Blue Wolf In Green Fire (19 page)

“What about the van—our
rifles?
”

“Let's just get you to the hospital and then we'll worry about the other stuff.”

“Okay. You guys smoke? I'm out.”

“You've got oxygen in here.”

“Can't smoke nowhere anymore,” the man said. “Are Yank and me gonna be on TV?”

Neither officer answered. They watched the ambulance drive north.

“Poor bastard,” Nighswaander said. “His brother's dead.”

“So's the man they hit,” Service said.

“The one with the arrow?” The deputy shook his head, made a clucking sound. “You first on the scene?”

Service pointed at the refuge driveway. “On my way to the Soo for a meeting. Pulled in there to get some sleep. I heard the impact.” He explained what he had heard, seen, done.

“You come outta there couple of minutes later you mighta been smack in the middle of it. You fellas don't get much sleep this time a year, do ya?”

Service looked at his watch: 6:42 a.m. “You guys
do?
”

Nighswaander laughed. “Not much.”

“The wife of the deceased pedestrian is in your patrol car.”

The deputy nodded. “She know the score yet?”

“No.”

“I'll tell her. Who's the other woman?”

“She was in the car back there.” Service pointed. “She said something about a bear.”

The deputy went to the new widow. Service got coffee for the other woman and walked her back to her PT Cruiser, which was mired in muck on the side of the road. The grill was smashed in, hood popped and crumpled, a piece of plastic hanging off at a strange angle, one headlight gone.

“I'm sorry,” the woman said. “I'm afraid I got a little emotional. I'm Lorelei Timms, Lori.”

The name seemed vaguely familiar. “Grady Service. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I was headed to Marquette to meet my husband, Whit. We've got a place near Big Bay. I was driving along, no traffic, and suddenly this black thing came out of nowhere. Ran right under me and I was flying and spinning all over the place. I thought I was going to roll, but it stayed up and I went into the swamp. I was hanging on, not steering. Scared the hell out of me.”

“Thanks for getting the blankets and light.”

She smiled. “That was smart, getting me to do something to get my mind off me. How did that man get the arrow in him?”

“I don't know.”

“He died, didn't he?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“My God,” she said. “You're a conservation officer, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you handle this sort of thing often?”

“Never one quite like this.”

“How will you sort it out?”

“I don't know yet,” he admitted. It had all happened at once.

She nodded. “I'm sorry that man died. What about the man you were giving mouth-to-mouth?”

“He didn't make it either.”

“My God,” she said in a whisper.

The volunteer fire chief came back to them and said, “Senator Timms, anything we can do for youse?”

“If a wrecker can pull me out, we'll see if it'll start and I can be on my way—if you're done with me.” She looked at Service.

“That thing ain't gonna run,” the chief said. “Somebody we can call for you?”

“My husband,” she said, giving the chief a phone number, which he wrote down on a pad.

Senator Timms: That's why the name was familiar. She was a state senator from Petoskey, Charlevoix, someplace north of Traverse City. He'd heard her name before, but couldn't remember the context.

“Glad you're running for governor,” the fire chief said. “You can't do no worse den Sam Bozian comes to da folks up here.”

She said gently, “I haven't announced yet. Is that an endorsement, Chief?”

“It's on da radio youse gonna run, eh? You'll get my vote,” he said, not catching her irony.

Service left the senator and walked along the highway with his light on, looking for the bear. He found it on the west side of the road, sprawled on its side, its stomach burst, intestines shining blue under his light beam. It was a big female, close to four hundred pounds, shiny black fur thickened for winter. He could see a substantial layer of yellow fat she had accumulated to see her through hibernation.

“That's a shame,” he heard the senator say from behind him. “I didn't see it. It just came charging across and then it was under me.”

“The way it usually happens with bears,” he said. “When they decide to cross, they just go.”

“Like some politicians,” the senator said.

He saw the blood trail that ended at the carcass and started backtracking. He stepped off sixty-three yards. There was an elliptical splash at point of impact and twenty yards of intestine strewn around from the impact point forward.

The senator was right behind him. “What're you looking for?”

“You dragged it.”

“I thought for a second it was under me, and then I was spinning.”

“Lucky you didn't go over.” PT Cruisers could be death traps.

“Officer, do you mind if I follow you around for a while?”

“Why?”

“I want to watch you do your job.”

He checked his watch. He still had to figure out what happened with Ernie and his tree blind and there was no way to make the Soo meeting. The county or state could handle the accident report on the van. He'd make out the report on the senator and her bear.

“Let's get some coffee first.”

She was a quiet woman. When the sun began to lighten the eastern sky he got a good look at her. Tall, a little heavy, intense eyes, medium-length hair streaked with gray. She wore an untucked flannel shirt, jeans, and boots that had gotten a lot of wear.

“Your husband going deer hunting?”

She smiled easily. “No, I'm the hunter. Whit doesn't hunt, but he likes to be along and I like having him. When I'm in Lansing, he's usually back in Petoskey with the kids, so this is our vacation. How's the herd this year?”

“Not good up your way. It's never good close to the Superior watershed and we had a tough winter last year. Where's your camp?”

“Huron Mountains,” she said.

He studied her for a moment. “The Club?”

“Yes, Cabin Fifty-Two, Tamarack Lodge. It's the newest one, built in 1989 to celebrate the club's centennial. My family's been in the club since the beginning.”

The exclusive Huron Mountain Club was located north of Big Bay and had been shrouded in mystery and mystique throughout its history. The founders had been local power brokers, but they soon brought in members from all over the Midwest. In the early going they all had one thing in common: money. Bentley, McCormick, Dodge, Ford, Alger, Washburn, Shite, McMillan—these were the names that stuck in Service's head, but few facts about any of them except a vague memory of Henry Ford being initially rejected for membership.

