by Jon Jackson
He was going on about it, describing it all in detail, the swamp, the pond, the jack pine flats, but Mulheisen reminded him that he ought to be getting home.
The kid was right. The car got no more than a quarter mile before Mulheisen realized that it wouldn’t be wise to take it any farther. But this was close enough, he reckoned. He got out, stuffed a couple of apples in his coat pocket, along with the cell phone, and headed on down the road, enjoying the afternoon. Soon enough, he came to the pond that the boy had mentioned. If this was what he’d remembered from the plat map, Luck’s house ought to be about a quarter mile to the west.
A nice, well-maintained fence was only a few yards into the woods from the road. Mulheisen was pretty sure that it marked the boundary of Luck’s property, especially when he saw the NO TRESPASSING! / PRIVATE PROPERTY! signs, metal ones hanging from the fence every twenty feet or so, or nailed to the posts. Luck had spent a small fortune on those signs if they were that numerous all the way around the perimeter.
He walked along the road a ways, looking into the woods beyond the fence. It was a mixed forest of poplars, white birch, with some slender ash and beeches, a few pines, and an occasional large tree, a cedar, a big old oak, or even a gnarled old apple tree. It was relatively sparse and open, almost parklike, with occasional deer trails and ancient logging trails that ran for a few hundred feet then disappeared in jumbled brush. The road seemed more convenient for walking, so Mulheisen didn’t bother to attempt the fence.
There were small hills, boggy spots, probably old springs. Eventually, he came to a knoll from which he could see a little creek that ran along the edge of small hill. He wondered if this wasn’t where the fabled silver martins were supposed to be hibernating.
He left the road and walked along the fence line a ways, inspecting it. He couldn’t see any sign that it was electrified. It was barbed wire, four strands firmly and tautly strung to posts, about eight feet apart, with steel poles set in concrete at frequent intervals. A secure fence. But ultimately, of course, there was a spot where deer had evidently broken down the upper course. The wires sagged. Mulheisen pushed the wires down lower until he could awkwardly hop over. He caught the crotch of his pants and made a little tear, but he stumbled over and walked into the property, climbing up the hill. It was grassy and brambly, and fairly bare of sapling growth; he could see no sign of burrowing. Maybe this wasn’t the martin hill.
There was another hill, perhaps thirty feet high, farther in. Mulheisen walked over that way. He didn’t feel any need to climb up this one. It had a pretty good growth of trees on it, mostly young pines, obviously planted, looking more like Christmas trees than anything else, though grown too large for that purpose now, perhaps an old plantation allowed to grow up. He skirted the hill and came upon a road that was in more or less regular use. It wasn’t graded or built up but a stable, broad road with a coarse reddish top dressing, obviously carted in. A considerable road for the middle of nowhere. He walked along it, wondering what he was doing.
And shortly he was asked just that. A man armed with a rifle stepped out from behind a tree and ordered him to halt. Mulheisen thought the rifle looked military. It had what appeared to be a banana clip.
“What are you doing here?” the man asked. He was young, about thirty, with a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a dark overall and a billed cap, lace-up boots with the trousers bloused. He carried the rifle at the ready, though not directly aimed at Mulheisen.
“I was just asking myself that,” Mulheisen said. “Where am I?”
The man said, with obvious suspicion, “I guess you know that,” he said.
“Actually, I don’t. I’m lost,” Mulheisen said. “I saw this road. It looks like it probably leads to civilization.” He smiled, an ingratiating smile, he hoped.
“Where’s your car?”
Mulheisen gestured back the way he’d come. “I kind of ran out of road. I was wondering if there was another road.”
“The only road back that way is the old Sigmiller road,” the man said.
“That’s where I was. A kid told me it ran to the river.”
The man frowned. Holding the rifle in one hand, with his hand on the trigger, he withdrew a cell phone from a pocket and keyed it. Into the phone, he said, “I’ve got an intruder. He looks like that guy from last night.” Looking at Mulheisen, he said, “Are you Mulheisen?” Then into the phone he said, “It’s him. All right. We’ll wait. We’re on the road.”
