"Sheriff?” Sondra said at last.
"Let's go,” Bobby Lutes said.
* * * *
"You were afraid of him,” Sondra said. They were in the prowlie, bouncing along the dirt track, headed for the highway.
"I'd be stupid if I wasn't some."
"But you've arrested him before."
"He was drunk then. He isn't today. Might have to shoot him to bring him in. Pile of paperwork, you shoot somebody."
"You think this is funny?"
"Nope, but I understand the situation a little better than you. Thing is, Heck's half right. The justice system's different up here. More like an old-boy network. Everybody knows everybody. The judge used to go fishing with Heck's grandfather. Fact is, if I arrest Heck over a paper bag, Harwell will definitely toss the case and we'll both look stupid. And you can't afford that."
She shifted in her seat, interested now, watching him.
"You must be pretty bright, Sondra, or you wouldn't be the first woman DNR agent-in-charge in this district."
"Which is precisely why I can't let this pass. Unless I draw a firm line with Baptiste, people will think I'm a pushover. Every officer in my section will be at greater risk because of that perception."
"Plus, he pissed you off."
"That too,” she smiled, brightening Bobby's day.
* * * *
Heck paused in front of the DNR field office, but didn't go in. Stalked down the hall to the sheriff's department instead. Open room, half dozen metal desks. Two deputies shooting the breeze by the coffee machine. Sheriff Bobby Lutes at the counter, sipping coffee from a white china mug. Waiting.
"Hey, Hector, what can I do for you?"
"Maybe tell me where my truck is. I go by to pick her up this morning, she's gone. Ol’ beater like that, nobody'd steal her. So I figure it's you."
"Dead right. Your pickup's in the city impound lot. Had it towed in yesterday afternoon."
"Why? You knew I'd get it. You let cars sit by the road couple weeks sometimes."
"Your truck was a traffic hazard, Heck. And an eyesore. The law says tow it after twenty-four hours."
"Any truck? Or just mine?"
"Hey, I'm not holding it, you can have it back. It did get a little banged up when the boys brought it in, though. And there's an impound fee plus the ticket for abandoning it. A hundred and sixty bucks all told. Will that be cash or check?"
"This ain't right, Bobby, and you know it. Guy like me, one sixty might as well be ten thousand."
"That's your problem, Heck. You had your little joke yesterday, today it's my turn. Like the song says, sometimes you're the windshield, sometimes you're the bug. From now on, you're a bug around here, Heck. You give me any more trouble, any excuse at all, I've got a cell in back with your name on it. We understand each other?"
"Sure,” Heck nodded slowly. “You know, if this is just you and me, we step outside, settle it. Have a beer after. But it's not you and me, is it? It's that DNR woman. Got your head turned around. You humpin’ her yet?"
"Watch your mouth."
"Didn't think so. I know some about women. She'll be a bum lay, that one. Cold to the heart. Better you bang away on your fat wife, Bobby, pretend she's that other one."
"I told you—"
"Watch my mouth, yah. No problem, I'm done talkin'. You want to settle this outside?"
"Are you threatening me?"
"Hell no, how I do that? Like you say, I'm just a bug. Buzzin’ like a black fly in August. You mostly work in a office so maybe you forget. You rile up bugs, sometimes they bite."
* * * *
Sondra unlocked the DNR field office, then ducked back, screaming, as something black whipped past her face, grazing her forehead. A woodland bat. Big one. A dozen or more zooming around the room, banging off the windows, the walls. The office was a shambles, papers scattered, lamps overturned. Gooey sprinkles of bat crap everywhere.
"Ah Jesus,” Leon Cobb said, moving past her. “Look at this mess."
"What's wrong?” Sheriff Lutes asked, helping Sondra up. “I heard you scream—Oh man."
"Baptiste,” Sondra spat, shaking off Bobby's help. “This time I want that sonofabitch arrested."
"For what?” Cobb asked.
"You know he did this,” Bobby said.
"Damn straight he did. Probably found a hollow tree, smoked the bats to sleep, bagged ‘em up, and dumped ‘em through a window. But how do we prove that, exactly? Bats can't testify."
"Whose side are you on?” Sondra demanded.
