Ice Hunter

by Joseph Heywood

  “You’re out, Limpy, but I can park your ass right back inside.”

  “My kin is my business.”

  “You had an arrangement with my old man. Now we’re going to have one, you and me. You give me information and I’ll guarantee the cops get Jerry’s killer. You’re out, but if you get out of line, you’re going back in.”

  “You mean not even the occasional chop of high-speed beef?”

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  “I don’t like depending on others,” Limpy said.

  “That makes two of us. You’re out for the moment, but it’s up to you to keep it that way.”

  Limpy popped the tab of a beer and took a long pull. “I don’t wanna go back inside, eh? But I won’t wait forever. Family means something. I don’t got much else.”

  “You find something out, you tell me.”

  “I’ll do ’er, but mark my words, not forever.”

  Limpy wanted to be dropped on a two-track so he could hike cross-country into his compound to arrive unannounced. The old man took the empty beer cans with him.

  “Dime’s a dime, eh?” Michigan had a deposit law for bottles and cans.

  Allerdyce was a hard case, but he had some values. If his old man had worked with Limpy, he could too. A CO didn’t have to like someone to work with them. You learned this early or perished, and it didn’t hurt to remind yourself from time to time. In the years ahead Limpy could be a useful source. Maybe. Right now he needed to find Jerry’s killer and make sure Limpy didn’t skulk off with revenge in mind. There was too damn much going down.

  A green double-cab truck was pulled into his yard. Betty Very was sitting on his porch with a thermos of coffee.

  “You look like crap,” she said.

  The scars on her face were magenta. Said she wouldn’t have plastic surgery until she retired. Why get it done only to have to get it done again? At six feet and 180, she was physically imposing, a big woman with square lines, no fat, and the legs of a pulling guard.

  “You didn’t have to drop the envelope here.”

  “Stop bitching.”

  He laughed. “How’s Bearclaw?”

  “Sick as hell of blackies. I’m thinking about giving the critters contraceptives.”

  He smiled and accepted the envelope.

  “Take care,” he said as she got up to leave.

  “The less time I have to spend at HQ, the better I like it,” Very said.

  “You hear anything about McKower getting Rollie’s job?”

  “It’s mostly speculation. She passed the LT exam.”

  “Well, I hope she gets it,” Very said. “As a rule, I don’t like dinky women in these jobs, but McKower works bigger than she looks.” He gave her a print from Nantz’s roll and asked her to drop the photo with Turnage on her way home.

  When she was gone, he opened the envelope and removed the photograph.

  “Fuck!” Fox was the shooter, not Kerr. Had he been snookered by Limpy?

  Limpy was surprised to see him again so soon. He shuffled barefoot onto the porch in soiled, striped boxers. “Now what?”

  Service showed him the photograph. “That’s not Kerr.”

  Allerdyce glanced at the picture. “So?”

  “This guy took a shot at me.”

  “I never saw this asshole before.”

  “You bullshitted me.”

  “Don’t be blowin’ no gasket.”

  “You’re going back in.”

  Limpy looked shaky, yelled into the screen door, “Honeypat, bring us beer, woman.”

  “I don’t drink on duty,” Service said.

  “Your old man did.”

  “And it cost him his life, too.”

  Honeypat came out with beer cans in hand. “Hey,” she said, “Limpy told me you got him cut loose. That was real nice of you.”

  “He’s going back.”

  The beers fell to the floor, shooting foam onto Limpy’s feet.

  “Hold on just a damn minute!” Limpy snapped. “I give you my word, and Limpy don’t break his word.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I said I knew Kerr. The picture ain’t Kerr.” He turned to Honeypat and said, “Scoot your ass inside.”

  Service wanted to smack him but refrained.

  “Where’s Kerr?” Service asked.

  “Figure it out: Jerry’s dead and Kerr done disappeared.”

  “He ran.”

  “’Course he ran. He’s a con and they was on his tail. But guys like Kerr, they don’t run for for long. He ain’t been seen, so maybe he ain’t findable. You following me?”

  “Talk plain.”

  “Maybe Kerr got himself whacked too.”

  Service rubbed his face, sat down. “I guess I will take that beer.”

  “Honeypat,” Limpy barked. “Get your sweet ass back out here.”

  “I give you my word, sonny,” he said to the CO. “Limpy ain’t worth beans, but his word is.”

  Another game? Service’s instinct said no. This seemed to be from the heart, an earnest little black heart. He suspected Allerdyce would now do anything to stay out of prison.

  “Shoulda got yourself a mug shot,” Allerdyce said. “You brung me a picture and I give you a name and you added one and one and got thirteen or something. I never said it was Kerr in that picture of yours. You screw up, don’t come rattling my chain.”

  He hated to admit it, but Limpy was right. He should have gotten a mug shot to compare with Nantz’s photo.

  “I’m sorry,” Service said.

  Allerdyce flashed a crooked grin. “You’re a lot like that old man o’ yours, sonny.”

  Honeypat brought two more cans of beer. She patted Limpy’s head, said, “I’ll be waiting,” and went back inside.

