Those not in the know were under the opinion that the Quad was some sort of gathering place for an amazing array of outlaws and lowlife characters. It was far from that. This area’s camps tended to be large, their owners serious hunters, and most landowners had the resources and power to get their way on just about anything that money could affect, which meant just about anything. With one exception: A hunter on public land got no less fair treatment from conservation officers than landowners with four sections and obese bank accounts. To a game warden, equality meant something real and tangible about your actions in the woods, not your credentials in some other venue.
His having unexpectedly come into substantial wealth had not altered his personal and fundamental belief that money was either a weapon or a tool, depending on who wielded it, how, and to what end. His own money rarely scratched his thoughts. But he knew others used money as the sole gauge of quality of life, and this belief sometimes took certain individuals into some strange territory.
They were in their seventh camp of the day, checking deer on buck poles, hearing nimrod hero tales the tellers were certain were unique in the annals of hunting but which Service had heard so many times he could have given the new tellers their own blow-by-blow. It was to the point now that he’d rather hear the story of someone’s hemorrhoid surgery than some blowhard’s William Tell shot “swear to God” made on a doe from 290 yards. “I paced it off myself, through a small tunnel of branches moving in the breeze, and I had just one shot, and I . . .” It was so damn predictable and boring. Ho-fucking-hum. And this baloney not from knuckle-dragging wood ticks so much as some CEO from Chicago with a vacation villa in Martinique and a winter place in Tucson, and all he could talk about was a pitiful doe he shot in such a way he now imagined he could have had a career as a military sniper. As if that one shot through a black spruce tangle put him on the list of hunting’s top ten accomplishments. Disgusting.
Today they had seen some questionable things, but nothing that overwhelmed or called out for the steely cold hand of justice. It was just another morning in hunting season in the U.P., a stretch of time where they made contact with fifty-six people (which he kept count of with hatch marks on a notepad). The current politically appointed leader of the DNR had decided that all of his employees needed to count the number of people they interacted with daily in order to create a sort of public scorecard for the agency. Most COs simply shook their heads at such foolishness and kept the count as they were instructed.
Service remembered the days when COs were expected to count and report on wildlife movement. This was how things like the state deer herd size were calculated back then, and the public was assured it was science at its best. Bull.
The number of contacts got noted on electronic dailies and in weekly summaries to supervision. It was a standing joke in some counties with sparse human populations that officers counted dogs, cats, sheep, horses, and even Amish buggies to inflate their numbers.
He hated all such artificial nonsense but dutifully kept his count (no dogs or canaries), and because of this he knew they had been in contact with fifty-six citizens so far, and never mind that conversations in most cases were brief pro forma rubber stamps of previous conversations. The conversations tended to follow the same outline and order:
“Seeing many big bucks?”
Define big. “A few.”
“Wolves a problem?”
“Don’t seem to be so far.”
“What’s the biggest buck you’ve seen so far?”
“Sixteen points.” This answer invariably broke down the script.
“No shit, where?”
And once that aside got exhausted, it was back to standard bullshit.
“We sure are glad to see you guys. We all follow the rules, but not every camp is like us.”
Right. On and on, a continuous conveyor belt of pabulum. Later, if he found one of these same self-proclaimed law abiders outside the boundaries, they would flip out over being picked on. The tone and fabric were in some ways all predictable, day after day, season after season. People.
They were back in the truck and headed for their eighth camp. “Youse got same gift of gab youse’s old man had.”
“I’m hearing the same bullshit stories too.”
“Ya sure, but he knows how get good dope frum camps; use ta make some real good cases, Sonny.”
“Dope to smoke?”
Allerdyce frowned. “Youse’s daddy din’t do no damn drug crap. Dope mean inflammation.”
“Information,” he said, correcting his partner.
“Wanted said dat word, woulda said, hey. Inflammation mean more dope youse can put toget’er, more dope you want make youse’s brain get smarter and smarter.”