Shortly, another man came jogging up. He was similarly dressed and armed. He was bearded too, and looked like he could be the first man’s brother or cousin. He addressed the first man: “Whatcha got here, Darryl?”
“It’s him, ain’t it?” Darryl said.
“Sure as hell is,” the newcomer said. “Christ! What a time for him to show up. We can’t take him back to the house. You know what Hook said.”
“Whatta we do?” Darryl said. Now he was aiming his rifle at Mulheisen.
“Get rid of him,” the other said. “That’s what Hook would say.”
“His car’s over on the Sigmiller road,” Darryl said. “Plus, he says he talked to some kid, who told him he could get to the river that way.”
“Who was the kid?”
Mulheisen had seen this kind of confused colloquy before, among young cops newly assigned to a beat. It was a reason that police forces generally assigned new men, cadets, to older and more seasoned officers. He sought to defuse the situation before it got too tangled.
“Hey, fellas, no need to get excited. I lost my way. If I’m trespassing, I’ll just go back. I’ll be out of your hair. Sorry to bother you.”
“You had to of climbed the fence,” the newcomer said. “There’s ‘no trespassing’ signs all over the place. Who was the kid you talked to?”
“Just a kid,” Mulheisen assured him. “I think he’d been plinking at squirrels. A teenager.” For some reason he inflated Travis’s age; he supposed in an attempt to obscure the kid’s identity.
“Might of been one a them Goodriches,” Darryl opined. “They’re all dumber’n a post.”
“Maybe,” the other said, “but maybe it’s bullshit, too. He’s probably got a whole posse out there. We better call Hook.”
“Oh, let’s just run him off,” Darryl said. “There ain’t nobody out there. Hook’ll be pissed. He’ll lay it on us if anything goes haywire. You know he will, Earl.”
Earl shook his head. “We gotta call him.”
Darryl said, “Imp had this guy up to the house. He didn’t say diddly about him. I reckon he’s all right. Just lost, like he says.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Mulheisen said. “He was pouring the George Dickel like it was Coke. I was just going for a walk. I’m sure Imp won’t care. I thought I’d go down to the river. But I see I’m bothering you fellas, so maybe I just better haul on out of here. I won’t say anything to Imp.” He started to back up.
“Hold it!” Earl snapped, raising his rifle. Mulheisen stopped. Earl said to Darryl then, “You called me on the emergency frequency. Hook might of heard it.”
As if in support of this supposition, a black SUV, an older Jeep model, came flying up along the road and skidded to a halt. A slender man in a camo outfit hopped out. He was wearing a camo beret and had a sidearm in a holster on his belt. He was dark, with a thick, black mustache.
Darryl turned to him and said, “We found this guy wandering in the woods, captain. It’s that guy Mulheisen, who visited the chief last night. He says he was just looking for the road to the river.”
“Is that so?” Hook said. He strode forward and walked around Mulheisen, warily, inspecting him, hands on his hips. He unsnapped the flap of the holster and withdrew an automatic pistol.
Mulheisen turned to him. “Yeah, I thought maybe this was the road.”
Hook ignored his comments. He asked the two others for more information and they told him what Mulheisen had said. Hook stood aside and said, “Search him.”
Earl ha
nded his rifle to Darryl and came forward. He patted Mulheisen down and took out of his pockets a wallet, the apples, and Mulheisen’s cell phone, some keys, a plastic bag containing cigars, a box of wooden matches. He held them out to Hook.
Hook holstered his pistol. He waved aside the apples and the cell phone, but glanced at the package of cigars. He handed them back to Earl, then took the wallet and the keys, examining the driver’s license and flipping through the other cards. Then he looked at Mulheisen thoughtfully, tapping the wallet against his thigh.
“You have come at an unfortunate moment, Mr. Mulheisen,” he said. “Mr. Luck cannot see you.”
Mulheisen detected a foreign accent, but the English was excellent. He thought the man could be Mediterranean, or Slavic, even Middle Eastern. He couldn’t tell.
“Well, I wasn’t looking for Luck,” Mulheisen said. “But, as I told these fellas, I’m sorry if I trespassed. I’ll just get out of your way.”
