Blue Wolf In Green Fire

by Joseph Heywood

  “Describe the place.”

  “Would, I swear, but it’s dark as the woman’s soul and I’ve not been free of conjoinment until now.”

  “When will she move?”

  “Ah, the question of the day. Soon, if ebullience be an indicator. Mad as the hatter, she is, lubricated with wantonness all day, and this very moment she’s dancin’ about the caravan with her body painted red as blood, a veritable Boadicea. She’s been talking of taking the animal from under your noses, you see.”

  “Has she,” Service said in clipped words.

  “That’s the spirit, boyo. A spurt in the old competitive juices heightens the game, yes?”

  Carmody’s words were increasingly slurred. “Are you drunk?”

  “By your standards or mine?”

  “Jesus.”

  “Jaysus, indeed. Took a bit more than anticipated to tumble the lady’s gyroscope, but tumble it and her I did. Would you be wantin’ me to pinch her now?”

  Service quickly reviewed the case. With Carmody’s testimony, they would have Wealthy Johns paying for an illegally killed deer, and for conspiracy, but she had done nothing more they could clearly nail her with. She had lied about the fifty-caliber’s sale, but he wanted evidence of the poaching case in cement. Three wolves and a bear had been shot so far. How much more and who else was involved?

  “We need that fifty and her in the act,” Service said.

  “Aye and have it ye shall. Now I must return to duty—to kneel at the lady’s tiny feet, you might say!”

  “I don’t want her to take a shot,” Service said. “Carmody?”

  “Aye, I’m a shade pissed, not deaf. Professional to professional, can ye imagine another way for the likes of us to live, Grady-boy?”

  Moments ago he had been an amateur.

  “Relax, boyo. Carmody has things under control.”

  Service immediately went into the tent and looked for Limpy, but he was gone. What exactly could he have told the killer? That they were going to trap and collar the blue wolf? How many people he had with him? This was the limit. She would know they were following the blue, but not their plan. All he knew was their location and he had known that without all the trouble they had gone through. A finder’s fee, Carmody said. And what was that comment Carmody had made earlier, about the woman having finders? Shit. No wonder Limpy was being helpful. What warped game was the old bastard playing this time? Whatever it was, he would pay, Service promised himself.

  The group was assembled before first light near Aldo’s cave. Daysi reported she had been near the wolves all night and had heard sounds. “He was in pain,” she said, her voice cracking.

  Service went with Canot, Shark Wetelainen, Aldo, and Daysi to check the traps.

  The woman steered them to where she had heard the animals.

  Service snapped the red cover over his Mag-Lite and pointed it into the aspens, near a fallen log. The animal was a dark mass against the white snow, prone and pointed toward them, its front left paw caught in the trap. The snow and ground around the wolf had been torn up.

  “He didn’t much like it,” Canot said softly. “Don’t blame him,” adding, “Drag chain.”

  Service shifted the light and saw that one of the thick steel chains had been straightened like a piece of taffy stretched to breaking. The second chain seemed to be holding, but the wolf wasn’t really struggling. It lay still, its breath coming in short, furious bursts, its sides heaving. Its eyes were red slits under the flashlight beam, its ears flat, nostrils flared. Snow melted on its thick blue fur.

  The size was difficult to comprehend. “Bigger’n a by-God swamp buck,” Shark said in awe.

  “Fetch Yogi,” the tracker said, and Wetelainen loped away to get the biologist. The first hint of morning light was spreading across the eastern sky. The snow was still falling in dense dry flakes.

  Daysi knelt in the snow, five feet from the wolf, speaking to it in a quiet voice. Service couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  The color of the wolf’s pelt left Service reeling. It was bright blue in the rising light.

  “Your grandfather’s gone,” Service said to Aldo.

  “He was here.”

  “Did he call you on the radio?”

  The boy looked at him. “No. Just Daysi and I have radios.”

  Limpy had a radio. If he wasn’t talking to Aldo, then it had to be Wealthy Johns. Service felt his temper rising. “Did you talk to him?”

