misanthrope. Which made it an animal he could relate to.

“Okay, food coming up, you four-legged ingrate. Put your claws back in their sheaths.”

For most of his career in the Department of Natural Resources, Service had lived in a pop-up camper that he moved from campground to campground, but five years ago he had bought property close to the Tract and built what he called a house. Others called it a shack, or worse. But the opinions of others rarely concerned him; the place suited him. It was two stories with one large room on each level. The upper level was for expansion but so far remained empty, a place for Cat to dismember mice and voles and hold forth over lesser creatures in nature's violent chain. On the ground floor he had a kitchen area, a bathroom behind unpainted doors he had propped up to serve as screens, his communications equipment, and a dozen OD military surplus footlockers. He slept on a thin mattress on three of the footlockers set end to end.

As soon as he shed his uniform, he checked his messages. There were the usual whinings of residents and a couple of calls from local stoolies, but only two calls interested him. Lisette McKower said she wanted to meet him tomorrow after court at the Duck. McKower was a sergeant and his protégé as well. He had trained her a long time ago and she had moved up. He wondered what she wanted.

The other call was from Luticious Treebone.

He called Treebone's home number in Detroit.

“This is the Tree,” a booming voice answered.

“How's Hoffa?” His friend's pit bull.

“Bad tempered, which is just how I like my dogs. S'up, man?”

“You called me, remember?”

“Right, just wanted to see if you were payin' attention. I've got some time off. I'm thinking maybe I might mosey north and do some fishing. You up for it?”

“Tree, you hate it up here.”

“Then I'll just ride along with you. Change of scenery will do me good. Kalina's mother is coming to town.”

“No guts?”

“Discretion, baby. There's a time to wail and a time to bail. A man don't wanna get the two bollixed up, dig?”

Service laughed softly. “I'll line up some footlockers for you.”

“You don't own a bed yet?”

“I refuse to join the conspicuous consumptionists.”

“Man, you need to join the human race.” Treebone laughed. “I'll be there day after tomorrow. I can let myself in.”

“Watch out for Cat.”

“Maybe I'll bring Hoffa to deal with the hairball.”

“Cat will eat him for lunch.”

“See you soon, man.”

Service and Treebone had finished college, Service at Northern Michigan, where he had been only a fair student and a competent hockey player. Treebone had played football and baseball at Wayne State and graduated cum laude. They had both been on the verge of being drafted, so they volunteered for the marines, met at Parris Island, and served together in the same long-range recon unit in Vietnam. They had been through hell and rarely spoke of the war since. When they got back to “the world,” they had both joined the Michigan State Police; two years later there had been an opportunity to transfer to the DNR and they had both accepted, but within a year Treebone had taken a job with the Detroit Metro Police. He was now a lieutenant in charge of vice. They had remained close friends now for more than twenty years. Tree wanted to ride with him? His friend had something up his sleeve, because he did not venture voluntarily into the U.P. without a compelling reason. Tree's idea of wilderness was Belle Isle on the Fourth of July.