"Ours,” Cobb said mildly, “the DNR. But the fact is a lot of locals have it in for us. Any one of ‘em could've played this prank. All we know for certain is that we ticked off a Metis and now we've got an office full of bats."
"Any suggestions, Officer Cobb?” Sondra asked.
"For openers, don't waste your time trying to shoo the bats out, they'll just get more agitated and crap all over the place. Leave all the doors and windows wide open and eventually they'll clear out on their own."
"And how do we conduct business in the meantime?"
"We don't. We take the morning off, Miss—Agent Bergstrom. The bats should be gone by noon. Meanwhile, how about I drive out and talk to Heck?"
"Talk to him? I want him—"
"Look, he's not a bad guy. And speaking as a conservation officer, he's damned helpful sometimes. Pops coyotes and wild dogs that run deer, tracked down a couple illegal dumpers last year, had a heart to heart with ‘em. They never came back. Treats state land like it's his own. And maybe it is."
"Because he's part Indian, you mean? Nobody has free title to a piece of the planet just because they were born in a certain place or time. It belongs to all of us. But I can see why you're sympathetic. You're from this area aren't you?"
"McTeague County, born and raised."
"An officer stationed in one place too long can get too cozy with the locals, lose his objectivity. Perhaps you should think about a transfer, Officer Cobb. Or retirement."
"I do think about it, ma'am. A lot. Especially lately. But being friendly with the locals isn't always a bad thing. Let me talk to Baptiste."
"Go ahead, but if you can't handle him, I will. Clear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
* * * *
"You have to let it go, Hector,” C.O. Cobb said. They were at the small, hand-hewn kitchen table in Heck's cabin, sipping beers, front door open, autumn sunglow the only light.
"You got bat shit on your hat, Leon."
"It's all over the damned office. Very funny. I know it's just a game to you, Heck. It's not to them."
"Not so funny to me either, Leon. I been screwed. Committed no crime, hurt nobody. Snake kills my dog, you say I can't kill the snake. Bobby steals my truck, says fuck you. What's next? Wounded Knee?"
"All I know is Agent Bergstrom's been stationed here four months now. If she's got a heart, I've seen no sign of it. You keep messin’ with her, Heck, she'll find a way to seriously screw you over."
"Like how?"
"You hunt and trap on state land. Maybe your license gets misfiled or some pelt or other is on a restricted list. You could sit in jail a long time waiting to sort it out."
"Jail? For what?"
"For nothing, that's what I'm trying to tell you. Right and wrong won't have squat to do with it. So, how about it? We done with this? No more trouble?"
"Yah, I guess. Couple more hard frosts, the bats will fort up for the winter anyway. Then what? Skunks, maybe?"
"I'm serious, Heck."
"I know. Okay, Leon, no more trouble from them, they get no more from me. But know this,” Heck said, eyeing the C.O. over his beer. “I ain't goin’ to no jail, Leon. I'm not like them Indians at the Washita or Sand Creek. I'm Metis. Not so easy to kill."
"Nobody wants to kill anybody."
"Not yet. But I'm gettin’ there."
"Listen to yourself, talkin’ crazy. You've got a good life here, Hector. A free life. Don't throw it away over a godd
amn snake."
After Cobb left, Heck took his old Winchester thirty-thirty and a skinning knife, walked his trap line. Killed a coyote and a gray fox. Squatting in the aspen forest, cleaning the pelts, crisp leaves drifting down in the golden October afternoon, he thought about what Leon said about getting crazy.
And that night he dreamed. An old dream. Of the Miniconjou, dying in the snow. While a great snake watched from the sky. Woke, bathed in sweat, an hour before dawn. Couldn't fall back to sleep.
* * * *
Sondra Bergstrom was in her office when C.O. Cobb rapped once on the door frame. “Somebody to see you, boss."
Heck Baptiste stepped in. Clean flannel shirt, dark hair tied back in a ponytail.
"I surrender,” he said, smiling, raising his hands.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Leon talk to me yesterday.” Heck dropped into a chair facing Sondra. “Said to fix this thing before it gets too nuts. He's right. So I'm here. To make peace."
"I see. And what is it you want, exactly?"
