She added, “I’m buying some top-line Yooper swampers for the next governor and will tell them to be prepared to wade through shit every single day. They should look at the teamwork on this fire to see how things should work,” she added.
The fire “event” had not gone as perfectly as it looked to the governor. A controlled back-burn near Pine Stump Junction had nearly gotten out of control and taken out everything in that area, but nature in the form of another wind shift had saved them. The radios didn’t work for shit. People two hundred yards apart resorted to sending runners to pass orders, like World War I or something. Different agencies couldn’t talk to each other at all. And of course cell-phone coverage was virtually nil in most parts of the northern county.
Far from perfect, but the thing had been beaten. So far. Downstate the state police were rumored to be warning all citizens to stay out of any part of the U.P. because of the fires, and at least one toll attendant at the big bridge had been warning tourists away from anywhere in the eastern U.P.
Governor Lorelei Timms looked at him. “Do you know that local people are doing laundry for firefighters?” She shook her head. “This place …,” she said. “These people …” Her eyes were clearly tearing up, and she was unable to finish.
Suddenly she stiffened. “You’re sure you don’t know anything about those billboards all around the state?”
“Heard about them. Even saw one.”
“I bet you have,” she said with a taut jaw. She squeezed his arm. “Okay, let’s get our butts back to work, big boy.”
They stepped out of the room to be greeted by a growing gathering of Red Cross workers and citizens and firefighters, and she began to mingle, which she did with such ease and with such genuine feeling, it was hard to understand how anyone like Lori had ever ended up in the damn swamp of state politics. The state didn’t deserve her, and she sure as hell deserved better from the entire state.
Brownmine walked over to him. “Good lady, eh?”
Service said. “For a politician.”
“You want to ride the circuit with me today?” the incident commander asked.
“You da boss. Something up?”
“Flying over a fire with the governor and dancing the edge are different things. I like knowing from close-up what I think I’m seeing from above. Make sense?”
“Absolutely.”
“There’s still a lot of burning over in the Two-Hearted Headwaters, and I want to hike in that way and see what I can see,” the incident commander said.
63
Two-Hearted Headwaters, Luce County
SUNDAY, AUGUST 12, 2007
Kerry Brownmine was young, cool-headed, logical, analytical, supportive of his team, and the best fire boss Service had ever worked with—which was saying a lot, because back when he’d started as a CO, he had worked with the great Gar Fox. Brownmine knew how to manage a complex process and how to lead people, both individually and in a group. He could make small talk, but there was no bullshit in the man.
There was supposed to have been rain the night before, but it had never materialized. The I-Met said today’s temperature would hit the high seventies, with more low humidity. The morning winds were eight to twelve miles per hour, but I-Met predicted they would flip over to northwest by late afternoon and blow at fifteen to twenty miles per hour, with thirty-mile-per-hour gusts. This day was going to be a huge test for everyone, and for the twenty-seven-mile perimeter line dug out by ’dozers and hardworking hand crews.
The summer Perseid meteors were supposed to be in full display last night, at sixty meteors an hour, but smoke and heavy cloud cover had prevented anyone from seeing meteors, much less any stars, and most minds were on the fire, not what was above it. Today’s clouds were tinged with ominous yellow and sickly grays and looked to Service like they led to the portals of Hell.
This morning Service had hauled the fire boss to the end of County Road 420 and they had hiked south into the Two-Hearted River headwaters property owned by the Michigan Nature Conservancy. They had stopped at the remote McMahon Lake Plains area and checked out the location and results of a backfire Brownmine’s people had set the night before.
“We’ve got good black here,” the fire boss said. “We’re right in the middle of the fens, the strangmoor country. No way we can fight the beast in here. We have to block ahead of it and beat it that way. So far, our line’s good,” he added. “Our people have been working their butts off. Relief crews are coming in from all over the country.”
In the distance, Service could see small tongues of flame and rising smoke. It stunk and got into his pores and clothes. Heat rolled over them from the fire and the hot ground under their boots.
Brownmine was on his radio, talking to the pilot of an army National Guard Chinook, carrying a two-thousand-gallon bucket. “Roger, dump right in front of us, Army,” the incident commander said as the Chinook whined low toward them.
Both men got down on a knee, put a hand on top of their yellow helmets, and looked down, their chins tucked into their chests, waiting for the bolus of falling water. If two thousand gallons caught you standing, it could matchstick your back.
“Danger close,” Service told his companion.
“Let’s be glad it’s water and not napalm,” Brownmine said. “Director Cheke’s coming in tonight. She wants a meet.”
“Got other duties.”
“You can’t be a hard-ass all the time, Sergeant. Everyone in Lansing is not the enemy.”
“I know,” Service said. “You’re in Baraga.”
The incident commander laughed.
The high-frequency fire radio squawked. “Fire Six, Bravo Six.”
“Fire Six,” Brownmine answered.
“We’ve got a few slops over toward Halfway Lake. Have you had contact with Alpha Six?”
“Negative on Alpha Six. Were you able to step on the slops?”
“That’s affirmative, Bravo Six. We’re on watch. This wind is crazy. Just thought you’d want to know.”
