by Jon Jackson
Nowadays, he rented it for hunting—“For a ton of bucks to some guys from down below. Imp wants it back, but he ain’t getting it.” The hunters wouldn’t be up for a couple of weeks; until then it was just lying empty. Mulheisen was welcome to it. Charlie refused any payment, and ditto for the truck.
Mulheisen was amazed. The cabin was ideal. As Charlie had warned, “it wasn’t too fancy.” It also needed some cleaning. It was a log building, but built with vertical half-logs in a clever system that alternated the interior half-logs in such a way that they covered the joints of the exterior logs and permitted a layer of insulation; it was very tight and snug. There was a single room for kitchen and living, with a so-called cathedral ceiling. A bedroom, bath, and utility room took up the rear and above that was a large loft that overlooked the living area, obviously where the hunters slept.
The cabin had electricity, running water, an indoor toilet with a shower, and a woodstove. The hunters brought cots, Charlie had said, and slept five or six there. Refrigerator—Mulheisen had stocked up at a store out on the highway, well east of Queensleap—no television, but plenty of privacy. No other buildings seemed to be within miles.
It was positioned on the side of a hill, at the edge of a mixed forest of hardwood and pine, with the river flowing by in a great bend, some thirty feet below the cabin, no more than fifty feet away. The river was quiet, sliding smoothly past. Beyond it lay a great marsh, with dense cedar. One could see for miles to a distant wooded ridge.
The property abutted Luck’s property, according to a large U.S. Forest Service topo map that was pinned to the kitchen wall. The map had numerous ballpoint markings, obviously drawn in by hunters to indicate good hunting sites, or routes to get to them. Between this property and Luck’s house was a considerable forest, an entire section on the map. By road, it was easily five miles, a long, awkward route.
Joe had driven out with Mulheisen to the site, although it was understood that he wasn’t staying. He had plenty to do in town, he said. But he was clearly charmed by the cabin and the setting. “I’ve got to get myself something like this. I tell you, Mul, you fell into it here.” He walked about admiring the handiwork, explaining that he had become something of a carpenter himself lately.
Mulheisen was surprised. He began to relate his recent experiences in building his study. “It’s turned into a cottage,” he said. “I was thinking, eventually I’ll be moving back into the old homestead, but once the study is finished it’ll be a good retreat. Nothing as fancy as this, no Manistee River at my door, but I do have the lake, the St. Clair River . . .”
Joe said he’d seen the place, when he had visited Mul’s mother. He complimented him on the style and appearance. They fell into a discussion of building problems, flooring, insulation, the cost of plumbing and wiring.
“I like this post-and-beam style,” Joe said. He admired the huge, double-glazed windows that looked out over the river, some thirty feet below, winding in a great bend before turning west and disappearing into a vast cedar forest. The view was impressive—one could see nothing but trees for miles, until the horizon loomed in the blue distance.
“Not a sound,” Joe said, “just the river gurgling by. You fish?”
“Oh, I’ve tried it, when I was out looking for you, in Montana,” Mulheisen said. “I didn’t get the hang of it.”
Joe smiled at the reference to that old episode. “I’ve taken it: up,” he said. “It gets under your skin. This guy was supposed to be a great fisherman. I’ve used those Adams flies. Great all-purpose fly pattern. You can use it just about year-round. I’ll bet he left some gear.” He began to poke around until, sure enough, he found the rods and reels in the utility-room closet. One rod was already strung, with a fly tied on the leader.
Joe brought it out. “Here you go! All set. You ought to go down and cast a bit. I’ll get out of your hair.”
Before he left they settled their plans for contact. Joe warned Mulheisen against using the phone.
“Tucker will have your mother’s phone tapped, I’ll bet,” he said. “Use a pay phone when you’re in Traverse,” he recommended, “or wherever else you get to, as long as it isn’t too close by. I can call you on this phone—I’ll ring twice, then call back. You can figure out some way your mother can reach you, if you’re careful and she doesn’t use her home phone.”
