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  Service said, “Just like cons, one minute at a time.” Being obsessive didn’t hurt either, he told himself.

  The remainder of the night was quiet. They returned to their vehicles before sunrise, McCants looking as fresh and alert as if she had just had a full night’s sleep. Youth, Service thought. All these kids joining the department. Young and competent. His youth was long gone and he needed to work harder just to keep up with them. It wasn’t that he loved the job so much as it was all he had. Raised on duty, dipped in it, fire hardened in too many ways. Truth be known: This was all he wanted.

  The night left him tired but not sleepy. He knew how to take care of this. As he drove back to his place, he ticked off his duty list for the next day. He’d sleep this morning. Then head over to the Mosquito. It had been a few days since he had been in the area, and to protect it you couldn’t leave it alone too long. This had been one of his old man’s axioms and now it was his.

  5

  The Mosquito River passed lethargically under US 2 to merge with Lake Michigan through a channel that bisected a series of low scabs of cobble and indestructible grasses. The river, which was seldom wider than thirty or forty feet and much narrower at the mouth, was stained orange by tannin from the hemlock forest upstream. From the highway bridge it looked like just one more shallow, slow-moving, mosquito-infested trickle, an appearance that belied its reality. The river ran more or less north to south through an area called the Mosquito Wilderness Tract. At the bridge it was a shallow, sluggish stream suitable only for suckers and spring smelt runs, not the sort of place to attract a casual sportsman motoring past at cruising speed. The name on the sign at both ends of the bridge added to the river’s image of inhospitability.

  On several occasions Grady Service had fought Lansing’s tourist-hungry bureaucrats, who wanted to put up signs to mark the Tract as a wilderness area. So far he had succeeded in stopping them, but he had no doubt that the fight would go on. Ironically, the damn state outlawed billboards, then erected its own obtrusive signs all over the landscape. It made no sense, but he had learned over the years that Lansing’s policies seldom made a great deal of sense.

  The Mosquito Wilderness was one of the state’s natural jewels, and it needed to be guarded as such. In his twenty years as a conservation officer Service had done everything in his power to see that the Mosquito was protected. Poachers and bushwhackers were not treated gently, and he pressed every charge he could. He also made sure the word was out: Screw with the Mosquito and you are fucked.

  He had even talked the Mosquito Wilderness Preservation Association into creating a homepage on the Web, where it was prominently noted that the wilderness was a mosquito- and blackfly-infested hellhole as well as the single most heavily patrolled area in the state by COs and other law enforcement officials. He didn’t care if it wasn’t true; it was the most heavily patrolled area he had responsibility for and that’s what counted. In law enforcement perceptions were often more compelling than reality.

  Half a mile north of its outlet the Mosquito turned fast and twisty and was filled with wild brook trout whose beauty often left him speechless. Most of the area had never been logged and was filled with trees that were hundreds of years old, coyotes and bears, deer and moose, bobcats, martens, and mink.

  He supposed if he had loved the women in his life with half the ardor he felt for the wilderness, his life might have been different. But he had never had a great deal of luck with women, and he was certain that this was due to his own deficiencies, not theirs. He had a tendency to get focused on one thing and exclude everything else. Often that one thing was protecting the Tract.

  The failures of his love life aside, he knew with certainty that he loved the Mosquito Wilderness. His father had guarded it before him, and it had fallen to him to steward it for the next generation. Like most of the state’s conservation officers, Grady Service took his responsibilities seriously and passionately. It was not so much about doing a good job as it was about upholding a sacred trust.

  Parking his truck at a trailhead, Service locked up and headed into the bush on foot. There was a general belief among poachers and others in the state that conservation officers seldom ventured far off the roads. It wasn’t true, and Service made sure that he covered the most isolated areas of his beat on foot as often as possible. It was impossible to calculate the PR value in word of mouth of a CO suddenly appearing in an area many miles from the nearest road. Over the years people got to asking how fewer than two hundred officers could be in so many places at one time. He had even had state troopers ask him the question, and he always answered with a provocative laugh.

  Tonight there would be long light, until nearly 10:30 p.m. And tonight, if he was lucky, there would be no fishermen to check. He could take advantage of having the river to himself.

  The last quarter mile to the river was swampy and choked by tag alders and wild vines. Service rarely followed established man-made or animal trails. Experience had taught him that it was better to take compass headings and strike out, making his own way. It was harder going, but it let him move unobserved and appear seemingly out of nowhere.

  Fifty yards from the river he saw fresh bear scat near a fallen white cedar. The previous winter had been particularly harsh and the spring even worse, with a series of ice storms and high winds that knocked down anything with the slightest weakness. Like life, he thought. He was not afraid of bears, but it was early summer and he had no desire to play tag with a fiercely protective sow with cubs. He quietly moved on and steered a more direct route to the river.

