Coyotes were illegal immigrants. Service nodded.
“I spend weeks alone in the field and return to my home in Tucson from time to time. Before I go back into the field, I come here to harden myself for life the old way and to readjust to the air, the heat, and the hardships of the caliche. My people have never mixed well with whites, and the Sonora is a prime area for coyotes, so I can move among them freely and not arouse suspicion.”
The solitude of the man’s job reminded Service of his own.
“When I was first hired, the Border Service believed that my people were involved in coyote trafficking. I knew this to be untrue, so I agreed to take the position. It is well established now that their premise was wrong. I never thought I would come to love such a way of life, but I have. I am happiest here, alone, and dependent solely upon myself. I have friends who are game wardens. We live a similar life, you and I.”
Service nodded.
“This man, Ney. I talked to him many times. He was a pleasant and gentle fellow.”
“And a killer.”
Perez shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“You think he was innocent?”
“The man is dead. We will never know.”
“But you suspect something.”
“It is only that he repeatedly asked only about his son. He showed no interest in the woman.”
“He called him his son?”
“Yes, but never by name. Always it was ‘my boy, my creation.’”
“My creation?” Odd.
“Yes, his exact words.”
“And the woman?”
“He never mentioned her, never once inquired about her fate.”
“Maybe she wasn’t his wife,” Service said.
“I would agree with that,” Perez said, refilling their mugs. “Take off your shoes, my friend.”
Service stared at the man. “Why?”
“I will show you something special.”
Service took off his shoes and socks and wiggled his toes. There was no breeze, but the thatched roof gave shade and made the temperature almost manageable.
Perez went off into the rocks and came back with a bowl of red powder, which he mixed with water until it was a deep vermillion paste. He handed the bowl to Service. “Paint the bottom of your feet with this.”
Service laughed, but did as the man asked.
The substance dried almost immediately.
“We get drunk to appease God,” Perez said, “but we paint our feet for our women.”
Service shook his head. “Listen . . .”
“Do not be alarmed, my friend. I am not berdache—a man who sleeps with other men. You have left a woman behind?”
“No.” Service could hardly get the word out.
“It doesn’t matter. We will paint our feet to honor the women who gave us life, and we will fill our bodies with nuwait for I’itoi, the creator of all souls. If we drink enough, our women will dream of us tonight. I’itoi lives on the mountain behind us,” Perez said. “I think he is too busy to come to visit tonight, so we will sleep drunk and tomorrow we will rise with thick heads and leave for our missions: you to find the killer of men who protect animals, I to find those who would steal the souls of the desperate.”
The two men went at the wine with serious intent.
In the morning Eduardo Perez looked fresh and was already shaved. Service felt like hell and could hardly stand up. The man gave him two of the red earthenware jugs. “These vessels are called olla. The large one holds nuwait. The smaller one contains powder. If you want a particular woman to love you, paint your feet and drink nuwait with her and she will be engulfed by great desire for you.”
Service laughed. “Isn’t that date rape?”
Perez held up a finger. “Don’t wait too long to use the power of nuwait, my friend or it will turn to vinegar, just as love sours when it is not nurtured.”
The man put on his pack. He wore long black trousers, a loose, light-colored shirt, and ankle-high moccasins. He took a step out of the shelter and turned back. “Hunt with your brain, compadre, not your heart.”
Service watched him lope away into the cool morning air and lay back with a pounding head.
When he got back to his rental he found the doors unlocked and two mason jars of nuwait on the front seat with a note: Service, one of these is for you and a woman you choose. The other I would ask that you deliver for me. When you get on the hard road north to Sells, go two miles and you will see a cemetery off to the east. Park and go through the fence. Look for the grave with purple flowers and leave the other jar there. Via con dios, compadre. Eduardo.
The cemetery was in a white sand area. There were hundreds of markers and crosses, all of the graves decorated with gaudy flowers and plastic statues of everyone from Jesus Christ to Darth Vader. The grave with purple flowers was in the back, closest to the purple mountains in the distance. Service looked at the name carved into a crude wooden cross: rosalita perez, 1950–2003.
Perez was a widower and alone.
They had more than their jobs in common.
37
FOURTEEN, MISSOURI
JULY 24, 2004
He could not get Eduardo Perez out of his mind. The man had lost his wife a year ago and was burying himself in work. Had this contributed to his wife’s death? Or was it a result of it? As soon as he got to the airport in Tucson he changed his ticket to Missouri.
When he had left Michigan he had begun to feel the distance, which made his sense of loss heavier, and he chastised himself for allowing his feelings to disturb his concentration.
He got some questions in security about his mason jars and olla, but when he showed his identification and surrendered his sidearm, they allowed him to board.
It was afternoon by the time he reached Springfield, rented a vehicle, called Eddie Waco’s cell phone, and got his voice mail. “It’s Service. I’m just leaving Springfield, heading for Elray Spargo’s house. Meet me there if you can.”