  The boy’s face hardened. “No, he made a grab at Daysi.”

  “A grab?”

  “You know how he is,” Aldo said, his voice dripping disgust.

  “Is she all right?”

  “She won’t talk about it.”

  “Daysi?” Service whispered.

  “Not now,” she said, pleading. “Our brother is frightened.”

  Service looked at the girl and the wolf and backed away. Fucking Allerdyce.

  Zambonet hardly paused when he reached the wolf. He carried his black poke-stick and looked at the animal. “One twenty?” he asked Canot.

  “More.”

  “One thirty?”

  “Heavier still.”

  “Jesus, Bobber.”

  “One forty—at least,” the tracker said.

  Zambonet shook his head, took a vial out of his drug bag, and filled the syringe, checking the level several times before he was satisfied. “This is a load,” he told Canot.

  “So’s this fella,” the trapper said with a nod at the wolf.

  “Okay, let’s get this show on the road,” the biologist said, circling the animal.

  The wolf kept its eyes on Daysi, who kept talking. The animal showed neither fear nor anger, seemed resigned to its fate.

  Zambonet braced a knee on the log, reached out with the poke-stick, and injected the animal in the haunch. It flinched but otherwise didn’t react.

  They all stood and watched. “Clock started,” Bobber Canot said, checking his wristwatch.

  When the animal looked incapacitated, Zambonet touched it with the blunt end of the poke-stick and got no response. He passed the stick to Aldo, knelt beside the wolf, took its scruff in one hand, slid his other arm under the massive animal’s back haunches, and tried to lift but couldn’t stand up. Canot joined him in supporting the animal’s rear and helped the biologist lift the animal. Service walked behind the two men as they stumbled under the animal’s weight through the snow toward the snowmobile, leaving tracks that resembled the twisting pattern of DNA.

  It was lighter this morning than yesterday, but still snowing. The wolf was placed on green canvas on the long, narrow seat of the snowmobile. Zambonet worked quietly, sliding on the head shroud, inserting the rectal thermometer, and installing the ear tag.

  “Temperature?” he asked Aldo.

  “One-oh-three.”

  “Okay, that’s good. Let’s try to keep it right there,” he added, patting the animal’s head.

  Aldo and Bobber helped him attach the scale to the canvas cover and lift the wolf. All of them strained under the weight.

  “One-four-eight,” Zambonet said. “We should have gone with another cc of ketamine,” he mumbled to nobody in particular.

  “You want to give him a boost?” Canot asked.

  “What’s his temp?”

  “One-oh-four,” Aldo said.

  “He’s doing fine,” the biologist said. “Let’s just get it done. Better for the animal to be underdosed than overdosed.”

  “A hundred and forty-eight pounds,” Canot said, adding a low whistle. “That’s thirty-four pounds more than our biggest one.”

  “And this one is still growing,” Zambonet said, peeling open its mouth to examine its teeth. “He’d be four, max.”

  Can
ot whistled. “Talk about pumping up the gene pool.”

  Zambonet used another syringe to draw blood and spun it down with the battery-powered device he carried in his wolf kit. He gave the sample to Daysi to store in a plastic bag.

  “Temp?”

  “One-oh-three,” Aldo said.

  “Good, great. Atta boy, almost done, big boy. Almost done.”

  Service felt a surge of respect for the biologist. These animals were much more than a job for the man. Yogi’s heart was in his wolves the way his own heart was in the Mosquito. Bobber Canot used a camera to snap photo after photo and Service thought about how some officers bitched about tracking down missing or dead wolves or taking complaints from the bird hunter or farmer who had lost a dog or calf. He decided he would never bitch about wolves. The animals were special and deserved all the support he could muster.

  The biologist took a skin scrape and administered two quick therapeutic injections, then squirted ointment into the wolf’s eyes. They carried the animal back to the trap site and set it down gently, where Zambonet immediately injected the animal again.

