“It’s on da radio youse gonna run, eh? You’ll get my vote,” he said, not catching her irony.
Service left the senator and walked along the highway with his light on, looking for the bear. He found it on the west side of the road, sprawled on its side, its stomach burst, intestines shining blue under his light beam. It was a big female, close to four hundred pounds, shiny black fur thickened for winter. He could see a substantial layer of yellow fat she had accumulated to see her through hibernation.
“That’s a shame,” he heard the senator say from behind him. “I didn’t see it. It just came charging across and then it was under me.”
“The way it usually happens with bears,” he said. “When they decide to cross, they just go.”
“Like some politicians,” the senator said.
He saw the blood trail that ended at the carcass and started backtracking. He stepped off sixty-three yards. There was an elliptical splash at point of impact and twenty yards of intestine strewn around from the impact point forward.
The senator was right behind him. “What’re you looking for?”
“You dragged it.”
“I thought for a second it was under me, and then I was spinning.”
“Lucky you didn’t go over.” PT Cruisers could be death traps.
“Officer, do you mind if I follow you around for a while?”
“Why?”
“I want to watch you do your job.”
He checked his watch. He still had to figure out what happened with Ernie and his tree blind and there was no way to make the Soo meeting. The county or state could handle the accident report on the van. He’d make out the report on the senator and her bear.
“Let’s get some coffee first.”
She was a quiet woman. When the sun began to lighten the eastern sky he got a good look at her. Tall, a little heavy, intense eyes, medium-length hair streaked with gray. She wore an untucked flannel shirt, jeans, and boots that had gotten a lot of wear.
“Your husband going deer hunting?”
She smiled easily. “No, I’m the hunter. Whit doesn’t hunt, but he likes to be along and I like having him. When I’m in Lansing, he’s usually back in Petoskey with the kids, so this is our vacation. How’s the herd this year?”
“Not good up your way. It’s never good close to the Superior watershed and we had a tough winter last year. Where’s your camp?”
“Huron Mountains,” she said.
He studied her for a moment. “The Club?”
“Yes, Cabin Fifty-Two, Tamarack Lodge. It’s the newest one, built in 1989 to celebrate the club’s centennial. My family’s been in the club since the beginning.”
The exclusive Huron Mountain Club was located north of Big Bay and had been shrouded in mystery and mystique throughout its history. The founders had been local power brokers, but they soon brought in members from all over the Midwest. In the early going they all had one thing in common: money. Bentley, McCormick, Dodge, Ford, Alger, Washburn, Shite, McMillan—these were the names that stuck in Service’s head, but few facts about any of them except a vague memory of Henry Ford being initially rejected for membership.
What stuck most in his mind was what Yogi Zambonet had told him, that the club had been involved in the failed experiment to transplant wolves in 1974.
If Timms was part of the Huron Mountain bunch, she came from deep roots of power and influence. Club people were used to getting their way.
“I’d think the hunting might be okay at the club,” he said, knowing the club had its own wildlife manager.
They walked back up to Nighswaander’s cruiser to see Barbara Wildwood. She was standing by the car with a vacant look on her face but stared at him when he approached.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
She had red, swollen eyes. “Thank you. They took Ernie to Newberry. I guess I ought to be with him.”
“Mrs. Wildwood, I know this is a difficult time, but where is your truck? I need to look around, see if we can figure out what happened.”
“There’s a two-track down that way a tich,” she said, pointing. “I need to get the truck anyway.”
Service didn’t want her to move the vehicle until he could examine the camp. Her husband had said something about falling, and his wife said he’d been drunk. He had a pretty good idea what might have happened, but he needed to see it, understand it, be certain.
“I can drive you there.”
She said, “Thanks.”
He went to get his truck and the senator trailed along. “Got room for me?”
“It’ll be a tight squeeze,” he said, wishing she’d go away, but she was a senator and it wouldn’t do to get on her wrong side. One politician after his scalp was enough.
Fifteen minutes later they were parked on a two-track near the Wildwoods’ truck.
There was an empty Jack Daniel’s bottle on the floor of the tent in the truck’s bed and two plastic glasses.
“Where’s your husband’s blind?”
The woman pointed. “Through the tag alders, Ernie said. There’s supposed to be some big beeches somewhere in there.”
Service looked at the senator. “Could you help her pack up?”
The senator raised an eyebrow. “Sure.”
He followed a game trail through dead ferns, saw where Ernie had gone in, and eventually came to the white pine near a pocket of mature beech trees. The blind looked new, installed twenty feet up in the white pine. The man hadn’t set it up last night; it had been there for a while. Wildwood’s name, address, and phone number were painted on the bottom of the platform.
