Blue Wolf In Green Fire (32 page)

28

Gus Turnage was helping to inventory gear in Zambonet's office. Black patent-leather radio collars were side by side on a table next to a black six-foot-long metal poke-stick with an opaque syringe attached to the tip. A pale blue Tupperware cup held several red plastic ear tags. The biologist's field drug kit was in a marked bag on the floor and Yogi Zambonet was putting ice packs into it.

Service introduced Kota to the two men, who nodded and shook hands.

“Where do we go?” Turnage asked.

“I'll call you on that,” Service said. He knew he was being less than forthcoming, the captain's words about selective disclosure echoing in his ears. “Just be ready,” he told them. He put the photographs on the table and said, “Near the Mosquito, three days ago.”

Zambonet said, “Bobber's on the way.” Service was relieved. He admired Canot's skills, and they needed an expert on wolves. His own skills were adequate for most things, but his real strength was in tracking his own species.

“Gus, can you call Shark and get him down here?”

“No prob,” his friend said. “He'll come a-running. It'll beat heck outta tying flies while the Techineers from the college screw themselves senseless at the motel.”

“I don't like this,” Zambonet said with muted petulance.

Service said wearily, “Just get the gear and team together and be ready to move.”

“Can I put a flying ear up to find the female? If the blue's wooing the lady, finding her will lead us to him.”

“Do whatever it takes,” Service said. “I'll get back to you.” He didn't want to answer a lot of questions. He had a difficult drive ahead of him, and the sooner he got that done with the sooner he could get home to Nantz.

“When?” Zambonet asked.

“When I get back to you,” Service snapped. He couldn't blame Yogi for being prickly. Wolf Daddy was used to running his own show. But this was about dead wolves, not live ones, and at least for now that shifted responsibility to law enforcement.

During his drive he called Gus Turnage. “Did you put out the word on the CO shirt you found with the wolf?”

“Yep,” Gus said. “Know where we're going yet?”

“Soon.” Service wished he could be more specific, but he needed to talk to Limpy Allerdyce. This left him questioning his sanity as he drove along, wondering how the third wolf shot with the fifty fit in. If Carmody was with the woman and hadn't mentioned it, did that mean her roommate Skelton Gitter was part of the deal too? This was something to think about, and he had the time.

The poacher's camp was a difficult seventy miles away, most of it on roads with dented signs that announced seasonal road:
not plowed in winter.
For once he was glad winter had not yet arrived.

Allerdyce and his clan lived in a ramshackle compound in southwestern Marquette County, which was the largest county east of the Mississippi River and bigger than the state of Rhode Island. The camp was built on a narrow peninsula between North and South Beaverkill Lakes, a long way from civilization. The site had been carefully selected, and was the sort of place you were unlikely to stumble across unless you were another poacher, which would be a serious mistake. With water on two sides and swamps on both ends, it was difficult to get to. There was a two-track from a U.S. Forest Service road down to the compound's parking area, and then a half-mile walk along a twisting trail under a conifer canopy to the camp. The surrounding area was thick with cedars, hemlocks, and tamaracks. In terms of isolation, it was a fortress. And there was no way to call ahead because Limpy didn't believe in telephones. He had no choice but to make his way to the camp and march in, the reality of which gave him a sharp chill.

It was after dark and he had lost an hour to the time-zone change, which lay just west of Marquette County, putting the western U.P. in the central time zone and the rest of the Yoop in the eastern zone. He parked the truck, quietly closed the door and locked it, taking his handheld radio and Mag-Lite with him. The light took the place of a baton, which always felt to him like a riding crop, making it a prop, not a weapon or a tool. About halfway to the camp Service heard several rifle shots from a small-caliber rifle, a .222 or a .223. The timing of the shots suggested somebody plinking at targets in the dark. It was against the law to shoot after dark during deer season, but this was Limpy's camp and Allerdyce, the lifelong outlaw, had been an effective poacher because he had rules for the clan. He would not tolerate poor shooting by his people. Multiple shots meant wasted ammo and an increased chance of detection by patrolling COs. Limpy's people were expected to make one round count. And if most poaching was done at night, that's when practice needed to be done. Service doubted there was much game left in the immediate vicinity of the camp. Limpy and his people poached for both cash and sustenance, pretty much killing everything they encountered.