“Alas, it is not so simple,” Hook said. To the two men, he said, “This is the sort of thing I was warning you about. It would have been better, perhaps, if you had simply shot him. Now I must investigate. Let us go and see this car.”
With Mulheisen leading the way they walked back through the woods. After they’d walked a ways, Hook asked where he had entered the property. Mulheisen didn’t show him the actual place, just said he’d found a spot where the fence was partially broken down. He said he’d assumed it wasn’t any big deal, he’d just stepped over hoping to find a better route down to the river. But as they walked on they didn’t see any obvious place to enter, such as Mulheisen had described. Eventually, however, they did reach a point from where they could see Mulheisen’s vehicle several yards beyond the fence, sitting on the old Sigmiller road near where a tree had fallen, blocking it.
“Keep him covered,” Hook said. He stepped up on a strand of the wire, next to a post, then managed to vault over. He stumbled on the other side and fell. He jumped up quickly, brushing himself, evidently embarrassed to be seen in an awkward situation. But he said nothing. He strode off down to the car, still carrying the wallet and keys. He walked around it, found a key and opened the driver’s door, peered inside. Then he opened the trunk. He found nothing of interest.
He walked back and climbed over the fence again, more carefully this time. He seemed perturbed. “Bring him,” he said to the two men and started off.
“Hey, now, wait a minute,” Mulheisen called after him. “This has gone too far. I told you I was sorry. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
A rifle barrel prodded him in the back. Mulheisen lurched, but held his ground. He didn’t turn to Darryl, or whoever it was, but addressed himself to Hook, who had stopped and was looking back at him. “What’s your name?” he demanded.
Hook said, “You are a policeman. Why are you not armed?”
“I’m not a policeman,” Mulheisen said. “I’m retired from the Detroit Police Department. I turned in my badge and gun months ago. Luck knows this. You’d better get hold of him.”
“American policemen are always armed, even when off duty,” Hook said, as if it were an irrefutable truth.
Mulheisen said, “You’ve got the phone, call Luck.” He folded his arms and waited.
“No need to call,” Hook said. He smiled. He had very nice white, even teeth. “I will take you to him.”
“I don’t think so,” Mulheisen said. “You don’t seem to be aware of the seriousness of your actions. If you force me to accompany you it could be construed as assault, or worse. It could even be considered kidnapping. Think what you’re doing, man. This is not a serious incident . . . yet. But it could be the beginning of a day you’ll regret. If I leave now, there’s no harm done. But if you insist, we’re venturing into very troubled waters.”
Hook walked back to him and stood very close, looking him in the face. “I am serious. Are you? You have trespassed. I suggest we go to speak with the owner of this property. Do you refuse?”
Mulheisen considered. It was an equivocal situation thus far. He had hoped to head off any complications, but it didn’t seem possible. He presumed that, if it came to a legal question, Hook would have the support of the two riflemen as witnesses. Almost any assertion he made would likely stand.
Hook saw the indecision. He set off again and Mulheisen, glancing back at the two men with rifles, followed.
When they reached the SUV, Hook ordered Earl to drive. He got in and turned the Jeep around. They put Mulheisen in the backseat, with Darryl. Before he got in, Hook handed him the packet of cigars, which he had retrieved from the front seat, where Earl had tossed them. Mulheisen thanked him.
Hook got in the front passenger seat and asked Earl, “What did you do with the apples?” Earl told him he’d tossed them. Hook turned to face Mulheisen and apologized. He made a gesture toward Earl with his head, as if to say, “You see what I have to deal with?”
The road circled back through the woods, up small hills and down. Within a few minutes they came in sight of Luck’s house, but they pulled up behind the barn. Before they pulled in, however, Mulheisen caught a glimpse of three or four vehicles parked next to Luck’s truck. Hook told Earl to get out and open the sliding doors of the barn. They waited without comment.