  There was nobody in sight when he reached the water, but he sensed someone close by. Tucking his fly-rod case into a hollow snag he had used for years, he worked his way down to a bend in the river with a deep hole on the outer curve, a place he called the Geezer Hole because of the very old and very large brook trout that lived at its head. It was one of the wider places on the river, with a large gravel bar mixed with reddish blue clay in the center and the greenish orange river racing by in long smooth glides on both sides. The purple color of the clay was unusual and had always seemed odd to him, but nature had her own ways and rarely shared her reasons.

  An older man was hunkered on one knee at the far end of the gravel bar. No rod, just a camera around his neck and a strange hammer in a leather belt holster. He was scribbling furiously on a little notebook balanced on his knee.

  “Hi,” Service called out.

  The surprised man looked up and fumbled at putting his notebook away.

  “DNR,” the CO said.

  “I’m not fishing.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I’m just looking around.”

  The man was nervous. “What exactly are you looking for? I know the area pretty well. Might be able to point you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Where are you parked?”

  “On the highway,” the man said.

  On the highway? It was a good ten miles of hard walking away—if you didn’t get lost, which most people did.

  “Are you camping in the Tract?”

  “Haven’t decided,” the man said.

  There was no evidence of a pack or any gear other than the camera and the hammer.

  “You have to stick to designated sites in the Tract.”

  “I know the rules,” the man said irritably.

  “The nearest camping area is three miles south.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  With experience, you developed intuition about people. Something was definitely hinky with this guy.

  “Have you got a compass?” Service asked.

  “Yes, in my pocket.”

  “Best use it. I’d hate to have to mount a search.”

  “Don’t worry,” the man said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Service wanted to a
sk more questions, but before he could say anything the man got up, pivoted, and headed downstream, splashing carelessly as he went. So much for fishing the Geezer Hole, Service thought.

  The man’s brusque manner and unfriendliness had Service’s curiosity at full glow. He decided to follow, but first he waited. Most people believed that a trail couldn’t be followed in moving water, but they were wrong. This bottom had a lot of loose stones and enough clay, sand, and silt to make it fairly routine to follow just about anybody. Worst case, he could leapfrog ahead and watch for debris and clouds of sand tumbling downstream. If the water stayed clear, he would know the man had gotten out or stopped above him. He waited ten minutes and began to follow. This time Service decided to take the most direct line. What was this guy doing?

  It didn’t take long to see that the man had gotten out less than a hundred yards below the Geezer Hole. There were wet spots on the top of a dry log. An experienced man would wait until dark and get out, hoping that the lack of light would cover his sign. And animals didn’t step on logs; only men did. This guy had jumped out fast. Their encounter had spooked the man. If his vehicle was ten miles south on the highway, why was he headed west? Definitely hinky.

  The man’s tracks showed that he was moving fast, using the trail for a while then going off trail, sort of zigzagging. It took an hour to find where the man had parked a vehicle. It was gone, of course, but it had been there. Judging by the width of the wheel base, it was a full-size Bronco, a Blazer, or a Ram, all models no longer in production.

  Now Service was really curious. Cutting north, he jogged quickly back to his truck, drove out, and circled back to the road where the stranger was most likely to have come out. He found tracks that fit the ones he had seen back in the woods; the pattern showed a left turn. Service drove along the road for thirty minutes, but decided to give it up. The man hadn’t done anything wrong. He had just acted strangely. So it went. Submitted to the same test, he would no doubt also fail.

  It was time for home and sleep. Tomorrow he had to be in court on a case from an arrest he had made last September. Time in court was usually a pain in the ass, and this would be no different.

  At the house Cat met him on the porch and hissed ostentatiously. He had found the animal in a bag of eight newborn kittens that somebody had drowned. Why this one survived was beyond him, but it had and had turned into a feline misanthrope. Which made it an animal he could relate to.

  “Okay, food coming up, you four-legged ingrate. Put your claws back in their sheaths.”

  For most of his career in the Department of Natural Resources, Service had lived in a pop-up camper that he moved from campground to campground, but five years ago he had bought property close to the Tract and built what he called a house. Others called it a shack, or worse. But the opinions of others rarely concerned him; the place suited him. It was two stories with one large room on each level. The upper level was for expansion but so far remained empty, a place for Cat to dismember mice and voles and hold forth over lesser creatures in nature’s violent chain. On the ground floor he had a kitchen area, a bathroom behind unpainted doors he had propped up to serve as screens, his communications equipment, and a dozen OD military surplus footlockers. He slept on a thin mattress on three of the footlockers set end to end.

  As soon as he shed his uniform, he checked his messages. There were the usual whinings of residents and a couple of calls from local stoolies, but only two calls interested him. Lisette McKower said she wanted to meet him tomorrow after court at the Duck. McKower was a sergeant and his protégé as well. He had trained her a long time ago and she had moved up. He wondered what she wanted.

  The other call was from Luticious Treebone.

  He called Treebone’s home number in Detroit.

  “This is the Tree,” a booming voice answered.

  “How’s Hoffa?” His friend’s pit bull.

  “Bad tempered, which is just how I like my dogs. S’up, man?”

  “You called me, remember?”

  “Right, just wanted to see if you were payin’ attention. I’ve got some time off. I’m thinking maybe I might mosey north and do some fishing. You up for it?”

