Blue Wolf In Green Fire (11 page)

The light tumbled, sending its beam flashing around, like a drunk with a laser pointer.

Service illuminated the small figure and saw wild, long gray hair and a prune face that reminded him of Yoda.

“DaWayne Kota?”

The man bent over to retrieve his light and flashed it at Service. “Twinkie Man,” Kota said with a smirk.

Service had earned the name in a highly publicized case in which a poacher claimed to be intoxicated by Twinkies, a defense that had failed miserably.

“Little off your beat, DaWayne.” Kota was the recently appointed tribal game warden for the Bay Mills Indian Community near Brimley. The reservation was at least thirty miles southeast of Vermillion.

“You heard about the blue wolf?” Kota asked.

“Just yesterday.”

“I heard on my police band tonight there was goin's-on out this way. Thought I'd better have a look.”

Why? Service wondered. He decided to see what Kota volunteered.

“I think it got loose,” the Indian said.

“How many wolves were here?” Four, he thought he remembered, but he wasn't sure. No wolves had been visible on his last visit, and there had been no mention of a blue wolf. Had it arrived after he'd been here?

“Don't know for sure how many,” Kota said.

“You find tracks?” Service asked.

“Not yet.” Kota was reputed to be a fine tracker, but Service had his own expertise and preferred to look for himself.

“Nothing back the way I came,” Service said.

Kota hunkered close to the ground, dug out a tin of Wintergreen, and held it up to Service.

“No thanks,” he said, taking out his cigarettes.

They squatted in silence, listening to more sirens from the direction of the lab building.

“The blue wolf supposed to be bad luck or something?” Service asked.

“Shit,” Kota said, spitting on the snow. “Some of the old ones believe that, but it's just an animal.” Kota had been a cop in Saginaw before taking the Bay Mills job.

“Bad luck if it's caged, right?”

“Some say,” Kota said.

“And if it's running free?”

“Some dumb fuck will probably shoot it.”

“Killing a blue wolf isn't bad luck?”

“For the wolf,” the tribal game warden said.

Kota was a difficult man to read. Just an animal, yet here he was looking around. Why? Did he suspect people from Bay Mills were involved? The Indians looked out for each other and, given their history and experience with white justice, Service couldn't blame them.

Service flicked his cigarette away and stood up. “Guess I'll move on,” he announced.

Kota remained where he was, chewing his tobacco.

The detective said, “Why don't we join the others and get some coffee.”

“Gives me the shits,” Kota said, not moving.

Service went back to walking the fence line, doubting there was anything to find, but he had decided to make the circuit and he would, just as Kota would go in the other direction. They were a lot alike, he decided. Loners, set in their ways, overly suspicious, detail-oriented.

It took another thirty minutes to complete the perimeter tour and when he got back to the wolf lab he saw Wink Rector with two men in dark parkas that said
fbi
in large yellow block letters on the backs. Another jacket proclaimed
batf
. Rector was the resident agent for the Upper Peninsula and rarely had visits from his colleagues. The nearest major Feeb office was in Detroit. Gus Turnage said Rector was heading up the bomb investigation at Tech.

Spotlights by the forensics truck illuminated personnel who were busily erecting a tentlike shelter and setting up folding tables. Service saw Barry Davey of the USF&WS near the truck. It was very strange to find Rector and Davey at the same crime scene. Service's antennae began to vibrate.

Wink Rector nudged Service's arm and handed him coffee in a Styrofoam cup. “The shit's hitting the fan tonight,” the Feeb said.

“Anybody got a read on this?” Service asked.

“Animal rights freaks,” Rector said. “They hit a McDonald's in St. Ignace, another in Marquette, released animals from a mink farm near Curtis, cut nets from fishing tugs in Naubinway, and painted a veal operation near Rudyard.”

“All of that was tonight?”

“I suspect we'll hear more,” Rector said with a nod.

“Where'd your compadres come from?”

“They flew into the Soo about an hour after the Iggy deal.”

