Shadow of the Wolf Tree

by Joseph Heywood

  “I use a four-wheeler track out back, not on the driveway and roads.”

  “To go where?”

  “I don’t like your tone of voice.”

  “Just answer the question,” Service said. “To go where?”

  “Wherever I need to go.” One of the man’s painted eyebrows raised. “Are you snooping?”

  “Are you afraid of what I’ll find?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m trying to figure you out. SuRo vouches for you, but I keep getting funny vibrations.”

  “Our feelings are our own,” Lidstrom said.

  “You’ve got clay pots hidden out back.”

  “Stored, not hidden.”

  “You sure you’re not growing something other than garden herbs?”

  The man looked irritated. “Nothing illegal.”

  “This place has all the smells of something way off the garden path.”

  Lidstrom’s shoulders slumped. “Come inside, please. I have no coffee to offer, but I’ve got sassafras root tea.”

  “No thanks.”

  “It cleanses the body.”

  “So does Ex-Lax. I’ll take water.”

  Lidstrom gave him water in a mason jar. “I try to minimize the use of plastics,” he said. “The water is from an artesian well near the Perch River. That’s what I haul in my four-wheeler.

  “I asked what you’re growing.”

  “Hierochloe odorata, Latin for sweetgrass.”

  “The stuff Ojibwas call ‘the grass that never dies?’ ”

  “The Ojibwas and many other tribes use it for medicinal purposes, to purify themselves and the air, drive away evil spirits.”

  “People with cancer also smoke dope.”

  “You’re fixated, Detective.”

  “Goes with my job.”

  “I guess it does. No offense taken. The shoots are in my cellar under black light, if you’d care to look.”

  “I’m not questioning your integrity, but I’d better look.”

  “Understood.”

  Service stood in the underground room and stared at the rows of pots and lights. “Why sweetgrass? It grows wild.”

  “Indeed, but always mixed with other plants, and the local Ojibwas don’t like sharing sweetgrass plots even when they’re on public land.”

  “You can call the law if there’s a problem.”

  “I don’t narc.”

  “You just did by telling me about the problem. And the fact that you say you don’t narc suggests there were others involved in Colorado.”

  “I gave you generalities, not specifics.”

  The man didn’t address Colorado. “Why grow sweetgrass?”

  “Finndian herbs. I had time to do a lot of reading and research in prison. I found there’s a real market for sweetgrass—New Agers, old hippies, lots of niches. If I try to harvest on public land, I’ll be in conflict with the tribes. Worse, you have to look all over to find it, and that takes time. I figured if I grew my own, it would be to my advantage. Finndian herbs will be marketed on the Internet. I lost everything I had when I went to prison. This is a way to get well, and it’s legal.”

  “Finndian?” This was a legendary blend of Native American and Finnish blood.

  “My heritage on my mother’s side.”

  “You’re tribal?”

  “No, my blood’s too diluted for the local rolls.”

  “Ergo, no annual check from casino operations.”

  “How it is,” Lidstrom said.

  “You could get a lawyer.”

  “I’m done with lawyers. I’ve even done all the legal work for Finndian by myself.”

  Service mulled over the situation, what he’d heard, what he’d seen, and what his gut said, which was that he probably was hearing truth.

  Upstairs Lidstrom took a braid of sweetgrass out of a paper bag, lit the tip, blew it out, and waved it around, making the smoke curl in the air.

  “Smells vaguely like vanilla,” Service said. It would be interesting to see if the evidence Denninger had gathered matched anything from the Tamarack River. Either Lidstrom was the best liar he’d ever met, or he was what he claimed to be.

  “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  Lidstrom handed him a bag of sweetgrass braids. “Our secret until my little company is launched, right?”

  Service held up the bag. “Is this a bribe?”

  “A gift isn’t a bribe.”

  On the way north to Watton he called information in L’Anse with his cell phone and got an address for Dayton Chodos, the man who claimed to have been inside the Art Lake commune, or whatever it was. L’Anse was close. Service figured he might as well drop in on the guy, see what he had to say.

