Running Dark

by Joseph Heywood

  The shooter stopped cursing, snatched up his gear, and departed at a clumsy jog. Service trailed him across the bluff to a road, where a dirty pickup truck was snugged nose-first against a snowbank. He used his binoculars to get the license number, wrote it down, and waited for the vehicle to leave. The truck was dirty and slush-covered, but something about it seemed familiar.

  He suspected the man would return with help to search for his rifle, which meant Service needed to vacate the area.

  There were several possible routes, but he decided on one through the thickest woods to cover himself while daylight remained. When he got close to the Port Bar, he saw there were no vehicles; he hiked farther south another half-mile and found a place under some logs. He scooped out an opening and settled in to wait for darkness. Waiting patiently and alone was what game wardens did best.

  While he waited he thought about what he had seen. Even on foot the rats were clinging to each other, and the fact that they came in on foot suggested he had crippled enough machines to make them wary. He had not gotten to all that many machines, which further suggested the rats were not as numerous as the DNR had suspected. He also knew that each time he struck, he was costing them time and money—and each time Peletier went untouched, his followers had to wonder why he was exempt.

  Lasurm looked at him warily when he wrote down a telephone number and told her what he wanted her to do. “You want me to call Attalienti and tell him there’s a rifle on the rocks at the base of Middle Bluff?”

  Service held her coat out to her and nodded. “You have a party line here,” he said. “Best use a pay phone.”

  She slammed the door on her way out. He felt bad about the way he ordered her around, but she was beginning to challenge him, and he didn’t need complications right now. Attalienti was going to be pissed that he’d taken the man’s rifle—but what was he supposed to have done? Let him shoot, or jump him before he could get off a round? This solution was a compromise that had allowed him to remove the threat and maintain his anonymity. To fight a rat you sometimes had to act like one.

  29

  GARDEN PENINSULA, FEBRUARY 26, 1976

  “Even Napoleon didn’t fight every day.”

  Service awoke with achy muscles and a windburned face, swung his legs to the floor, and checked his watch: 3 p.m. He rolled back onto the bed and went back to sleep.

  Lasurm awoke him two hours later. “Aren’t you going out tonight?”

  “Did you make the call?” he asked, checking his watch again. What day was this? It was all starting to run together.

  She was sitting on the side of the bed and smelled of alcohol. “The sugar is downstairs.”

  “Did you make the call?” he asked again.

  “Do you ever lighten up?” she said. “The DNR pulled more nets yesterday. Renard and his people went out to talk to them, but there was no confrontation. He lodged a protest—told them someone is vandalizing fishermen on the peninsula. He thinks it’s the DNR, and that he’s the victim.” Service knew that Renard had talked alone to Stone; his people had not been with him. The report of what he had said was Renard’s version.

  “Did you make the call?” he repeated.

  “Yesterday, from Rapid River,” she said. “Attalienti said he’d take care of it.”

  “That’s all he said?”

  “It’s what you wanted, right?” She held up a glass of wine and took a drink. “Oh, I guess he also asked when you’re coming out.”

  “You guess?”

  “He asked,” she said. “Don’t be so damn literal, and stop being surly. I think you’re feeling guilty about what you’ve done here. And you’re exhausted. You’ve slept for nearly twenty-four hours.”

  “And you said?”

  “My God,” she said. “Do you ever break focus? I said I don’t know, but it’s soon, right?” She stared at him waiting for a reply.

  “Am I cramping your style?” he asked

  She took another drink and grimaced. “You haven’t even seen my style.” She saluted him with the glass. “I need another drink.”

  She drained her glass and went downstairs with Service following. Here we go again, he thought.

  The wine bottle on the kitchen table was nearly empty, and she was fumbling with the cork of a new bottle.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked.

  She rolled her eyes and continued her efforts. He took it away from her and opened it.

  “You going to warn me against the sin of overindulgence?”

  “Sermons are your specialty,” he shot back.

  She wagged a finger at him. “You’re a naughty bastard,” she said. “Even Napoleon didn’t fight every day. Do you think the Great Lombardi thought about football when he was making love to his wife?”

  “Maybe she did,” Service said. Lombardi had died in 1970. Now what the hell was she talking about?

  Lasurm dribbled red wine down her chin and laughed out loud. “That’s actually funny! Do you think it’s a coincidence that the great general and the great coach each had a Marie in his life?” Her eyes were cloudy and she looked pouty. “When you look at me, what do you see?”

  He shrugged, knowing there was no right answer.

  “Exactly,” she said. “Nothing. I’m nothing, the invisible woman.”

  “I . . . ,” he said.

  “Shut up! Did you not pick up on the fact that I’ve never allowed another man in this house? Did I not make that clear?” she added. “No, don’t answer that either. You pick up on everything that fits what you want to hear.”

  “You make me sound like an asshole.”

  “You tell me what it makes you. You came down here to gather information and now you’re acting just like them. The end justifies the means, an eye for an eye, all that biblical shit.”

  “I thought you were a good Christian.”

  She sneered. “Don’t confuse spiritual with religious. What we each believe, even if we believe, has nothing whatsoever to do with any of this,” she said wagging a finger at him, taking another drink.

