Service looked at Friday. “Baraga killed the thing. Does it matter if he thought it was an actual monster, rather than a psycho?”
Friday had no response, and Service thought: Pincock from the FBI told me to kill this thing if the chance presents itself. Seems like the priest led the way in this.
“That puts us in a quandary, doesn’t it?” Friday finally said.
“I think I know who we’re looking for.”
“Do I get to know?”
“When I’m sure.”
“How much do you think the bishop’s letter is worth?”
“Incalculable,” Service said. “And I suspect if it became public, a large part of the world would talk about nothing else for a long time to come.”
“You’re thinking a man has done all this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Not an animal.”
“No.”
“So you are free to wash your hands of it, if you want,” she said.
“Man or animal,” he said, “when it comes to tracking something in the woods and bringing it to ground, that’s what we do.”
62
Wednesday, January 14
MARQUETTE
Larry Holemo was a longtime forester, could have retired years ago, but kept working and never complained.
“Larry, we need help,” Service said.
Noonan and Treebone were back and had gone with Service and Friday to the Marquette DNR office.
Holemo picked up the plastic bag that held the wood chips picked up by Jen Maki at the crime sites. The forester pushed his glasses up his nose. “Pinus gloriensus,” he announced. “Glory pine, rare as a beanstalk, thought extinct in the state and never abundant anywhere in the Upper Midwest. Prefers the climate further north. Technically, we’re outside the tree’s southern range limit, but plants, animals, and people don’t pay a heckuva lot of attention to arbitrary lines drawn on paper. Gloriensus is a tough customer. Indians considered it sacred, used the sap for everything from glue to medicinals.”
“What’s it look like all grown?” Friday asked.
“You won’t find it in an Audubon Guide,” Holemo said, and went to another cubicle, coming back with an old, dusty book. He also had a photo album and flipped carefully through the pages until he stopped and handed the book to Friday. “There ya go.”
The sepia photo was faded.
“We once had a few thousand stands scattered around up here, but loggers tore through the woods and weren’t particulary discriminating. The specimens in the picture are from northern British Columbia in the early 1930s.”
Service looked at the photo and pushed it to Noonan and Treebone. “How big are we talking?”
“Twenty or thirty feet, tops. Likes extremely acidic soil and cold-ass temperatures, both of which limits growth around here, but there were some pockets. Nature gives and takes. Specimens in Canada have been aged between four and five hundred years. Nature doesn’t easily kill them. Only man seems to do that.”
“Pockets in the U.P.?” Treebone asked.
“Probably here and there.” Holemo opened the photo album. “This one was near Bruce Crossing one summer.”
Friday sounded exasperated. “A tree’s a tree.”
The forester looked horrified. “It’s rare for them to grow alone like the one in this picture. Usually you find them all packed together inside a lattice.”
“Lettuce?” Service asked.
“Lattice. Personally I’ve never seen it, but I’ve read descriptions. In areas where the species is abundant, they grow in colonies, and are almost always surrounded by thick groves of slippery elm, Ulmus rubra.” Holemo took the book again and turned it. “The slippery elm likes the edges of wet areas, swamps, and floodplains.”
Friday studied the photo. “The branches are grown together.”
Holemo grinned. “And you won’t find one unless there’s latticing to make it stand out. When I was in school at Tech a timber cruiser claimed he’d seen Pinus gloriensus over the Kaisick Holes area, west of Sidnaw. But that was a long while back, and the guy was pretty much of a bullshitter. Loggers have gone through that area numerous times, so the chances of the species being there is low to nil, and this isn’t the time of year to be looking around.”
“Where in that area?” Service pressed.
The forester crossed his arms. “I don’t have a clue. Sorry.”
They stood in the entrance after the meeting. “Mount a search?” Friday asked.
Service had doubts. “Not without more evidence. Big woods, rare tree—those odds suck, and that turf is not exactly user-friendly.”
“Lamb’s memorial is tomorrow,” Friday told Service.
“Where?”
“Church of the Wilderness Redeemer, Assinins, fourteen hundred tomorrow.”
“We both going?” Service asked.
“Out of respect for Lamb,” she said. “She was a colleague and a friend, and a good gal, never mind her predilections. Nobody’s perfect.”
63
Thursday, January 15
ASSININS, BARAGA COUNTY
The Church of the Wilderness Redeemer was made of red brick and sat on a steep rolling knoll overlooking the winter-gray waters of Keweenaw Bay. The church was new and not quite part of the old Father Baraga property, which had included a church, a convent, and a graveyard.
Gunny Prince had called to pass on details of the Lakotish death and autopsy done in Vietnam so many years back. No DNA, of course; DNA had barely been identified as the stuff of life then. Lakotish had been burned, his head gone, identity confirmed with dog tags on his boots, and a gold ring. The absence of the head and extent of fire damage eliminated certain identification, but for that day and time, Service knew, this was normal. More than a few families had gotten the wrong remains back then. Fire damage, of course, obliterated the possibility of fingerprints, but blood type matched Lakotish. Nobody tried to explain the whereabouts of the missing head, or how it was separated from the body.