Service sucked in a deep breath and moved on toward the camp. He was pretty sure that he could trust Limpy would talk to him, but how the rest of his people would welcome him was a separate issue. It seemed unlikely that the old man had admitted to them that he was cooperating with law enforcement.

The camp was dark and looked abandoned, but Service sniffed a faint hint of smoke lingering in the crisp air. No one could remember a deer season like this: It had been in the low sixties the entire first week, and now on the ninth day of the season the air finally seemed to be cooling back toward normal.

Service went to the cabin where he had seen Limpy last summer. Somewhere behind him he heard someone quietly rack a round into the chamber of a shotgun.

“Youse lookin' for Limpy?” a familiar female voice asked from the cabin's porch. Honeypat was the widow of Limpy's late son Jerry, but long before being widowed she'd been consorting with her father-in-law and countless others. It had been her dalliance with Limpy that allowed Service to arrest the poacher and send him to prison for seven years. The old man had been released from Jacktown last summer, and Honeypat had immediately taken up with him again. It was tough to differentiate between habits and addictions.

“He sure ain't here for pussy!” Limpy Allerdyce squawked with his irritating cackle from the darkness. Service heard Limpy smack the woman's behind. Honeypat laughed out loud and an unusually jovial Allerdyce said, “How ya doin', Sonny? Youse come about da wolf, didjas? Would youse break bread wit us or take a sip? Honeypat's brewed up some dandy cider.”

“Cider's good.”

A door cracked open, but little light escaped. “Watch da steps,” Allerdyce cautioned and Service stepped gingerly, crossing the porch into the dim light ahead. The door closed quietly behind him and a wooden match sparked, emitting a puff of sulfur; a kerosene lantern rattled in the dark, and a familiar hiss began to push dim yellow light across the room. Service smelled wood smoke, kerosene, meat cooking, earthy mold, stale sweat, other scents, not identifiable.

Limpy sat in a creaky rocking chair, motioning for Service to sit across from him in an upholstered chair darkened with stains, the batting protruding like hairs from the ears of an old man. Honeypat rattled dishes and cups off somewhere in the dark. He was startled when her hand suddenly thrust a cup into the light in front of him. The cider smelled of apples, nutmeg, mint, and orange. She moved to Limpy's side and stood in the light, fully dressed. Service was taken by surprise. Over the years he had rarely seen Honeypat dressed; he had seen her in the buff so many times that she seemed most natural that way. In the dim light Service thought she looked younger and less haggard than the last time he had seen her. More likely it was a trick of the lighting.

“Looks good, don't she?” Limpy said. “Just her and me now, eh gal?”

Honeypat beamed a proud smile at Service that left him feeling queasy. The idea of Honeypat and Limpy settling down as a couple was unimaginable.

Service said, “The wolf.”

“Yah, over to da Skeeto.”

“You've seen it?”

“Onna my grandkittles seen it,” Limpy said.

Grandkittles? Allerdyce had his own language.

“Which one was it seen it?” Limpy asked, rolling his eyes up at Honeypat.

“Aldo,” she said, “Corona's youngest pup.”

Service had no idea who Corona was, much less Aldo. He thought about the word
pup
, a member of Limpy's pack. The term fit, the clan operating like a pack, killing together, preying on the weaknesses of law enforcement, which didn't have enough people to cover all the possible areas, each pack member aggressively protecting the others. The clan numbered in the hundreds and grew continuously. One raid some years back had netted seventy people, and that time Limpy had said that half the clan wasn't there. If there were a Fortune 500 for poaching operations, Limpy's clan would be in the top ten and a Standard & Poachers blue chip at that. What they did was wrong, but they did it well, and Service grudgingly appreciated their skill.

