by Jon Jackson
“What was his name?”
“Well, the American Ornithological Union now prefers the term ‘northern harrier,’” Mrs. Mulheisen said, “but it’s the same old Circus cyaneus, of course. The A.O.U. keep messing with these names. They even tried to change the Baltimore oriole to the northern oriole, but that didn’t go over. They claimed it was the same as the Bullock’s, but that’s nonsense.”
Helen was momentarily baffled. She had no idea what the woman was talking about. Then she caught on. She laughed. “I’m sorry, I meant the young man.”
“What about him?” It was Mrs. Mulheisen’s turn to be baffled. “He didn’t seem to know much about birds either, but at least he was interested, I could tell. He even borrowed my binoculars to look at the hawk. It was sitting on a post along the river channel. Maybe he’ll be there again today. They’ll do that, you know, come back to the same perch, although most of the time these marsh hawks are tireless fliers, working over the fields, looking for a mouse . . .”
“He didn’t tell you his name? The young man? Was he sort of small and dark?”
“Why, yes. Very handsome, very lively little fellow,” Cora agreed. “Actually, he rather resembled you, my dear. You could pass for brother and sister.” She looked at Helen appraisingly. “No, I didn’t catch his name. But Colonel Tucker is always sending his fellows around, to sort of keep an eye on me. You’d think I was a terrorist.”
They both smiled at that notion. They walked on and Helen told her that she’d read about the bombing. “Were you very badly injured?” she asked.
They had reached the channel and began to walk along it, toward the lake. “Yes, it was quite harrowing,” Cora said. “By rights, I should have perished, but I survived. Poor Mr. Larribee was killed. Some others, too, although I’m not sure who all. None of my group was even hurt. We were there protesting the planned disruption of the habitat of the Nelson’s sharp-tailed sparrow, you know—Ammodramus nelsoni. At least, that’s been put off for some time, one hopes for good. But you know how these developers are: you think you’ve stopped them but they just start up again.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a Nelson’s,” Helen said.
“Few have. They’re quite . . . well, I don’t suppose I should say ‘rare.’ They’re certainly not widespread, or common. Uncommon, is the word, occurring in isolated breeding groups. I always hoped to see one around here—they like these kinds of grassy marshes—but, alas, no. Plenty of grasshopper sparrows, though. Nelson’s is a small, rather orangish sparrow. So you see how important it is to preserve the locations where they do appear.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Helen said. “I’m so glad you didn’t suffer any lasting effects from the bombing.”
Cora had stopped and was thoroughly scanning the marsh, as if intent on discovering the Nelson’s. “Oh, I lost my memory,” she remarked, over her shoulder, not lowering the glasses. “It’s a little late for the sparrows, I’m afraid. They’ve migrated south, I expect. Unless,” she said, with a snort of amusement, “they’re hibernating.”
“But that’s horrible,” Helen said. “I mean, your memory.”
“Oh, I’m recovering it, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Cora said. “Why, just the other night, I remembered a very odd person.” She lowered the glasses and turned. “He was at the hearing. Well, outside, in the hall. Very agitated. Nice-looking gentleman, though. He told me . . .” She hesitated a moment, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Why,” she said, as if it had just struck her, “he told me to ‘get out’! He was quite vociferous about it. ‘Get out of this,’ he said. Do you suppose he knew what was going to happen?”
Helen caught her excitement. “It certainly sounds like it. What did he look like? Did you recognize him?”
“No, he wasn’t with our group. Although he looked like he could be a bird-watcher. He wore rather rustic clothing. He had on one of those canvas field hats. One of our gentlemen, Chad Parsons, wears one. It’s called a Filson, I believe. Rather rakish, with a brim around it. Waterproof, Mr. Parsons says. Quite useful, I’m sure. We often meet with inclement weather.”
“If he was with the bombers,” Helen said thoughtfully, “I imagine that right now he’s hoping that you won’t remember him. What else do you recall about him?”
“He was tall,” Cora said, “about fifty, or older. And, as I say, agitated. Rather a long face. Strong nose, blue eyes. Oh, I’d recognize him, all right, if I saw him again. I told that young man of Colonel Tucker’s about it, but he didn’t seem very interested. Of course, at that time I hadn’t recalled as much as I subsequently have. I’ve pieced it all together now, though. The young man suggested I tell the Colonel about it, but I haven’t had the opportunity. And, after all, I’m not sure it would actually be pertinent. Do you suppose it’s something I should tell Colonel Tucker?”