“I think I can figure it out,” Mulheisen said patiently.
Joe caught the tone of exasperation. “I know, I know, I’m the horse’s butt and you’re a hardened ol’ copper. But the thing is, I know how not to get caught by making dumb mistakes. It’s a street thing.”
Mulheisen sighed. “I could use the cell phone.” He’d recovered it, along with his other stuff from the Checker, which was now stashed in Charlie’s garage, out of casual sight.
Joe shook his head in mock despair. “Forget the cell. I don’t know how it works, but they can track those things. Satellites, maybe.”
Mulheisen walked out to the pickup with Joe. They settled that Joe would see what he could find out about Luck’s late wife, Constance. Mulheisen would drive to Cadillac tomorrow, a city to the south about twenty miles, actually somewhat closer than Traverse City but in another county. He’d contact friends at the Detroit Police Department to see if he could gather anymore information from that source.
“I’ll call you when I get a motel,” Joe said, “and we can figure out how to communicate from there.” He stopped at the door of the pickup and said, “You’re not armed, are you? Let me leave a couple of pieces with you.”
Mulheisen refused, but not vehemently. He was shocked to see the arsenal Service revealed. He ended up accepting a Llama 9mm automatic pistol.
“A beautiful piece,” Mulheisen said, turning the elegant handgun over in his hand. “Where did you get it? Or should I ask?”
“A friend of mine left it with me,” Joe said. “It’s a Model XI. Here’s some clips.” He prevailed upon Mulheisen to also accept a Stoner .223 automatic carbine—“Just in case one of Luck’s guys comes snooping around. This will put out a lot of lead without making a big mess. Just leave it in the cabin.”
Mulheisen was relieved when Joe left. He felt like he was on vacation. He spent spent some time sweeping out, washing dishes, and straightening out the bedroom. He even found a clean set of sheets and made the bed. He still had time to walk down to the river with the fly rod Joe had found. He’d had a little practice with casting when he was in Montana, more than a year ago, but he found it difficult at first; the fly wouldn’t turn over and the bushes kept snagging his backcast. Eventually he got the hang of it.
The water was nothing like the mountain streams he’d seen in Montana. This water was opaque, it seemed, not broken into riffles by rocks and gravel bars. He had no idea where to cast, no sense of where the fish might be lying. And after a half hour of erratic casting and untangling the fly from brush, he became discouraged. Like every novice fisherman, he became convinced that there were no fish in this stream. Still, if Old Tom Adams had built his cabin here, he supposed that it was for the obvious reason.
It was getting toward dusk anyway. Time to quit. Suddenly, he noticed that there were quite a few small insects hovering over the water. This must be the famous “hatch,” he thought. And shortly, a fish leaped out of the water, not far off, falling back heavily with a great splash. A trout! He made several casts, each one an improvement. The fly line hardly made a single splat. And with the very next cast, he hooked something!
It was astounding. The fish leaped into the air, almost three feet—to his eyes—and with a terrific contortion snapped the leader. The trout disappeared.
Mulheisen stood on the edge of the water, his mouth open in awe. So that was it! He was amazed. He’d actually hooked a trout. He thought, That son of a gun must have been . . . oh, two feet long! He suddenly realized his feet were getting wet. He scrambled back to the bank.
He was thrilled. But it was too dark to go on. He knew he’d never be
able to tie on another fly. In fact, he hadn’t one with him. He went back to the cabin and prepared a sandwich and drank some water. He felt very good.
Thoughts of his mother intruded. He drove out in the old truck along the two-track road and eventually got on the highway. He went to the place where he’d bought his groceries and made a call. He wanted to tell her about the trout, but as it happened she had already gone to bed. He told the nurse not to wake her. He asked if anyone had been around, asking for him, but the nurse said no, not that she knew, but she hadn’t been there earlier, of course.
Mulheisen thought quickly. Then he said, “Tell her I may be home tomorrow, but if I’m not, I’ll call. I may ask a friend to stop by, possibly later this evening, just to sort of check up. He’s a policeman, Captain Marshall. Let’s see, you go off duty in a couple of hours, don’t you? He’ll stop by before that, if he can, but don’t worry if he can’t make it.”
