Killing a Cold One (43 page)

Service telephoned Friday. “Well?” she asked.

“It's this Ulupov.”

“I don't see a motive,” she said.

“We've seen this before. Somebody has a little plot of private land surrounded by state or fed, or other private, rarely visited, and they begin to think of it as their own turf, and sometimes something else happens to tip them to take action. Case down south of Kalamazoo where a guy shot two deer hunters on the same day. Took a cold-case team fifteen years to solve it. Turned out the perp was even a good DNR informant.”

“Ulupov?” she asked.

“My opinion? If the casino comes in, he loses his land. He's not about to let that happen. Russians drove him out of Czechoslovakia. He's done being pushed.”

“This is sick,” Friday said.

“This is the world we live in,” Service reminded her.

75

Saturday, January 24

STURGEON RIVER GORGE WILDERNESS, HOUGHTON COUNTY

The past three days had been spent in planning and preparation, making contact with officers Service wanted to help with the manhunt. He had even made a call to the chief to fill him in and seek his blessing. Yesterday at noon, WLUC-TV had reported that a suspect in the killings had been taken into custody, another suspect was at large, and a manhunt was being organized. The report pissed him off.

Friday had called and told him she was hearing reports of vigilantes in Marquette, Baraga, and Houghton Counties, and that out-of-state and downstate license plates were filling area motels, and restaurants were full. Service thought he recognized an opportunity, quickly outlined his thinking to her, and after a long silence got an “I guess.”

Friday had handled an impromptu press conference at the jail yesterday afternoon. TV queen Bonnie Balat had tried to hog the spotlight with inflammatory statements disguised as questions.

The conference began with Friday reading a prepared statement: “We have an individual in custody, but not charged with the killings. A second individual is being sought as a person of extreme interest. A BOLO has been issued, and you will all be given a copy before you leave. We believe this second individual to be in the Silver Lake Basin area, and the search will center there. We are asking civilians to stay out of the area unless they are there to work, or live there. Anyone caught there who doesn't belong will be asked to leave, or will be arrested for interfering with police and charged with conspiracy. The hunt could last forty-eight hours or more. We apologize for any inconvenience, but public and officer safety are paramount,” she told reporters.

“We have also established an anonymous toll-free tip line. We ask you reporters to make it public. Callers will get a recording. Leave a message of less than one minute, your name, and phone number. We will have people screening the messages, and we'll call you back if your information appears relevant.”

Service grinned when he saw Friday on TV. Messages would be taken, but not checked. Silver Lake Basin was almost eighty miles east of the main hunt. He had picked the site for misdirection because it was close to where Lamb Jones had been found. Calculated disinformation. He could tell Friday wasn't convinced when he talked to her with the idea, but her performance was professional and convincing.

“Questions?” she had asked after reading the statement.

Balat out-elbowed and out-shouted her competition. “Detective, you have no power to declare martial law.”

“This isn't martial law, Bonnie. Martial law means the military governs, and there are no military personnel involved in this operation. Next question.”

Balat again. “Has the governor authorized this?”

“This is a local law enforcement matter being conducted by the county, assisted by the Michigan State Police.”

Balat was as insistent as an infection: “Why no charges?”

“Procedure,” Friday said calmly.

“But the windigo!” Balat shrieked.

“There is no such thing,” Friday said calmly. “You need to stop spreading fiction and stirring up kids and old people with outrageous, irresponsible, and unsupportable claims.”

“
Someone
has to warn the public,” Balat countered.

Friday paused for effect. “Bonnie, you are doing your audience a huge disservice by fanning the flames of some half-baked fantasy. You're either in the hard news and fact business, or you're someone who wants to make up things to create an audience to bring in more advertising. Right now I think your viewers have a pretty good idea which group you belong to. Next?”

The room was silent. Balat shut up and the other questions were perfunctory and polite. She had taken the wind out of Balat's sails.

Grady Service was proud of her poise, and when she called and asked what he thought, he told her: “Perfect.”

