Blue Wolf In Green Fire (36 page)

“Disappeared.”

“New identity?”

“Nobody knows anything. She's still wanted. Do you want me to turn all this over to the feds?”

“No, we'll let it play for a while.” He would tell Freddy and let him carry the information back when it made sense to do so.

The sheriff arrived just before midnight, cursing and covered with snow. “Tipped my bloody snowbug over,” he said. “Piece of shit. I'm gonna have to get outriggers,” he said with a grimace. “Twisted the shit out of my wrist.” He handed an envelope to Service. “A lot bloody quicker than U.S. Postal snail mail and a good deal cheaper. I saw your captain. He doesn't look so good.”

Service talked his friend through the information Shamekia had passed along as they looked at the photograph of Kitty Haloran. “A real looker,” Freddy Bear Lee said. “You wouldn't look past that face. You want me to hang with you or talk to our illustrious team leader?”

“Stay. I'll ask Shamekia to fax the photos to Nevelev, and give her Haloran's identity and leave it at that.”

“What about your boy?”

“He's somewhere in the area now and close to finishing our case. We're trying to trap the blue as we speak.”

“If Haloran came for a payback to Larola Brule, she's probably back in a hole in Europe by now.”

“Could be,” Service said. Right now his only interest was the blue wolf and Pidge Carmody. What a mess: a blue wolf in a green fire.

31

When the cell phone buzzed in the middle of the night Service quickly wriggled out of his sleeping bag and went outside.

“Get your wolf trapped?” Carmody asked in a low, roily voice.

Service blinked in the dark and swallowed hard. He had said nothing to the USF&WS man about trapping a wolf. “What was that?”

“Fookin' amateur,” Carmody whined. “You heard me, boy. You're trappin' a wolf.
The
wolf. Down the darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness,” the undercover man mumbled. “That from the distinguished D. H. Himself, ever mindful of all things carnal and what's more carnal than the takin' of life?”

“What're you talking about?”

“Bloody fookin' amateur,” Carmody whispered. “You've a rat in your knickers, man, down there chewin' off yer fookin' manhood and passin' information to the lady here as coolly as one of Auntie's readers.”

Service's mind raced. Allerdyce had pointed him at the blue. Then Carmody reported that Johns had a finder who had pointed her into the Mosquito. And he had seen Limpy using the FRS radio. The conclusion was inescapable: Allerdyce was the rat!

“What's this rat's angle?”

“Ah, the angle, asks he. Tiz the oldest of all, man: punts, pence, pounds, pennies, coin-a-the-realm, euros—a finder's fee if ye will, and so to speak.”

Could this be true? There was no doubt that Allerdyce was motivated by money, but the old man had sworn repeatedly that he would never poach in the Mosquito, that the arrangement he had agreed to with Service's father also applied to the son. If Limpy was working with Wealthy Johns, why had he tipped him about the blue and then volunteered to help? The rat
had
to be Limpy, but what the hell was his game? The man was a lawbreaker, but he wasn't stupid. There had to be an angle he wasn't seeing.

“Where are you?”

“Well ye should ask. Me lady's acquired a caravan, the best money can buy. All the comforts, ye might say, hot water, a loo, her succulent and ondulatin' self.”

“Where?”

“A boundless vision visits upon us, an untamed peninsula, vast wastes of forest verdure. It surroundeth in silence and ice. A bit foggy on the origin of that paraphrase.”

“That's a bit on the ambiguous side.”

“Sorry, boyo. I'm a bit turned about, you see. But the lady insists we reside within stalking distance.”

“Describe the place.”

“Would, I swear, but it's dark as the woman's soul and I've not been free of conjoinment until now.”

“When will she move?”

“Ah, the question of the day. Soon, if ebullience be an indicator. Mad as the hatter, she is, lubricated with wantonness all day, and this very moment she's dancin' about the caravan with her body painted red as blood, a veritable Boadicea. She's been talking of taking the animal from under your noses, you see.”

“Has she,” Service said in clipped words.

“That's the spirit, boyo. A spurt in the old competitive juices heightens the game, yes?”

Carmody's words were increasingly slurred. “Are you drunk?”

“By your standards or mine?”

“Jesus.”