“Your team need anything over there?”
“Negative, we’re good. Bravo Six.”
Brownmine said, “Alpha Six, Fire Six.”
“Fire Six, we’ve been seeing unauthorized personnel over this way all day. The evac order is still in effect, correct?”
“Affirmative. That order remains in effect until we revoke it. You have law enforcement present?”
“Yes, but spread way thin,” the sector chief reported.
“Twenty Four Fourteen will roll over your way as soon as he can find a ride for me. Fire Six.”
“Alpha Six, thanks. Tell Twenty Four Fourteen we’re due west of Chesbrough Lake at this time.”
“There,” Brownmine said to Service. “Now you have a legit reason to skip the meeting.”
“Why’s the director here?” Service asked. “Flag show?”
“I’m passing the baton to a new incident commander. This thing’s holding at fifty percent. We want as many people as we can to get firsthand incident command experience. Find me a ride, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
Brownmine hooked on with a water truck heading back for a refill and handed Service his HF radio. “Old but reliable,” the incident commander said. “Just like you. The Nature Conservancy sent people and radios. It’s damn nice to have at least one organization in this state that’s driven first and foremost by science.”
“Who’s the new IC?
“Fire Supervisor Maximillian Stinson.”
“Stumphumper Stinson, from Durand?”
Brownmine nodded. “You know him?”
“Long time. Old carrier rustpicker picked up downed pilots with a chopper crew off coastal North Vietnam.”
“Rustpicker? That makes you a jarhead.”
“Semper fi.”
“Drop the HF with Stumphumper when you’re done with it. Do you know Director Cheke?”
“No.”
“She once told the vice president of the United States,
‘Bite me.’ Cheke’s a pro, fearless and dedicated to science. Our legislators are not going to enjoy trying to play bullshit games with her. You and I are gonna have ringside seats for one helluva scrap.”
“I hope she doesn’t underestimate the staying power of full-time, overpaid professional assholes,” Service said. “Science is sometimes vastly overrated by those who believe in it most,” he added.
Brownmine waved, jumped into a red truck, and was gone.
Service’s 800 came to life. “Twenty Four Fourteen, Two One Thirty.”
“Twenty Four Fourteen.” His new call number sounded odd to him.
“Your location?”
He glanced at the rolling map on the AVL. “ ’Dozer line running south off the end of County 420.”
“I’m headed back to Lois Lane’s little red house.”
“Say again?”
“You heard me. She ran from the evac center last night.”
“You want backup?”
“We finally got an ID on her,” Sedge said. “The name Skyler Verst ring a bell?”
God, Held’s easy glove. “Affirmative, Twenty Four Fourteen. The subject drinking again?”
“Unknown.”
“Anyone see her depart?”
“It’s not a POW camp,” Sedge said. “No. The professor noticed this morning that she was gone and called me.”
“Rolling your way,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Just turning north on South Chesbrough Road, if that’s the name. I’m not sure what it’s called. How’s the fire?”
“Some hot spots southwest toward Halfway Lake.” Service looked east into the fen country and knew somewhere east there was a sportsman’s club that might have some two-tracks, but with fire lurking he couldn’t risk getting stuck. “I’m going to have to come all the way around; call it thirty miles and close to an hour.”
“Two One Thirty copies. The professor wanted to come.”
“You told him no, right?”
“You bet I did, and he’s sitting right next to me as we speak.”
Service pulled up to the watertruck with the IC aboard and signaled for it to pull over. “I’ve got to go back through Four Mile,” he told Brownmine. “You might as well ride with me.”
Brownmine slid into the Tahoe, took off his helmet, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jumpsuit pocket. “You got a light?”
Service laughed and handed his lighter to him.
Goldie caught him on the cell phone after he’d dropped Brownmine at the Four Mile command post. “Sergeant, I’m sorry this took so long.”
Service tried to remember the date and day, but couldn’t. “What have you got for us, Goldie?”
“Mid-seventeenth century, give or take twenty-five years.”
“That’s certain?”
“Yessir.”
“Thanks, Goldie.”
The weapon fit the time period, and if Smoke Ghizi was correct, the same weapon could very well have been in Toliver’s hands. But who had found it—and where, and when? This goddamn case was just one question after another.
He picked up his hand mic. “Two One Thirty, Twenty Four Fourteen.”
“Two One Thirty is on foot,” she answered.
“That item we sent to Marquette tested within the time tolerance.”
“I can’t believe this idiot woman came back here,” she said angrily.
Service smiled and accelerated. She is a lot like me, he thought. Except for the painting thing.
64
Chesbrough Lake, Luce County
MONDAY, AUGUST 13, 2007
A lot to sort out in this thing—maybe too much. Focus. What had Smoke Ghizi said about nighthawks sometimes staging diversions so they can loot national park relic sites? Could Delongshamp have set this fire for such a reason? No evidence. Don’t let your damn mind run loose. You’ve got plenty of reality. Don’t soil it with fantasies. Still …
Service called McKower on the 800. “Are you with Fire Six?”
“He’s briefing Director Cheke.”