  “Any of what?” he asked.

  “Don’t play games,” she said. “You’re perpetuating the cycle you’re supposed to be ending. I asked for you because I wanted to break the cycle here, clear the air, but you can’t break laws to uphold laws. I didn’t ask for Attila the Hun,” she lamented. “And I did my homework on you, too: Responsible, smart, courageous, energetic, thoughtful, tireless, fair, loyal, but you’re just like the rest of them.”

  All men, all COs, or all men on the Garden? He wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

  “It’s one thing to mess with somebody’s mind,” she said, “but you can’t beat them up.”

  “I haven’t laid a hand on anybody.”

  She sneered. “Now that’s a fact—but the word is somebody beat the hell out of Moe Lapalme yesterday and threatened him with his own rifle.”

  So that was the man’s name. Service stared at her. “I took a man’s rifle while he was gone getting ammunition and slung it over the bluff. He wasn’t there at that moment. Remember, you called Attalienti to tell him where it is? I never touched anyone. If this guy is claiming otherwise, he’s lying because he forgot his ammo and left his rifle unattended to go fetch it. He doesn’t want to look like a fuckup.”

  She looked at him for a long minute, evaluating. “There are people who believe what Moe Lapalme says.”

  “Are you one of them?”

  She said, “No, I don’t believe most of what Moe says, but he can be very persuasive. He’s the kind who could understand being beaten up, but he’d never admit to screwing up. Never. Nothing that goes wrong is ever Moe’s fault.”

  What was she getting at with this Lapalme? His name had not come up in the original list of rats. “I never touched
him, Cecilia,” Service said. “But the Marquis of Queensbury Rules were for sport, not real life,” he said, adding, “One leg.” Why had he said that?

  “Yes, of course; you see one leg or two, black or white, crippled or whole,” she said, emptying her glass. “If you were the one with one leg, would you be a different person?”

  “I wouldn’t be doing this job.”

  Her blue eyes flared. “Meaning your job defines you?”

  “That’s not what I said—and what the hell is this conversation supposed to accomplish?”

  “You see!” she said, “You see? Not everything has to lead to an accomplishment. A conversation is just that—an exchange. It doesn’t have to lead somewhere, or even anywhere. Life is not about keeping score!”

  “Naughty or nice, we all go to Heaven?” he said.

  “There you go again,” she said. “Heaven—a goal, the ultimate destination, only those with the highest scores get admitted—like MIT or something,” she added. “That is so much crap!” she said with a disparaging laugh.

  “Three days,” he said wearily. “Three more days and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  She tried to pour another glass of wine for herself, holding the bottle over the glass. Only a few drops came out of the opening. She plopped the bottle on the table and looked him in the eyes. “You haven’t even gotten into my hair,” she whispered. “Get me drunk and don’t even take advantage of me. Man and woman this close together for two weeks, and all he does is nothing, sees one leg is all. I’m almost forty, you know . . . ”

  She was talking to herself now.

  “’Nuther bottle,” she said, slurring her words.

  “You’re way past last call,” he said.

  She nodded once, pursed her lips, and fumbled to get her crutch on her wrist. “Help me,” she said. It was a plea, not an order.

  He helped her to her feet, but she began to tilt and he picked her up in his arms. She weighed next to nothing. “Drunk crip,” she mumbled. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” She began to giggle as he carried her up the stairs, her crutch hanging off her wrist and banging along.

  Service heard the dog behind them, and Lasurm said sharply over his shoulder, “Leave us alone, Tillie!” The animal stopped and retreated.

  “Know what?” Lasurm asked when he set her on the bed. “I’m a Marie too. Cecilia Marie Lasurm.” She had an arm hooked over his shoulder. “You getting me ready to bed?” she asked, and immediately began to giggle and whispered, “Meant ready for bed, not to bed.” He ignored her.

  “Undress me,” she said.

  “You’re fine the way you are.”

  “Even one leg?” she said. She lifted it and wiggled her foot. “It’s a nice leg,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, a great leg. Sleep,” he said.

  “Really? A great leg?”

  “Yes, great.”

  “You’re not goin’ out tonight?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise,” he said.

  “Shame,” she said.

  “What?” he asked, but her head was on the pillow and she was asleep.

  He stood in the shower early the next morning, relishing the needles of hot water on sore muscles. His job frequently took him out of his vehicle, but this was a lot more walking than he was used to, and all of it through snow without benefit of skis or snowshoes. He could feel it every afternoon when he awoke for the next night’s patrol.

  A sound brought him out of his reverie and he saw the shower curtain sliding back; he immediately pivoted away, but Lasurm reached into the stream of water and touched him. “Scars,” she whispered, her hand tracing lines on his chest and arm. She took the palm of his hand and put it under her robe. He felt scars where breasts should have been. “We both understand pain and decisions,” she said. “You didn’t pull your hand back.” She patted his arm and backed away.

  He stepped out of the shower, picked up a towel, and walked to her bedroom door. There were no lights. “I’m here,” she said softly. “The invisible scars are the ones we feel the most,” she added.

