Ice Hunter (Woods Cop Mystery 1)

by Heywood, Joseph

  He held out his hands. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  She clucked at him and signaled for a waitress, ordering two bacon burgers with the works and a large order of fries. “How’s Kira?”

  “In the holding pattern.”

  She shook her head. “Why is it that good women are always attracted to bad boys?”

  “I resent the implication.”

  “You’ll always be a bad boy, Officer Service.”

  Their relationship was a delicate blend of professional and personal, and there had been a time for a month one fall when it had been hot and intimate. After it ended, there had been some hard feelings and embarrassment, but over time they had stayed close friends.

  “If you say so, Sergeant.”

  “Grady,” she said, studying him, “Allerdyce is getting an early release.”

  Service stared at her. Limpy Allerdyce had spent the past seven years in Jackson at the State Prison of Southern Michigan, a maximum-security, walled prison built a long time ago. Allerdyce was one of the most notorious poachers in the state’s history, and Service had put him away for attempted murder. Allerdyce was the leader of a tribe of poachers, mostly his relations, who lived like animals in the far southwestern reaches of Marquette County. They killed bears and sold gallbladders and footpads to Korean brokers in Los Angeles for shipment to Korea and Taiwan. They killed dozens of deer, took thousands of fish, and got substantial money for their take from buyers in Chicago and Detroit. Despite their income, the clan lived like savages. Service had not expected Allerdyce to be turned loose for several more years.

  “That explains Treebone.”

  “What about Tree?” she asked.

  “He called and said his mother-in-law was coming to town and that he wanted to get away, but I think he knows about Allerdyce. When are they kicking him loose?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tree,” he said, with a tone, half angry, half admiring.

  “Live with it, Service, some of us actually care about you.”

  “They assign a parole officer yet?”

  “I assume so. You want to talk to his PO?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt. If Limpy’s out tomorrow, there’ll be a big welcome home bash tomorrow night. I wonder if his clan will even recognize him?”

  “How’s that?”

  “It’ll be the first time they’ll have seen him clean since his last stint in the jug.”

  McKower chuckled. “They had to force-clean him in jail during the trial.”

  “I’m going to pay him a visit.”

  “That’s a spectacularly stupid idea,” McKower said.

  “It’ll be purely social, you know, welcome the rehabbed citizen back to the community.”

  “The last time you showed up where he didn’t expect you, he put a shotgun slug in you.”

  “All the more reason to go. Animals like this, you show fear and you’re screwed. I’m not going to be walking around looking over my shoulder.”

  “It’s your call, but for the record, I’m against it.”

  “Noted.”

  When the bacon burgers and fries came, McKower devoured them. She dipped her fries in mayonnaise.

  When she finished eating, they ordered coffees to go and walked outside together.

  “Congratulations on the Twinkie deal,” she said.

  He smiled. “It was sweet.”

  “God,” she said. “I hate puns.”

  “I’ll take Tree with me to visit Limpy.”

  “That’s better than going alone, but it’s still a stupid idea.”

  “Some system we have, paroling a piece of shit like this,” he said, grumbling.

  She patted his arm. “Be careful and if you go, call me afterward. Tell Kira she has my sympathies.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Why don’t you and Jack join us for dinner Thursday night? Tree will be there.” Jack was Lisette’s husband.

  “I just might do that,” she said.

  “Kira’s going to cook.”

  In the years since he had trained her, she had eaten his cooking many times and always complained that he didn’t make enough to feed a flea. He never disputed this; when he decided to cook, he preferred quality to quantity. If Kira cooked, there would be enough, and Lis would love it.

  “It’s my turn for a night out and Jack’s turn to take care of the kids, but I’ll be there,” McKower said.

  He watched her drive away from the Duck Inn and lit a cigarette.

  Most fish and game violations grew out of unchecked emotions, not evil. Most murders were like accidental violations, not intentional, the perpetrators being victims of location as much as anything else.