Service rolled his eyes. His alcoholic old man had eventually killed himself with booze as surely as, although more slowly than, with a bullet. But Allerdyce was loyal and unshakeable in his support and faith in those things he believed in, and you had to admire that in a man, even a specimen such as Limpy.
Ironically the eighth camp was called Camp Eight, and there was an open camp gate. They drove into the camp on a road along a finger of land above a deep gorge, got to the end where the camp itself was, and saw no sign of human life other than seven trucks, all newer models—GMCs, a Lincoln Blackwood, couple of Fords—most of them punked and tricked-out, and all with non-Michigan plates.
The buck pole was empty. He could see a floodplain below the camp and a ribbon of stream cutting through a kind of swamp meadow. There was no blood on the backs of the vehicles or under the buck pole. He wondered how unhappy this crowd would be.
He didn’t need to speak to Allerdyce. They had evolved a routine: Service went to the camp door to knock while Limpy made a hurried circle around the camp to see what he could see. No answer at the door; he saw Allerdyce pointing downward, over at the edge of the drop-off to the floodplain.
He joined his partner, who held up six fingers, pointed downward, and made his crooked grin as he cupped a hand behind an ear.
They moved closer to the lip. Allerdyce used split fingers on his eyes, pointed, and made his fingers walk. He made a sign like he was choking, put his hand on his head and moved it like he was feeling nothing, and held up six fingers and pointed off into the dense black spruces near camp. They had not worked out a code, but Service understood Limpy had found six does hidden somewhere in the trees, not on the buck pole. Service heard freeflowing water music and no human voices below. Allerdyce made a gesture like he was casting to fish and raised an eyebrow.
Service tried to orient himself and closed his eyes to create and visualize a map in his head. This was probably Skimpy Creek or an unnamed branch of it. Skimpy was said to be fair brook trout water, which got little pressure because it looked so unimpressive, was so far off the beaten path, and the bulk of it ran through private camp properties. Most anglers didn’t want both an exhausting walk and a potential argument with landowners, who wrongly assumed fish in the creeks on their property belonged to them.
Service pointed at the camp and gave Allerdyce a small push to head him that way, which he did immediately. Service looked around and found a worn trail leading below through heavy cover and descended the steep hill. He was hidden at the bottom by heavy brush and tag alders; he stepped into them and looked out and saw four men in waders in the stream and three other men coming out of a draw on the far side of the marsh. The three were dragging a deer, and the anglers stopped fishing and gathered to greet the deer-slayers. When the seven were together, he stepped out of hiding, strode quickly to them, and greeted them, “Looks like we’ve had some luck.”
A large man with flat gray eyes bent slowly down to pick up a branch about three feet long and as thick as a baseball bat, the only sounds that of heavy breathing blending with moving cold water. “I hope that’s for the campfire, Ace,” Service said, locking his gaze on Gray Eyes. The man showed no emotion but let the branch drop to the ground by his feet. He was a big man with
a menacing, hollow look. Relieved there was no escalation, Service turned his attention to the deer, a doe.
“Hmm, no tag, why might that be?”
One of the seven stepped in front of Gray Eyes, whose look had gone from impassive to fiery. “The truth is that we just found it,” the man explained, pointing north. Service noted that the man with the explanation had not been with the hunting group. They all had rifles slung. The selfappointed ambassador had been in the fishing party but obviously knew what had taken place.
“Shot it, tracked it, and found it?”
“No, sir; we never shot anything. We just found it out in the woods.”
Service studied the seven, trying to assess the threat level, if any; and though all was quiet at the moment, he figured he was about to be engulfed in a verbal shit storm. The man to watch most carefully was Gray Eyes, clearly the alpha threat, now glowering and not trying to hide it.
