Ice Hunter

by Joseph Heywood

Ninety minutes later del Olmo radioed him. “Our boy is back,” he said. “He landed in a helicopter at the compound about nine. The engines are shut down. They’re attaching a pallet now.”

  “Did Fox fly it in?” Service asked.

  “Ike Knipe had the stick. What now?”

  Another link. Knipe was a chopper pilot. It was unlikely they would risk a night flight. “Call me when they lift off. It will probably be around first light.”

  “Later, jeffe.”

  Service’s exposed skin had become a patchwork of welts from mosquitoes. He used no bug dope, no smoke, no scents to keep the bugs off or give him away. Fox was an amateur killer, but woodswise. Blend in, wait. Around midnight Service moved to the river and splashed himself to reduce body odor.

  Time inched along. Service kept checking his wristwatch, cautioning himself to be patient and not overfocus on the terrain. Most hunters made the mistake of tensing up and concentrating too hard, but if you were hidden and if you were still, there was no need. He’d see what he came to see when it was time. Probably he would feel it even before he saw it.

  Settling in, he set his watch alarm and allowed himself to slide into sleep.

  The voice startled him. “Hey, kid. When you hit the edge, follow a straight line.”

  “I know my job.” Was the voice real or inside his head?

  “Don’t fuck up,” his old man said. “The way I did.”

  “I don’t talk to ghosts,” Service said out loud.

  “What ghosts?”

  The old man had been superstitious. “Go away. I don’t have time for this bull.”

  “This is how you treat your dearly departed old man?”

  “Beat it.”

  “Wherever you go, they got rules, son. You gotta learn how to bend ’em, but not break ’em.”

  “You broke plenty.”

  “No way, kid. Not one, not once, leastways none of the important ones. You know me better than that.”

  This was crazy. “What the hell do you want?”

  “To see my son kick some ass. Is that a crime?”

  “Okay, you’ve seen me. Now leave me be.”

  “My son, the hardass. You know what you have to do here?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “Good boy. I’m proud as hell of you, Grady. I shoulda said that a long time ago. Finish your check, kid. Stick this s.o.b. good.”

  Dream, hallucination? Either way, it was a first. It sure sounded like the old man, though. Service grinned. Cracking up. Nut case, son of the alky.

  What time was it? Wait till morning. Don’t move. Finish the check.

  McKower called on the cellular just before midnight. “You were right, Grady. A permit was issued for the Tract.”

  Service’s anger rose. “It’s against the law.”

  “The governor is going to issue an executive order and let special interests fight it out in court. He says the diamond business is too important to ignore. The permit allows for exploration only.” Lemich had made it clear that exploration would in itself be a major operation.

  “Have the permits been signed?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You have to stop it. We can eliminate Knipe and Wildcat, but if the permits get signed, the precedent will let others in. This cannot be allowed to happen, Lis.”

  “You’re asking for the moon, Grady.”

  “There’s a lot at risk, Lieutenant McKower.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Grady. Where are you?”

  “In the henhouse,” he said.

  He could not sleep all night. Every time he moved to change position his shoulder ached.

  The eastern sky began to lighten to a pale lavender at 5 a.m.

  The radio crackled at 6:20 a.m.

  “This is Simon. They’ve just lifted off.”

  “They?”

  “Knipe, Fox, and two others.”

  “Thanks, Simon.”

  “Be careful,” was all the younger CO said.

  The air was fresh and still, no hint of rain. Mosquitoes walked on his ears and neck and he swatted them quietly. Fox had to be headed here and when he came, he would nail him, but what about the diamonds in the river? He needed to shut it all down, everything. Lis had said, No diamonds, no problems. Where the hell was Nantz?

  Rays of twilight glowed faintly in the eastern sky. Three deer walked past him and spooked when they caught his scent.

  The sun rose into a clear sky. Estimating an hour’s flight time, Service moved east to get the rising sun at his back. Every little edge mattered.

  Service heard ravens awaken. Wild turkeys talked on their roosts along the river to his west. A small bear lumbered by in the direction of the beaver pond where they had found Kerr. Several deer grazed past him, unalarmed by his scent.

  At 7:30 he heard thrump-thrump, a distant sound, disturbed air, beaten air, turmoil boiling above. You could feel a chopper before you heard it, feel it in your bones. Air movement preceding sound, past intercepting future, forming the present.

  Chopper.

  LZ-bound? Listen and feel.

  Wait. There. He felt his adrenaline rising.

  Watch.

  The chopper grew louder and appeared suddenly, its rotor wash whipping the trees, spraying leaves and detritus. He watched it hover while Fox and the other men quickly deployed the pallet and winched the cables into spools in the helicopter’s belly. He hoped McKower could stop the permits from being signed, but he was not going to be able to wait.

  When the bird landed, Fox and Knipe shook hands, and Knipe and the other men got back into the Huey.

  Twenty-three minutes after touchdown the chopper lifted away.

  Only Fox remained, sitting on a canvas bundle, an M-16 slung tightly over his back, drinking a can of beer.