  A minute later his cell phone warbled. A thin, wavering voice on the other end said, “Grady.”

  It was Denninger. “You watching your AVL again?”

  “I need . . . help!” she said, her voice feeble. “On foot, away from vehicle . . . just hit . . . panic button!”

  Service looked at his computer screen, saw the glyph for her vehicle flashing the silent electronic alarm. “What’s wrong, Dani?”

  No answer. The panic button was a feature built into the AVL system. An officer in trouble and on foot, away from the vehicle, could push the button and the computer system would alert the entire state, with the AVL providing the vehicle position courtesy of GPS satellites. What the fuck was going on? He’d never actually seen a panic button go live before.

  He got on his 800. “Three Two One Niner, Twenty Five Fourteen is rolling. If you are near your truck, toggle your 800. One click if close, two if not.”

  “Twenty Five Fourteen, Three Two Twenty, I’m also rolling. It looks like that place we talked about earlier.” Kragie had seen the signal too. The place was near Art Lake.

  Grady Service floored the accelerator and turned on his blue lights.

  “Twenty Five Fourteen, Three One Oh Three is passing Kenton, on M-28 coming your way.” This was Sergeant Willie Celt out of Houghton on the 800, which made three COs en route. As he flew along he heard del Olmo and Grinda also check in, and two Troops. A panic button, the system’s designers had assured the state, would bring officers swarming toward the problem. They hadn’t lied.

  He was first to get to Denninger’s truck, which was nosed into some white pines. The hood was cold. Kragie joined him three minutes later, Celt a minute after that. Service continued trying to raise Denninger on his 800, but she wasn’t answering. He flashed his SureFire into the cab of her truck. No handheld 800. Had to be on her belt. “She called me on her cell,” Service told the other officers, “but I lost her. Let’s find her track.”

  Celt got a rifle out of his truck. Kragie brought his shotgun. Service found a boot print, and told the others, “I’ve got her.”

  They moved south at a fast, steady pace known as the recon shuffle. Service stopped briefly every few minutes and used his green light to make sure he was still on her trail, his X-ray night vision working better for living things than for tracks. Kragie flanked left, Celt right.

  “Fence,” Kragie reported over the 800. “To my left, eighty yards, maybe.”

  Service kept moving south, saw that the distance between prints was getting smaller. She had started out walking fast, but had slowed. Why? “On me,” he said into the 800. The others joined him. Service shone his light on the ground. “She got cautious here. Let’s snail-walk from here.”

  Grady Service’s night vision had clicked in. He stayed just left of Denninger’s tracks, was able to move his head to keep branches from slapping his skin. Time slowed. He felt keyed, but calm. Heavy vines and low trees with spikey, sharp, three-inch thorns. He keyed his radio. “Thick wall of hawthorns dead ahead. Use
gloves if you have them.”

  Service moved slowly through the dense foliage, moving branches where he could, ducking and sliding sideways when he couldn’t. When he broke through to an opening, he stopped. He could faintly hear Celt struggling through the heavy cover off to his right.

  “Jesus—fuck!” Kragie yelped from the left.

  “Stay back,” a faint voice said from ahead. He poked his head out of the thicket, looked, saw a silhouette. “Dani?”

  “Use light. Dropped mine.”

  Service turned on his SureFire, pointed it at her. She was on the ground, on her side, up on an elbow.

  “Stay where you are,” Denninger said. “Trap’s got my leg. Really . . . hurts.”

  Trap? He studied the ground between them. It looked clear, and he started to ease ahead slowly.

  From his left, Kragie said, “There’s a goddamn trap over here! I triggered it with a stick.”

  “Got one by me too,” Celt said from the right. “Damn-near invisible.”

  “Great,” Denninger moaned. “Am I the only one who can’t see the fucking things? I think they’re in a circle. Look at the big tree behind me.”