“It might be a good idea,” Helen said. “It might be important. So, the Colonel’s young man wasn’t interested?”
“No. Well, as I say, it was pretty sketchy at that juncture. I’ll mention it to Mul when he gets home. He can decide.”
“When will he be back?” Helen asked.
“He was supposed to return last night, but he got involved with something up in that town, Queensleap. A friend of his came by last night and left a note about it. I was asleep, but the nurse gave it to me this morning, a little while before you came by. I’m to call him at a number, in an emergency. But I’m not to call from home. He said to go to a phone booth. That seems odd. There’s one down by the marina.” She pointed up the channel. “I could walk there. But I don’t think this is pressing news. It can wait until Mul gets home.”
“I could call him,” Helen said. “Do you have the number with you?”
The old woman looked at her for a moment, then said, “Oh, that’s all right, my dear. Thank you for volunteering. But I think I’d better wait.” She made a humorous grimace. “Police business, no doubt. Mul is funny that way, rather like the Colonel. All very hush-hush. He’d be upset, I’m sure, if you called him.”
Helen smiled. She suddenly thought: I could get that message from her right now. I’ll bet it’s in her pocket. But she didn’t do anything. Instead, she said, “You ought to have some protection. Doesn’t the Colonel—”
Cora interrupted her. “The note said, come to think of it, that I shouldn’t communicate this number to the Colonel. I thought that was especially odd. What do you think?”
“More hush-hush,” Helen said.
“That’s what I think. Oh! There’s the harrier.” She pointed as a large and elegant hawk swept past them and alit on a post. “That’s the very same post where I saw it the other evening, when that young man came by. What did I tell you? They often come back to the same perch.” She held out the glasses to Helen, inviting her to look.
It’s an agonizing thing to delay when you are dying to be going. But Helen controlled her impatience admirably while the old woman dawdled, looking at birds, chattering away. But eventually they drifted back to the house, with Helen silently urging the woman to get a move on. There, Mrs. Mulheisen invited her to stay for a cup of tea, but Helen demurred. She reiterated that she’d just stopped by on the chance of catching Mulheisen in. She had an appointment in nearby Mount Clemens, she lied.
However, she said, she had a need to use the bathroom, if Mrs. Mulheisen didn’t mind.
“Oh, by all means,” Cora said, “freshen up. You want to look your best. Use the bath in my room, dear.” She pointed the way.
Helen hurried to the bathroom. She had to go, desperately. But afterward she lingered to look about the old woman’s room. As she’d hoped, there was the envelope with Mrs. Mulheisen’s name scribbled on it in ballpoint, lying on her dresser. Helen took the chance and opened it. She instantly memorized the number and replaced the note.
Mrs. Mulheisen watched her leave and remarked to the nurse, “She’s very pretty, but she hasn’t a chance with Mul, I’m afraid. Much too small, I think. And
probably too young.”
An hour later, Helen had Roman behind the wheel of her father’s elegant Cadillac, headed upcountry. Ten minutes of that time had been spent online, locating the address of that phone number on a Yahoo! Web site. Unfortunately, the map on the site had not been able to pinpoint the location, just indicating the road and the presence of the Manistee River nearby. But she felt confident she could find the place. It was apparently the home of a Charles McVey. Just for reference she’d also looked up Luckenbach, but all she could find was an M. P. Luck. Still, that address seemed to be close to the McVey house, where Mulheisen was presumably staying. She supposed that, if necessary, she could stop and visit with this Luck. He ought to be able to tell her how to get to McVey’s. After all, they were neighbors.
17
Friendly Dog
Wunney stood staring at the lake, fists buried in the pockets of an old twill tanker jacket. The lake was empty and gray, rimmed in dark green pines on the far shore. A couple of lonely rays shot through the low gray clouds, spotlights searching an empty stage. Where the light struck the water it glowed emerald green and the luminescent patches wandered across the lake toward the shore but never quite reached it before being blotted up by the leaden chop. Wunney’s eyes glistened in the chill breeze.