“Jaysus, indeed. Took a bit more than anticipated to tumble the lady's gyroscope, but tumble it and her I did. Would you be wantin' me to pinch her now?”

Service quickly reviewed the case. With Carmody's testimony, they would have Wealthy Johns paying for an illegally killed deer, and for conspiracy, but she had done nothing more they could clearly nail her with. She had lied about the fifty-caliber's sale, but he wanted evidence of the poaching case in cement. Three wolves and a bear had been shot so far. How much more and who else was involved?

“We need that fifty and her in the act,” Service said.

“Aye and have it ye shall. Now I must return to duty—to kneel at the lady's tiny feet, you might say!”

“I don't want her to take a shot,” Service said. “Carmody?”

“Aye, I'm a shade pissed, not deaf. Professional to professional, can ye imagine another way for the likes of us to live, Grady-boy?”

Moments ago he had been an amateur.

“Relax, boyo. Carmody has things under control.”

Service immediately went into the tent and looked for Limpy, but he was gone. What exactly could he have told the killer? That they were going to trap and collar the blue wolf? How many people he had with him? This was the limit. She would know they were following the blue, but not their plan. All he knew was their location and he had known that without all the trouble they had gone through. A finder's fee, Carmody said. And what was that comment Carmody had made earlier, about the woman having finders? Shit. No wonder Limpy was being helpful. What warped game was the old bastard playing this time? Whatever it was, he would pay, Service promised himself.

The group was assembled before first light near Aldo's cave. Daysi reported she had been near the wolves all night and had heard sounds. “He was in pain,” she said, her voice cracking.

Service went with Canot, Shark Wetelainen, Aldo, and Daysi to check the traps.

The woman steered them to where she had heard the animals.

Service snapped the red cover over his Mag-Lite and pointed it into the aspens, near a fallen log. The animal was a dark mass against the white snow, prone and pointed toward them, its front left paw caught in the trap. The snow and ground around the wolf had been torn up.

“He didn't much like it,” Canot said softly. “Don't blame him,” adding, “Drag chain.”

Service shifted the light and saw that one of the thick steel chains had been straightened like a piece of taffy stretched to breaking. The second chain seemed to be holding, but the wolf wasn't really struggling. It lay still, its breath coming in short, furious bursts, its sides heaving. Its eyes were red slits under the flashlight beam, its ears flat, nostrils flared. Snow melted on its thick blue fur.

The size was difficult to comprehend. “Bigger'n a by-God swamp buck,” Shark said in awe.

“Fetch Yogi,” the tracker said, and Wetelainen loped away to get the biologist. The first hint of morning light was spreading across the eastern sky. The snow was still falling in dense dry flakes.

Daysi knelt in the snow, five feet from the wolf, speaking to it in a quiet voice. Service couldn't make out what she was saying.

The color of the wolf's pelt left Service reeling. It was bright blue in the rising light.

“Your grandfather's gone,” Service said to Aldo.

“He was here.”

“Did he call you on the radio?”

The boy looked at him. “No. Just Daysi and I have radios.”

Limpy had a radio. If he wasn't talking to Aldo, then it had to be Wealthy Johns. Service felt his temper rising. “Did you talk to him?”

The boy's face hardened. “No, he made a grab at Daysi.”

“A grab?”

“You know how he is,” Aldo said, his voice dripping disgust.

“Is she all right?”

“She won't talk about it.”

“Daysi?” Service whispered.

“Not now,” she said, pleading. “Our brother is frightened.”

Service looked at the girl and the wolf and backed away. Fucking Allerdyce.

Zambonet hardly paused when he reached the wolf. He carried his black poke-stick and looked at the animal. “One twenty?” he asked Canot.

“More.”

“One thirty?”

“Heavier still.”

“Jesus, Bobber.”

“One forty—at least,” the tracker said.

Zambonet shook his head, took a vial out of his drug bag, and filled the syringe, checking the level several times before he was satisfied. “This is a load,” he told Canot.

“So's this fella,” the trapper said with a nod at the wolf.

“Okay, let's get this show on the road,” the biologist said, circling the animal.

The wolf kept its eyes on Daysi, who kept talking. The animal showed neither fear nor anger, seemed resigned to its fate.