There was a reeking bait pile twenty feet out from the tree, and at the base of the tree a broken compound bow lay on the ground, with a crushed quiver and several bent arrows strewn around. Heavy blood. It looked like the man had fallen and landed on his own arrow. The blood trail started back toward the truck camp, but began to drift right until it was headed for the highway. Service thought he could read the signs: Ernie had been losing blood, trying to get back to his truck, but gradually lost his ability to think and drifted off course to the west. The blood trail led out to the road and Service saw that the bleeding hunter had stumbled in front of the oncoming van and been hit. He wondered which had killed him—the arrow or the collision.
He guessed that the hunter or the crash had also spooked the bear onto the road, a marriage of bad karmas.
The women had loaded the truck by the time he got back to them.
“I think your husband fell from his stand onto the arrow. I think he tried to get back to you, Barb, but he lost too much blood and got lost.” He didn’t tell her about the mini van. Such details could come after the autopsy. Right now she needed something positive to hold on to.
The widow grimaced. “He should never have been out there.”
Service didn’t ask how much the man had to drink.
“Can I go to Ernie now?” the woman asked.
Service gave her a business card and told her to call him if she had any questions.
Senator Timms stood next to him watching the woman drive away. “Do I get a ticket?” she asked. “I might’ve been going a little faster than fifty-five.”
“Your speed didn’t cause your problem,” he said.
“Well, I doubt I’ll be going over fifty-five up here at night again.”
“These things happen,” he said.
“You didn’t know who I was until the chief came along.”
“My mind was sort of occupied.”
The senator smiled. “You heard I’m running for governor?”
“Not until this morning.”
“I’ll make the formal announcement in Marquette this afternoon, then I’m going hunting. What is the DNR looking for in a
governor?”
Service knew not to unload on Bozian. “I don’t speak for the DNR.”
“Let me rephrase that. What are you looking for?”
“Somebody who cares about what we have.”
“What does your leadership want?”
“I don’t talk for my leadership.”
She smiled. “You don’t like politics.”
“Somebody has to do the jobs,” he said. “I couldn’t.”
She said, “You’re a diplomat, Officer Service, and I’m sorry that people died this morning and that I killed that poor bear, but strange as it seems, I am glad to have had this experience. Do you have another card?”
He dug one out. It was streaked with dirt and dried blood.
The woman studied it. “Perfect,” she said, extending her hand and shaking his firmly. She took a card out of her purse and held it out to him. “If you ever need anything, you call me. Do you mind if I call you from time to time?”
“I can’t get into politics, Senator,” he said.
“It’s Lori, and I understand that, Officer, and I wouldn’t put you in that position, but from time to time I may need an objective viewpoint on certain issues.”
“You’ve got my number, Senator.”
“Indeed I do,” she said. “What will you do now?”
“Do the paperwork on your accident, help get you back on the road, assist the county to make sure the road’s clear of debris, get the dead animal off the road, and head for our district office in Newberry to write my report.”
She got into the passenger seat of his truck. “What’s the computer for?”
“Mostly the Automatic Vehicle Locator.” He turned on the computer and showed her, telescoping the electronic maps down to their present location, then up in scale to show her the vehicles of three other officers in neighboring counties.
“You can find each other this way.”
“And Lansing can find us, too,” he said.
She smiled. “Does it work?”
“It does what we need it to do.”
“You really are a diplomat,” she said.
“That’s not a universally held opinion,” he admitted.
She reached over and patted his arm. “When you’re a woman and direct, you’re a bitch or power hungry. I expect it’s pretty much the same for police officers.”
He got to Newberry at noon and found Lisette McKower eating at her desk.
“Is that blood all over you?” she said, looking up from her salad.
“Personal injury accident in Seney.”
She looked him in the eye. “What were you doing there?”
“I pulled into the refuge to catch a nap. I was headed for a meeting in the Soo this morning. I heard the thing happen.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I missed my meeting in the Soo, figured I’d get the paperwork done and catch tomorrow’s meeting.”
“Why don’t you stay with Jack and me tonight. The girls would love to see you.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll bunk right here and head out early.”
“You always have to do things your way.”
He was working on the bear accident report when McKower came into the conference room and turned on the radio.
“Sam Bozian has done no favors for our state. This morning I was involved in a tragic incident and I saw firsthand the selflessness and professionalism of our emergency and law enforcement personnel. We rarely think about conservation officers, but this morning I met an officer named Grady Service who handled a situation that would have crushed most of us. He gave aid to the injured and reassured the living with a selfless humanity I’ve rarely encountered. When I asked him what he wanted in a governor, he said, ‘Someone who cares about what we have.’ Someone who cares about what we have. I think that I am one of those people, and when I am elected I will do my utmost to uphold the high standards of public service that I was privileged to experience this morning on a lonely stretch of highway in the middle of nowhere. Thank you all for coming. I’ll take a few questions and then I’m going hunting.”
McKower turned off the radio. “Do you have some sort of magnet for governors?”
“She’s a state senator, not the governor.”
“If Lorelei Timms has decided she wants the job, the competition better strap on their armor. What did you do?”