“Balat called me a cunt when the cameras were off,” she said.

“And you said?”

“Takes one.”

Service laughed.

“The governor called me before I could call you,” she added.

“Really?”

“She asked me if
you
had authorized this. I told her it's my investigation, and she didn't argue.”

Damn the governor. What the hell was wrong with her?

“Newf and Cat miss you,” Friday said. Both pets had been at her place for a long time.

“Just them?”

“Shigun, and Litle Maridly too.”

“Not you?”

“Nah, we cops get it. Be safe.”

“Always the goal,” he told her.

“You honestly think this Silver Lake Basin ruse will work?”

“I don't know, but I hope so; if it does, it will help us.”

“And if it doesn't, and everyone lands on our parade?”

“We'll tell the truth. We needed space, and thought this was a good way to get it.”

 

•••

 

Planning was done, and it was late Saturday afternoon. Service found Allerdyce's marker where Forest Highway 2217 and the USFS road ended, splitting into two trails, one veering southeast, the other angling due north. The old poacher's trail was a hundred yards behind the ribbon marker, and even then Service had to walk some to find it. The old man had brushed his trail clean from where Service had parked his truck to where the trail became readable.
Unbelievably cautious, with thorough woodcraft.

Allerdyce's snowshoes eventually merged onto an old trail, badly overgrown, almost unnavigable on snowshoes. Three miles north, he, Treebone, and Noonan found the red ribbon in a spruce by a steep gully, with Stretch Creek to their west.

“You fuckers actually
like
this shit?” Noonan groused. He had maintained pace and never complained until they stopped.

“Your legs okay?”

“Burning like motherfuckers.”

Service set up the rocket stove and melted snow. The burner weighed less than three ounces, but could boil a liter of water in less than four minutes. He dropped tea bags into insulated paper cups, handed Noonan packets of honey, and waited for the water to boil.

“This Allerdyce, he one of your bad guys?” Noonan asked.

Tree laughed out loud.

“Was,” Service said.
Still could be. How can you know?

“He's damn good out in this shit,” Noonan said.

No response necessary. The voice in his head said,
I hope.

“How will we know when he's coming in?”

“I'll know,” Service said.

Noonan shrugged off his pack. There was a long white object tied to it.

“What's that?”

“Close-in closer. Caught punks whaling on an old fella one night, up from Kentucky to see his grandson. He sent me an ax handle, made from musk wood. Works real good in close, poking or bashing,” the retired detective said. “I wrote a manual one time:
How to Use an Ax Handle in a Fight.
My division commander liked to rip my head off, said he never wanted to see it again. Ax handle helps you stop the biggest bastards flying on speed or dust. They can maybe fight through the lightning, but not the handle, man. I sold maybe a thousand copies of the manual over the years, five bucks a pop.”

Noonan was one very strange and intense bird.

Service sensed motion and heard a muffled sound. “Squirrel alerting call—sounds like a small crow with laryngitis,” he told Noonan. “That's Allerdyce.”

Soon thereafter there was a whispered, “Slow.”

“Roller,” Service replied softly.

Allerdyce came out of the dark and sat down. Like them, he was decked out in white. “Youses got tea for a chum?”

The old man was wearing night-vision goggles.

Service made a quick cup for him, gave him four packets of honey and a 400-calorie Mainstay energy bar.

“Find him?” Service asked as the old man loudly slurped his hot tea.

“ 'Bout mile an' a 'alf nort', where Dry Wash, Little Silver, and Mountain Creek meet up. Dis trail youse on run along ritch, drops down to 'nudder finger ritch, where Dry and Little Silver meet. Steep drop dere to da east. He got him shack built just nort'. All cliffs to wess. Hard to get at 'im.”

“You see him?”

“Could smell 'im, eh. No smoke. He's honkered, tight and quiet.”

“How close
did
you get?”

“Close 'nuff. Found catch wit white gas he hid.”

Service immediately guessed what the old man was thinking.

