Strike Dog (38 page)

52

GREEN BEAR ISLAND, IRON COUNTY, MICHIGAN
AUGUST 7, 2004

The three men were quiet throughout the ride. Service and Eddie Waco had made their plan and refined it until they were satisfied. Service had learned long ago that you couldn't eliminate all outdoor variables, but you could funnel and contain them with the right terrain, and he was certain that Green Bear Island in the Fence River was as good as could be found. The island was small—no more than a hundred and fifty yards long, thirty yards wide, and fifteen to twenty feet high on the upstream end, the whole thing made of boulders and covered with patches of raspberries and thimbleberries. The raspberries were done, but the thimbleberries should be thick now. The island had been named for its shape and color. It looked like a sleeping green bear.

“I don't know why you're hiking so far in from the north,” Simon del Olmo complained as they drove along.

Service could tell that the younger officer was nerved up. “It's three or four miles over nasty terrain,” Service said. “That gives us the space and time we need to move deliberately and watch our sixes.” Service thought about what he had just said. Watch sixes; Check Six? Did this mean that Rud Hud watched another killer's back? His gut said yes.
Has
to be a pair.

“What happens after you get into position?” del Olmo wanted to know.

“We do what we do best,” Service said. “We sit and wait.”

“What if they don't take the bait?” del Olmo said.

“If they're here, they'll come. Once a predator decides to attack, it tends to move fast and directly.”

“You're not dealing with a four-legged predator,” del Olmo said.

“Maybe,” Service said. Eddie Waco stared out his window, saying nothing.

 

The drop was made in less than one minute. Del Olmo turned off his engine so they could hear if any vehicles were approaching on Camp One Road. The two officers unloaded, put on their packs, and disappeared into heavy brush heading south up a low ridge.

Service and Waco had already agreed to a form of leapfrog-style as their hiking method. Service would walk two hundred yards, stop, and watch ahead and behind. Waco would join him, and Service would move the next two hundred yards. They would never be out of sight of each other, and with luck they would be in place on the island before dark.

When they finally reached the north shore across from the island, Grady Service whispered, “The thing about this rock pile is that it attracts bears this time of year.”

“How
many
bears?” Waco asked.

“Could be three or four, or as many as ten, but they won't bother us. They're here to eat berries. They'll sleep on the island during the day, feed at night, and stay until the berries are gone or competitors drive them off. You might hear them tonight. They're sloppy eaters, and if one gets too close to another one, he'll let him know. They don't share. You okay with this?”

Waco nodded.

Service lit a cigarette and squatted.

“We crossin' over to the island?”

“When it's time.”

Service sensed movement but didn't look at it. Waco nudged his boot.

“We both heard you,” Service said out loud.

Luticious Treebone stepped out of the tree line. He was dressed in a full camo ghillie suit and was nearly invisible at ten feet, even if you knew he was there.

“Bullshit,” Tree whispered. “No way you heard me.”

“Eddie Waco, meet the less-than-stealthy Luticious Treebone.”

“Tree,” the big man said with a nod. “I swept the island and south bank for a quarter-mile in and a half-mile of shoreline. There's seven bears in the berries on the island, mostly in the patches on the south side of the rocks. If someone's coming in, they're patient and careful.”

Service's friend had been alone in the woods for three days.

“Okay, there's only two easy ways onto the island—at the top and at the bottom. That's where you and me will be, Eddie. Anybody tries to cross between us, we'll hear them, and if they get across they'll be between us and right in the middle of the bears, and that's where Tree will be.”

“That might could slow 'em down,” Eddie Waco said with a grin.

“You've got that right. They'll be eating at night and will take exception to any interference. Once we're in, no movement—none. Piss in the plastic bottle I gave you. There's no moon tonight. As soon as it's dark, put on your night-vision goggles and leave them on until you think you hear somebody coming in. We give one click if we detect someone, two clicks when our goggles come off. It's possible they may have a blinding light, and to be safe, let's assume it. Just make sure you keep your side to their movement. If either of us gets somebody, put them down, transmit three clicks, and keep them there until daylight.” Service paused. “Got your jab sticks?”

Eddie Waco nodded. Tree would not have drugs, was strictly their reserve force.

“The stuff in there will act fast and last four to six hours. If he wakes up and struggles, stick him with the second stick. It's a lower dose.”

“This legal?”

“Apprehend and secure first; worry about legal fineries afterwards.” Kira Lehto, the vet, had given him the tranquilizer only after a heated argument. When he showed her the photos of what they were dealing with, she quietly unlocked her drug locker and handed him what he needed. The drug was a combination of two tranquilizers, both approved by the FDA for animal use, but Lehto said the combination would act quickly and the recipients would come out of it just as quickly, depending on their size and tolerance. She dosed the syringes for 180 pounds.

“Zero seven thirty we check in on FRS. One channel for each transmission. You remember the frequency order?”

The FRS had fourteen channels. Waco said, “We start on channel eight, minus three to five, minus two to three, back up to channel eight, and next time through go to plus five, or thirteen, and plus two to fifteen, which equates to one, and back down to eight.”

Tree nodded.

Del Olmo had rigged four Family Radio Service devices with ear mikes and chest buttons. Simon had the fourth. Channel switching would prevent anyone from catching too much of their conversation. The sequence was confusing only to people not used to talking on radios with different bands and frequencies. Michigan conservation officers routinely monitored DNR, state police, county, and city radios, with numerous frequencies.

“No open commo until zero seven thirty, unless I change the rules. The codebreak word is Green; got it?” The men nodded.

