Ice Hunter Read online

  Nantz was soot covered and frowning through bloodshot eyes. “It’s too damn early in the summer for this. It hasn’t been dry enough for natural causes and the tourists don’t invade until the Fourth,” she said angrily.

  They waded into the river and stood in knee-deep water. The bottom was loose cobble, which made for unsteady footing. They shone their lights up the steep embankment on the east side. It was denuded of vegetation and blackened by fire. Tendrils of smoke plumes curled upward from the charred ground.

  “It came all the way down to the water’s edge,” he said.

  “I think it started down here by the water and burned upward,” Nantz said, correcting him. “The wind was west-northwest at about four knots, gusting to eight. Behind our backs. We have to climb up to see the rest.”

  Service followed her downstream to where the land dipped down closer to the water; they got out and cut back to the northeast on a gently rising game trail. He was impressed that she seemed at ease walking in total darkness. Most people couldn’t deal with it; many conservation officers labored to overcome natural fears of the night. When they closed in on the southern edge of the fire site, Nantz switched on her light.

  “There,” she said. “See it?”

  There was a fire line, three feet wide, scraped cleanly down to the mineral earth.

  He was surprised. “You and your people worked quickly to contain it.”

  She got down on one knee, keeping the beam of her light on the earthen scar as she pawed at the dirt. “We didn’t dig this,” she said disgustedly.

  What was she trying to say? “No?”

  “Whoever started this used the river on one end like an anchor and dug a line around the other three sides. They even chain-sawed some trees to keep the fire from jumping the line. It looks like they didn’t want it to spread. They made a fire, but not too big. I don’t get it.”

  Service understood what she was describing, but couldn’t imagine a reason. “You mean it’s a deliberate, controlled burn?”

  “It sure as hell looks that way,” Nantz said.

  Service examined the fire line again. “Were your people up here?”

  “No, one of them spotted the line where it came down to the river on the north end. As soon as I saw that, I came up here alone and checked to the south and east and found that the line was all the way around the burn. I kept my people back. I didn’t want them bollixing any evidence. They’re downriver now, in a clearing. I’m on watch for hot spots.”

  “As usual, you’re right on top of everything.”

  “This deal pisses me off.”

  “We should hole up and wait for first light,” he said. “Is arson coming?”

  “They’ve been notified.”

  “When will they be here?”

  She shrugged. “First light at the earliest. They don’t like working nights. We can brew some coffee by the river. I have chow coming in the morning for the crew. You bring your fart sack?”

  “I can doze by the fire.”

  “Don’t let me fall in,” she said.

  Service built a small pit fire using green wood to make heavy smoke. They both doused themselves heavily with DEET in an oily preparation. The mosquitoes were bad, and billowing smoke would keep them at bay. Blackflies wouldn’t attack until sunrise; nothing would stop them when they came, and it would be well into July before they were finished.

  Nantz lay down on her side, using a small pack for a pillow. She looked over at Service.

  “How’d you find this one?” he asked.

  “I was downriver at the first burn and smelled smoke.”

  “You were out here?”

  “I wanted to walk the other area when it was cold. Another fire,” she said. “Goddammit!”

  Service got water from the river for coffee and set the pot on a small gas grill she had brought in.

  Nantz was asleep before the coffee was ready. He found himself staring at her. She was good at her job, committed, too good for this to be her first time. Like some women in jobs that used to belong exclusively to men, she could be pretty abrasive and aggressive, but she was a dedicated professional. Her behavior reminded him how tough it was to be a woman in what was still largely a man’s world. He could remember when the first female COs were hired and all that they had gone through to prove themselves. Some couldn’t deal with it and moved on, but many stayed and some of them were now sergeants and lieutenants; some, like McKower, might very well run the whole show someday.

  Service didn’t sleep. He kept the fire going all night and swatted at bugs. At first light he left Nantz and began scouting the fire line, looking for tracks, tool prints, anything to give them a lead. The blackflies were thick, but he tried to ignore them.

  Nantz showed up during his second circuit. Her face was smudged, her hair matted and greasy.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  “Not so far.”

  “Figures,” she said. “Whoever dug this line knew what they were doing. It looks to me like they intended to keep the site clean.”

  Logical conclusion, Service thought. “Is it safe for us to move into the burn yet?”

  “Safe, but let’s wait. My people will make a sweep soon and they’ll go over the ground methodically. We should wait until they finish. Besides, some of the bigger rocks in there may still be hot.”

  He looked at her, thinking he had misheard. “What rocks?”

  She told him to get on a nearby snag and pointed into the burn. “See those outcrops?”

  It took a minute for him to focus, then he saw them. Granite. In fact there seemed to be a dozen or so in a rough, curving line. Between them were charred white and gray, chalklike stones. What the hell was this?

  “I never saw rocks here before. Not like those,” he said, stunned by his own ignorance.