A scream such as he had never heard from human lips shattered the moment. All seven men were startled and turned clumsily to see Limpy Allerdyce, shirt off, face and torso covered with blood, shotgun in hand. He plowed right at Gray Eyes until the bigger man stepped back, tripped over the doe, and landed on his back in the snow and mud. The man lay there with his hands outstretched to ward off the attack, as if flesh could deflect slugs.
Allerdyce was frothing at the mouth. “Eatem now boss? Eatem now please, boss!”
Jesus, God. Has the old man lost his mind?
Limpy was thrusting the shotgun forward and jumping back, like it was a spear or something, and mumbling, “Shootem, eatem up, shootem, eatem up, okay boss; big ones got lotsa good eatem up!” Allerdyce was making slurping sounds as he blathered, standing over Gray Eyes with the shotgun pointed just over the man’s head.“Leave it!” Service commanded.
Allerdyce squealed pathetically, “fugingfuginfrickinfug,” stepped back sharply, and came crisply to attention, the shotgun held diagonally across his chest in the position of port arms.
“Good boy,” Service said. “At ease.”
“Please boss, eatem now,” Limpy said. “I reeel hoongry!”
“No.”
Service knew the shit storm had passed; Limpy’s outrageous behavior had ripped the guts out of whatever the group might have had in mind. Service kept his eyes on Gray Eyes and pointed for the others. “You four, get your fish and lift them so I can see them.” He locked onto Gray Eyes and pointed. “You are going to drag that doe up the hill to camp.” No one moved.
“Now.” Service yelled. The anglers lifted their brook trout; Gray Eyes bolted for the hill, with Limpy hopping along and waving his arms and making strange guttural sounds.
“Fish!” Service shouted, and the men danced over to the stream.
Service asked, “Okay who found the deer?”
One of the three hunters waggled a finger. “That would be me, sir.”
“But you didn’t shoot it, right?”
“Absolutely correct. We do not believe in shooting does in this camp. It’s against sporting principles.”
Service allowed, “Shooting does can be good for the herd.”
“We are aware of that theoretical position, sir, and we certainly respect that view, but it’s just not for us and, in any event, the point is moot, yes? There are no doe permits for around here, so even if we wanted to shoot does, which we don’t and didn’t, the rules would preclude it and, as already noted, we do not knowingly break rules. You now know the truth of the matter.”
“Nice speech,” Service said. “How does your bullshit square with the six does you’ve got hanging in spruces over that way?” he pointed.
The group’s spokesman gulped. “Can we talk, man to man, no bullshit?” “It would warm my heart,” Service said. This group was not of this planet.
The man said, “Mistakes have been made, see what I am saying?”
“Mistakes made by whom?”
“Let us just leave it at mistakes were made. Why needlessly and injuriously point fingers when we know where all this ends up? This is about money to the state. Why put everyone through the inconvenience of paperwork and a rubber-stamp kangaroo court? We’re all responsible adults here.” The man made a show of getting a wad of bills from his pocket. “Cite us a number, Officer, and let us return to the business that brought us here. Are we on the same wavelength here?”
“How about we start with the fish,” Service said. “Empty your creels on the ground at your feet, turn the creel inside out, and spread out the fish so I can count them.”
“Sort by size?” one of the men asked.
“That’s not an issue in this case. The season’s been closed since the end of September, and a six-inch trout is the same as a sixteen today. They’re all illegal, and size isn’t an issue.”
The count came to sixty brook trout among the four anglers, all of them barely legal fish had the season been on. “Hand me driver’s licenses and fishing licenses.”
Not one of them moved. They were all studying the ground. “Don’t have one with you, or don’t have one, period?”
Still no change in posture or any response. “Driver’s licenses, then, and deer tags.” These they produced.
The self-appointed ambassador asserted himself once again “Our land, our fish, fourth-generation camp; we set the rules here, and we enforce them.”
“What do you do for a living, sir?”
“I am a certified professional planner.”
“What exactly is it that you plan?”
“You name it.”
