Red Jacket (42 page)

“DON'T KNOW.”

“Keep your arms out, and yell if you feel anything.”

The rope stopped abruptly and there was slack.

“Fig!”

“GOT ROPE, GOT ROPE, GOT ROPE!”

“Feel the snowshoe?”

“YEAH!”

“Put it on the ground, toe pointed forward—away from your bum.”

“OKAY!”

Bapcat tested and felt tension on the rope. “We have weight,” he told the Russian. “Loop the other end around your waist.”

Zakov did as instructed. “I hope we don't all end up down in that hole.”

“Fig, you holding tight?”

“YEAH, TIGHT!”

“Here we go, Fig. Be brave!”

“BRAVE!”

The two men started reefing and pulling, establishing a slow and steady retrieve and lift, backing away from the hole.

“Fig?” Bapcat yelled.

“YEAH!”

“He's getting close,” Bapcat told Zakov.

When Verbankick slid over the lip into the snow, he began screaming, and he kept screaming as they dragged him away from the pit until he was clear. They dropped the rope, ran forward, grabbed him under the armpits, and hauled him to his feet. The man wept, covered his face and mumbled, “Ghosts!”

Bapcat said, “Open your eyes, Fig. It's us. We're not ghosts.”

Fig looked at them tentatively, and back at the hole. “Do that . . . AGAIN?”

They hoisted the bodies of the dead men into trees and lashed them in place to keep the wolves off them. The venison was overdone, but they gave Fig some on a stick and he devoured it. They put out the fire, gathered their packs and the dead men's weapons, and started hiking.

“You okay, Fig?”

“Ask Herman,” an exhausted Verbankick whispered hoarsely.

113

Eagle River

THURSDAY, JANUARY 1, 1914

John Hepting came to the door of his house with sleep in his eyes.

“Make us some coffee, John,” Bapcat said. “A lot of coffee. And get some dry clothes and blankets for Mr. Verbankick.”

The sheriff did as he was asked, and when cups of hot, fresh coffee were poured and Fig was in dry clothes, Bapcat said, “Don't say anything until we're finished. The Hedyns and another man are dead.”

“You kill them?”

“No. Be quiet, listen, and don't interrupt us.”

Bapcat turned to the little man. “Fig, you okay? Warm enough?”

“ASK HERMAN.”

“Drink your coffee, Fig. Why did they put you in that hole?”

“ASK HERMAN!”

“Herman's not here, Fig. You have to tell us.”

Verbankick sobbed and teared up. “THEY KILL HERMAN!”

“No, Fig. Herman's fine. He's okay. He's just not here right now. We need you to tell us what happened, all right?”

“Okay.”

“They put you in the hole. I saw them.”

“Reward!”

“I don't understand. What reward?”

“BIG JOKE, HA-HA-HA!”

“You made a big joke?”

“YEAH, YEAH, YEAH! HA-HA-HA!”

“At Vairo's?”

“YEAH!”

“You yelled something—that was the joke, right?”

“BEER!” Verbankick said, giggling.

“You were upstairs?”

“With lots of monkeys.”

“No monkeys up there, Fig. Just children, kids.”

“MONKEYS!”

“Listen to me, Fig. They were kids, lots of kids. It was a party.”

“Finns not people,” Verbankick said shakily. “Just monkeys.”

Bapcat drew a deep breath and tried to steady himself. Neither Zakov nor Hepting moved, much less drank their coffee. “You yelled
Beer,
not
Fire?
”

“No, Fire bad, Beer is joke.”

He yelled Beer and it was heard as Fire, and now seventy-three people were dead.
Good God.

“The Hedyns wanted you to play a joke on the monkeys?”

“YEAH!” Verbankick said, nodding animatedly.

“Fig, you used to do everything with your friend Herman, but not recently. Why's that?”

“Reverend.”

“I don't understand.”

“Tell Fig to stay away from Herman or they kill him.”

“Who?”

“I don't KNOW!”

“Did you want to play the joke on the monkeys?”

The man shook his head vigorously.

“But you did.”

“I don't, they kill Herman.”

“Who would kill Herman, Fig?”

“Monkeys,” Verbankick said.

“You want something to eat, Fig?”