  Limpy’s sleeping with his daughter-in-law was sick. Service took a beer and drank. It was tepid. More and more he was like his old man. He wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or depressed. Would his old man have missed checking a mug shot? He doubted it. The old man was hell on mistakes, his or anybody else’s.

  Jerry Allerdyce had been murdered in the Tract. Limpy had tried to setup Kerr and Jerry. Had they connected? Fox had been in the Tract, and taken a shot at Nantz and him. Too damn many coincidences to ignore. So where was Fox now? All this had to be connected.

  He thanked Limpy for the beer and called Nantz on the way out of Limpy’s.

  “How’s the shoulder?” she asked.

  “It hurts. Are you up for company tomorrow?”

  She laughed happily. “Dumb question, Service. What’s wrong with tonight?”

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, bright and early,” he said. She was a pip.

  He drove south to Escanaba and the Delta County Sheriff’s Department and asked one of the deputies in the dispatching office to pull a mug shot of Kerr off the state computer. Service stuck the photo in his pocket, went home and fed Newf and Cat, and spent a restless evening thinking about Kerr and Jerry Allerdyce.

  18

  Nantz was surprised when Service pulled up to her house and told her to get her gear. Newf sat in the space behind the seats and hung her head over, seeking Nantz’s attention. As they drove northeast, he told her everything about Limpy, Kerr, the whole thing, start to finish. She listened attentively and asked no questions.

  They were in the Mosquito Tract again. As it usually did, yesterday’s rain had cleaned the landscape, washing away prints and signs.

  They secured the truck, took their packs, and hiked back into the area where he had found the odd pipe protruding from the ground. Newf ranged ahead of them, crisscrossing their path.

  “Definitely a well,” she said, with no more than a cursory glance at the pipe.
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  “How can you be so certain?”

  “It’s not rocket science, Service. Look at the weld, type of pipe. That dates it.”

  How did she know so much? “Dates it to when?”

  “It’s Scorzi pipe, which was used in the fifties.”

  “You weren’t born then.”

  “Dad’s agency handled more than GM. I used to go to trade shows with him. It’s Scorzi pipe, commonly used for wells. What are we looking for?” Nantz asked.

  “I’m not sure,” which was technically true, but not entirely accurate. Jerry Allerdyce had been dumped in the fire. There had been a definite attempt to cover up, but it wasn’t the work of a pro. This killer was an amateur. With a pro, you rarely found bodies.

  They searched methodically.

  Service saw a coyote trot by, tail down, glance over its shoulder at them, and keep going. Newf also saw the animal, but looked at Service. He told her to ignore it and she did.

  East of the pipe area there were dozens of ravens in pin oaks. The birds were black and shiny, as if they had been recently polished. Ravens roosted in groups at night, but usually split up by day.

  Guard birds squawked warnings, tree to tree. A din of discordant sounds echoed through the woods. There was nothing pretty about a raven’s voice, he thought. Maybe they were telling jokes. No way to know. Only Indians claimed to speak raven.

  Nantz was advancing along the edge of a semi-open area, ferns up to her thighs, when he signaled for her to stop.

  There were lots of messengers in the woods if you knew how to look and listen. Parents taught their kids to cross streets this way: Stop, look, listen. It was the same proposition out here. What were the ravens saying today?

  A few of the black birds fluttered down toward the ground ahead, then lifted up, spewing feathers. Back and forth, up and down. They seemed to be expending energy for nothing. Birds and animals seldom wasted efforts. He waited and watched as they flitted about. Nervous birds? Curious was more like it.

  About what?

  He pointed and Nantz nodded and started walking again. They merged in the woods, walked through some cedars and paper birches toward a blackwater swamp.

  “What’s wrong?” she wanted to know.

  “Ravens don’t flock by day.”

  “I do,” she said. Then, “Oh, you said ‘flock.’ ”

  He laughed.

  She looked ahead and squinted. “Ravens. They like dead stuff, easy pickings on the roadsides. Fast food.” Her pale green shirt was damp with sweat.

  He nodded. What were the birds thinking about? Hoping for something? No, animals didn’t have hope. Animals dealt solely with facts. Except Newf. It was too early to tell about her.

  The swamp turned out to be a pond made by beavers. In other parts of the U.P. the DNR spent a lot of time dynamiting beaver dams, but not here in the Tract. The birds were clustered in trees ringing the edge of the water.

  Nantz looked down at the still black water and made a face. “Loonshit bottom,” she said.

  Service slid off his pack, and took out nylon rope, moving deliberately. He fixed the rope in two loops, using carabiners. Bought by him, not the DNR.

  “You’re going in that?” she asked.

  “Think I have to,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. All I know is something is telling me to do this.”

  “Let me do it,” she said. “I’m lighter.”

  “I’m taller,” he said, countering.

  “I’m more buoyant.” She cupped her breasts with her hands and lifted for emphasis.

  He grinned. “The water will be cold.”

  “Women have extra fat to insulate them.”

  “You don’t.”

  “A compliment, Service? God almighty. How about this, I have two good shoulders.”

  “There’ll be leeches,” he said, as he took a rope from his pack and began tying a large loop and two smaller ones off the main one.