  Some churchgoing, Boy Scout–leading wrench-twister from Flat Rock saw not one, but two eight-point bucks and before he could think: bang, bang. Accidental violator.

  A woman from Owosso gets a two-day fun pass from her old man. She’s up on the Middle Branch catching trout. Nice ones. Big ones. Eager ones. One. Five. Ten. Limit reached, but God are they ever biting! Geez, can’t quit now. Just a few more. Like, this happens only once in a lifetime and the hubby will never believe me. Just this once, I’ll take them home. Twenty-two trout. Whoops. Accidental violator.

  Hubby and honey have too much to drink. He says, Yip. She says, Yap. She pushes. He punches. She slaps back and screams. He reaches for the Ginsu. Ohmigod, what have I done! Common emotions in uncommon circumstances got out of hand. This was life and not something you could legislate against. Most folks were sorry after it happened, murderers included. You wrote them up or arrested them. They paid the fine or did the time and most would never do it again. It was a fact that few murderers ever killed again, and it was the same with accidental violators.

  But Limpy Allerdyce was no accidental violator. He had no normal emotions. He was a predator in human form, a demon, a shape-shifter, a crow pocketing a bauble at Kmart, a wolf taking easy and helpless prey. He was cold-blooded and calculating, most of his children sired from his other children, a dirtbag who took and did as he wanted with no remorse. Service had once found him teaching some of his younger kin to skin rabbits while they were still alive. Another time he had dumped poison into the pond of a dairy farmer who had shot a deer on public land he considered his. After the nearby school district got a court order saying he had to send his kids to school, Limpy had mailed pornographic photographs to schoolboard members. He had done time for assault and battery, for stalking, and for a dozen other crimes, not to mention dozens of misdemeanors for illegal hunting and fishing and trapping. In Limpy’s twisted mind, all that mattered was what he wanted and if you didn’t agree, you were in deep trouble.

  And he was getting out.

  But not for long, Service told himself.

  7

  Cat was asleep in Luticious Treebone’s lap when Service got home. It had been a long day, talking to people, making arrangements for Allerdyce’s reception.

  “Nice dog,” Service said.

  “You’d hurt your own cat’s feelings?”

  “That animal has no feelings. The Asians have the right idea about cats and dogs: food.”

  “Still the hard case,” Treebone said, flashing his smile. “I shoulda brought Hoffa,” he added.

  “Cat would’ve killed him. You’re here because of Allerdyce.”

  The huge vice cop shrugged and scratched the cat’s plump cheeks. “I figured you couldn’t avoid sticking your face in his. You just don’t get diplomacy the way I do.”

  “Some things just have to be done.”

  Nearly eight years ago Service had followed Allerdyce four consecutive nights, wanting to catch him alone, but he was usually with several of his miserable offspring. The night he finally got him alone, Limpy’s choice of fish bait was half a stick of dynamite. Ignited at the right depth, dynamite doesn’t make much noise in the river and stuns fish like nothing else. In Vietnam he and Tree had occasionally used grenades for the same purpose.

  That night they were on the lowe
r Escanaba River, in the warmer water below St. Nicholas. Limpy touched off two charges in a deep hole and netted walleyes into his aluminum boat with a long-handled salmon net. Service waited on shore, and when Limpy beached the boat, he stepped forward to challenge him.

  The conservation officer had no idea where the shovel came from, but it caught him hard, breaking his right shoulder. Service tried to roll over when he fell, but a shotgun blast caught him in the left thigh. He was lucky it was a slug and a 20-gauge. It ripped out a chunk of meat but didn’t break the bone or take out the femoral artery. When he came to, Allerdyce was long gone. Charges were filed and a warrant issued, but Limpy disappeared.

  Service’s wounds kept him in the hospital nine days, and he had nearly three full months at home recovering after that. Eight years later his shoulder still ached when rain or a low front was moving in.

  While he recuperated, every police agency in the state searched for Limpy. Service knew they’d never find him. Limpy could live off the land indefinitely, but he had one major weakness: his appetite for women. He couldn’t go long without, but he wouldn’t be stupid enough to go where he might be grabbed. Maybe.

  Service used his downtime to work his informants. Limpy’s favorite women were his own daughter Vicki and daughter-in-law Honeypat. Neither of them lived in the compound with the rest of the odious family. Vicki lived in Gwinn and Honeypat in a house trailer in the Cyr Swamp west of Helena. Allerdyce wouldn’t be dumb enough to venture near a town. Service staked out Honeypat’s trailer.

  Every afternoon he left his truck in a friend’s garage at Little Lake and hiked nearly five miles through the Cyr Swamp, knowing that sooner or later Allerdyce would show.

  The first two nights Honeypat’s lights were on. The third night the trailer was dark from dusk on and Service heard them inside, but he was not ready to make his move.

  The next two nights all was normal again at the trailer, and again on the third night Allerdyce came. Service did not see Limpy arrive and had no idea what direction he came from, but there was no doubt he was there. They went at it with the exuberance of bobcats in heat. Again, Service held back.

  After three repetitions, Service knew he had the pattern. Every third night.

  On the next rep Service made his move. Using the noise of their passion as cover, he moved up to the cinder-block steps of the trailer’s door. When Allerdyce stepped out, the conservation officer reached up, got the front of his shirt, and pulled him down. Before Limpy could react, Service twisted his arms behind him and cuffed him. A naked Honeypat came shrieking out behind Allerdyce and jumped at Service, who sidestepped her, drove his foot into her nearest thigh, grabbed her hair, and pulled her into the ground. Before the two lovebirds recovered their wits, they were both handcuffed.

  A call to the county brought deputy sheriffs with help. The prisoners were placed in separate squad cars.

  Allerdyce sat with a grin on his face. “Ole Honeypat’s some sweet pussy,” he told Service. “You want some o’ that, help yourself. She don’t care who, even the law.”

  “Maybe after she’s had a shower,” Service said.

  “Soap breaks the seal,” Allerdyce said. “God give us a seal on our skin to keep off the germs. Break the seal, you get sick. You seen a bear take a bath?”

  “They swim.”

  “Not with soap,” Limpy said with a grin. “Check the Bible on that.” Allerdyce looked up at him. “You been out there skulking a while?”

  Service nodded.

  “Thought so,” Limpy said. “Had me a feeling, but you know how it is when you get the pussy-wants. How’d you figure it out?”

  “Process of elimination.”

  Allerdyce grunted. “Guess it don’t pay to have favorites.”

  “Probably not,” Service said. It always amazed him how hardened criminals would engage in weird conversations after they were in custody. It was as if nothing had happened.

  “Guess you healed up okay.”

  “Good enough.”

  “Me, I’m a fast healer too. You know, I coulda killed your ass that night, but the way I seen it, we were both just doing our jobs. You’d do good to remember that.”

  “Considering where you are now, that blade cuts two ways.”

  Limpy looked up and grinned toothlessly. “I guess it does at that.”

  It had taken six months to try him, and he had been gone seven years since then.

  Service got two Strohs from the refrigerator, took a seat beside Treebone, and gave his friend one of the beers.

  “You’d rather play with Allerdyce than face your mother-in-law?”

  “I’m just here to help.”

  Service said, “We have to do this my way, Tree.”

  “There’s no rules for cockroaches, my man.”

  “I don’t break the law.”

  “Shit,” Tree said with an expansive grin. “Bending ain’t breaking.”

  “I’ll decide how much bend there’ll be.”

  The two men clicked their beer cans together.

  Treebone said, “I always follow orders.”

  “When they suit you.”

  “Where would we be if we always followed orders in She-it nam?”

  “Point taken,” Service said.

  Most of the Allerdyce clan lived in a compound on a narrow peninsula between North and South Beaverkill Lakes. The area was a long way from civilization, not the sort of place you just stumbled across. With water on two sides and swamps on both ends, it was difficult to get to. There was a two-track from a US Forest Service road down to the compound’s parking area and then a half-mile walk along a twisting trail from there into the camp itself. The surrounding area was dense with cedars, hemlocks, and tamaracks. In terms of isolation, it was a fortress.

  Approaching from any direction other than the tote road and trail was difficult, but over the years Service had done some prowling around and had learned the family’s trail system.

  It took nearly five hours for the two men to move into position. They could smell smoke from the camp and hear the sound of rifles being fired into the air. The celebration was under way.

  “Sounds like the boys and girls are havin’ a high old time,” Treebone said. He wiped perspiration off his forehead and slapped at the mosquitoes and insects swarming around them. “Bugs here big enough to shoot.”

  Service ignored the insects and discomfort. “You understand what we’re gonna do?”

  “Yup.”

  “Don’t take this lightly and don’t overdo it. They’ve got weapons and some of them are felons. That’s all we need.”

  “Black Man and Robin ride the redneck trail,” Treebone said. “I love this shit.”

  “These assholes aren’t the Insane Latin Counts, but they have their unique style. Don’t underestimate them.”

  “You worry too much. ‘Is You Is or Is You Ain’t My Baby?’ ”

  This was the title of an Aaron Izenhall song. Izenhall had played alto sax with Louis Jordan and the Tympany Five and their breakneck boogie-woogie was one of Treebone’s great passions.

  Service used his handheld radio to make a quick call to a contingent of deputies waiting to move in. They were in the woods in their vehicles a couple of miles from the compound’s parking area.

  “One-ninety, this is DNR 421. We’re moving in.”

  “Good hunting, 421.”

  “Let’s get it done,” Grady Service said to his friend.

  “‘Let the Good Times Roll,’ ” Treebone said softly. Izenhall again.

  Service walked slowly through the woods. Why writers talked about a silent forest was beyond him. Tree frogs sawed and crickets chirped and blended into a white-noise buzz that masked their movement. Off in the distance he heard crows on their night perch. The closer they got, the louder the camp frenzy sounded. Somebody was playing a fiddle and somebody else whanging a drum, whack-whump-whacka-whack, with no discernible rhythm, and now and then a weapon was discharged. When Service got close eno
ugh, he saw the clan bunched loosely around a huge bonfire, and the scene made him shiver. They were mostly naked, screaming and dancing herky-jerky around the fire. The muzzle flashes of rifles fired upward added sparks to the smoky air.

  Limpy’s tribe.

  The camp comprised a dozen or more construction trailers and blackened log cabins, situated more or less in a circle. The din from the celebrants was amazing; the sounds from the people gyrating around the fire were barely recognizable as human.

  Ten feet from where Service stood he saw a man with a woman bent forward, her hands clutching a rickety chair back. They two were squealing and grunting like pigs as they copulated.

  The CO worked his way from cabin to cabin until he saw Limpy sitting in a metal rocking chair near the bonfire. There were clan members gathered around him. The king and his vassals.

  Service used the darkness to get as close as he could, sucked in a deep breath, and stepped boldly into the fire’s flickering light.

  The noise stopped almost immediately. All eyes locked on him. A dog bayed pathetically. There was no other sound but the crackling from the bonfire and the frantic trilling of tree frogs in the distance.

  Allerdyce, who was a small man when Service had last seen him, looked even smaller now. He was shrunken and wizened, his skin sallow and hanging loose, his eyes black beads sunk deep in his triangular skull. He wore a beard now, and his hair was pulled back into a dirty gray ponytail.

  “You,” Allerdyce said calmly.

  “I thought I’d pay my respects, Limpy.”

  One of the vermin near the fire pointed a lever-action rifle in the conservation officer’s direction, but the old man motioned him away.

  “Honeypat’s here, you want some pussy,” the patriarch said. “Remember her? Ever’body dings ’er. I expect one more won’t be makin’ no difference.”

  Honeypat stepped from behind a group of people. She wore no clothes, and her black hair and her eyes were wild. She had aged twenty years in the past eight. She was in her early thirties now and looked fifty.