Wunney turned at the sound of truck tires on the gravel of the parking lot. Mulheisen spotted him immediately: he looked like a merchant seaman. His hair was cut in a brush, as ever—no hat. His face blank, noncommittal. He looked neither comfortable nor ill at ease, just ready for whatever presented itself.
Mulheisen’s heart unexpectedly warmed. He knew this man. Reliable, honest, intelligent, if not overly imaginative, or one might say not incapable of imagination but distrustful of it. A man who knew what he knew, and no bullshit. Mulheisen realized that he missed men like this. Wunney was nothing like the man riding with him, the subtle Colonel Tucker, to say nothing of the mercurial Joe Service, whom they’d left behind.
They got out and went to meet Wunney, who stopped short when he saw Tucker. When they came up he nodded to Mul and said, with hardly a glance to his boss, “Tucker.” Wunney looked to Mulheisen for enlightenment.
Mulheisen turned to Tucker, “Excuse us for a minute, Colonel.”
“Sure,” Tucker said. He walked away toward the lake, hoisting the collar of his trench coat against the breeze. He trudged through the sand toward an empty wooden jetty.
Wunney looked after him, then he and Mulheisen strolled back toward the old truck. Wunney said, “I thought you and he weren’t communicating.”
“The Colonel dropped by last night.” Mulheisen explained about Joe Service. “Joe stayed behind at the cabin. He’s trying to keep his buddy list down to one cop, I guess. He was planning to take Tucker’s car back to Traverse City, to exchange it for his truck. The midnight visit was a spur of the moment thing, it seems, inspired by Joe with a little input from Smith and Wesson. Anyway, Tucker and I had a little heart-to-heart. About Miss Malachi. He agreed that her case might bear looking into.”
Wunney nodded. “That’s what I thought after you called. I picked up some files. Tucker’s involved. You want to discuss this with him present?”
“Let’s be open,” Mulheisen said. “He seems prepared to let it all come out. Do you mind?”
Wunney shrugged. “Okay.”
“Oh, what about Hook? Anything?”
“I couldn’t get much on short notice,” Wunney said, “but it appears that he’s on the list of al-Qaeda operatives that the FBI and others want. Some kind of specialist in military organization. No pictures of al-Huq, I’m afraid. But the description sounds likely: mid-thirties or early forties, slim, medium height, dark-complected, usually a mustache. Whatever that’s worth. Homeland Security says he’s important, and they want him. Do you want to discuss it with Tucker?”
“Let’s see how the talk with him goes,” Mulheisen said.
They went back to the beach. Tucker was standing right out on the end of the wooden jetty, hunched and staring across the lake. They started after him, but he turned, saw them, and came back. He appeared refreshed by the changeable weather. He’d been hungover, then talking nervously driving in, but now he was cheerful, calm, and self-possessed.
“I was telling Mul,” he said to Wunney, “that it seemed advisable to take a look at the records of Malachi. It appears we were a little hasty in dismissing her role, her potential impact on case. It’s possible there could be an enlightening element here, in regard to M. P. Luck’s involvement. What do you think, lieutenant?”
“Could be,” Wunney said. “As a matter of fact, I brought some material along about Malachi.” He nodded toward his car, a black Ford parked nearby. “You want to go someplace to discuss it? Or do you want to chat out here?”
Mulheisen said, “There’s a café back on the main street. We can walk, if you’d rather.”
“Yeah,” Wunney said. “It’s good to get out in the fresh air. It’s nice up here. The rain must have cleared the air.”
He went to his car and got out a briefcase, then the three of them walked without comment to the café. They ordered coffee and, after it was served, Wunney opened the case and brought out some files. He looked at Tucker to see if there were any objections, but Tucker seemed unconcerned, so he began.
“This is a report on Malachi, from the FBI. She was hired as an attorney by the Justice Department, as you can see, about ten years ago. Appointed finally a U.S. attorney. Then she was recruited by the CIA.” He hauled out another file. “Her case officer was Colonel Tucker. She was investigating some so-called patriot groups. Not really CIA business, but . . .” He glanced at Tucker, who didn’t react.