  “Yohimbine,” he said, not looking up. “It counters the ketamine.”

  Everything done, they backed away to wait and observe.

  At thirteen minutes the animal swished its tail and lifted its head. Two minutes later it used its massive front paws to push itself into a wobbly sitting position.

  Zambonet announced, “He’s gonna be just fine. Let’s go, let’s go.”

  They reassembled in camp. Zambonet and Shark would remain, Zambonet to handle radios and air cover, Wetelainen to cook and pitch in where needed.

  Service took Aldo and Daysi aside and looked the boy in the eye. “You have to keep Daysi away from your grandfather.”

  The boy nodded solemnly. “She can’t go to her people,” he said.

  “They don’t like Aldo,” Daysi said, clutching the boy’s arm. “He’s wa-bish.”

  Because he was white, or because he was an Allerdyce? Service wondered. Limpy had never been a friend of Indians.

  Service talked to DaWayne Kota, who said the girl could go to his sister’s place in Bay Mills and made a call to arrange it.

  “Aldo, your grandfather is working with a poacher who wants to kill the blue wolf.”

  The boy looked furious, but said nothing.

  Service, McCants, Turnage, Grinda, Kota, and Lee had spent a good portion of the previous evening working out their tactical plan. With the addition of the sheriff, Service altered the makeup of the teams. Grinda would join Gus and him. Lee, McCants, and Kota would comprise the second unit. After much discussion he decided it would be best if the surveillance teams stayed in place until they had contact or he decided it was not going to happen. Moving back and forth to camps in shifts for hot food and warmth would only increase their comfort and their chances of detection. They were just going to have to sit tight and endure.

  It was still snowing, but the temperature was not dipping below the low twenties at night and they had the gear and clothing needed to stay warm and to sit tight for an extended period. They packed food and water in their packs for three days, but would have to go without hot food. Last night he had talked around the specifics of the mission, but now he laid out the details.

  He told them about Wealthy Johns and Carmody, the fifty-cal, the three wolves, and the bear. Carmody was his undercover and would step in to seize the weapon before she could get off the shot; they were there in the role of observers and as backup for the federal agent, but if something went wrong, they would intervene. He did not reveal Allerdyce’s betrayal or Carmody’s background. He would deal with these on his own terms, in his own time.

  “Once we get into our hides, we stay put,” he said. “Let’s get it done,” was his final instruction.

  They were settled in by 10 a.m. Each team had a handheld radio, but was to maintain radio silence except for hourly check-ins, which were to consist solely of clicks. One click from him at nine minutes after every hour was to be followed one minute later by a two-click response from the other team. If and when it became apparent that the surveillance was a waste, he would use voice to pull the teams out.

  The temperature was just above freezing, the snow wet again and still falling hard, though he saw that it was beginning to come in waves, which suggested a break in the offing. He wished it would make up its mind.

  Service sat three or four yards from Gus; Grinda was a bit above them, watching a likely trail up the back of the ridge. She had picked a spot that allowed her a good sight line. By leaning slightly back she could see Service and give a hand signal. If she saw or heard something coming up the trail after dark she would flash a tiny red light attached to the zipper of her jacket. The beam would not carry, but could be seen by him.

  For the first hour he thought about Carmody and his background and shuddered to think he was depending on a former IRA thug to uphold the law. McKower had told him when he had been promoted that he had been put in the job because his cases always seemed to become inescapably complex. Well, she couldn’t blame the developments in this one on him. He was simply riding this wave.

  Gus Turnage had a white Hudson’s Bay blanket draped over his legs. Now and then he waggled a finger at Service to let him know he was alert. He and Gus had sat many a time and he had no doubts about his friend’s ability to stay focused and alert, but Grinda worried him because he hadn’t worked with her.

  It was dark before 4:30 p.m., the snow finally relenting. Service saw patches opening in the cloud cover to reveal an indigo sky and a few early stars. His eyes went to Orion the hunter, the three stars of the constellation’s belt standing out like a beacon.