  He lay down beside her and felt the warmth of her skin against his, and began his recitation. The women he had known seemed to always want to know about his wounds. “Left ab, Vietnam, rocket fragment. Right ab, AK-forty-seven round, also Vietnam, and it hurt like hell. Left forearm, a fifteen-year-old squirrel hunter accidentally potshot me with a twenty-two. Upper right thorax, Vietnam, grenade.” The other scar had come when he stepped in front of his grandmother’s 410 shotgun. He didn’t count that one because it had been his own fault.

  Later she lay beside him, whispering, “My grandmother died of breast cancer. Then my aunt and my mother. And my oldest sister. The doctors insisted I shouldn’t assume their fate would be mine. One doctor actually told me that if a coin flip comes up heads one hundred times in a row, the odds of heads on the next toss remains fifty-fifty. I listened to what the doctors said and told them to take them off, get rid of them. I was twenty-three. My own doctor refused. I had to go all the way to Houston to find a surgeon who would do it.” She nibbled Service’s neck and whispered, “We’re a lot alike. We loathe passivity. Faced with a problem, we look for solutions, for action.”

  “You said I’m perpetuating the cycle here.”

  “You’re here because I asked specifically for you,” she said. “But what you’ve done won’t stop this thing.”

  “Not in the short term,” he said, remembering Teddy Gates talking about Sun Tzu: Attack the mind of the leader, create doubt, undercut trust.

  “Long term doesn’t interest me,” she said. “In September my doctor diagnosed ovarian cancer. He talked of surgery, radiation, chemotherapy, all of that. But I told him no, just let it be. I’ve already lost my breasts. They’re not taking the rest, and if I die—well, we all die, don’t we?”

  “You can’t just do nothing,” he said.

  “I would expect that response from you. I’m not doing nothing. Sometimes thinking and watching are doing a lot. I called you and the DNR in to do something about the Garden. If I can’t live, I can at least leave a legacy.” She rolled over and faced him. “I told my principal I wouldn’t be in today. He assumes it’s the cancer. I want to spend the day right here.”

  “I have to go out tonight,” he said. “Cecilia.”

  She smiled. “You’ll always have to go out there.”

  “Tell me about Moe Lapalme,” he said.

  “We have all day,” she said, pulling him toward her. “Say my name again. Please?”

  “Cecilia,” he whispered.

  30

  GARDEN PENINSULA, FEBRUARY 27, 1976

  “I’ve probably worn out my welcome.”

  The effigy hung from a wire strung across Garden Road where it crossed Garden Creek at the north end of the village common area. The figure was suspended by an oversize noose, draped in a gray uniform shirt, and had a German army helmet on top with dnr painted on the sides of the helmet. A sign on the body said fish nazi, the letters in bright red. Service was wedged between a cluster of buildings that overlooked Garden Creek, and he stood in the shadows, irked beyond words. He wanted to cut it down, but knew there wasn’t enough time. He had another idea for getting back at the rats. Lasurm was right. He had gone over the line, but he knew he couldn’t pull back now. Not yet.

  He spent the day making signs and rigging his surprise, and when Lasurm got home from school, she came down to the storeroom looking for him, saw what he was doing, and said, “Creepy.”

  “It’s a going-away gift,” he said, admiring his work.

  “Going away when?” she asked.

  He detected concern in her voice. “Tomorrow night. I want you to drop me east of Garden after dark, and I’ll take it from
there.”

  “This is your last night?”

  “I’ve probably worn out my welcome.”

  “Not with me,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Moe Lapalme is making a lot of noise about why Peletier’s equipment never gets touched,” she added.

  “He’s trying to deflect attention,” Service said, hoping Attalienti had recovered the rifle.

  “That’s Moe,” she said, “first in line for glory and a no-show when things don’t go right.”

  “You use a certain tone when you say his name,” Service said.

  “Are you sure you want me to drop you off?” she asked, evading his question.

  “I’ll be under a tarp in back of your truck,” he said.

  “And tonight?”

  “Things to do. I wouldn’t want to leave you with all that sugar. Waste not, want not.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “There’s going to be a meeting tonight at Lapalme’s house.”

  This was interesting. “Guess I’d better put Moe on the itinerary.”

  “They’ll have guards on their vehicles,” she said.

  “Heavy snow coming in tonight,” he told her. “Do you know how hard it is to watch something when you’re cold?”

  “You seem to do all right,” she said.

  “I do it every day. Where does Moe live?”

  She told him that Lapalme lived in a small house just north of Garden, on a treeless lot packed with the hulks of abandoned trucks and cars.

  “Just be careful,” she said.

  It was a long, exhausting ten miles to Lapalme’s house, the snow swirling heavily out of the northeast. He found a hiding place among the derelict vehicles dumped on Lapalme’s property and settled in. There were six pickups, two sedans, and several snowmobiles parked in Lapalme’s driveway. No noise came from the house. He reconnoitered carefully and located the “guards” seated in lawn chairs in the garage with a small charcoal grill going. He got close enough to see a case of beer next to them. He watched them drinking and knew they were cold, focused on the hot coals and not paying attention.