  “I’m not surprised,” she said. “There’s only a couple of places in the Tract like this—this one and another back east a bit. They could all be connected down deep. Glaciers moved through here and dumped all kinds of shit on the bedrock. Hell, in some places you’ve got to dig down two, three hundred feet to hit bedrock. The fact is that underground, everything is connected in one way or another. The granite here is what makes for the steepness. Back when loggers briefly used this, they probably understood the rocks would hold up and this would be a great spot to dump their take into the river.”

  Service wasn’t listening. Granite here? It was yet another instance where he suddenly understood that he still had much to learn about his wilderness. Every time he thought he knew it all, he found out that he didn’t. The price of hubris, he chided himself. How did she know so much about the Mosquito?

  “Why would somebody intentionally burn this over?” he asked.

  “Crazy people have crazy reasons,” Nantz said, “but they’re still reasons.”

  He grunted and wondered if the stranger with the camera and hammer was connected to this. “Aerial photos might help,” he said.

  “I can try,” she said. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. Different view, maybe. Sometimes a little distance or time or a different angle help us see more clearly.”

  She shrugged. “It can’t hurt and it’s early in the season. I still have budget. If the fires get going this summer I can always appeal to overspend. I’ll get on it right away. You going to hang in here?”

  Her understanding of budgets tagged her as veteran. “For now. This was about five acres?”

  “That’s a WAG, but it’s close enough for government work.”

  “How long would it take to dig a fire line around five acres?”

  “That depends on the severity of the burn, the number of people working, the weather, their experience, and their equipment.”

  “Let’s say there were one or two pe
ople.”

  Nantz rubbed an eye socket with the back of her hand. “There are a lot of roots and crap and it’s steep as hell in parts. I’d say one or two days of hard, steady work.”

  “Meaning somebody would have to be here for a while before they torched it. If they wanted to avoid involvement, they’d wait to dig the line straight through, then set the fire and split.”

  “Makes sense to me,” she said, studying him. “What’s your point?”

  “If somebody was here for a couple of days, or came in several times to dig a little at a time, they’d risk being spotted.”

  “Witnesses? That’s a long shot.”

  “Long shot or not, we have to consider the possibility.”

  “How?”

  “Use the media maybe.”

  “Reporters seldom get anything right,” she said disgustedly. “Make that never.”

  He continued to think out loud. “If somebody was here more than a day,” he said, “they probably came in and stayed. They wouldn’t come and go. They’d want to minimize discovery. That’s what I’d do.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Meaning they’d have a camp nearby?”

  “Not a permanent camp, but a temporary resting spot. And they’d be dropped off rather than park in the area and risk their vehicle being spotted.”

  She wiped her mouth. “I think I’m following you.” The sparkle was returning to her eyes.

  “One person would be a lot less conspicuous than two or more.”

  Nantz nodded. “So the guy gets dropped, treks in, stays till the job is done, lights the fire, and hikes out to be picked up.”

  “It could be just like that,” he said.

  “More than one person would make it a conspiracy,” she said.

  “Maybe, but the second person might not know what the first one was up to.”

  Nantz motioned for him to follow. She took him to a tree stump just inside the fire line. “That’s fresh. Done with a chain saw and, judging by diameter, not a small one. The second person wouldn’t be blind to such a huge chain saw.” She showed him the top part of the tree on the other side of the line. The bottom had been trimmed to keep it off the fire line.

  She was right. “Yep. Two people at least.”

  “Should we look for a place where somebody rested or staged?”

  “We’d probably never find it,” he said. “All they’d have to do is get up in a tree.”

  Nantz’s radio squawked. She answered with her name.

  “Fire sweep,” she said to Service. “Okay,” she radioed. “My people and the arson crowd will sweep the burn.”

  She led him to the southern edge of the burn behind where the sweep began. He saw eight people spread about twenty yards apart. Service recognized the chiseled features of Sergeant Robo Peterson, the UP’s chief arson investigator. Peterson looked over from the center of the line and saluted, but immediately returned his gaze to the smoldering ground ahead.

  Service and Nantz squatted to observe.

  Someone shouted from the west side of the sweep line.

  “It’s Bravo,” Nantz said. “She’s second in. Let’s move.”

  Service followed her. She crossed the burned ground as gracefully as a deer.

  Bravo was a tall black woman with her hair done in intricate cornrows. She held a baseball cap in her hand and looked glassy eyed. When Nantz got to her, the woman pointed over her shoulder and vomited, spewing on Nantz’s leg. Nantz immediately put her arm around the woman and bent her forward at the waist. She looked at Service and nodded for him to check ahead.

  The area was rocky as hell, but he was surprised to see a narrow crevice among the granite outcroppings. At the bottom he could make out the figure of a human being, but it was eight or ten feet down and on its face. And the rocks were hot. He took off his shirt, spread it out and wrapped both hands in it, and then climbed down using the shirt to protect his skin. At the bottom he found that the body was badly charred, its clothes burned off. Nantz appeared above him.

  “Call the county,” he said up to her.

  Service checked for a pulse. None. He knew from experience not to disturb the corpse. Too much experience.

