Blue Wolf In Green Fire (20 page)

“Personal injury accident in Seney.”

She looked him in the eye. “What were you doing
there?
”

“I pulled into the refuge to catch a nap. I was headed for a meeting in the Soo this morning. I heard the thing happen.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I missed my meeting in the Soo, figured I'd get the paperwork done and catch tomorrow's meeting.”

“Why don't you stay with Jack and me tonight. The girls would love to see you.”

“Thanks, but I think I'll bunk right here and head out early.”

“You always have to do things your way.”

He was working on the bear accident report when McKower came into the conference room and turned on the radio.

“Sam Bozian has done no favors for our state. This morning I was involved in a tragic incident and I saw firsthand the selflessness and professionalism of our emergency and law enforcement personnel. We rarely think about conservation officers, but this morning I met an officer named Grady Service who handled a situation that would have crushed most of us. He gave aid to the injured and reassured the living with a selfless humanity I've rarely encountered. When I asked him what he wanted in a governor, he said, ‘Someone who cares about what we have.' Someone who cares about what we have. I think that I am one of those people, and when I am elected I will do my utmost to uphold the high standards of public service that I was privileged to experience this morning on a lonely stretch of highway in the middle of nowhere. Thank you all for coming. I'll take a few questions and then I'm going hunting.”

McKower turned off the radio. “Do you have some sort of magnet for governors?”

“She's a state senator, not the governor.”

“If Lorelei Timms has decided she wants the job, the competition better strap on their armor. What did you do?”

“My job,” he said, thinking that for the first time since Labor Day he had felt useful and productive.

“Selfless humanity and sensitivity,” McKower said, smiling. “You did good, Grady Service.”

“Two people died,” he said.

“I'm sorry Grady, but some things are beyond control—even for you.”

16

It was 5 a.m., less than ninety minutes before nimrods could start blazing away at high-speed beef. Service had slept at the Newberry office, showered, and was headed to the Soo. He had just crossed the Soo Line tracks where they intersected M-28, his mind somewhere in the mists of Never-Never, poring over his cases, yesterday's bizarre events, and Nantz's circumstances, when the radio crackled and snapped him back to reality. “Officer needs assistance.”

The call came from the Chippewa County police dispatcher. Service pulled over to the side of the road, eased the transmission into neutral, lifted the cover of his black laptop, and punched up the AVL mapping system. He checked in on the radio, got the exact location, checked it against the computer map, saw he was close, and told the county dispatcher he was responding.

He switched off his lights as he turned north off the highway onto a two-track that showed it had seen a lot of recent traffic. Running dark, except for the glow of his computer, he eased his way north through the woods toward the Hendrie River, glancing at the running map as he went. The system was relatively new to the force, and despite his initial skepticism he had to admit that the amount of detail it provided, and its tie to the GPS system, made it a useful tool for finding his way on unfamiliar ground. When it worked. There were only two techs in the U.P. to do repairs. Today it was working.

A mile or so in he saw flashlights and the headlights of cars and trucks illuminating a clearing. Several black buggies were parked on the sides of the road, their horses tied, feeding from canvas buckets. He also saw a DNR truck. He parked and waded the rest of the way through calf-deep slush.

Two groups of bearded men in black and gray clothing were all yelling and gesturing at each other with considerable animation. Service approached quietly and saw CO Bryan Jefferies at the center of the storm. When the towering Jefferies saw him, he stepped away from the groups, which quickly jacked up the verbal assaults. Jefferies and Service had once taken PPCT training together. The Pressure Point Control Tactics system had been a hybrid of martial arts and dirty street fighting and the younger CO had manhandled him that day, politely excusing himself each time he threw Service to the ground or immobilized him with a pressure hold. It had been a long day. PPCT had since been replaced with a new hybrid program, and Service was glad.

“Good,” Jefferies said. “A friendly face.”

The crowd was growing louder. Some shoving was starting.

Jefferies pivoted and shouted, “Everybody knock it off and stay where you are!”

Turning back to Service, he said, “Here's the deal. There are two groups here. Mennonites and Amish. Both groups had a group hunt under way.”

“Early,” Service said.

Jefferies sighed with exasperation. “I know, I know, and using spotlights, and no hunter orange.”

“Maybe God gave them permission,” Service said, grinning.

“Maybe that same God will smite you with lightning for that remark,” the young CO said.

“If he's all his fans claim, he knows where to find me,” Service said.

Jefferies continued, “One of the Mennonite drivers spotted a buck and fired his shotgun. Some of the double-ought buckshot hit a rock and ricocheted, smacking one of the Amish men in the knee. The rock slowed down the pellet, but the leg's probably broken. It could have been worse. An ambulance is supposed to be on the way to haul the vick to Newberry.”

The officer went on. “The Amish crowd took umbrage and claim they also fired at a deer, only their bullet hit one of the Mennonite trucks, putting a hole in the grille and engine block. The Mennonites claim the Amish shot was intended to insult their religious beliefs. The Mennonites retaliated by shooting an Amish horse. I've been here thirty minutes trying to sort it out. Hunting season hasn't even opened. Can you believe this shit?”

Jefferies was thirtyish with a menacing thick mustache, inordinately tall, and held a degree in human physiology from a small college. He was built like a power lifter. “All they want to do is argue.”

The first light of day was showing lavender and orange in the eastern sky, the temperature rising. Service had a meeting to get to and no time for a drawn-out verbal group grope. He approached the groups and stood silently so they could all see him, saying nothing.

The bickering men quieted and stared.

“Shame on you,” he said when he finally spoke.

Mouths dropped and heads bowed.

“I'm Service and we have a problem here. Either we sort it out here and now, or Officer Jefferies and I will arrest the whole lot of you and let you explain to a judge and your own communities what happened out here. It's not yet legal to shoot and lights are illegal. You ought to know that.” Which didn't guarantee they did.