  Service redirected his light. There was a deer draped around the base of the tree. His light caught the reflection of a cable, and his heart nearly stopped. He’d heard of such things but had never seen one. “Everybody freeze and watch my light,” he said. “We’ve got a wolf tree.”

  Two firsts in the same night—a panic button and a wolf tree. There were no odds on either, much less both. He moved to Denninger, got down on one knee, used his green light. What the hell kind of a trap was it? Not one he’d seen before. It had her above the ankle. Blood everywhere. Cloth tourniquet around her thigh, a pencil twisted in it for leverage. She’d been thinking, he thought, but its being there also put the foot in jeopardy.

  “You been loosening it?”

  “Uh-huh,” she mumbled. “I think . . .”

  “How long?”

  She shook her head, showed him her watch. “No idea. You like my lipstick shade?”

  “Shut up, Dani.” She was shocky, her skin clammy. Not good at all.

  “Willie. Can you see your trap?” Celt had trapped since he was a boy and was one of the department’s most knowledgeable in that area.

  “Holy smokes! It’s a modified Conibear 330, a big fucker. It’s a kill trap.”

  “It’s got Dani’s ankle. How do I open the damn thing?”

  “You have to turn up the end of the trap.”

  “Dani, this is going to hurt—a lot. You’ve got to shift over to your other side to help me.”

  “My God!” she yelped, trying to roll. He helped her with his hand.

  “Got it,” Service said into his radio.

  “Put your boot on the lower frame, reach down, and pull up hard on the upper spring. This trap maintains pressure until it’s reset. You’ll have to wrench it off.”

  Grady Service sucked in a deep breath, put his foot on the trap, took hold of the spring, and pulled.

  Denninger screamed and thrashed momentarily.

  The 800 crackled. Service hit the volume so he could hear. “Grady, Simon. I’m at Dani’s truck. Where are you guys?”

  Service radioed, “Call EMS. Look for our trails behind her truck. We’re south. Come the way we came in your vehicle. Turn on all your lights and stay on your radio. I’ll flash my light in the treetops. Let me know when you see it.”

  Service bounced his light beam off the trees just east of their position.

  “Got it,” del Olmo reported.

  “We’re ten yards in front of the lit tree. I’ll leave my light on it until you get here. You’re going to have to bash your way through some hawthorns. Take it slowly.”

  Service checked the tourniquet, decided to let EMS loosen it. He got behind Denninger, rested her head on his leg, rubbed her forehead.

  “Can you believe I stepped on that stupid thing?” she asked.

  “Be quiet.”

  “And I just ordered fuck-me heels from Victoria’s Secret,” she said. “Just for you.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Am I going to lose my foot?”

  “No, just your nail polish.”

  “Oh good. Two feet, two shoes, no spare. It really hurts, Grady.”

  She was loopy and shocky. He looked up, saw patrol truck lights. “I know. Hang tough. Simon’s almost there.” He said into his 800, “Keep coming.” To Dani: “We’re gonna get you out of here. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  “That poor deer,” Denninger muttered. “Why would somebody chain a dead deer to a tree?”

  “Relax, Dani. Stop talking.”

  “Easy for you big macho types to say. Try being a girl.”

  The steel deer guard of del Olmo’s truck nosed through the hawthorns. “Stop there!” Service radioed.

  “Am I bleeding out?” Denninger asked.

  “No, you’re okay. Hang in there.”

  “I see her,” del Olmo said, getting out of his truck.

  “Don’t move,” Service said. “Wolf tree.”

  Service heard del Olmo moving equipment from his backseat to the front.

  “Junco, Willie, we need to clear a path to her.”

  The two men came over, started forward.

  Service took off his coat. Del Olmo came forward with two aspen poles he always carried in the bed of his truck. They put the poles through the arms of the coat and zipped it up to form the bed of a stretcher.