“Well,” Service said, “this camp is one mega fuckup. Did you plan this?”
The man turned red and stepped back.
Service whispered to Allerdyce. “Stay with them and schmooze them to keep their attention, and make sure they can see the shotgun.” He glanced up at the group and added loudly, “If any of them gets out of line, go ahead shoot them. You can eat the meat later.”
Allerdyce cackled, yelped, “Wah, wah, yah, yah, eatem up boss, eatem up!” and slapped the slide on the shotgun like he was thumping a guitar.
Service checked Gray Eyes again. The man had sunk to his knees and had blood coming out of his nose and a mark on his cheekbone. What the heck?
It took a long time to run all the licenses, interview all the idiots separately, get all the charges sorted out, write tickets, and collect the right amount of bond money. He and Allerdyce took seven deer from the camp—none of them tagged, the first six hidden in the trees—and he took all their deer tags. None of the men would admit to shooting any of the deer. Gray Eyes, it turned out, owned the camp. Service nailed him with all seven illegals but took all their rifles and fishing gear.
The contact left Service’s pockets overflowing with bond money, most of which the man with the money roll supplied.
They were on the road out of camp with another fistful of tickets. “What the hell county are we in?” He lifted the top of his laptop on the pedestal between them, checked the AVL, and saw they were barely in Marquette County. “We’re gonna jump back to town and turn the cash and the tickets in to the court. By the way, partner, what happened to Gray Eyes back there?”
“I t’ink mebbe he piss off God or somepin.”
Service took a container of sanitary wipes from his door, handed it to his partner. “God still has bloody knuckles.”
Allerdyce grinned and started cleaning himself.
“Weren’t you cold with your shirt off like that, and where’d all that blood come from?”
“Can’t get cold when do what God say do.”
He had no idea if the old man was pulling his leg. What he did know was that his partner’s unexpected appearance had seized the initiative and badly shaken up the hunters; had he not done what he’d done, the contact might have ended a lot differently.
Once again, he owed the old man.
“Those jerks claim this is a fourth-generation camp. Can you imagine what’s gone on back there, undetected?”
“Be
en dicktected now.”
“Do you know what laconic means?”
“Lake over Schoolcraft County?”
Allerdyce. “We’ll grab chow at home after we drop the stuff at the court. I still want to talk about how you usta track big bucks back in the day.”
Allerdyce said. “Usta. I like the sound of dat. Sonny, weren’t no ammo in scattergun back dere camp. I know bettern’s play with the loaded gun, eh.”
Grady Service nodded and added eight marks to his contact list.
“Was onny seven,” Allerdyce corrected him. The old man was leaning over to peek.
“I’m including the wild thing in red war paint. I have no idea who he was, do you?”
CHAPTER 37
Tri-County Swamp Camp Country
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 24
Getting rid of the confiscated firearms wasn’t easy. The gun locker in Lieutenant Livorno’s office in the Roof was full and locked, and he was off duty. But Carrie Ericksen told him Captain McKower had just gotten a gun locker for her office and Ericksen had the key. She opened it and they dumped the tagged weapons; he left a note on the captain’s desk.
They dropped the tickets and cash at the court, had dinner with Tuesday and Shigun (who, like the animals, thought Allerdyce some sort of gift from the heavens), drove all the way out to Limpy’s compound, talked briefly about tracking big bucks, and crashed for the night. Service knew that physically he was pushing his limit, but he couldn’t really assess his partner’s energy level, which seemed to be limitless, despite their age difference.
Morning came, coffee got made, breakfasts were consumed to refuel bodies, and the two men wearily trudged out to the truck in silence. Service was in a reflective mood, a sure sign of sleep deprivation. To get into the patrol truck was like a cowboy being reunited with his horse—that singleminded creature that lets you cover far more ground than you could alone and, like the horse, needs fuel. Service popped down to Channing to top off their fuel tank.
Buckular Dystrophy Page 25