The nurse said that would be fine, and if Captain Marshall didn’t show up before her relief, she’d leave a message.
He called Jimmy Marshall at home.
Marshall was excited. “People looking for you, man,” he said. “What’s up?”
Mulheisen asked him to go to his mother’s house. “I know it’s a long way, clear across town, but I need your help,” he said. What he wanted, he explained, was for someone he could trust to check out the situation there. His mother had met Jimmy and liked him. Then he explained in some detail about his detention, but for some reason he left Joe Service out of the account.
He gave the phone number at the cabin. “You can call me there, but not from Ma’s,” Mulheisen said. “She’s already in bed, there’s no need to wake her. Just make sure there’s no one snooping around and everything’s all right. There will be a nurse there. You can leave a message with her. She, or my mother, can call me at the cabin, in case of an emergency. By the way, did you check out that Dr. Johnson, in Indiana?”
“Yeah. He’s deceased,” Jimmy said. “Died two years ago.”
“Damn,” Mulheisen said. “That would be not long after Constance Luck died. How’d he die?”
“He was killed, Mul. Got blown up in his car.”
Mulheisen was silent. “No other details?” he said, after a moment.
“I talked to a guy on the Indianapolis squad. They didn’t have a clue. And now, guess what? The files are impounded. Homeland Security.”
“What does your friend say, in Indianapolis?” Mulheisen wanted to know.
“They were working on the theory it was drug-related,” Jimmy said. “The trouble was, Dr. Johnson wasn’t ever suspected of that: kind of activity. He was just a GP, in family practice. He’d never been implicated in any drug dealings.”
“Could you check on Constance Luck, or Constance Malachi, as far as where, when, or if she was buried in those parts? How far does this Homeland Security thing go? Would it prevent you from finding out if she ever lived in Indianapolis?”
Jimmy didn’t grumble at any of these requests. He just said he’d call back after he’d been out to St. Clair Flats.
Mulheisen thought about all this on his way back to the cabin. It was another pitch-black night. He’d noticed while he was fishing that clouds were moving in; it looked like they had arrived. It began to sprinkle while he was slowly pushing the old truck up the long lane. By the time he got to the house it was raining, a good steady rain.
He settled down to study the topo map, particularly Luck’s property. Jimmy would be a while, he knew. But it was very odd: sitting in this lighted house, with huge front windows, surrounded by utter darkness. He felt like a target. He couldn’t concentrate. Soon, he turned out the lights and sat in the dark, listening to the rain drum on the metal roof. It was coming down pretty steadily. He thought it was the most soothing and relaxing sound he’d ever heard.
13
The Dogs of Helen
It did not occur to Helen that Joe had left her until she retrieved her Durango from the hotel parking lot in Helena. The vehicle was completely cleaned out, not even a note from Joe. She was driving back to the ranch when the dangerous idea struck her: maybe he’s gone for good. She swerved, almost losing control. She’d been unprepared for that.
Unprepared, but she quickly realized she’d had a premonition. Nothing conscious, hence the reaction. But an uneasy feeling had been lurking, like a tiny black cloud just beyond the corner of her eye. She thought it might have been implanted when she received the message from his answering service, telling her not to speak to Colonel Tucker, informing her of the whereabouts of the car . . . and nothing else. No personal message at all.
They had made love the day he’d left. According to him, he was just going to “straighten the Colonel out,” after which their life could continue on its increasingly domestic arc. They were rich, they had the place they wanted, they were secure from the authorities.
Well, perhaps not secure, that was the point of settling the deal with Colonel Tucker: to make sure that they were secure. Legally, Helen was sure that could never really be accomplished short of a presidential pardon. But she didn’t see why it shouldn’t be so in practice.