  She blinked and held up her hands. “You win.”

  They both laughed. He stripped to his skivvies, placed one leg in each of the small loops and fastened the larger one around his waist, securing it with a half hitch to a metal carabiner. He anchored the rope to a tree and stretched it out toward the water. “If I get stuck,” he said, “I’ll pull myself out.”

  “If you get stuck, I’ll empty the whole damn swamp to get you out,” Nantz said.

  He got himself a long stick, held the rope in one hand, and waded in one tentative step at a time. He had never been crazy about water, even when it was clear and clean. When his feet dug into the muddy bottom, a terrible smell rose to the surface. From the waist down he was freezing in muck. His stick hit weeds, debris, the usual stuff in beaver ponds.

  He moved deliberately, sweeping ahead with the stick like a blind man, probing for obstructions, finding plenty, mostly rotting logs, under water a long time, nature recycling itself.

  It was hard work. Freezing below, sweating on top.

  Nantz watched in silence, not taking her eyes off him.

  He was on the verge of getting out to warm up when his probe hit something solid.

  Nantz yelled, “You’re going to freeze.”

  He took a deep breath and dropped quietly below the surface, following the stick down, using his hands to feel around, then surfaced, blowing water.

  Nantz moved toward the edge of the bank.

  “There’s another rope in my pack. Throw it to me,” he said when he popped to the surface. Rope in hand, he slid under the water again, and when he came up sputtering and pulling himself hand over hand along the rope anchored to the tree on shore, his legs splayed behind him, a frog with no kick. His injured shoulder burned. Nantz helped him onto shore and felt his legs. Newf bumped against him. Service stretched his aching shoulder and winced, then stood and began hauling the second rope. A yellow saw eventually came to shore dripping black muck. He pulled the chain saw onto the bank and stepped back into the water. He went to the end of his rope and began diving, staying down for short periods before surfacing for air. “I can’t see down there,” he said. “I have to feel my way.”

  Twenty minutes later he came ashore.

  “You’re blue,” she said, rubbing his legs vigorously. “What’s down there?”

  “A body,” he said. Kerr, perhaps, but he kept this to himself.

  “Jesus,” she said. “Now do we call the county?”

  “I guess there’s no choice this time. The muskrats and fish will eat the evidence. If there is any.”

  Two bodies to account for now. He had a strong feeling that this body was Kerr. It had to be Kerr. Both men had presumably been working together. If so, where was Fox? If this was Kerr, why wasn’t he killed at the fire with Jerry? Allerdyce, the ridgerunner, was not too bright, but Kerr was a hard con. Kerr would smell out a threat or double cross and make a break. This could explain the distance from the log slide, and Jerry’s body. But if this was Kerr, Fox had been able to run him down and finish him. Fox knew the woods, how to track, a pro at finding and an amateur at killing, a dangerous combination.

  “No leeches,” Nantz said.

  “What?”

  “No leeches.”

  “I guess I was lucky,” he said.

  “Liar,” she shot back.

  They hiked back to the truck and waited for the county, whose people responded quickly, bringing recovery gear. As he knew they would, they looked to Service to recover the body. COs invariably drew this duty: accidents, suicides, murders, kids, adults, it didn’t matter who or what. If you were a woods cop, you were supposed to be able to find and fetch bodies from the woods. They led the people from the sheriff’s department to the pond. Service put on a dry suit and harness and began the grisly work. The
body was stiff and blue and bloated. Cold water helped preserve remains, but the fish and other aquatic animals had started in on it. The dead man was shot in the back, same as Jerry. Fingerprints and teeth would confirm the identity, but he already knew it was Kerr.

  They told the cops the find was accidental, which was technically true, but not the whole story. A fib would have to suffice until he could figure things out, see where to take this thing next.

  They looked at the body in silence.

  “No leeches on him either,” Nantz observed sarcastically.

  “They prefer live flesh,” he said.

  “I didn’t need to hear that,” she said, making a sour face.

  Service pulled into Nantz’s driveway. She invited him in for a shower and hot coffee, but a call came in from Joe Flap, his cellular patched through to Service’s radio. Nantz went inside.

  Flap’s radio technique had been honed over decades. He understood the lack of security over the cellular and reported, “Nobody home, but the blackbird is in good shape.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Nope, just got myself lost like a flatlander and walked up to the place to get directions, which could happen to any dumb bastard from down below, right?”

  “Right,” Service said. Flap knew all the tricks.

  “You want me to stay put?”

  “I’ll meet you.” Flap explained where they should meet and they broke off the call.

  Nantz came out of the house.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  “You need rest. Your eyes are sunk in your head and you have a weird stare.” She gave him a kiss. It started as chaste, on the cheek, but she moved her mouth to his and they locked on, the effect that of a red-hot poker shoved sharply into his brain, blurring his vision. He was left with near-total disorientation, a first: carnal vertigo.

  “I’m not leaving forever,” he told her.

  “I just guaranteed that,” she said.

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

  “A lot of people say the same thing about you,” she said.

  He had no idea what would come from his meeting with Flap, but suspected a stakeout was in the offing. “Could you take Newf?”