“Who are they?”

“Peterson, the guy with the beard, is CT—counterterrorism—out of the Bureau. Phillips is the Detroit ASAC—assistant special agent in charge.”

“Peterson was in Detroit when this went down?”

“He's touring field offices with the monthly dog-and-pony CT briefing. It used to be quarterly. What're you doing here?”

“Checking for wolves.”

Rector grunted.

“You see Barry Davey?” Service asked.

“Yep, looks like the whole crowd is descending on this one.”

“Barry's usually in Grand Rapids.”

“Deer season and September eleventh. Talk about a shitty combo,” Rector said.

Maybe, Service thought. But so many agencies in one place so quickly was a curious coincidence.

“I talked to Gus Turnage. Any progress on the Tech investigation?”

“You mean, a bomb here and bombs there and are they related?”

“Something like that,” Service said.

“No progress yet and thank God, no bodies in Houghton.”

“Everybody behaving?” Service asked.

Wink Rector snorted with a little laugh. “Like trying to herd cats, eh? And all of 'em in feisty moods.”

Service left Rector and walked over to Barry Davey. The USF&WS man did not look happy.

“Howyadoin, you see Carmody yet?” Davey asked.

“Yesterday,” Service said.

“He's the best.”

“What are you doing here, Barry?”

“Gray wolf, endangered species.”

“No shit, but you have field personnel and we enforce ESA for the wolves here. You don't send the boss on this sort of thing.”

“Don't tell me how to do my job,” Davey snapped.

Service was about to press Davey when a dark SUV pulled into the cluster of other vehicles and a man emerged, stumbling forward and shouting incomprehensibly. A Troop sergeant grabbed the man, pinned his arms, and stopped him.

Service watched as the sergeant talked quietly to Dr. Barton Brule, who began sobbing and collapsed. Two county cops helped the Troop move the lab director into the backseat of a cruiser with its engine running.

Service walked back to the building and watched the crime scene people erecting portable klieg lights. They wore FBI jackets. Two bodies were draped under dark plastic tarps. How the hell had the FBI gotten a team here before the state people from Negaunee? And why?

“Who're you?” an FBI technician challenged.

“Service, DNR.”

The man grunted and turned away.

The lights erected in the remains of the lab showed that the bomb had been a powerful one. He looked at what remained of the ceiling and saw remnants of mounts for two video cameras. Were there cameras in the debris, and if so, what would the tapes show? He'd have to wait to find out.

Service rejoined Wink Rector at the coffee jug. The FBI men he'd seen earlier were talking in hushed tones, with their backs to Rector.

“You got leprosy?” Service asked under his breath.

Rector twisted his face into a pained grin. “I'm just hired help.”

“Are there security cameras on the gatehouse?”

“It's a high-security facility.”

“The cameras might show something.”

Rector grunted and changed the subject. “You hear the weather forecast? They're calling for sixty degrees from midweek until Sunday. Talk about shitty conditions for deer hunting.”

The FBI agent didn't even hunt deer, so why the weather forecast?

Service returned to the rubble of the building and nosed around, using his light. There were boot tracks everywhere. Whoever got to the site first had done a lousy job of preserving it. With all the foot traffic the ground was turning to mush, but away from the traffic he finally found two distinct paw prints, one of them extremely large. He tried to picture the animal that made it, remembering photographs he had once seen showing a couple of dead Canadian wolves said to be more than two hundred pounds.

Wolf tracks located, his job was done for the moment. He'd found sign of two of the animals, and there was no sense stumbling around in the dark all night. If two were out, all were probably out. They sure as hell wouldn't sit tight with so many people around. He didn't know much about wolves, but he did know that the smell of humans sent them running. Had the bomb been meant to free the wolves, or was their release a side effect? For that determination, they would have to wait for the technicians to complete their work.

Service walked the mile out to the gatehouse, nodded to the deputies at the roadblock, and studied the small cinder-block building for security cameras. There was one camera.

“Anybody know what the camera caught?”