What stuck most in his mind was what Yogi Zambonet had told him, that the club had been involved in the failed experiment to transplant wolves in 1974.

If Timms was part of the Huron Mountain bunch, she came from deep roots of power and influence. Club people were used to getting their way.

“I'd think the hunting might be okay at the club,” he said, knowing the club had its own wildlife manager.

They walked back up to Nighswaander's cruiser to see Barbara Wildwood. She was standing by the car with a vacant look on her face but stared at him when he approached.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” he said.

She had red, swollen eyes. “Thank you. They took Ernie to Newberry. I guess I ought to be with him.”

“Mrs. Wildwood, I know this is a difficult time, but where is your truck? I need to look around, see if we can figure out what happened.”

“There's a two-track down that way a tich,” she said, pointing. “I need to get the truck anyway.”

Service didn't want her to move the vehicle until he could examine the camp. Her husband had said something about falling, and his wife said he'd been drunk. He had a pretty good idea what might have happened, but he needed to see it, understand it, be certain.

“I can drive you there.”

She said, “Thanks.”

He went to get his truck and the senator trailed along. “Got room for me?”

“It'll be a tight squeeze,” he said, wishing she'd go away, but she was a senator and it wouldn't do to get on her wrong side. One politician after his scalp was enough.

Fifteen minutes later they were parked on a two-track near the Wildwoods' truck.

There was an empty Jack Daniel's bottle on the floor of the tent in the truck's bed and two plastic glasses.

“Where's your husband's blind?”

The woman pointed. “Through the tag alders, Ernie said. There's supposed to be some big beeches somewhere in there.”

Service looked at the senator. “Could you help her pack up?”

The senator raised an eyebrow. “Sure.”

He followed a game trail through dead ferns, saw where Ernie had gone in, and eventually came to the white pine near a pocket of mature beech trees. The blind looked new, installed twenty feet up in the white pine. The man hadn't set it up last night; it had been there for a while. Wildwood's name, address, and phone number were painted on the bottom of the platform.

There was a reeking bait pile twenty feet out from the tree, and at the base of the tree a broken compound bow lay on the ground, with a crushed quiver and several bent arrows strewn around. Heavy blood. It looked like the man had fallen and landed on his own arrow. The blood trail started back toward the truck camp, but began to drift right until it was headed for the highway. Service thought he could read the signs: Ernie had been losing blood, trying to get back to his truck, but gradually lost his ability to think and drifted off course to the west. The blood trail led out to the road and Service saw that the bleeding hunter had stumbled in front of the oncoming van and been hit. He wondered which had killed him—the arrow or the collision.

He guessed that the hunter or the crash had also spooked the bear onto the road, a marriage of bad karmas.

The women had loaded the truck by the time he got back to them.

“I think your husband fell from his stand onto the arrow. I think he tried to get back to you, Barb, but he lost too much blood and got lost.” He didn't tell her about the mini van. Such details could come after the autopsy. Right now she needed something positive to hold on to.

The widow grimaced. “He should never have been out there.”

Service didn't ask how much the man had to drink.

“Can I go to Ernie now?” the woman asked.

Service gave her a business card and told her to call him if she had any questions.

Senator Timms stood next to him watching the woman drive away. “Do I get a ticket?” she asked. “I might've been going a little faster than fifty-five.”

“Your speed didn't cause your problem,” he said.

“Well, I doubt I'll be going over fifty-five up here at night again.”

“These things happen,” he said.

“You didn't know who I was until the chief came along.”

“My mind was sort of occupied.”

The senator smiled. “You heard I'm running for governor?”

“Not until this morning.”

“I'll make the formal announcement in Marquette this afternoon, then I'm going hunting. What is the DNR looking for in a governor?”

Service knew not to unload on Bozian. “I don't speak for the DNR.”

“Let me rephrase that. What are you looking for?”

“Somebody who cares about what we have.”

“What does your leadership want?”

“I don't talk for my leadership.”

She smiled. “You don't like politics.”

“Somebody has to do the jobs,” he said. “I couldn't.”

She said, “You're a diplomat, Officer Service, and I'm sorry that people died this morning and that I killed that poor bear, but strange as it seems, I am glad to have had this experience. Do you have another card?”

He dug one out. It was streaked with dirt and dried blood.

The woman studied it. “Perfect,” she said, extending her hand and shaking his firmly. She took a card out of her purse and held it out to him. “If you ever need anything, you call me. Do you mind if I call you from time to time?”

“I can't get into politics, Senator,” he said.

“It's Lori, and I understand that, Officer, and I wouldn't put you in that position, but from time to time I may need an objective viewpoint on certain issues.”

“You've got my number, Senator.”

“Indeed I do,” she said. “What will you do now?”

“Do the paperwork on your accident, help get you back on the road, assist the county to make sure the road's clear of debris, get the dead animal off the road, and head for our district office in Newberry to write my report.”

She got into the passenger seat of his truck. “What's the computer for?”

“Mostly the Automatic Vehicle Locator.” He turned on the computer and showed her, telescoping the electronic maps down to their present location, then up in scale to show her the vehicles of three other officers in neighboring counties.

“You can find each other this way.”

“And Lansing can find us, too,” he said.

She smiled. “Does it work?”

“It does what we need it to do.”

“You really
are
a diplomat,” she said.

“That's not a universally held opinion,” he admitted.

She reached over and patted his arm. “When you're a woman and direct, you're a bitch or power hungry. I expect it's pretty much the same for police officers.”

He got to Newberry at noon and found Lisette McKower eating at her desk.

“Is that blood all over you?” she said, looking up from her salad.