“Volatile,” Service said.

“Put a match on 'er, drive 'im out right quick, 'speck.”

“But not light us up in the process.”

“Fill water bottle wit' white gas, make maltoshop contrail, pinhole in bottom, drop bottle down stovepipe.”

“We can get to his stovepipe?”

“She angled down a bit, but not enough. Be easy drop. Bottle first, den drop lit' rope-wick behind 'er, cover pipe,
boomph!
Oot he comes!”

“We'll have to try to talk him out peacefully first,” Service said.

“Youse talk, youse lose surprise,” Allerdyce said. “Dis chenkist polack jamoke fight, I t'ink.”

“Got to be this way, Limpy.”

“Got porch, overlooks crick. Bears, wolfies, deer walk down dere. He got baits. Only one door in, one door out. One window, side of door, smoked like pimp-car window.”

Noonan chuckled.

“Best time?”

“Four, five morning, when 'eads not so good.”

“If he gets away?”

“Won't get far. Find trapper ladder built over near dere. He goes down to crick dat way, he have us on top 'im quick. I put traps in branches, chained dere. Pow-ful, take time get off, we hear ruckus. Two ladders, one next camp, udder couple hundred yard. He take dat one.”

Service leaned to Noonan. “You following this?”

“Yep.”

“You know white gas?”

Treebone intervened, “Naptha, flashpoint below thirty-two, heavier than air, vapor spreads fast but doesn't persist. Makes one helluva pop. Water bottle will scorch his ass. A quart would probably kill him. We use white gas, he may not make it out,” the retired vice lieutenant said, and added, “It sucks to be him.”

Allerdyce cackled.

“Don't forget, he got 'is Russkie pop gun,” Allerdyce said. “He come out
bipbipbip,
need have cover either side porch, heads down when he come out.”

“Let the others know what we're doing?” Noonan asked.

“Not yet,” Service said. He wanted time to think, made more tea, and sat down. White gas could be deadly to use even when you knew what you were doing. He closed his eyes, tried to visualize events.
Fuck!
His mind hit a wall.

He whispered to the other men, “There could be evidence inside. We can't burn out the place.”

“Won't,” Allerdyce said, “Pipe go down to little woodstove, I t'ink, gas flatch dere, won't spread much.”

“I don't know,” Service said.

“Trust me, sonny.”

They each ate another energy bar before heading out, leaving their snowshoes stashed in some trees. Service was feeling some doubt, but decided the approach held the best chance for their own safety and getting Ulupov out of hiding. He'd know more when he actually saw the setup. He could adjust then.

“When we get set up,” he told the men, “stash your NVDs so you won't be blinded by flashes or fire.”

 

•••

 

The setup had been almost perfectly described by Allerdyce, and events happened fast. Service stood to the side of the door, knocked on the window. “Mr. Ulupov, Conservation Officer, DNR! We need to talk to you. You've got three minutes to come out, unarmed, hands up!”

Limpy was uphill at the pipe. Bluesuit was opposite Service. Tree was above near Limpy, and Noonan was crouched on the other side of the plank porch, down on a knee, bent at the waist, ax handle at the ready.

No response. Maybe he's not here. Time.

“Limpy!” he shouted.

The wall left of the door, closest to Noonan, shattered, and an AK-47 ripped the air as the wall shredded. Service saw star-shaped muzzle flashes as rounds came his way, cracking over his head like slaps on the ass. Then came a bright light and loud
pop,
and blue-red fire leapt out of the opening that the man had made. A long tongue of fire flared up from the stovepipe, and Service heard the sound of bone cracking and a voice screaming, “
Di-ben-ind-is-o-win!
”

More shots sounded as Service rose and crossed the porch, until something smacked him in the upper arm, spun him, and knocked him off his feet.

Silence. Bite of cordite in the air, which means old ammunition, definitely the AK.
He'd heard just the one gun-voice.

“Didn't s'pect that!” Noonan said with a snarl.