What was revealed was the usual drive-thru passage of an old barn, where a farmer might pull a wagonload of hay in through the front doors with his tractor for loading into the loft, and then pull out through the back. Now there was no hay in the loft. But the floor was still the old, worn wooden floor. The odor of hay lingered in the barn, along with the ancient odor of cows. Where there had been stalls, there was now new construction, a wooden wall with a metal door mounted in the plywood paneling. The front sliding doors were closed but for a narrow passage that afforded only a glimpse of the house across the yard.
Hook got out and opened the rear door for Mulheisen. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait here,” he said, pointing at the metal door. “Mr. Luck has visitors. But he’ll be with you shortly.”
Mulheisen was skeptical, but what could he do? He waited while Hook unlocked the door with a key and opened it, then gestured for Mulheisen to enter. Hook stepped inside with him.
Here was, as Luck had promised the night before, a nicely fixed up little guest apartment. It was a room about fifteen feet by twelve, with a window at the end that looked out onto the pine woods a few feet distant. One couldn’t see the house from this angle. And Mulheisen supposed that a guest, a genuine guest, wouldn’t have paid much attention to the four stout metal bars affixed outside the window. A casual glance might have led one to believe that the bars merely prevented breakage by animals, such as cows or horses, wandering by. But to Mulheisen it was clear that they secured any exit from the room.
There was a maple frame bed with ample blankets and a white-cased pillow, all neatly made up. There were also an old wooden table, a cupboard, a counter in which were mounted a modern sink and faucet. There was a small white refrigerator. In one corner, partly shielded by a partition, was a toilet and, beyond that, a shower stall with a glass door.
Overhead was a light fixture with a frosted glass globe, another lamp stood on a table next to the bed, a little bookshelf with some paperbacks in it nearby. A couple of mission-style wooden chairs with fabric-covered cushions completed the furniture. It was rustic but as pleasant as could be.
“Make yourself at home,” Hook said. “There is food and drink.” He pointed to the refrigerator.
Mulheisen looked around briefly, then said, “I thought you said you were serious, Hook. You can’t hold me here. Don’t you understand?”
Hook shook his head. “Shall we stop fencing, Mr. Mulheisen? You have been caught spying. I don’t fear to tell you that I had instructed those men to shoot intruders. But . . .”—he shrugged—“they are not disciplined enough yet to do this. I admit, this disturbs me. When will they have the will, the discipline to act? I am serious, I assure you. So is Mr. Luck. You have made for u
s a difficulty, a situation. We . . . he will have to decide. But he will come to see you. It is up to him. I have returned to you your cigars and matches. Please do not start a fire. That would be very bad. Old barns are dry, they are . . .” he hesitated, searching for a word, then settled on, “. . . flameable. I fear that we would not be able to escape you . . . I am sorry, to extract you from the barn in time.” He gestured toward the cupboards. “There is coffee or tea, if you like. Also, this place is very strong. And we will be outside. So, please, relax.”
“Where’s my wallet and keys?” Mulheisen asked. “This is foolish. You’re making a huge mistake.”
“Ah, your property,” Hook said. “I will fetch it.”
Hook left. He didn’t return.
It was getting dark outside, Mulheisen saw. He tried the door handle, just for kicks. It was locked. It was a steel door in a steel jamb, well mounted in the heavy wooden wall.
He got out a cigar but didn’t light it yet. Just toyed with it and looked around at his prison. The pictures on the wall were mounted in old barn-wood frames, views of mountains and streams, photographic reprints. He noticed that there was a coffee maker. He looked in the refrigerator. As promised, there was at least a case of Stroh’s beer, packages of sandwich meat, a jar of Miracle Whip, a package of cheese, a stick of butter. The bread was in the reefer too. Perhaps, sturdy walls or not, they had a problem with mice. It wasn’t good bread, just some kind of white sliced loaf.
He saw there was a toaster on the counter. And in the cupboards were cups, saucers, a jar of nondairy creamer, another jar of granulated sugar, and a couple of jars of cherry jam. This was cherry country, he recalled. The jam appeared to be authentic, homemade jam. Ah, well, he wasn’t hungry right now. But he was glad to see a can of ground coffee and another tin of Twining’s tea. Maybe later.