  “Dead?” Nantz asked calmly from above.

  “Nantz, make the call,” he said sharply.

  She left and Service climbed back up the same way he had come down.

  Several people had gathered on top, but Nantz was shooing them away to continue the sweep.

  “The ME will eventually pull the body out,” he said. “Don’t let him leave until I get back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To talk to Voydanov.”

  Bravo was still on her hands and knees gagging. Nantz looked down at her, then at Service. “Catch you later?”

  Voydanov’s damn dog raised a ruckus, but Service heard the octogenarian tell the animal to hush.

  “’Nother fire, eh?” the old man asked when he opened the door. He immediately stepped outside and closed it behind him. The dog stopped barking, but continued to scratch at the door from inside.

  The sound gave Service the willies. “You knew about the fire?”

  “I seen the vehicles and equipment going by.”

  “Did you walk your animal last night?”

  “Nope, me and ole Millie parked ourselves in front of the TV.”

  “The last fire, when you saw that vehicle parked back in the trees, you said you thought the driver might be fishing at the log slide. Why?”

  Voydanov grinned. “Path of least resistance, I guess. Park there an’ you can walk a circular route, along the contour to the log slide. It’s longer that way, but it’s also faster. You go direct and you have to bust a gut down through the bush. My kids and me used to hike around the contour. Pretty open walking all along that route.”

  Stupid me, Service thought. As a CO he spent so much time off trails that sometimes easy routes didn’t register. It had never occurred to him that the stranger he’d met had come downriver, but now he realized that he may have. His mind that night had been locked on fishing for his own enjoyment, not on his job. Dumb. When he was a kid his old man had taught him to bodycheck. Said, “Forget the bloody puck and lock your eyes on the man’s chest.” He hadn’t done that this time. Good thing the old man was gone; he’d be disgusted by his son’s performance.

  “Have you seen any other vehicles?”

  “Not around here.”

  Service evaluated the answer. “Somewhere else?”

  “No cars, no trucks.”

  “Some other kind of vehicle. ORV or ATV?”

  “Just that chopper.”

  “You saw a chopper here?”

  “Not here, back in the woods. I thought it belonged to you people.”

  “By the log slide?”

  “Nope, farther up.”

  “Our chopper. Markings?”

  “Nope, just a chopper and the bird.”

  The bird? Talking to Voydanov was like traveling a labyrinth with a blind person leading. “What bird?”

  “Under the egg beater.”

  “There was a bird under the chopper?”

  “Right, flying right under it, like a fat old goose, long neck and everything. You ever see that movie about some Canadian girl teaches geese to fly, then leads ’em down south with one of them udderlights?”

  Movie, udderlight? “Ultralight?”

  “That’s what I said. Damn birds flew right along with that kid.”

  “You saw a bird flying with the chopper? How close?”

  “Underneath, maybe fifty feet, maybe a hundred. Close.”

  “Upriver from the log slide?”

  “Yep, a mile or so, maybe two.”

  “When?”


  The old man pursed his lips in thought. “That would be the day before yesterday, right after sunrise.”

  “What color was it?”

  “Mostly gray, with a long neck.”

  “I mean the chopper.” Geez.

  “Blue but not like a bluebird sky.”

  “With DNR markings?”

  “Nope, no markings at all. I just assumed it was you fellas. Who else would be hovering over the Mosquito?”

  “And this was yesterday?” Service asked, testing him.

  “Couple of days ago, right after sunrise, early in the morning. Me and Millie was fishing.”

  “How long was it up?”

  “One hour, two, but not covering a bunch of ground.”

  “Hovering?”

  “More like moving real slow. He’d fly north, then south. Maybe a hundred yards apart each time. Maybe more, but that’s close. He was being methodical.”

  Service fought his frustration. “What shape was the chopper?”

  “It was a Huey,” Voydanov said confidently.

  “Are you sure? There are all kinds of choppers.”

  “This was a UH-1H Iroquois, made by Bell, single engine, old fart. Bell called them the Indian name, but the grunts called them Hueys and if they didn’t have weapons they were called Slicks.”

  “How do you know so much about Hueys?”

  “My son flew one in Vietnam. Two tours.”

  “He make it back?”

  “His body did,” Voydanov said sullenly. “Part of him’s still over there, I think. Guess that damn war done that to a lot of our boys.”

  Service gave the old man a business card. “You think of anything else, call me. Anytime, okay?”

  When Service got back to the burn at the log slide, the medical examiner was still working on the body and photographs were being shot. Service got a cup of coffee from the cook fire, which Nantz had rekindled. He left the ME alone to do his thing. Science types could be quirky and needed their space to do their jobs. Nantz came over and sat beside him.

  “ID yet?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Voydanov told me that he saw a chopper upriver of here two days ago, a dark blue machine with a bird flying underneath it. The old man thought it was ours. Is Forest Management doing any work in here?” Forest Management was the DNR group charged with taking care of state forests and the group that controlled fire marshals like Nantz.