Zambonet braced a knee on the log, reached out with the poke-stick, and injected the animal in the haunch. It flinched but otherwise didn't react.

They all stood and watched. “Clock started,” Bobber Canot said, checking his wristwatch.

When the animal looked incapacitated, Zambonet touched it with the blunt end of the poke-stick and got no response. He passed the stick to Aldo, knelt beside the wolf, took its scruff in one hand, slid his other arm under the massive animal's back haunches, and tried to lift but couldn't stand up. Canot joined him in supporting the animal's rear and helped the biologist lift the animal. Service walked behind the two men as they stumbled under the animal's weight through the snow toward the snowmobile, leaving tracks that resembled the twisting pattern of DNA.

It was lighter this morning than yesterday, but still snowing. The wolf was placed on green canvas on the long, narrow seat of the snowmobile. Zambonet worked quietly, sliding on the head shroud, inserting the rectal thermometer, and installing the ear tag.

“Temperature?” he asked Aldo.

“One-oh-three.”

“Okay, that's good. Let's try to keep it right there,” he added, patting the animal's head.

Aldo and Bobber helped him attach the scale to the canvas cover and lift the wolf. All of them strained under the weight.

“One-four-eight,” Zambonet said. “We should have gone with another cc of ketamine,” he mumbled to nobody in particular.

“You want to give him a boost?” Canot asked.

“What's his temp?”

“One-oh-four,” Aldo said.

“He's doing fine,” the biologist said. “Let's just get it done. Better for the animal to be underdosed than overdosed.”

“A hundred and forty-eight pounds,” Canot said, adding a low whistle. “That's thirty-four pounds more than our biggest one.”

“And this one is still growing,” Zambonet said, peeling open its mouth to examine its teeth. “He'd be four, max.”

Canot whistled. “Talk about pumping up the gene pool.”

Zambonet used another syringe to draw blood and spun it down with the battery-powered device he carried in his wolf kit. He gave the sample to Daysi to store in a plastic bag.

“Temp?”

“One-oh-three,” Aldo said.

“Good, great. Atta boy, almost done, big boy. Almost done.”

Service felt a surge of respect for the biologist. These animals were much more than a job for the man. Yogi's heart was in his wolves the way his own heart was in the Mosquito. Bobber Canot used a camera to snap photo after photo and Service thought about how some officers bitched about tracking down missing or dead wolves or taking complaints from the bird hunter or farmer who had lost a dog or calf. He decided he would never bitch about wolves. The animals were special and deserved all the support he could muster.

The biologist took a skin scrape and administered two quick therapeutic injections, then squirted ointment into the wolf's eyes. They carried the animal back to the trap site and set it down gently, where Zambonet immediately injected the animal again.

“Yohimbine,” he said, not looking up. “It counters the ketamine.”

Everything done, they backed away to wait and observe.

At thirteen minutes the animal swished its tail and lifted its head. Two minutes later it used its massive front paws to push itself into a wobbly sitting position.

Zambonet announced, “He's gonna be just fine. Let's go, let's go.”

They reassembled in camp. Zambonet and Shark would remain, Zambonet to handle radios and air cover, Wetelainen to cook and pitch in where needed.

Service took Aldo and Daysi aside and looked the boy in the eye. “You have to keep Daysi away from your grandfather.”

The boy nodded solemnly. “She can't go to her people,” he said.

“They don't like Aldo,” Daysi said, clutching the boy's arm. “He's
wa-bish.
”

Because he was white, or because he was an Allerdyce? Service wondered. Limpy had never been a friend of Indians.

Service talked to DaWayne Kota, who said the girl could go to his sister's place in Bay Mills and made a call to arrange it.

“Aldo, your grandfather is working with a poacher who wants to kill the blue wolf.”

The boy looked furious, but said nothing.

Service, McCants, Turnage, Grinda, Kota, and Lee had spent a good portion of the previous evening working out their tactical plan. With the addition of the sheriff, Service altered the makeup of the teams. Grinda would join Gus and him. Lee, McCants, and Kota would comprise the second unit. After much discussion he decided it would be best if the surveillance teams stayed in place until they had contact or he decided it was not going to happen. Moving back and forth to camps in shifts for hot food and warmth would only increase their comfort and their chances of detection. They were just going to have to sit tight and endure.