  Fox was sixty feet away, with his back to the sun. Service left his pack and crawled slowly forward, his eyes alternating from the ground just ahead of his knees in the dewy ferns to Fox.

  Twenty feet.

  Ten.

  Fox swiveled and shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand. He looked tense and suspicious as he stared into the glare. Finally he shrugged and took another slug of beer.

  Amateur, Service thought.

  Five feet.

  Finish the check.

  Fox sat still, unaware.

  Service rose to his feet and took two steps forward, his hands poised.

  Grabbing the stock of the slung rifle, he pulled hard and twisted, hauling the killer off his perch.

  Fox’s beer can made a burping sound when it hit the ground, spewing foam.

  Service jammed the man’s face into the ground and got a knee on the back of his neck. Twisting one arm behind him, he attached one of the cuffs, then pulled the other wrist behind Fox and with a sharp click, the bracelet was on. Service gave the handcuffs a tug to make sure they were secure.

  With Fox face down and neutralized, Service popped the clip out of the M-16 and stuffed it in his pocket. He used his belt knife to sever the leather sling and tossed the rifle away.

  “What the fuck?” Fox asked in a muffled gasp as he fought for air.

  “Save your breath.” Service felt fire in his shoulder again and cursed silently. As he rolled Fox over, he stood up and stared into the killer’s eyes.

  “DNR. You’re under arrest.”

  “Where did you come from?” Fox muttered.

  “I grew here.”

  He sat across from his prisoner, too tired to move, hurting beyond description. He turned on his tape recorder, took out his cheat sheet, read Fox his rights, and wrote the time in his notebook, D805.

  He activated his handheld radio. “Delta County Sheriff, this is DNR 421. I ha
ve a murder suspect in custody. Request transfer.” He added his coordinates.

  “Can you get out to a road?” the dispatcher asked.

  “No way.” It was time for the county do some work. He suggested the fastest route to the site and left his radio in receive mode. Fox stared and said, “You fucking people are crazy!”

  Service was weary. “You think we’re crazy? Wait till Limpy Allerdyce gets here.”

  “He’s in Jackson,” Fox said smugly.

  Service smiled. “I got him out.”

  Fox blinked, looked shaky, and began to talk. “I didn’t do this alone.”

  “Save it for your lawyer. My tape recorder is on, so you’d better be careful what you say.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Fox said. “I did just what old man Knipe wanted. Don’t let Allerdyce near me.”

  “Which Knipe?”

  “Ikey doesn’t shit, his father don’t tell him to.”

  “The Knipes were part of your Pelkie deal too?”

  “Seton’s idea, start to finish.”

  “And now you’re here.”

  “Ike says there are stones here, not in Crystal Falls.”

  Service grunted. He’d had enough. “Gonna be murder one for you, pal.”

  “I’m not taking the fall alone.”

  Service made a quick decision. If Ike Knipe returned in the helicopter and found Fox gone, he could spook. Service radioed del Olmo. “I’ve got Fox. Don’t let that chopper take off again.”

  “Roger, do we arrest Ike?”

  “Yes, and no phone calls for him until I get there, understood? I don’t want him talking to his old man.”

  “Thy will be done,” del Olmo said. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  Fox would make a deal, even if Knipe got him a lawyer. Check finished. Almost.

  “These cuffs are too tight,” Fox complained.

  “Shut up,” Service said. “I need sleep.”

  “I’m wide awake,” Fox said.

  Service drove the heel of his hand hard into the side of Fox’s head, knocking him groggy. “That’s for shooting at Nantz and me,” he said.

  Striking a prisoner. The old man never broke a law. He did. So it went. Different time, different scumbags. He was a cop, not a Boy Scout.

  Service stared at the murderer. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite, asshole.”

  McKower called while he waited for support from Delta County.

  “The permits are not going to be signed,” she said.

  Service exhaled in relief.

  “What’s your status?” she asked.

  “I have Fox. I’m waiting to transfer him.”

  “Great job. What about the Knipes?”

  “Del Olmo will take Ike Knipe and I will personally see to his father.”

  21

  The Crystal Falls police chief’s name was Pallaviano. He was a tall man with long hair and a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard that made him look more like a logger than a cop. He wore a T-shirt; his badge dangled around his neck from a purple shoestring.

  Pallaviano and del Olmo met Service late in the afternoon at the Jewel of Iron County—the Romanesque county courthouse that sat atop Superior Street, overlooking the Paint River Valley. They met with a judge named Hjalmquist. Pallaviano made a brief introduction and Service quickly outlined the evidence, finishing with the tape of Fox’s confession.

  Fox was housed temporarily in the Delta County Jail; Ike Knipe was in Iron County’s facility. It was time to move against Seton Knipe before the arrests hit the news.

  “Seton Knipe is well connected,” the judge cautioned.

  “Not for long,” Service said.

  The judge signed the warrant and a writ allowing them to search Knipe’s house, Fox’s place in Crystal Falls, and the Wildcat compound outside town.

  Service, del Olmo, Pallaviano, and one of his deputies drove to Knipe’s house, which was perched on a steep hill above Mastodon Creek near Buck Lake, south of the old mining village called Alpha. It was dark when they got to the house, which sat above them.