“ASK HERMAN!” he shouted. “Am I in trouble?” he asked sheepishly.

Bapcat looked over at Sheriff John Hepting.

“He's not in trouble with me,” Hepting said.

“Bad storm outside tonight, John. Can we bunk here?”

“Sure, and we've got a bedroom for Fig.”

With Fig put to bed, they made more coffee and smoked. The wind howled outside, buffeting the sides of the house, making windows rattle.

Bapcat explained, “They used a rope to lower him into a mine opening and threw the rope in behind him. I think they wanted it to look like some sort of an accident.”

“Tell me about the shootings,” Hepting said.

“A man called Fisher, an Ascher detective, shot both Hedyns, but Madog didn't die right off, and shot Fisher dead.”

“You witnessed this?”

“Both of us saw it,” Zakov said.

Hepting pulled on a cigarette, took a sip of coffee, and leaned into the table toward Bapcat. “All right, what the hell is all of this?”

“We'll probably never know,” Bapcat said. “Madog was running the whole thing to deny food, fuel, and so forth to the strikers. His brother was helping. Fisher was there to oversee everything and clean it all up.”

“Who brought this Fisher in?”

“We'll never know, but we can guess.”

“You think he's that ruthless?”

Bapcat spread his hands apart, imploring. “Fig's not responsible, John.”

“What do you propose?”

“Take him somewhere safe, set him up to live out his life.”

“Herman?”

“We tell him what's going on. I think he'll help.”

“You think this can work?”

“I don't like the alternatives, and John, I'm figuring a whole lot of people already know, or will figure this out pretty fast. Fig was drinking at Vairo's that day—overcoat, hat, mustache, Alliance button. Just the way some witnesses described. And then he was gone, and the panic began. I don't think he yelled Fire. I think he yelled Beer.”

There was a long silence.

“Maybe the courts should handle this, make it official. There are places, asylums.”

“Fig's not insane, John. Everybody knows him and how he is. He would never do anything like this on his own.”

“Seventy-three dead, fifty-three of them children,” Hepting said disgustedly. “For what?”

“To crush the union,” Bapcat said, “no matter the cost.”

“MacNaughton wins,” Hepting said.

EPILOGUE

Red Jacket

TUESDAY, JANUARY 6, 1914

“We got the trouble,” Dominick Vairo said with a pained sigh. “Ghosts upstairs. Nobody wanna drink with all those dead kiddies . . . nobody wants drink with ghosts.”

Zakov said, “There are no ghosts, but for some reason, too many humans prefer feelings to facts.”

“This fact clear,” Dominick said. “Me and Rousseau losin' our shirts.”

Hepting sipped his glass of Bosch and seemed preoccupied.

“John?” Bapcat said.

“Newspapers are saying Henry Ford down there in Detroit will pay five dollars a day just to put together his automobiles. That's more than a sheriff gets paid.”

“Or game wardens,” Zakov added.

“Five dollars a day—that's the nail in the coffin for the mines. They can't match that, or won't. Making cars would be a helluva lot less riskier for workers. Ironic. MacNaughton kills the union, and Ford kills the mine operations by taking Copper's labor.”

“You're guessing,” Vairo said. “Ground here still got lots copper.”

Hepting rolled his eyes and Vairo walked away.

“Where's Fig?” the sheriff asked.

Bapcat said, “He has a younger sister. He's living there now. We won't see him again. But that hole we pulled Fig out of, there'll probably be a lot of answers down there when the thaw comes.”

John Hepting drained his beer glass and stood up. “I've arranged to have that hole covered when spring comes, Lute. Someday, someone may find it and figure it out, but until then, I say, sleeping dogs and all that. There are some answers the world can live without.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joseph Heywood
is the author of
The Snowfly
(Lyons Press),
Covered Waters
(Lyons Press),
The Berkut, Taxi Dancer, The Domino Conspiracy,
and all the novels comprising the Woods Cop Mystery Series. Featuring Grady Service, a detective in the Upper Peninsula for Michigan's Department of Natural Resources, this series has earned its author cult status among lovers of the outdoors, law enforcement officials, and mystery devotees. Heywood lives in Portage, Michigan, and in the Upper Peninsula.

For more on Joseph Heywood, visit the author's website at
www.josephheywood.com
.