Service listened, making mental notes, told himself that if nothing else, here was a perfect opportunity for an identity switch. Motive, of course, was a separate issue. He handed coffee to Friday as they headed west. “Na-bo-win-i-ke came here to hunt Lakotish, whom the army believes died in Vietnam. But Crow’s Flesh at Nett Lake insisted that Lakotish’s grave there contained someone else, not him. I talked to a couple different sources, one from the war and one afterwards.” Service gave her his phone and showed her the photographs. “I think Lakotish is Father Clement Varhola.”
Friday stared at him, her mouth slightly ajar. “That’s one big goddamn leap!”
“Crow’s Flesh told me to look for cuts along the spine, which is done to release spirits. Lakotish was with an infantry unit before his transfer to be Varhola’s assistant. His old platoon sergeant caught him with a bag of heads and hands, and the army pushed him aside to get him out of the way. Some bodies were found with the spinal cuts.”
“Grady,” Friday said, “this is a stretch at best.”
“Varhola’s body was burned, the head missing. They identified him by blood type, dog tags, a ring. Apparently the two men had the same blood type.”
“Do you understand what you’re saying?” she said.
“It’s him,” Service said.
“I only hear piles of circumstantials.”
“I think Lakotish is now the priest in Baraga. He’s got Indians in his parish.”
She took a deep, audible breath. “We have to go carefully, Grady. Physical evidence: We need to link him to the killings, but we can’t even declare him a suspect yet. Between us, he’s barely a person of interest, and even that’s not for public consumption,” she concluded, staring down the highway.
“We take it slowly, one step at a time,” he agreed. “No more big leaps, let evi
dence provide the trail.”
Friday said quietly, “Okay. Do you know Varhola?”
“I met him briefly many years ago when he was in Marquette.”
“Impression?”
“Not great. Creepy, slimy type. To be fair, he was friendly in an awkward way.”
“And now he’s saying mass for Lamb,” she said, then jumped subjects. “What about fingerprints? Varhola and Lakotish both had to be fingerprinted when they went into the service.”
“My source is pursuing that,” he said.
•••
The church parking lot was full. Service and Friday slid into the standing-room-only crowd in back of the church. The congregants were mostly tribals, and Service wondered what the precise split was between the Bay’s and Johnstone’s community.
The priest stood in a raised dock. An image of Captain Ahab flashed through Service’s mind. Father Clement Varhola’s voice boomed out over the crowd, loud and precise, with no sense of emotional tie to the deceased.
Varhola began: “The way to God is through Jesus Christ. Without Christ we are all susceptible to evil. You take your children to the medical clinic to have them vaccinated. Christ is our protection against evil. He is the only way, His, the only path to truth. Those who do not choose His path are doomed to perish. We are all afraid. It is human to fear. Christ is peace, the absence of fear.”
The last time Service had seen the man preach, the only time, he had been a preaching drone, a human tape recorder, spitting lines without emotion from a church reduced to rules shorn of all human passion. This was not the same man. Varhola expertly modulated his voice, his gestures were practiced, and he virtually dripped intensity.
Friday nudged him. “Impressive turnout.”
“Since it came,” a woman behind them said quietly.
Friday looked back at her. “Before that?”
“No reason to be here,” the woman said.
They waited outside the church and watched mourners file out. It was snowing lightly and people opened golf umbrellas and hovered around the church entrance, visiting.
“Maurice Prendergast,” Friday said.
“Huh?”
“Umbrellas in Venice. A famous painting.”
“It snows in Venice?”
“Moron,” she said, rolling her eyes, and walked away.
Moron? He was just wondering why Indians had so damn many golf umbrellas.
The priest came out and mingled with mourners, looked stiff in the cold wind, made his way over to Service almost immediately.
“Did you enjoy the memorial?” the man asked.
Service stared at him. Who enjoyed a funeral mass?
The priest didn’t wait for a response, added, “Will you join us at the cemetery?”
“Can’t,” Service said. “Duty.” Where the hell was Tuesday?
In fact, why were they even going to the cemetery? Lamb’s spirit was gone, this whole thing ceremonial. Her remains couldn’t be interred until spring when the ground thawed. Her winter would be spent in the back corner of a beer warehouse awaiting breakup.
“Pity,” Varhola said. “Physical death reminds us poignantly of the glorious and eternal life that is to come.”
“You’re sure there’s something after this?” Service asked, the words out before his filter trapped them.
“Oh yes, indeed,” the priest said. “What matters for the living is how we prepare for the inevitable.”
To his mind churches were exclusively otherworldly. Eat shit in this world for a theoretical “something better” in the next. Piss-poor bet. A strange man, Varhola, his voice, mannerisms—everything about him makes my skin crawl.