Wunney went on: “One of her objectives was Luck. As it happened, she’d already met Luck. Which was . . . lucky, I guess.” Wunney didn’t smile.
“That was the point of recruiting her,” Tucker said.
“It doesn’t look like you got much from her,” Wunney said, tapping the papers.
“No, it was disappointing. I explained all that to the sergeant,” Tucker said. “I’d say she fell under his thrall. It happens, as you know.”
Wunney nodded. He sipped his coffee, then said, “She inherited some property from her father, downstate. It’s near that town Wards Cove. For some reason, the investigation of the bombing never touched on this.”
“I never heard anything about it, until the bombing,” Tucker said. “When I looked into it I couldn’t see anything relevant. Just an issue with her family, not connected to Luck, really. As she was an undercover operative, the powers that be decided it was just as well to sit on it.”
Wunney looked at Mulheisen, who said, “I’d have thought that any issue in which Luck played any part at all would be relevant in an investigation. No?”
“The Wards Cove property was an old farmstead, just sixty acres,” Tucker said. “The old man had acquired it back in the thirties. Evidently, he bought it from a couple of relatives, presumably as a way of helping them out during the depression. Those folks stayed on the property for several years, but eventually they moved on and he leased it to another farmer, who used it for agricultural purposes—he didn’t live there. The house and other buildings were allowed to fall into dilapidation. He signed it over to his daughter before he died, in the seventies. It might have been a tax thing, or maybe it provided her with an income, or collateral, but that’s just speculation. I didn’t see any substantive connection to Luck. It seemed like sheer coincidence that a deceased agent’s family was wrangling over her estate.”
“That’s all I have about it,” Wunney said. “Not much of an issue, as you say. But when Constance died, apparently intestate—which is a little odd for a lawyer, don’t you think?—other members of the family sought to recover the property. A couple of cousins, children of the original owners. They claimed that it was supposed to come back to their parents, if they survived Constance’s father, which their mother did, barely. For some reason, they di
dn’t contest it as long as Constance was alive, but since she had died . . . They felt it belonged in the family, shouldn’t pass to Luck. He naturally dismissed their claim. But somehow they came up with this notion that he’d never actually married Malachi. And so far, he hasn’t provided any evidence of a marriage. He could claim a common-law marriage, I’m told. But the question of the promised reversion might override that anyway.
“Now, we have the bombing. Most of the original papers and documents in the case were destroyed, along with some people. There are copies, of course. Quite a bit of fuss for a piece of not very valuable property.”
“Are you sure it isn’t valuable?” Mulheisen asked.
Wunney shook his head. “Just an old farm, leased out for hay. The state has built a campground nearby. The farm has no great commercial value. It’s not related to that industrial developement in Wards Cove that was, coincidentally, the subject of a hearing that day, which your mother attended. This property is way on the other side of town, out in the country. I suppose, in some unforeseeble future, if Wards Cove continues to grow, it will become more valuable. But for now its value is still just as more or less ordinary agricultural property.”
Tucker observed, “It didn’t look like a meaningful connection to Luck. It wasn’t enough of a link, and anyway he didn’t bother to come and contest it. Didn’t even send a lawyer. It looked like he had decided to let it go.”
“It could be an issue, of sorts,” Mulheisen mused. “If Luck thought he’d have trouble proving a marriage it might be problematical when it came to other property of Malachi’s.”
“What other property?” the Colonel asked.
“All that property along the Manistee River, before you get to McVey’s cabin, where we were last night,” Mulheisen said. “I noticed it on the plat map when I was looking in Traverse City to see how much and where Luck owned property. Just a coincidence . . . sort of. But it’s a similar situation: Luck’s grandfather seems to have given it to a faithful servant, who built that cabin. Subsequently, the servant left it to McVey. When I talked to Luck, a couple days ago, he displayed some interest in regaining property he felt belonged to his grandfather, presumably that property. There’s also some adjoining property that, for some reason, was in Constance Malachi’s name. A different issue, but it suggests he’s very keen on his property rights. It’s a fundamental part of his antigovernment philosophy, in fact. This might be part of the same problem, in his eyes. I got the impression from McVey that Luck wasn’t likely to recover the cabin property. But if this Wards Cove suit by Malachi’s family goes through, he could also lose that other property.”