“My job,” he said, thinking that for the first time since Labor Day he had felt useful and productive.
“Selfless humanity and sensitivity,” McKower said, smiling. “You did good, Grady Service.”
“Two people died,” he said.
“I’m sorry Grady, but some things are beyond control—even for you.”
16
It was 5 a.m., less than ninety minutes before nimrods could start blazing away at high-speed beef. Service had slept at the Newberry office, showered, and was headed to the Soo. He had just crossed the Soo Line tracks where they intersected M-28, his mind somewhere in the mists of Never-Never, poring over his cases, yesterday’s bizarre events, and Nantz’s circumstances, when the radio crackled and snapped him back to reality. “Officer needs assistance.”
The call came from the Chippewa County police dispatcher. Service pulled over to the side of the road, eased the transmission into neutral, lifted the cover of his black laptop, and punched up the AVL mapping system. He checked in on the radio, got the exact location, checked it against the computer map, saw he was close, and told the county dispatcher he was responding.
He switched off his lights as he turned north off the highway onto a two-track that showed it had seen a lot of recent traffic. Running dark, except for the glow of his computer, he eased his way north through the woods toward the Hendrie River, glancing at the running map as he went. The system was relatively new to the force, and despite his initial skepticism he had to admit that the amount of detail it provided, and its tie to the GPS system, made it a useful tool for finding his way on unfamiliar ground. When it worked. There were only two techs in the U.P. to do repairs. Today it was working.
A mile or so in he saw flashlights and the headlights of cars and trucks illuminating a clearing. Several black buggies were parked on the sides of the road, their horses tied, feeding from canvas buckets. He also saw a DNR truck. He parked and waded the rest of the way through calf-deep slush.
Two groups of bearded men in black and gray clothing were all yelling and gesturing at each other with considerable animation. Service approached quietly and saw CO Bryan Jefferies at the center of the storm. When the towering Jefferies saw him, he stepped away from the groups, which quickly jacked up the verbal assaults. Jefferies and Service had once taken PPCT training together. The Pressure Point Control Tactics system had been a hybrid of martial arts and dirty street fighting and the younger CO had manhandled him that day, politely excusing himself each time he threw Service to the ground or immobilized him with a pressure hold. It had been a long day. PPCT had since been replaced with a new hybrid program, and Service was glad.
“Good,” Jefferies said. “A friendly face.”
The crowd was growing louder. Some shoving was starting.
Jefferies pivoted and shouted, “Everybody knock it off and stay where you are!”
Turning back to Service, he said, “Here’s the deal. There are two groups here. Mennonites and Amish. Both groups had a group hunt under way.”
“Early,” Service said.
Jefferies sighed with exasperation. “I know, I know, and using spotlights, and no hunter orange.”
“Maybe God gave them permission,” Service said, grinning.
“Maybe that same God will smite you with lightning for that remark,” the young CO said.
“If he’s all his fans claim, he knows where to find m
e,” Service said.
Jefferies continued, “One of the Mennonite drivers spotted a buck and fired his shotgun. Some of the double-ought buckshot hit a rock and ricocheted, smacking one of the Amish men in the knee. The rock slowed down the pellet, but the leg’s probably broken. It could have been worse. An ambulance is supposed to be on the way to haul the vick to Newberry.”
The officer went on. “The Amish crowd took umbrage and claim they also fired at a deer, only their bullet hit one of the Mennonite trucks, putting a hole in the grille and engine block. The Mennonites claim the Amish shot was intended to insult their religious beliefs. The Mennonites retaliated by shooting an Amish horse. I’ve been here thirty minutes trying to sort it out. Hunting season hasn’t even opened. Can you believe this shit?”
Jefferies was thirtyish with a menacing thick mustache, inordinately tall, and held a degree in human physiology from a small college. He was built like a power lifter. “All they want to do is argue.”
The first light of day was showing lavender and orange in the eastern sky, the temperature rising. Service had a meeting to get to and no time for a drawn-out verbal group grope. He approached the groups and stood silently so they could all see him, saying nothing.
The bickering men quieted and stared.
“Shame on you,” he said when he finally spoke.
Mouths dropped and heads bowed.
“I’m Service and we have a problem here. Either we sort it out here and now, or Officer Jefferies and I will arrest the whole lot of you and let you explain to a judge and your own communities what happened out here. It’s not yet legal to shoot and lights are illegal. You ought to know that.” Which didn’t guarantee they did.
“We’ve got an injured man, which at best is incompetent discharge of a firearm. I won’t even talk about worst case. We can arrest the lot of you, or, the shooters can step forward and take responsibility. Somebody shot a man in the leg. Somebody blew the window out of a truck. And somebody shot a horse. I am not assigning guilt. You know who you are and we need to talk to you to get this thing sorted out. Accidents happen, but when you lose your cool, God probably doesn’t look kindly on it.” After a theatrical pause he added, “What will it be?”
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