  “No fence,” Service said. And no shrubs or trees around the place, which meant no cover.

  “This ain’t fence country,” Pallaviano reminded him.

  Service didn’t like the looks of the place. Anybody in the house would see the headlights of approaching vehicles.

  “It’s your bust,” Pallaviano said magnanimously. “You’ve earned it.”

  Service shook his head. “Take Simon and serve the warrant.”

  Pallaviano looked surprised. “And you?”

  “Leave your man with the vehicles and I’ll go around back and come up from behind.”

  “You’re one of those overly suspicious types?”

  Service laughed. The Knipes had bailed out of Pelkie and didn’t seem the kind of people to willingly face the music, unless they were the conductors. The CO circled the house through jagged rocks that made for slow and tricky footing. His shoulder ached and every time he used his right arm for balance, pain shot through him.

  There were no lights in the citadel above.

  In back he could hear Mastodon Creek tumbling lazily along. Pallaviano had to be at the door by now, but the house remained dark.

  Not a good sign.

  The CO climbed down through the rocks to the creek’s edge. Caddisflies were thick in the night air, and a couple of small trout were splashing the surface as they grabbed at emergers. Service edged north and saw the shadow of something in the water. It was more than a plank and less than a bridge. He used it to cross the creek. A narrow trail led from the water’s edge on the other side up to a flat area and a low cinder-block building with two garage doors and no windows.

  He stood in darkness against the side of the building. After ten minutes he saw lights come on in the house and from the direction of the creek heard shoe leather scuffing gravel. The shuffling was slow and halting.

  “Evening,” Service said when the man drew close.

  “Who in blazes are you?” a startled voice asked.

  “Mister Seton Knipe?”

  “Who the hell else would I be?”

  “Did you talk to Sheriff Pallaviano?”

  “I don’t chew the fat with wops.”

  Service turned on his flashlight and the old man raised an arm to block the beam.

  “Turn that thing off.”

  “Mister Seton Knipe, you are under arrest.”

  “Is that a fact?” The old man was not easily intimidated. Service activated his tape recorder.

  “Yessir.”

  “I expect it’s my son you want. He runs things.”

  “Is that so?”

  “He did it all.”

  “All what?”

  “That diamond business.”

  “You knew about it, but did nothing to stop him? That’s conspiracy at a minimum.”

  Knipe coughed. “I want my lawyer.”

  “You’re gonna need him,” Service said.

  While the elder Knipe was being processed into the Iron County Jail, Service went to see Ike Knipe in his cell.

  “You,” Ike said, his face betraying surprise.

  Ike obviously remembered the night they had met in the Tract.

  “Your father says the whole deal was yours and that he had nothing to do with it. He called a lawyer for himself, but not one for you.”

  Service turned on the tape of his conversation with Seton Knipe.

  Ike glowered. “That bastard.”

  “Fox says it was all your old man’s doing and that you both just followed orders.”

  So much for familial bliss. Seton would sing. Ike would sing. Fox would keep singing. A jury would h
ear the tune and name it in three notes. It would be a hit—for the Mosquito Wilderness. He hoped his father was watching.

  22

  McKower sat behind her metal desk, her hands primly folded on the blue paper blotter. She looked distinctly unhappy. At least Captain Ware Grant wasn’t with her. Grant, the U.P.’s law boss, was a straitlaced, by-the-book iron jaw who had once been in army intelligence.

  Service made a show of checking his watch as he stepped into her cubicle. “Hey, I’m even on time.”

  “Sit down, Grady.”

  Not a request; a calm order, in her somber in-charge demeanor.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “If they were doing psychological profiles back when you joined, they wouldn’t have hired you.”

  Uh-oh. “They wouldn’t hire the people who made up the tests either. What’s that tell you?”

  McKower’s head moved slowly, side to side. “You have made a shambles of law enforcement jurisdictions.”

  “This isn’t the old days. Jurisdictions are approximate now. We all share. We ebb and flow, cooperate.”

  “Don’t play semantic games.”

  “I don’t play games,” he said, defending his honor.

  “Not the ones you should play,” she said.

  Okay, the blow was coming. “Spit it out, Loot.” Was she enjoying this?

  “If the lawyers in Lansing could figure a way you wouldn’t sue the state, you would be out and unemployed.”

  Service said, “I’d never sue.”

  “They don’t know that,” McKower said. “To them you are a loose cannon capable of anything. Lansing hates unpredictability.”

  Lansing, not their DNR bosses. “Hell, Lis. It was you who squeezed Bozian’s balls.”

  She looked across the desk at him for a long time. “It wasn’t me, Grady. Somebody else got to him—and just in time.”

  Service winked. “Right, LT.”

  “It’s the truth, Grady. Somebody got Bozian to withdraw his support, but it wasn’t me.”

  If not McKower, who?

  “Lansing would terminate you, but you solved two murders and a host of other crimes and they can’t ignore that or sweep it away. But they want you punished and I quote, ‘put in his place,’ end quote.”