Grady Service left Waco at the bottom of the island and Treebone in the middle, and made his way to the head of the island, where he climbed on top, built a fire, as he always did, slid back down the rocks into a seam in the boulders at the water's edge, and settled in to wait. He wore black fatigues and a black face mask. The skin around his eyes, nose, and mouth had been blacked with camo paint. He had used this approach during a night-training session last fall, and none of the other officers had been able to spot him until he stepped out of hiding. Some of them had been within six feet and looking right at him.

At 10 p.m. Service heard a truck door slam. This was Elza Grinda letting them know that the Tahoe was in place about three hundred yards up a slight rise through extremely dense bush over uneven and rocky ground.

He felt in his gut that tonight they would meet Rud Hud. Who else was anybody's guess. He was certain of only one thing: There would be more than one. It was the only thing that made sense.

The ear mike in Service's ear clicked once just before 0100. He had heard the bears being contentious on top for nearly an hour and hoped Waco wasn't spooking. Tree would be fine. He didn't care for bears, but he knew how to deal with them. At 0114 the mike clicked twice, and twenty minutes later, it clicked three times. Waco had someone down!

His heart began to pound in anticipation. It was beginning.

But nothing more happened and even the bears stopped bickering.

A few minutes before 0330, he was startled by a small, intense flash of light back in the woods on the south bank in the general direction of where Grinda had parked his truck. There was just one flash and no sound. What the hell was it? Had he imagined it? He wasn't sure, but his gut told him he couldn't stay where he was. He triggered the mike: “Green, Eddie—you secure?”

“One down, secure.”

“Stay where you are. Tree, move up to me now.”

A voice in the earpiece said, “Moving.”

Treebone slid down beside him. Service told him, “I saw a light.”

“We both going?”

“No, you hold here. Might be nothing.”

“If it's got you moving,” Tree said, “it's something.”

Service gave his friend his jab stick and talked him through how to use it. No more words were exchanged.

To keep a low profile, he crossed the narrow channel on his hands and knees, ignoring the sharp rocks cutting at his knees. Eventually he eased himself between boulders on the other side and lay still. The terrain here was uneven, difficult to navigate even in daylight, and unforgiving. Tag alders grew in huge clumps around the boulders. He had seen the light flash briefly and had pinpointed the location in his mind. In those times when he came here to fish, he had to prepare himself mentally and physically for the difficulty of getting to the place where the fish were concentrated. The reality was that there was no easy or comfortable route to where his truck was parked.

He had three choices: Go to the truck first and work out from there; move along the river and move up from the water; or go directly to where he had seen the light. He chose the latter and struck out, crawling and slithering across the rocks and through the tag alder tangles, letting his arms and upper body do most of the work, using his legs for rudders.

He had no idea how long he had been moving, but there was no light yet in the eastern sky behind him, and he had been moving steadily if not quickly.
Get to the light,
an inner voice urged.
Insects drawn to light often die
, another voice amended. Maybe the light was used by the killer as bait.

A faint sound ahead of him stopped him. He closed his eyes, tried to will all his senses into his ears. What had it been?

There. Again. Movement? If so, very slight, almost weak. What could it be? Sniffing like an animal, he raised his face and began to crawl forward. Creep, stop, sniff, creep. A hair to the right. He came to a blowdown and got to his feet. It was a cedar covered with soft moss, dank and decomposing. Dirt to dirt, the preacher had said at Elray Spargo's grave, and the memory gave him a sharp chill. He got a leg up on the log and slid over quietly. Below him he could smell something and he stopped and sniffed. Warm blood. Was there a sound too? Not sure.

The scent was close,
really
close.

There, just below him—a
leg!

He reached out, touched it, got a response. Not much, more of a twitch. He tensed, took his SIG Sauer out of the holster, got his penlight in his left hand, flashed it once. What? Not possible! Blinked it again.
Holy shit!

“Tatie,” he whispered.

The leg moved. Light on again. She was against the log, holding a jacket or something to her neck. Her upper body and arms were black with blood.

“Okay, okay,” he whispered. “I've got you.” Into the mike he said, “Tree, move to me most ricky-tick. Two stay where you are.”

He knew it could be a mistake, but he couldn't assess and work on her in the dark. He locked his light on and now and then flashed it in the direction he had come so Tree could see it. She was cut bad, her eyes wide, scared. Her hand was pressed against the wound and she had slowed it, but it was still pumping. He put his hands on hers and pressed as hard as he could. That she was still alive was a miracle. He wished Tree would hurry, but the terrain wouldn't allow that. He looked in the agent's eyes, saw her trying to direct him to the left. “Help is coming,” he said. She rolled her eyes and coughed blood.
She knows,
he thought. Had Nantz had such a moment? Walter? He felt a gorge rising in his throat and willed himself to stop hyperventilating.

“I got your light,” Tree said in the earpiece.

Seconds later his friend was beside him and they were doing everything they could to hold back the blood. “I've got it,” Tree said, and Service stood up and called del Olmo on the radio. “We have one down and bleeding. Meet EMS on Deerfoot Lodge Road and guide them in. Hurry; it's gonna be close.”

He holstered the 800 and knelt beside Tatie Monica.

“Your light earlier?”

She moved her eyes side to side.

“Someone else?”

She closed her eyes and opened them. The woman might have personal demons, but she was tough, he told himself. “You're gonna make it,” he told her. She rolled her eyes again, pulled her hand off the wound, grabbed Service's hand, and put it down on the ground.