When he reached the house there were three kids on the front porch, and as he got out of the rental he heard one of them yell, “Mama, that Michigan man done just pulled up.”
Fiannula Spargo stepped onto the porch wearing an apron and dripping flour. “Agent Waco called, said he’ll be along soon. You’n bring me news, Michigan Man?”
“No ma’am, not yet.”
“What brings ye?”
“Was your husband a trout fisherman?”
She cracked a smile. “I reckon thet and the law was the only religions my man ever took to: trout on the fly. I guess we all done took to hit. Or by hit, I hain’t sure which.”
“I know it sounds strange, but would you mind if I took a look at his flies?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I reckon they’s better times ta fish the hill cricks thin now.”
“I didn’t come to fish.”
She nodded and pushed open the door for him.
Spargo kept his flies in the room that served as his home office. Fiannula stood beside Service as he surveyed the room and saw a Renzetti fly-tying vise. “Elray tied his own?”
“Was a disease,” she said. “That man would hardly go to town, exceptin’ ta drag me inta craft stores and the Wal-Mart, lookin’ for beads and feathers and such. Said trout get used ta somethin’, got to change up offerin’s ta catch ’em by surprise.” She opened a corner cabinet. “Hits all in thim drawers,” she said, pointing.
“What about his fly boxes?”
She opened a closet. The boxes were stacked on a shelf above and on the floor in cardboard cartons. “You need anything, or can I get back at my bakin’?”
“Thanks, I’m good.” He pulled a chair over to the closet, sat down, and began going through the fly boxes one by one. They weren’t labeled and they weren’t organized like his boxes, which he put t
ogether by month, based on the hatches that would be coming off. Elray’s were organized by type: mayflies in one box, caddis in another, stoneflies in yet another, nymphs, streamers. He made a mental note, estimated fifty boxes to go through, and settled back.
“You’n got us a good lead?” a familiar voice asked.
Eddie Waco slid into the room and handed him a glass of iced tea.
“More like a real thin hunch,” Service said.
“Hunches work,” Waco said. “They bubble up from thet part a’ the brain where we don’t think. Acts like a computer, sendin’ along an unexpected e-mail from time to time.”
“I hope this one’s not spam,” Service said. Both men laughed. “Elray have a system for his fly boxes?”
“Had a differ’nt system ever time we fished,” Waco said. “Only thing in his life he couldn’t never make up his mind on.”
Service understood. The monthly boxes were only the latest iteration of his own system, which changed frequently. “He tie all his own?”
“Thing was, ole Elray was of a frugal nature, couldn’t abide buyin’ what he could make for himseff.”
Service pushed a carton over to Waco. “We’re looking for brown drakes,” he said.
“Little late for them,” the Missouri agent quipped.
It took them more than thirty minutes to go through the inventory. They found brown drakes and hex, but not the pattern he had hoped for.
“You’n not findin’ somethin’?” Waco asked.
“Are these all of his flies?”
“All save them which bin retired.”
“Retired?”
“Elray caught him a hawg, he released the fish, and retired the fly.”
“What’s a hawg around here?”
“Tin pound at least.”
“You’ve got ten-pound browns here?”
“Mosey cross the border to the White River ’round Mountain Home and they catch ’em a heap bigger, fish for ’em outen inner tubes at night.”
“Where are his retired flies?”
“Have to ask Fi thet.”
She was in the kitchen taking pies out of the oven, the aroma overwhelming the room. “Fi,” Waco said, “Sorry to git in yore way, but where’d ole Elray keep them flies he bragged on so much?”
The woman turned and looked at the men, her face contorted. “Lord, I know I done seen them things. He kept ’em in a red tin box.” After a moment she stepped into the hallway and shouted, “You kids git on down here this minute.”
The children trooped into the hall beside the kitchen. “Which one a’ you floor monkeys seen yore daddy’s red box?”
“Wasn’t my idea,” a little girl said. “Was hers.” She pointed to another child who looked like a twin.
“Now y-you d-done got me in trouble,” the second girl whined with indignation.
“Did not. Was you’n took Daddy’s red box.”
“Hush,” Fiannula said gently. “Just fetch it now, hear?”
“We in trouble, Mama?” the first girl asked.
Spargo’s widow patted the girl’s head affectionately. “I don’t blame you for looking at Daddy’s special things, but you’n got to put ’em back so’s the others can look too.”
The girl looked relieved when the second girl produced the red box and handed it to Grady Service.
“Thanks,” he told the girl, who giggled and nudged her sister.
“You men want pie?” Fiannula asked. “I got a couple coolin’ down on the winder ledge and still warm.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Waco said.
One of the twins said, “Can we have pie, Mama?”
Fiannula Spargo smiled. “’Course you can, you and your sister. Others will have ta wait for supper.”