  “Tree, you hate it up here.”

  “Then I’ll just ride along with you. Change of scenery will do me good. Kalina’s mother is coming to town.”

  “No guts?”

  “Discretion, baby. There’s a time to wail and a time to bail. A man don’t wanna get the two bollixed up, dig?”

  Service laughed softly. “I’ll line up some footlockers for you.”

  “You don’t own a bed yet?”

  “I refuse to join the conspicuous consumptionists.”

  “Man, you need to join the human race.” Treebone laughed. “I’ll be there day after tomorrow. I can let myself in.”

  “Watch out for Cat.”

  “Maybe I’ll bring Hoffa to deal with the hairball.”

  “Cat will eat him for lunch.”

  “See you soon, man.”

  Service and Treebone had finished college, Service at Northern Michigan, where he had been only a fair student and a competent hockey player. Treebone had played football and baseball at Wayne State and graduated cum laude. They had both been on the verge of being drafted, so they volunteered for the marines, met at Parris Island, and served together in the same long-range recon unit in Vietnam. They had been through hell and rarely spoke of the war since. When they got back to “the world,” they had both joined the Michigan State Police; two years later there had been an opportunity to transfer to the DNR and they had both accepted, but within a year Treebone had taken a job with the Detroit Metro Police. He was now a lieutenant in charge of vice. They had remained close friends now for more than twenty years. Tree wanted to ride with him? His friend had something up his sleeve, because he did not venture voluntarily into the U.P. without a compelling reason. Tree’s idea of wilderness was Belle Isle on the Fourth of July.

  Service thought about eating but didn’t feel like cooking. Court tomorrow. He would need sleep to cope with that bullshit.

  As soon as he settled onto his sleeping pad, the phone rang.

  “Service.”

  “You’re not out stomping around the boonies?”

  It was Kira Lehto. “I’ve got court tomorrow.”

  “You sound beat.”

  “No more than usual.”

  “Did you lose my phone number?”

  “You know how it is.” She ought to. She was a well-known and highly respected veterinarian with a practice she called an ark—meaning she took on whatever came her way, rarely asking if people could pay before she took care of an animal. Just about every conservation officer and ranger in the central and western Upper Peninsula called her when they needed help. They had dated for the better part of a year, but many of their nights together had been interrupted by emergency calls, either for her or for him. The last couple of months they had begun meeting during the day when they could both break away from duty for a couple of hours.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No you’re not,” she said, her tone a well-delivered jab. So far, she seemed to understand and accept him, showing no interest in changing him, which made her unique. So far. “Will court take all day?”

  “Could be. A violet I plucked last September. From Detroit. He’s bringing his own asshole lawyer up to fight it.” Violet was the term Service used for violators.

  “Iffy?”

  “You never know. Tree called. He’s driving up the day after tomorrow. His mother-in-law is invading.”

  She laughed her hearty laugh. “Want to bring him over for dinner?”

  “I don’t know what time he’ll get in.”

  “Okay, see you guys Thursday. I miss you, Grady.”

  “I miss you too.”

 
“We ought to think about a vacation and take a couple of weeks, you know, go somewhere real.”

  “And leave all this good stuff to the bad guys?”

  “You’ve got a job, Service. I’m trying to give you a life.”

  “That’s a big challenge,” he said.

  “I’m up to it. Thursday night, then?”

  “We’ll be there.”

  “Good luck in court.”

  “Thanks.” He suddenly felt guilty and lonely. “You want me to drive over tonight?”

  “I think we should just wait,” she said. “Celibacy makes the heart grow fonder. Besides, you have to face a bad guy in court.”

  He grunted. “Okay, Thursday night. Tree can spring for the wine.”

  “Be safe, Grady.”

  Safe? Did that term ever apply to this job? Had he ever had a job that was safe?

  On the Freedom Bird from Da Nang to Seattle, Treebone and he had ridden in silence nearly halfway across the Pacific before Tree mumbled, “I think we’re gonna survive, man.”

  “If the plane doesn’t crash.”

  “You’re a sick motherfucker.”

  His friend hadn’t been wrong. You had to be a little sick to deal with the kinds of people they both dealt with now. If you weren’t twisted when you started, you got that way over time.

  After hanging up, Service walked onto his porch. It overlooked Slippery Creek. Its clay bottom and loonshit edges hosted a nice population of robust brown trout that didn’t grow long, but got fat and thick. The DNR had planted hatchery stock many years before, and they had taken hold; now the strain was nearly native and reproducing on its own. He hated the rubber fish that the state’s stew ponds produced for public waters, but the state was in the business of managing unnaturally high game and fish stocks for the benefit of the people. Sometimes the artificiality of the whole endeavor depressed him, but there were times when things seemed wild enough that he allowed himself to be pleased. The fish in Slippery Creek had gotten lucky and found a niche because few people knew they were there—and even those who did were mostly not interested in the considerable physical effort necessary to work the water. You needed to be an acrobat to wade a clay bottom. Or a fool.