"Nothing. That's the whole deal. No more trouble from me. I forget about my truck, you forget the dumb ass paper bag and them bats. We call it even. Okay?"
"I'm afraid it's not quite that simple,” Sondra said, bridging her fingertips, eyeing Heck across her perfectly shaped nails.
"Figured it wouldn't be. Okay, what you want me to do?"
"Admitting you're wrong is a good start, Mr. Baptiste. But it's more important that you grasp the situation. So you don't make the same mistakes again. The snake, for instance. Do you understand why you can't kill it?"
"I think I do. But you're gonna tell me anyway."
"The forest ecosystem is incredibly complex, like a giant television set. We don't understand how all the parts fit together, and if we keep removing them blindly, how long do you think it'll keep working?"
"You really think one little snake will break your big TV? Ever hike the back country? Big sinkholes there. Old mines. White men dug out the copper, ground collapsed, open craters now. Know what's in the walls of them sinkholes? Bones. Of old animals. Giant bears. Sloths. Even elephants."
"I believe you mean mammoths."
"If you say so. Lucky wasn't no DNR back then, eh? We'd be up to our butts in them elephants."
"Just because we can't save every creature doesn't mean we shouldn't try."
"But it ain't natural. Maybe that timber snake's supposed to die out. Like them elephants. Make room for something better."
"A convenient philosophy. For a trapper."
"C'mon, lady, the timber snake ain't dyin’ out because some Metis sets a few traps. It's got no place to live anymore. Too many freeways and houses and big ass farms. Rain forest cut down to make that desk you're sittin’ at. Unless we stop building on every square inch..."
He broke off, cocking his head curiously. Getting it. Understanding her smile, what it meant.
"This whole thing's just a shuck, isn't it? This office, your job. You don't give a damn about the snake or the forest or any of it. It's just a way you can wear a sharp uniform. Screw over people you don't like. People like me."
"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Baptiste, I've nothing personal against you, I'm just doing my job. But since we're obviously wasting each other's time, you know the way out."
Heck rose uncertainly, trying to think of a better argument. Some way to reach her. But there was nothing.
"I've always thought nature was hard,” he said, pausing in her office doorway. “The snow, the sinkholes, wolves. I was wrong. You're harder. It must be a terrible thing to be like that. Your whole life, I don't think you'll ever know a truly happy day."
"Is that some kind of Indian curse?"
"Nope, just a good guess. And anyway, I'm not Indian, I'm Metis. There's a difference."
"Not to me,” she said.
* * * *
Outside, Heck was tempted to drop into the Sailor's Rest. Needed a drink. But needed to think things through even more.
Started for home instead, shoulders hunched against the wind, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Chewing it over as he walked.
He'd tried to settle things peaceful. But couldn't do it. Because she didn't want peace. Or need it.
Worse, she didn't give a damn that he knew. If he hadn't guessed how things were, she probably would have told him herself. Just to see his face.
Which meant it might already be too late.
* * * *
Next day, Heck came out of the forest to find three cars parked in his yard, two McTeague County black-and-whites and a dark green DNR sedan. Men climbing out as he approached.
Sheriff Bobby Lutes and three deputies, holding shotguns. Plus C.O. Leon Cobb and A.I.C. Bergstrom.
"Hold it right there, Heck. Raise your hands,” Lutes said. At his nod, one of the deputies frisked Baptiste, took away his skinning knife.
"He's clean."
"Good. Got something for you, Heck,” Bobby said, handing him an envelope. “It's an eviction notice. This property's being seized for back taxes."
"That can't be. Joe Gesh left me this place when he died. He was Ojibwa, didn't have to pay no taxes."
"He never filed for an exemption as a Native American. The land reverted to the state six years ago. You're out, Heck. Today. Technically, everything on the property belongs to the DNR, but the administrator says she'll allow you to take any personal effects you can carry."
"She?"
"That would be A.I.C. Bergstrom there. I believe you're acquainted with the lady. Leave your firearms, though, Heck. I'm seizing those just to be on the safe side. You can come by the office and collect ‘em in a few weeks. If you're still around. And can prove ownership."
Heck didn't bother to answer.