The five of them sat in the dining area. Service opened the box. Each fly was hooked to a piece of paper with a Polaroid photo of the fish, its size, the date, and location where it had been caught. Each paper also gave the time, wind, light, and water conditions.
Service found what he was looking for near the bottom of the pile and held it up for Waco to see. “You recognize this?”
Waco said, “Yep, thet’s his booger fly. Never seen him use it, but that’s what hit is, I reckon.”
“He didn’t tie this himself.”
“Nope. He done heard about booger flies from some old boy he done met down on the Eleven Point. Man was from Illinois, if memory serves me right, and Elray give ’im a warning for too many fish, and the fella give ’im the address of the man what tied them booger flies—up your way, I think.”
Service looked at the date below the photo: 2003—last year.
Fiannula put large pieces of pie in front of each of them. Service held up the paper with the fly and photo. “You remember when Elray ordered this fly?”
The widow laughed. “I told him he was crazy orderin’ such expensive things—especially them made a’ boogers.”
The little girls giggled.
“You girls hush,” their mother warned them. “You come in here ta eat pie or make a show of yourseffs?”
“Eat pie,” the girls said in unison.
Service asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know how he paid for this, would you?”
“I reckon they’s records about. The man couldn’t throw away anything.” She looked over at Service. “This important?”
Service nodded.
“I’ll find it. He didn’t send away for much, and whin he did, he paid by check.”
While she was gone, Service said to Waco, “There were game wardens killed in Kansas and Illinois. When I get back, I’ll send you their names and personal information. Think you could call their families and find out if they were fly fishermen, and if so, did they use flies like this, bought from Michigan?”
“You send the information, I’ll take care of ’er,” Waco said.
“How’s Cake?” Service asked.
“Up and stumpin’ aroun’ on crutches. Cain’t wait ta get started as my pine shadow. You think this fly thing gonna take us somewhere?”
“I hope,” Service said.
The widow came back, looking perplexed. “I cain’t seem ta find thim boxes with the taxes and checks,” she said. “You reckon I could send ’em along whin I find ’em?”
“Give them to Eddie and he’ll get in touch,” Service said.
“All y’all better get at thim pies afore they cool too much,” she said.
“Mama,” one of the twins said, “I think she got a bigger piece thin me.”
“Did not,” the other girl snapped with a big grin.
“Kids,” Fiannula Spargo said with a big grin. “Little kids, little problems; big kids, big problems. I expect hit never ends for parents.”
Service thought: Something I’ll never know.
38
SLIPPERY CREEK, MICHIGAN
JULY 25, 2004
It was just before 11 p.m. when the flight landed at the Marquette County Airport, twenty miles south of town. The airfield had once been K. I. Sawyer Air Force Base, a combined Strategic and Air Defense Command base. The B-52s from Sawyer had dropped thousands of bombs on Vietnam when he and Tree were there. Service found Tatie Monica waiting near his truck.
“How were Arizona and Missouri?” she greeted him, adding, “Maybe we can’t follow you out in the damn woods, but the rest of the goddamn country is our turf.”
“It was okay,” he said.
“I’ve made arrangements for the Toledo trip.”
“Now?”
“If not now, when?” she said.
“What about your analyst?”
“I’m working on it.”
“No deal,” Service said.
“I’m keeping my end of the bargain,” she argued.
“Selectively,” he said.
>
“You are operating without authorization,” she said.
“You talked to Orbet’s family?”
“His son and widow. They say he left a couple of boxes of papers and we can make copies, but they want to keep the originals.”
“Did he get anywhere in his investigation?”
“The wife says no. The son says his father hinted at having something,” Monica said.
“Maybe you’d better check it out.”
“Not you?”
“I need to get home and take care of my animals.” McCants had come to the rescue again. He was going to owe her.
She said, “Don’t go running off on me.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” he said.
“Bullshit.”
Newf greeted him with huge slurps and followed him to where he looked up the site names of the dead game wardens in Illinois and Kansas, and called Eddie Waco to pass along the information.
“Fi found thet cancelled check. Hit’s made out to Booger Baits, Curran, Michigan.”
“Date?”
“March a’ this year.”
“I had the impression it was older.”
“Fi’s thinkin’ Elray reordered.”
“There an address on the check?”
Waco gave him the number on DeJarlais Road.
Newf sat with her massive head on Service’s leg while he toggled his 800 megahertz radio. “Station Twenty, Twenty Five Fourteen. Who’s the officer in Curran?”
“Denninger,” the dispatcher in Lansing reported. “Seven, Two Twenty Two.”
“Denninger on tonight?”
“Affirmative, Station Twenty clear.”
Service switched to District Seven’s channel on the 800. “Seven, Two Twenty Two, Twenty Five Fourteen.”
“Go, Twenty Five Fourteen.”
“You know an outfit called Booger Baits?”
“That’s affirmative.”
“An old man named Main still run the business?”
“Son’s in charge now. The old man’s still around though.”
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