“Aldo,” Limpy repeated. “Dat lil shit's gonna be a good un, mebbe. Got da nose of fox.”

“And fucks like a snowshoe buck,” Honeypat said with a leer and raised eyebrow. “Like his granpa,” she added.

Service had no interest in a catalog of clan traits. “What was he doing in the Mosquito?”

“Not whachouse think, eh?” Limpy said firmly. “You know my kin don't work da Skeeto. But Aldo, he likes da look-sees. Been fuckin' an Ojib from L'Anse and dat Injun pussy got his head all fulled up with wolf talk and Injun bullshit.”

“Aldo saw the blue?”

“Been followin' it.”

“Is he here?”

“He's in the Skeeto wit da wolf and da squaw,” Honeypat said.

“Why's he tracking the blue?”

Limpy said, “Heard him mebbe some likker-talk mebbe a flatlander wants to pop da blue. Aldo ain't gonna be lettin' dat happen, mebbe.”

There was pride in Limpy's voice. “I don't work da Skeeto and if I don't, my people don't. Dat was da deal wit yer ole man, Sonny. Now it's da deal wit you. Limpy gives da word, he keeps it. Limpy makes da law, his people keep it doncha know.”

One for all and all for one, Service thought. “We're going to trap the blue, put a radio collar on him,” Service said, not sure he could finish what he had to say with Honeypat standing there.

Allerdyce squinted at him. “Ole Honeypat knows da deal. Dey all know, eh? We got no secrets in da bed or da clan.” Limpy rubbed her left thigh. “Say what it is you want.”

Service sipped the cider. Did Limpy mean there were no secrets in his bed with Honeypat or in all the beds he shared? This was not the Limpy he knew, and his suspicions were immediately aroused. Lifelong violets didn't change. The cider was sweet and loaded with alcohol. “I'd like your help.”

“You want an old man out dere wit youse young bucks?”

“He ain't old,” Honeypat said in quick defense of her man.

Limpy grinned up at her and cackled. “Not in dat way I ain't.” He looked over at Service. “When we hunt?”

“The blue's following a collared female. We're putting an airplane up to find her.”

“Da blue's up tord da nort Fish Creek Section,” Limpy said. “If Mr. Blue wants pussy, she'll be up dere too. Dat's da way it is, eh. Womans can get herselves some worked up over a male wit da wants. Gets 'em goin' it does.”

Allerdyce was a Freudian: All life reduced to sex. “Aldo is at Fish Creek?”

“I'd say,” Limpy said.

“Meet me there, tomorrow at noon.”

“You want Aldo?” the old poacher asked. “Da boy's odd and don't much like peoples. Just squaws. But he'd be a help.”

In for a dime, Service thought. “Bring him.”

“Don't nobody bring Aldo. He'll see and hear and he'll come in. Or he won't,” the poacher said with a chuckle. “It's da Allerdyce blood.”

Service couldn't wait to escape the stinking confines of the poacher's cabin. “I've got to get to Gladstone tonight.”

Limpy winked at Honeypat. “Sonny-boy's pussy come home taday.”

Honeypat smiled lasciviously, and Service wondered how Limpy knew. The old man was always knocking Service off balance.

“You better get,” Honeypat said. “Man's gotta take care of business.”

An allusion to her marriage to Jerry who had strayed far and often? Never mind that she did, too.

“You heard 'er,” Limpy said. “Ole Honeypat knows.”

Allerdyce led him to the front porch. “Use your light goin' out. Everybody knows youse here, eh.”

The two men stepped outside. The camp was still dark with no sign of life, and the temperature was plummeting.

Limpy sniffed the air. “Snow,” he said. “Big blow. She'll be crawling in 'boot mornin', goin' like da wildcat by sundown.”

Service didn't question the poacher's meteorological forecast. Pain in his shoulder and joints was broadcasting the same forecast. The season's first Alberta clipper was sailing in on the jet stream.