Friday miraculously appeared at his side. “Lamb was a friend?” Varhola asked her.
“Colleagues,” Friday said, “and friends.”
The wind was biting. Varhola pursed his lips and patted her arm. “Police are temporally anchored, too, wed to evidence. What you need is faith, like true believers.”
Friday bristled. “Cop is what we do, not who we are. Same as priests, I would think.”
Varhola bobbed his head. “Point taken. Actually, I see us both engaged in explaining the apparently inexplicable. There’s a natural connection between our callings. We both live by the Book,” he concluded, nodded, and walked on to talk to others.
Friday left again as Service watched the priest visit and circulate. He didn’t seem nervous or jerky. Very relaxed. All of his instincts told him the priest was putting on a show. Children beamed at his attention. Priest: major authority figure, someone given trust immediately and unconditionally. Was it possible for a priest to appear so affectionate, yet . . . ? He refused to finish the thought. One step at a time. Ease up and let your quarry come to you; don’t charge it.
Friday was in the truck. “You left early,” he said.
“Needed to stretch my legs.”
He didn’t look at her. “We don’t have a warrant,” he reminded her.
“What do you guys call it—open fields doctrine? I don’t like the man,” she said.
“I can tell.”
“I found the woman who spoke to us before the service. She said the church has been full only since the killings began. Before that, hardly anyone went.”
“People have to find their guts where they can,” he said. Service looked at her. “Gonna tell me what you found?”
“He likes to whittle; actually, it’s more than that. He’s a woodworker, one hell of an artisan. He makes totem poles, some of them thirty feet high.”
“Rome lets its priests make totem poles?”
“This one does.”
“What else did you see?”
“His workshop was open. Wind must’ve blown the door open, so I closed it for him. Most completely outfitted workshop I’ve ever seen. No religious items, a few clothes, no mementos; a very boring place.”
“Fishing rods, fly boxes, anything like that?”
“Nothing like that.”
Service remembered from the Marquette meeting years before that the priest was acclaimed as a true trout fishing fanatic. “He’s got to keep his gear somewhere.”
“Not in his workshop.”
64
Friday, January 16
ASSININS
Allerdyce had shown up the night before at Slippery Creek, tight-lipped and untalkative. Treebone and Noonan had gone to see Jen Maki that morning to once again sort through evidence. Friday had gone to her office, and Service took Limpy with him to Assinins.
Swinging by Varhola’s workshop several times, Service finally saw the priest, got out, and confronted him between the rectory and the shop. “Father,” Service greeted the man.
“Yes?” came the response, sharp, clipped, annoyed.
“Bad time?
“Not at all, if you don’t mind watching boring work. In my line, I have to use my time wisely.”
Service and Allerdyce followed the man into the workshop, watched the priest slip on a green shop apron and pick through pairs of gloves. “Must be nice to have a hobby,” Service offered.
The man had immense wrists and oversized hands. “My hobby is trout fishing,” Varhola said. “Woodworking subsidizes the parish funds,” he said, lifting a black block from a chest high shelf, lifting it only with his arms and moving it down the shelf a good four feet away. The priest continued. “I suppose the work has a certain therapeutic value, helps to get things out, the objects of frustration and such.”
What happened to prayer for those reasons? “Difficult for some us to learn how to relax,” Service said. The priest had not yet looked at him.
Varhola said, “I’ve always believed one can learn what one needs to know.” He used a wooden mallet and a chisel to knock pieces of wood off a log, which had already been peeled and roughly shaped
.
“Pine?” Service asked.
“Too soft. I do my work with maple, oak, beech.”
“Heard about your totem poles. Do they have to be chemically treated after they’re carved and assembled?” Service inquired.
“With a sealer,” the priest said.
“You like wood,” Service said.
“The Indians believe everything in existence has a spirit, and I think it’s a sculptor’s work to bring that spirit out in the wood, to make it visible. That’s a lovely sentiment, don’t you agree?”
“Seems like a pagan view for a Catholic priest. How does that square with Rome?”
“Rome directs us to follow orders. This doesn’t remove our minds and free will.”
The workshop was as clean and sterile as an operating room: nothing out of order, walls peg-boarded and covered with wood-handled tools.
“Nice tools,” said Service. “You make them?”
“My predecessor did, Father Beauclerc.”
“Where’s he now?”
“Gone to his reward,” Varhola said.
“Those tools are remarkable. What wood did he use?”
“Something exotic. I prefer common woods.” Varhola looked up. “Is this visit about wood and carpentry, or is all of this a convenient metaphor?”
“Sorry, Father,” Service said. “I just wanted to ask you if you’ve seen any changes in the recent behavior of any of your parishioners.”
“For some, change is continuous, especially those with tortured souls. For others, it is not. I’m not sure what sort of changes you’re interested in.”
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