“The Feebs took the cassette,” one of the deputies said. “The state and feds are crawling all over the place. We don't even know why the hell we're here.”

The usual jurisdictional squabbling, Service thought. “Where's Sheriff Lee?”

“On his way back from a meeting in Green Bay. He's gonna go ballistic when he sees all these feds.”

Service knew the Chippewa County sheriff well, and the deputy was correct in his assessment. Sheriff Lee thought of the county as his personal domain.

Just as he decided to return to Rector, it dawned on him that he'd seen no tracks during his circuit around the perimeter. How had Kota approached the fence? Where had he come in from, and why not through the gate like everybody else? And why hadn't Kota shown up at the lab with the rest of the cops?

Service backtracked to the lab and sought out Barry Davey.

“You know DaWayne Kota?”

“The Bay Mills warden?”

Service nodded.

“I've met him.”

“Have you seen him tonight?”

Davey looked irritated. “Why would he be here?”

Service had the same question, but said nothing about seeing Kota.

Pouring more coffee for him, Wink Rector said, “One of the vicks is the director's wife.”

“I heard,” Service said, accepting the cup of coffee. “Have there been any problems out here before?”

Rector said, “Not that I know of. The place is like Bumfuck, Nowhere. There's no publicity and no signs to indicate to the public that it's here, much less what it is.”

Somebody knew, Service thought. “I need to talk to Brule.”

“Now? He's in pretty rough shape.”

“Best time to get info is right now.”

“I'll have to ask permish,” the resident agent said, not hiding the fact that he didn't like being reduced to lackeydom. Service didn't blame him. Wink was one of the good guys who worked a thankless job in the U.P. without complaint.

When he returned from talking to the other FBI men Rector said, “Five minutes is all you get, and I have to stick to you like Velcro.” Rector looked unhappy about it. “That's a verfuckingbatim quote.”

They approached the open door of the state police cruiser and handed the lab director a cup of steaming coffee. His eyes were puffy and red, his jowls sagging even more than Service remembered. The man looked devastated.

“Doctor Brule, I'm Grady Service.”

“I remember you,” the director said in a shaky voice.

“Doctor, did the wolves run loose in the compound or was there an internal holding pen?”

“Loose,” Brule said. “So we could monitor behaviors.”

Human or animal? Service wondered. “I don't remember how many animals were here.”

“Five,” the scientist said.

“Including a blue wolf?”

Brule answered immediately. “He was brought to us from Saskatchewan late last month. Not a pack animal, but we wanted to see how his introduction would affect the pack hierarchy.”

“How did it?”

Brule stared at Service. “Is this necessary? My wife is dead.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but somebody blew the fence. That could mean they were trying to release the animals.” It could also mean that the bomber wanted a body count. “The thing that puzzles me is, why would they blow the fence at the building? Why not simply cut the fence where it can't be seen?”

“We have adequate camera coverage,” Brule said.

“Around the entire perimeter?” Service asked.

“Yes,” Brule said.

“Is there a central security facility?” Service asked.

“Landlines,” Brule said, suddenly slumping forward in his seat and beginning to sob.

Rector pulled Service back from the vehicle.

Landlines. What did that mean? Were all the cameras hardwired into a central control room? If so, why had the camera at the gate held a cassette? Dial it down, he told himself. The feds were big believers in system redundancy and had the money to afford it.

“Is there a central control room, Wink?”

“Dunno,” Rector said. “My first time out here.”

“Wink, if you wanted to let the animals out, you could do it a lot quieter and smarter than this. Why use the
Queen Mary
when a tugboat will do the job?”

Rector whispered, “You are one suspicious sonuvabitch.”

Peterson, the number two man in the Detroit office, walked over to them. “Get what you needed?”

“I've still got a lot of questions,” Service said.

“Save them for morning,” Peterson said. “A team is being formed, and you're to be part of it. We'll meet in the Soo at the state police post. Oh eight hundred.”

“See you there,” Service said to Wink Rector.