“Ask him if we’re certain that lightning started this thing.”
“Are you entertaining other possibilities?” she asked.
“Probably not, but you know how my mind works.”
“I doubt that, but I’ll talk to Fire Six. You’re at Chesbrough, yes?”
“Heading that way.” No doubt Brownmine had told her—more evidence that he knew how to follow and lead, which showed they had a lot in common.
“Two One Thirty, you still on foot?”
“Affirmative. No sign of our girl yet, but the smoke’s not too bad out this way, and right now that’s a good thing. Where are you?”
“Just turning north on the same road you took.”
“I parked about three hundred yards south of the cabin. No idea where our friend is, but I don’t want to spook her if we can avoid it.”
The vaunted 800-megahertz radios, once thought secure, were now subject to inexpensive scanners, resulting in back-and-forth messages between officers that exchanged information more scant than substantive. Technology advances were always temporary. The bad guys always caught up quickly.
“I’ll do the same. Twenty Four Fourteen.”
“If you see a pale blue Datsun pickup, it’s Quinn Beard’s. I recruited him to help us.”
Quinn Beard had been a horse blanket, a long-retired old-time CO. Service had served briefly with him as his own career was getting under way. Got to be eighty now. At least eighty. “You checked the cabin yet?” he radioed to Sedge.
“I decided to sit on it for a while. Seems reasonable she’s headed here.”
Service stopped his truck and checked his plat book. Undated. Shit. Most counties have the publication year on the cover. Not Luce. He flipped to the area and found the property on the east side of the lake. The plat book said, “SV etux.” SV and wife? Shit. One lousy bar on the cell phone. He dialed Honeypat Allerdyce’s number and mentally crossed his fingers.
“Thought youse was puttin’ out big fires,” Honeypat answered.
How does she know that? “Skyler Verst’s ex-husband’s name.”
“Sid.”
“He own property in Luce County?”
“I ain’t his realtor, darlin’.”
“Describe Skyler.”
“Why?”
“Honeypat.”
“Five-two, thick dark hair, big plastic boobs, hundred pounds soaking wet.”
“She have a drinking problem?”
“Don’t we all from time to time?”
“Honeypat.”
“Okay, youse don’t gotta get your skivvies in a knot, and youse don’t have to yell! Little bitty thing like her, she don’t hold it so well.”
“When she left her hubby, did she get property in the settlement?”
Honeypat chuckled. “They never divorced, eh. She just kicked ’im out. I told youse that, ’member?”
Service rubbed his eyes in frustration and tried to remember their conversation, eventually recalling Honeypat’s exact words: “She just pushed Verst out the door.” Jesus, man. Follow up, listen, get the wax out of your ears. Stop being lazy. Do your damn job.
“Thanks, Honeypat,” he said, and disconnected the cell phone, which now showed no bars. Damn UP geography! He radioed McKower again. “Can you get in touch with the County Register of Deeds?”
“It was lightning,” McKower said.
“How can they know that?”
“They can’t really, but it’s a logical assumption based on how events unfolded.”
“There’s no possibility of arson?”
“Some, but very, very slight, which is to say improbable from the standpoint of odds. What do we want from the Register of Deeds?”
“Sid Verst of East Grand Rapids. Is he the current owner of a property on Chesbrough Lake?”
“Back at you,” she answered, and broke contact.
He found Quinn Beard and Professor Shotwiff leaning against B
eard’s truck. Beard wore a small automatic in a belt holster and didn’t look much older than when Service had last seen him many years ago. “Long time,” he greeted the retired officer.
“Winters in Arizona,” Beard said. “My bones can’t handle U.P. winters anymore.”
“You look fit enough to put on your uniform.”
“Appearances deceive. What’s the score with this tootsie we’re looking for?”
“Mandatory evac. Last time we found her she was drunk and naked.”
Beard raised an eyebrow. “Was a day when that would pretty much define a high old time for me. I gather she’s back here.”
“We think she’s headed this way, but we don’t know if or why. Excuse me.”
Service toggled his 800. “Two One Thirty, Twenty Four Fourteen is with Sergeant Beard. Did Lois Lane grab her dog when she bugged out?”
“Negative. I checked.” Why was Kermit here? Where is that little asshole headed?
“No sign?”
“Not yet. Relax.”
“You want us on foot up there with you?”
“Negative. Just hang there for a while.”
“Twenty Four Fourteen,” he said. To Beard: “You know Sedge?”
“Yep. Introduced herself to all the retirees when she moved into the area. Good gal, good CO. We all like her. Straight shooter.”
“Where’s your place?”
“In town, down the street from Joy Hospital.”
“You know the area out this way pretty well?”
“Good as anyone,” Beard said.
“If you hike northeast from here, what do you hit?”
“Little Two-Hearted Lakes country. Mostly heavy cedar swamps. If you keep going, you’ll hit Pike Lake, and more cedar swamps, hemlock—you know, the eastern U.P. in all its swampy glory.”
“Pike Lake built up?”
“Some. Hell, there’s even a country stop-and-rob and a phone booth out there.”
“Deer populations?”
“Still real low from too many consecutive bad winters.”
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