"One other thing. I got an e-mail back from the Department of Homeland Security this morning. Your name's been officially entered on their watch list. Don't plan on visiting your relatives in Ontario anytime soon. From now on you'll need a passport. And getting one might be a little tough. If you try crossing as a tourist, they can hold you without charges for months."
"Sounds like you went to a lot of trouble."
"Nothing to it, really. Agent Bergstrom's a whiz at paperwork. Zipped it through. Right after she finished cleaning the batshit out of her office. Any questions, Heck? No? Then collect your gear and clear out. Now."
"You gonna come inside, help me pack, Bobby?"
"I'll go,” Officer Cobb offered.
Inside, Heck took a long look around. And a deep breath. Cobb picked up Heck's old Winchester, racked it twice, making sure it was empty.
"My grandfather gave me that rifle when I was a kid. How do I prove ownership now?"
"You can't. And all seized weapons are destroyed down in Lansing. Whacked up with a cutting torch."
"Jesus."
"Got a screwdriver, Heck? Take it apart, hide it in your bed roll. I'll cover for you."
"Thanks, Leon. My traps are in the woods, guess there's not much else I need. Bed roll, radio, maybe."
"I'm sorry as hell about this, Heck."
"Me too."
Ten minutes later, Heck stalked out of the cabin, his bed roll and personal gear neatly stowed in his backpack.
A deputy moved in to frisk him but C.O. Cobb waved him off.
"Let him go,” Lutes said.
Heck vanished into the forest without looking back. Seconds later, his cabin burst into flames. The lawmen circled it with handheld extinguishers, making sure the blaze didn't spread to the forest, but not trying to put it out either.
Letting it burn to the ground.
"Cobb, you knew Baptiste set that fire, didn't you,” Sondra said.
"Yes ma'am,” Leon admitted. “Helped him to do it."
"You're through. I want your retirement papers on my desk first thing in the morning."
"Yes ma'am. No problem."
* * * *
Snugging the old Winchester into his shoulder, Heck relaxed, settling himself down
. Elbows on a fallen log, he centered the buckhorn sights on the man walking across the Kmart parking lot. Eared back the hammer.
Bobby Lutes. Wearing civvies. His red jacket a perfect target.
Long shot. Two hundred yards, maybe two twenty. But not difficult for Heck. Rifle season was open now, armed flatlanders stomping all over the U.P. A stray round out of the forest? They'd never track him down. Might even write it off as an accident.
Either way, Bobby would never know what hit him. Heck kept the sights locked on him all the way to his car. Then slowly eased the hammer back down.
Damn. Couldn't. Not this way. Maybe because Bobby wouldn't know. Or at least that's what Heck told himself as he slid the rifle into its doeskin sleeve and faded back into the forest.
After his eviction, Heck set up camp deep in the bush of the Grand Sable Forest. Built a hogan, a log hut his ancestors knew well. Out near the old mines and their sinkholes. With the other dinosaurs.
For a few weeks, the effort of building his new camp kept him occupied. But soon he felt restless again. Edgy. Lonely. Even his radio got lousy reception in the copper country.
Missed Monday night football, cold beer. Getting hammered at the Sailor's. But knew he couldn't go back to McTeague. Not because he feared the law. He was more afraid of himself. And what might happen if he saw Bobby Lutes or the woman.
* * * *
Ex-Conservation Officer Leon Cobb made a better adjustment to his new life.
Caught up on chores the first few days, then went fishing. But not just anywhere. On the Haverstock. Which happened to be a favorite fishing spot of Judge Emil Harwell.
Lazy autumn afternoon, two old farts in waders and floppy hats fly fishing in the whispering river. Not talking much. But some. Sharing a taste from Leon's hip flask afterward. Catching up.
And later that evening, Judge made a phone call to an old college buddy in Lansing. And asked a favor.
* * * *
"It's the answer to a prayer,” Sondra said, hastily slipping on her brassiere, checking her hair in the bedside mirror. They were at the Super 8 motel outside Munising. Bobby Lutes leaned back against the pillows, fingers laced behind his head, listening to Sondra rattle on about her wonderful news. A transfer. Back to Lansing.
Lansing. The capital. Where the real action was. A world away from hicksville McTeague. And its sheriff. She didn't say that, of course. Didn't have to.
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