Nearly a year had passed since their last work for the Colonel. They had built their house. It wasn’t finished, but it was livable and, to be honest, they were in no hurry to finish it. She had even begun to think, in a remote and theoretical way, about having a child. She hadn’t mentioned a word, not even a hint, of this to Joe. She had hardly permitted herself to think about it seriously. But what was left for the absolute fulfillment of their lives? She was over thirty, as was Joe. It was getting late to be starting a family. Not too late, of course, not by any means.
Could she have unconsciously given him a hint of that? And if she had, was it something that would cause him to panic and flee? Because the feeling that he had gone, not planning to return, was strong . . . so strong, in fact, that she knew it.
When she got back to the house she checked the crucial indicators: the money cache, the guns. She saw right away that he had taken a substantial amount of cash, more than two or three hundred thousand dollars. She knew that he had other sources of cash, money hidden in numerous banks around the country. He had also taken all of the guns that he really liked—mostly handguns, but also some automatic weapons, such as a Bushmaster, a Heckler & Koch MP5A3, an Uzi, as well as a few other, less exotic guns.
None of this was conclusive, of course. He could walk in this afternoon and say, “Hi, babe. Well, it’s all settled.” But somehow she just knew that he wasn’t going to.
She thought of calling the Colonel, but she didn’t know how to get in touch with him. She supposed she could find him—he was a government employee, after all. Still, Joe had warned her not to talk to the Colonel. In her present mood she was inclined to ignore Joe’s advice, but she didn’t call.
Her next impulse was to go see Fedima. And do what? she thought derisively. Cry on her shoulder? Seek comfort? She rejected the idea. She wasn’t so fond of Fedima lately. Then she thought of calling her mother. Instead, she called Roman Yakovich, her late father’s retired bodyguard.
Roman was not home.
That gave her pause. She sat down in a chair by the great windows that looked out on the valley, toward the river, the bluffs, and the mountains beyond. It was a golden day. But she didn’t see it. She just sat and gazed and thought.
Her feelings for Joe were intense. Some time ago, they had gotten into the habit of wrestling. They were of a size, small, muscular, lithe, like young panthers. The wrestling could get dangerous, at times, with chokeholds. At one point, when they had approached very near a desperate moment, from which they had both backed away, she recalled telling him that she would never allow him to leave. He had sworn in return never to do it. Hadn’t he? She was sure he had.
Now he was gone. She had no choice: she had to go find him. This was a breach, a fatal gesture. She would find him, confront him, and if he did not give her satisfaction . . . she wou
ld kill him. Or he would kill her. It would be that kind of a confrontation, she was sure.
She remembered that she had a contact number for Roman, an emergency number. She found it and called. A man answered. He said he didn’t know any Roman Yakovich. Who was she? She told him. The man said he would ask around. He’d call back. She started to tell him her number when he hung up.
Roman called in fifteen minutes. “I was gonna call you,” he said. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. Then she remembered that she wasn’t all right. “I’m upset.”
“What’s wrong?” Now Roman was upset. She could hear the anxiety in his voice.
“Joe’s gone.” There, it was out. She almost burst into tears.
“He’s gone, sure,” Roman said, in his gruff voice, still with a faint Balkan accent, rather like her mother’s. “But he ain’t gone gone.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, he ain’t, you know—gone. He’s okay. I think.”
Helen was puzzled. “What? Where is he? Have you heard from him?”
“That’s the problem,” Roman said. He actually said “Dat.” “He’s ‘posta be in Detroit, but he ain’t.”
“He called you? What did he want?”
“He din’t say, just meet me in Detroit. But he ain’t here. He tol’ me not to tell you—don’t worry the Liddle Angel.”
That was Roman’s pet name for her, Helen was aware. Joe would not have used that phrase—doubtless, it was Roman’s unconscious attribution—but the usage momentarily softened her anger. But only momentarily. “Don’t tell me! Why didn’t you call, you oaf?”
“I’m sorry, I shoulda. I was gonna, and then you called Denny, down in Miami.”
“That was Denny? Denny Spinodi? Itchy’s brother? He never said a word. What a bunch of fu—. What the hell is going on?”