  The four men carefully lifted Denninger onto the makeshift litter and carried her to the truck, easing her into the backseat, back-first. Kragie got in from the other side, got her by the shoulders, and eased her across. Denninger winced, but didn’t cry out. Tears streamed from her eyes. “I dropped my flashlight. All my stuff’s back there.”

  “Don’t worry,” Service said, rubbing her neck. “We’ve got you covered.”

  “Take it slow,” he told del Olmo as he slid behind the wheel.

  The three officers walked beside the truck in case it got stuck.

  Grinda reported in on the radio. “Covington EMS is two minutes out.”

  The EMS personnel worked quickly, loosened the tourniquet, got Denninger onto a gurney and into their ambulance, and started an IV drip.

  One of the techs leaned close to Service’s ear. “Compound fracture.”

  Service patted the man’s arm to let him know he’d heard. He’d seen the protruding bone when he’d found her, had said nothing about it.

  “We’ll bring a bottle of wine to the hospital,” Service said as they began to close the ambulance doors.

  “White,” Denninger said. “Seen enough red for tonight. I just bought fuck-me heels,” he heard her tell one of the techs, who said, “Way cool.”

  Two Troops came bouncing up the road in their patrol units. The five conservation officers and two state policemen took del Olmo’s truck back to the site and the COs began disarming the seven traps that hadn’t been tripped.

  “This is some deeply disturbed shit,” a young Troop said as he watched the conservation officers work.

  They took photographs of each trap and its location, and when the traps were cleared, got photos of the deer cabled to the tree. Kragie brought up his handheld GPS and dropped markers.

  “Where’s the Art Lake fence?” Service asked the Baraga County officer.

  “Over that way. Close.”

  The two men stood by the fence, which was less than a hundred yards from the wolf tree site.

  Celt joined them. “Junco and I will hang here tonight, look this place over closely in the morning. Any idea what this is about?”

  My fault. I sent her here. Service shook his head ruefully, and checked his watch
. It was just after 4 a.m.

  Service, del Olmo, and Grinda drove to Baraga County Memorial Hospital in L’Anse. Some years back Service had spent some time in their emergency room after a nasty fight with a mentally unbalanced man north of Baraga.

  Captain Ware Grant called on the cell phone while they waited outside Emergency.

  “You find her?”

  “She’s in with the docs right now. It was a wolf tree, Cap’n. She stepped on a wolf trap.”

  “Leg?”

  “Compound fracture, right at the ankle. Don’t know the extent or what else yet.”

  Silence from the captain. Then, “The people who did this, Detective?”

  “Sir?”

  “No quarter.”

  Three hours later she was in Recovery. She would keep the foot and have full use if rehab went right. Service told the doctor no sedatives until they could talk to her.

  “Make it quick,” the doctor said. He had blood on his smock. “The tourniquet saved the foot.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “Drink?” Denninger said, when he stepped in with her.

  Service tipped a cup of water with a flexible straw to her lips, adjusting the straw for her. “Just a sip. You did good out there.”

  “No, I didn’t. I really fucked the pooch.”

  “Just bad luck. We’ve all had it.”

  “Not me. I’m naturally lucky.”

  “What happened?”

  “You told me to snoop the place. That’s what I was doing.”

  Service felt sick to his stomach.

  Denninger grabbed his sleeve. “I swear I never saw it.”

  Service looked at the nurse and nodded. She added something to Denninger’s IV. “We’ll talk again when you wake up,” he said.

  “I’m totally serious about those shoes,” she whispered.

  “C’mon,” Service said to the other officers.

  The captain says no quarter. So it shall be.

  13

  Iron River, Iron County

  MONDAY, MAY 22, 2006

  The drive from Baraga seemed to drag as Service made a mental list of follow-up tasks, trying to make separate lists for each of the three incidents. It didn’t matter how or if the wolf tree was related to the other cases; Denninger had been hurt, and he wasn’t going to let go of that until someone was held accountable. Eventually the details got too confused to keep organized in his head. He pulled off the road in northern Iron County and typed a preliminary list into his computer: