“Nothing to share.”
“Do I detect an implied yet?”
“If and when there’s something of substance, you’ll know right away.”
“You promise?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Snow’s bad. You want to bunk with Shigun and me tonight?”
“Nobody to take care of Newf and Cat,” he said.
“Dog, cat, kid, us—we need to tie us a damn knot of some kind and stop living like a coupla half-ass Hipsy-Gyps. You love me or not?”
“You know I do.”
“Say it out loud like a big boy.”
“When you’re forced to say it, it doesn’t mean as much.”
“Humor me and say it anyway.”
“I love you.”
“And you want to jump my bones.”
“That’s a fact.”
She patted his face. “Another time. It’s not safe to fool around and drive when it’s snowing.”
“I never heard that before.”
“Well, you can’t say that anymore. How about we get together this weekend?”
“Another meeting?”
“Not the kind we just had,” she said. “I suggest you rest up, Bucko. We are way overdue.”
He started to ask her about Martine Lecair, but she’d shown no real interest. By contrast, he heard alarm bells in his head, though he had no idea why.
Knot. She means damn marriage? He suddenly felt light-headed, wondered why his legs felt shaky.
7
Tuesday, October 21
MANITU RIDGE, BARAGA COUNTY
The Lanse Indian Reservation was near L’Anse, the Baraga County seat. Some tribal members lived near Zeba on the east side of the bay, but most were on the west side, near Assinins, north of Baraga. A small, largely unknown concentration lived southwest of Baraga near a place called Manitu Ridge, which some locals called Old Indiantown, though, as Service understood it, the name lacked any current official (or historical) standing. Ramshackle houses were spread out along the rim of a steep canyon with the Blood River meandering below toward Lake Superior. Little or no Keweenaw Bay tribal casino money reached Ridge residents, and from what Service had heard, this was a bone of contention among some.
Sergeant Willie Celt had called that morning. “You know that thing Denninger’s been trying to run down for you?” the sergeant asked Grady Service.
“Yeah.”
“Word is you might want to talk to Kelly Johnstone up to Manitu Ridge.”
“That can’t be good,” Service said.
“Is what it is, man. Denninger says she’ll go with you, if you want.”
“I’ll give her a bump. Thanks.”
“Who pinpointed Johnstone?” he asked Denninger when he reached her cell phone.
“Willie heard it from his cousin in Ontonagon County.”
“The bounty thing is spreading?”
“Until Willie called me, I hadn’t heard anything but the talk back in August and September, which I couldn’t pin down. Willie said he heard Johnstone knows something about Martine Lecair cutting out.”
Service had been troubled by Helmi Yint’s odd news about the teacher, Martine Lecair, and had let all Upper Peninsula COs know they should listen for any information on the Indian woman, or the dogman bounty.
“I hate rumors up here,” he said. “They either turn into a goddamn crown fire, or smolder underground for months, waiting to blow up.”
“Don’t whine,” Denninger said. “Rumor is an integral part of the human condition.”
“You sound like a bluehair know-it-all,” he said.
“Whatever,” she said.
“You know Johnstone?”
“Yeah. I don’t think our souls meshed.”
“Welcome to a big club,” Service replied. “She’s not overly friendly. I’ve sort of known her for a long time, but last time I dealt with her was five or six years back, and she was downright nasty.” Kelly Johnstone served as the unofficial leader of the descendants of an alleged band who insisted their ancestors had lived since eternity on the Manitu Ridge property, separate from the Keweenaw Bay people, therefore constituting their own separate and distinct tribe, culturally, historically, and genetically. As far as Service knew, history didn’t support such a claim, but Johnstone and her followers resolutely continued to press their right to separate federal recognition, presumably to make way for their own casino and its dedicated profit stream. Assuming there would be profit. From what Service had heard from various feds, only about one in twelve Indian casinos made money.
“What’s the Lecair woman got to do with the gork case?” Service asked.
“Dunno,” Denninger said.
One look at the Ridge made most people shake their heads. Why anyone ever gathered to live up here made no sense. How they eked out a living was even more difficult to discern. The Ridge, as it was known, was a distinctly depressing place, as bad in some ways as the Cass Corridor in Detroit.
Johnstone lived in two house trailers joined together by a jury-rigged communal room with a huge woodstove.
Ridge people heated with wood they cut for themselves, which is why huge forest areas near the community were long gone, which led to bank erosion and an inordinate number of fires in dwellings. Fresh snow covering the abundant flotsam and jetsam made the area look almost pristine and pure, which was an illusion.
Service knocked on the door and waited with Denninger. There was a small leather bag on the door knocker, the bag decorated with dyed porcupine quills and some black feathers. What the hell is that about, he wondered; some kind of weird symbol?
Although Johnstone lacked any formal education, she always struck Service as wise, practical, tough, and street-smart. She definitely seemed to have the respect of the people she led. Her age was impossible to guess.
This high on the rim of the Ridge, the snow was heavier than it was two hundred feet lower; window and door screens were still up, and snow and wind had combined to create odd-shaped sculptures on them.
“We’ve got our own tribal game wardens,” Johnstone greeted him when she pulled open the door. “You got no jurisdiction here.”
Great start, Service thought. Why does she come out swinging?
“Dial it down, Johnstone. You don’t have federal recognition, and this area isn’t even part of the Keweenaw Bay property that does, so you’re subject to state law and peace officers here.”
“You’ll address me as Chairman.”
“Okay, Chairman Johnstone,” Service said, “we’ll play it your way.” For now.
“What the hell do you want?” the woman asked, ignoring Denninger.
“Mind if we come in?”
“No, I got the flu,” she countered.
“You want us to call a doctor?” Denninger asked in a saccharine voice.
“I want you to mind your own damn business, girlie. I can take care of myself.” Johnstone started to close the door, but Service boot-blocked her.
“The air out there is cold,” Johnstone complained.
“This won’t take long,” Service said. “We heard Martine Lecair packed up her kids, quit her job in Negaunee, and left the area. Any idea why, or where she went?” Later he would be asking himself why he had thrown Lecair into the mix right away. He would never find a satisfactory answer other than some weird instinctive thing that pushed the words past his inner filter before he could think them through.
“That ain’t the business of no white woods cop.”
Still in my face. “We’re curious—and a little concerned.”
“I guess you heard what curiosity killed.”
He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Are you threatening us, Chairman Johnstone?”
“Just stating facts,” she said. “Private people’s business is pri
vate. This ain’t your business.”
“Her job and all . . . I just wondered about the suddenness, you know—if she’s all right? She’s not in some kind of trouble, is she?”
“No more’n anybody else,” Johnstone said, flashing a crooked eye.
Fear? Anger? He couldn’t read her with any precision. “We’re not butting in. Just wondering if we can help.”
“Can’t help you,” the woman said.
Can’t or won’t? No idea where she went?”
“She don’t live here,” Johnstone said. “People are free to choose, run their own lives how they see fit.”
More attitude. When disaster struck, Indian survivors sometimes claimed that events had “overwhelmed” them, a Native American version of “Shit happens.” The inference seemed clear: So much in life was beyond one’s control; why even think about the future? Live for now, not tomorrow. It was an alien way of thinking for some whites, and a reminder that dealing with tribals was often complicated, and almost always frustrating. Hell, he could even sympathize with them.
“Heard rumors the tribal council’s wanting to hire you when you retire from the state,” Johnstone said.
“I heard that, too. But you know how rumors are.”
“Rumors that stay around usually have some truth to them,” Johnstone said. “Good you keep that in mind.”
“What about the rumor of a bounty on a dogman? You hear that one?”
“Go away,” the woman said, and stepped back.
Getting nowhere, being stonewalled, and she just tried to bribe me in a very subtle way. “All right, we’ll be getting along. Thanks for your time. Hope you feel better.”
“Will or won’t,” Johnstone said. “Have to deal with what is, not how we want things to be. Hope don’t help nobody.”
He sensed that perhaps she was trying to tell him something without saying it, and this seemed out of character for the uber self-contained Kelly Johnstone. Or did I imagine it?
As they walked toward their trucks, Service asked Denninger for her impressions.
“A prickly, rude bitch.”
“You get the sense she was trying to tell us something?”
“You mean, like, we should go fuck a rolling donut? That sort of thing?”
“Not quite,” he said. “When we pull out, I’m going just beyond the county road. I’ll pull down a two-track and walk back so I can see her trailer. You want to pull off further east and wait for me to bump you?”
“You think something’s up?”
“Not sure.” His gut was churning. He thought of the old cop joke about how much you could learn about paranoia by following people around.
Having walked back to the woods near the street with Johnstone’s trailer, he watched the house, wiggling his toes in his boots to keep his circulation flowing, making a mental note to switch to heavier insulation tomorrow.
Suddenly, Johnstone was outside her trailer. She got into an old Jeep, started it, and hurtled down the street. He called Denninger on the 800-megahertz. “Rusty brown Jeep rolling your way. It’s her.”
“You want me to follow?”
“Keep it soft.” Too closely, and Johnstone would get spooked.
“On it, Twenty Five Fourteen. You heading for Houghton?”
“Right now,” he said. He could hardly wait to see his granddaughter, Maridly.
He telephoned his late son’s girlfriend, Karylanne Pengelly. “I’m leaving L’Anse. You need grocks or anything?”
“No, thanks, we’re all set. Want to talk at your granddaughter?”
“Put her on.”
He heard the phone fumbled, then an exuberant shout, “MY BAMPY!!” He hated the moniker, but Little Maridly refused to change it, being every bit as stubborn as her namesake, Maridly Nantz.
“Hey, rugrat.”
“You gut anything today, Bampy?”
He had taught the little girl to fish, and she loved watching him clean out the guts. He had no idea why. “Just a dragon,” he said. “But he was just a little sucker.”
“Ain’t no dragons,” Maridly said resolutely.
“That’s right.”
“But they’s dogmen,” she added.
“What did you just say?”
“Dogmen—but they ain’t bad, just scary. Dogs are nice, Bampy.”
“Aren’t, not ain’t.”
“I like ain’t better.”
“Who told you about dogmen?”
“Dunno,” she said. “I just know, okay? Mum, Bampy’s being a cranky-pants.”
“Are you being cranky?” Pengelly asked, coming back on the line.
“What the hell is that baloney about a dogman?”
“Somebody reported something up in Keweenaw County. Everybody around here is talking about it. It’s just talk,” she said with a dismissive laugh. “You know how it is in these parts.”
She was too green and positive in her outlook to understand what “just talk” could signal, and lead to, in the Upper Peninsula.
Denninger called as he drove into Houghton. “Johnstone drove to Baraga, went into the hardware, was there twenty-seven minutes, came out with several packages, and drove directly back to her house. I’m taking my horsie to her barn,” she added.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You want me on her regularly?”
“Just a drive-by now and then, see how much time she’s away or there.”
“Clear.”
8
Wednesday, October 22
TWENTY POINT POND
“Your girlfriend got an amended report,” Denninger said out of the blue. Service had asked her to meet him at the crime site again.
“When?”
“She called me this morning, asked me to ask you to call her.”
“I guess you took your own damn time about telling me,” he said.
She batted her eyes and vamped. “Yeah, I guess I kinda, sorta did.”
“What about the report?”
“Only two DNAs.”
He shrugged, thought. Shit.
“Remember what Sherlock Holmes said.”
“I’d guess whatever the guy with the pen put in his yap,” Service replied. “Holmes wasn’t real. What’s the point of tying up your vicks if you’re not going to play hide-the-sausage?”
“Uh, you may be so advanced in age that you’ve forgotten condoms?” she quipped.
“Bullshit. Two DNAs: This case is going nowhere.”
“The two DNAs are Native Americans, eighteen to twenty-two.”
This caught his attention. “Doc Tork was right.”
“Going nowhere is going somewhere,” Denninger said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t see locals for this,” she said.
“Like that narrows the field.”
“It’s a start, and we know from history that granks don’t stop. There will be more bodies. We can count on it.”
“Not us; Friday. This is her case. We don’t want a damn thing to do with it.” Service touched the tip of his forefinger to his forehead. “Septum pellucidum,” he said.
He’d read a book called Ecstasy of Joy Touch: Fixing the Self. This had been right after Maridly and Walter were murdered. He couldn’t sleep then, needed something to help him face reality, and not booze, his old man’s choice for comfort. He’d played with the Joy Touch technique, and it had helped him when his stress levels went up. It had been a while since he’d felt the need.
“Pudendum what? What the hell does that mean?” Denninger asked.
Service explained how the brain had pleasure centers, and how you had to imagine petting them.
“If you say so,” Denninger said, smiling.
“The report—that’s all Friday had for me?”
>
“Oh, I think she also said something about going to Grand Rapids.”
“When?”
“Today, I think. I don’t think she gave me an ETA.”
“Did she say she wants me to go along?” he asked.
“Not sure,” Denninger said, still smiling.
Service touched his forehead again, said, “Repairing damage.”
Denninger quickly added, “She said something about how there’s a substantial population of Indians in GR, including some of the former Ridge crowd.”
He kept his finger on his head, pressing gently, a neuronal solderer run amok.
“You ever worry about short-circuiting that thing?” Denninger asked him.
“Happens regularly,” he said. “It’s part of the ritual.”
Denninger’s face lit up at the same time the thought struck Service.
“Did you say ritual?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Not trying to hide their identities,” she yelped. “He took their heads, hearts, and hands . . . It’s got to be some kind of ritual shit.”
“Religious or psycho?” he countered, thinking about what they were saying and seeing no way to connect it to any kind of reality.
“That must be one hell of a channel you tune into,” she said.
“It used to have great cartoons, old-timeys, not the goody-two-shoes kids’ crap on TV nowadays. Or, the killer wants us to think it’s ritual,” he said.
“Times change, Rainman.”
“Price is right, though. Keep your knees together and your mind on Jesus, my girl.”
“Thank you for your advice, Sergeant.”
“Not sergeant anymore,” he said. “Just officer, same as you. I’m back in the Mosquito.”
“Since when?”
“Late August.”
“No fake? Nothing was announced.”
“Bearnard Quinn moved to my old job, and Wildlife Resource Protection doesn’t want dinosaurs, so here I am.”
“Wow,” Denninger said. “Welcome back to the working world.”
•••
He was headed back to Marquette and about to call Friday when Gunny Prince bumped him on his cell phone. “Got a lead, but it’s thin as rabbit skin. Still, might could be something. Fella in Wayland, Michigan, claims he sold two M40s to a man name of Bird in Grand Rapids. I called Bird. He claimed the weapons were stolen last June.”
Killing a Cold One Page 4