“We've got an injured man, which at best is incompetent discharge of a firearm. I won't even talk about worst case. We can arrest the lot of you, or, the shooters can step forward and take responsibility. Somebody shot a man in the leg. Somebody blew the window out of a truck. And somebody shot a horse. I am not assigning guilt. You know who you are and we need to talk to you to get this thing sorted out. Accidents happen, but when you lose your cool, God probably doesn't look kindly on it.” After a theatrical pause he added, “What will it be?”

The two groups began to mumble and talk among each other and eventually one man stepped forward from each group. “We organized the hunts and we did the shooting,” one of the men said. Service doubted this was the truth, but he admired the effort at leadership.

“Okay, you two step aside.” To the others he said, “Leave the horse and truck and the rest of you get out of here. There better not be any more trouble.”

It took fifteen minutes for the groups to disperse. By then there was fairly good light and the ambulance had arrived to transport the injured man.

The dead horse was still hitched to a black buggy.

The two men glared at each other.

“Hunting licenses,” Service said. The two men handed their licenses to him. “We're writing both of you up for the incompetent discharge of a firearm. We could also charge you for shooting early and not wearing hunter orange, not to mention reckless discharge and not exercising safety, but we'll overlook most of this. I would think that God would expect you both to settle this peacefully. To forgive is divine, right?”

The men nodded.

Jefferies pulled Service aside and asked, “What the hell is ‘incompetent discharge'?”

“I'm making this up as we go along. Just flow with it,” Service said, returning his attention to the men.

“Who owns the truck?” Service asked.

“My brother,” one of the men said.

“Give your keys to Officer Jefferies. Bryan, see if you can start it.”

Jefferies got into the truck and began trying to turn over the motor.

“Did you shoot the vehicle?” Service asked the other man.

“I didn't intend to,” the Amish man said.

“But you hit it.”

The man nodded.

“Who owns the horse?”

“My nephew,” the Amish elder said.

“Who shot the horse?” he asked the Mennonite, who confirmed culpability with a peremptory nod.

Jefferies called over to them, “The truck's kaputsky.”

“Is the truck your primary transportation?”

“It is,” the Mennonite said.

“Is the horse your nephew's primary transportation?” Service asked the other man.

“Yes,” the Amish man said.

“Okay,” Service said, “three shots, two accidents, two primary means of transport equally out of commission. You're both being cited for incompetent discharge, the damages look equal to me and that's it, end of discussion and dispute. Ask God to tell you what he thinks about your behavior today.”

The men stared at Service.

“Officer Jefferies will bring your citations to you and you pay the fines in Newberry.”

The men didn't move. Service stepped toward them and waved his hands at them. “Shoo!”

The men trudged down the road, one on each side, not looking at each other.

Jefferies leaned against his truck and started laughing. “Incompetent discharge?”

“Visit them tonight and tell them the charges are dropped. God intervened. I'll explain to McKower what went down.”

“Yes, Your Detectiveness,” the CO said with a grin. “What a job, eh?”

This time they were lucky. Sometimes things like this resulted in loss of life and then there was no joke. He'd seen enough dead recently.

Service arrived at District 4 Headquarters as Lieutenant Lisette Mc-Kower was climbing out of her vehicle. “Just back from Star-Range Golf Course,” she said wearily. “The manager called to complain about trespassers and shots fired. I drove out there and found two bozoids in camo ghillie outfits lying on a dead doe in a damn sand trap! The county hauled them in. God, every year the opener draws out the magnum morons. I thought you went to the Soo?” she concluded.

“I'm on my way.”

They got coffee from a pot in a small conference room and went into McKower's office. Service told her about the near religious war and by the time he finished, she had spit coffee on her blotter, laughing.

Recovering, she said, “We can't ignore a shooting.”

“Leave it be, Lis,” he said.

Suddenly she looked at him harshly. “What were you doing out there with Bryan?”

“He called for backup and I was closest. Am I supposed to ignore calls like that?”

“Of course not,” she said.

“Lis, tell me about Captain Grant.”

She looked alarmed. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem. I like working for him, but I never know what he's thinking.”

“Sort of like working with you?” she said, hinting at a smile.

“Did you know he was going to move me to Marquette?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Grady, he's a reserved gentleman. I think he feels deeply but he seldom shows it. Maybe he can't show his emotions, but I know one thing: He won't accept incompetence and he'll never back off supporting those who can do the job.”

“Can he handle the politics?”

She squinted inquisitively in his direction and he told her about Vermillion, some of which she knew and most of which she didn't.

“Grady, if the Feebs—or any other agency—try a power play that the captain thinks compromises his people or our mission, he will cut their balls off.”

Service wondered. He finished his coffee and began to edge toward the door. “Thanks for backing me for this job,” he said.

She smiled. “You like it?”

“The old job was better,” he said. “I knew what I was doing. But this—”

She stopped him short. “Good,” she said. “Keeping you off balance might just keep you out of trouble.”

“I'm not complaining but when I got this job the plan was for me to report to you
and
the captain. What happened?”

“His call.”

“One more thing?”

She shrugged.

“Sheena Grinda. What's her story?”

“The ice queen,” McKower said. “Damn good officer. She was up for the job you got, but the captain selected you.”

Up for the same job? This could explain some of her attitude. “I got the job thanks to you,” he said.

McKower shook her head. “The captain came to me, Grady. It was his idea. All I did was agree. He wanted
you.
”

This was news and he wasn't sure how to take it. If the captain had handpicked him, he had to have had a good reason. Now he would worry about letting the captain down. Life had been a lot simpler as a CO in a plain brown wrapper.