  Around 9 p.m. Nantz checked in by cell phone.

  “The weather’s cleared up over here and Yogi wants us to fly. He wants a fix on the male.”

  “Roger,” he whispered. “One fix and outta here, okay?”

  Click-click, she answered.

  They briefly heard the Cessna pass overhead in the snow clouds an hour later.

  Nantz called back at 11 p.m.

  “Our bird’s back in the barn,” she said. “The male is stationary, about three hundred yards southwest of where you collared him,” she said, adding, “I do,” and hung up.

  Three hundred yards southwest: Shouldn’t the animals be moving? Or was the effect of the ketamine lingering?

  By 2 a.m. the cold was creeping up his legs through his boots, and he kept flexing his toes to maintain circulation. Twenty years ago he would have ignored the weather. Hell, five years ago.

  There was a clear sky with stars by 4:30 a.m., suggesting the sun would be bright in the morning. As the air warmed, there would be the sound of melting snow and falling ice.

  Another aircraft passed overhead moments after sunrise. Service tried to see it, but couldn’t. Probably Jesse Fulsik down from Houghton. Nantz would have called if it had been her.

  At 7:30 a.m. the top of the sun was a bright orange disk against a lavender-and-blue sky. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees after the sun came up.

  Thirty minutes after sunrise, Gus Turnage gave him a hand signal, pointing to the clearing below them. Service turned and saw the two wolves loping through the snow, plowing a trail with their chests, following the same path they had previously used.

  By midmorning the sun was warming everything, and the tallest, widest trees were beginning to noisily shed their snow.

  At 12:30 p.m. Service heard a gunshot behind the hill. It was difficult to judge a precise direction or distance from their position, but he had heard one distinct pop, a handgun, not a rifle.

  Grinda peered down at him and cupped a hand to her ear. He nodded.

  Gus gave a similar signal.

  At 1 p.m. Grinda gave another hand signal, pointing to the back slope o
f their hill. She then touched forked fingers to her eyes. She had seen someone or something. Service got Gus’s attention and relayed the message to him.

  A small figure in white camo slithered onto the outcrop below them and unfolded the tripod attached to the barrel of the black fifty-caliber weapon that looked taller than the figure. Service kept watching for ­Carmody, but there was no sign of him. The figure spread out an insulated ground cloth. Johns, Service told himself as she slid a single round into the breach, sighted the long-barrel weapon down into the clearing toward the wolf tracks, wriggled around to get comfortable, and spread her legs apart for balance. Where the hell was Carmody?

  The weapon was adequate reason to take her, but he waited for the undercover to show. It was not safe to move until he knew where everybody was.

  At 2:30 p.m. the woman pulled back the hood to her parka, rolled onto her left side, peeled off her balaclava, shook her head, and lay back. She had short black hair. Using binoculars, Service got a good look at her face and stared, dumbfounded, his heart pounding. Wealthy Johns was Kitty Haloran! Where was Carmody?

  Just before dark Service’s cell phone vibrated quietly in his pocket. He fumbled to get it out and snap it open.

  “Don’t say a word, boyo. I’ve had a bit of a setback here. The woman’s all yours.”

  A setback? Carmody’s voice was strained and weak. “Carmody?”

  “Ach, I told ya not to talk, ya daft Yank.”

  “There was a shot.”

  “I won’t be dancin’ again.”

  Service heard the pain in the man’s voice. “I never saw it comin’. So who’s the amateur?” Carmody said with a grim laugh.

  “Where are you?”

  “Never you mind, keep your head in the job, lad,” Carmody said, hanging up.

  Service knew he had to get someone to the man. Carmody would be bleeding, and if the wounds were even moderate, shock and exposure could kill him. Grinda was in the best position to move over the back of the hill and backtrack, but he knew Gus could move silently and leave no sign. He crawled over to his friend.

  “Carmody’s been shot,” he whispered. “Backtrack her trail and find him. If she starts to come down, we’ll stop her. Try to get him back to camp and call for help.”