Running Dark Read online

  The two were kissing and laughing and brushing off leaves and ground detritus. Then the camera was focused on a single woman, equally naked and bowing for the camera. It was Mehegen.

  The film ran out and clicked as it spun on the spool. “Well?” she said.

  “Art film, not a movie,” he said.

  She giggled. “I know that definition. Bare tits and ass make it art.” She poured more wine for herself. “My friends had more fun than I did,” she said. “That was my third jump and their fiftieth. I thought I’d wet myself waiting to go out the door.”

  “Did you?”

  “No,” she said as she took scoops of melted ice cream and put it on slices of lussiketbröd.

  Service didn’t like to drink a lot, especially if there was any chance of a duty call.

  “Is there room in that bed of yours for two?” she asked.

  He said, “I think it’s designed to sleep one.”

  She laughed. “You know what they say: What sleeps one will lay two.”

  “New math. I haven’t tried that,” he said.

  She smiled. “Well, that’s both a damn shame and fandamntastic news,” she said digging into the bread and ice cream with a spoon. She took one small bite, put the spoon down, stood up, and leaned over and kissed him on the forehead before moving down to his lips.

  “Christmas Eve,” she said. “We can take turns playing Santa.”

  Service awoke to two gunshots. A naked, sleeping Brigid Mehegen was draped over his shoulder. He pushed her aside and rolled off the bed, grabbed his sweats, went to the other end of the trailer to find his boots, and stumbled around trying to get them on.

  Two more shots sounded outside. He grabbed his four-cell flashlight, unsnapped his .357 revolver, pulled it free of the holster on his gunbelt, and stepped onto the porch. His light illuminated a gigantic animal that snorted and startled Service, who slipped on the icy porch and fell hard.

  “Turn that bloody light off—you’re scarin’ the bejeezus outta my reindeer!” a stentorian voice roared.

  Prone in the snow, Service rolled onto his side, shone his light toward the voice, and saw two of the biggest horses he had ever seen. They were light-colored and their rear haunches were spackled with even lighter spots. “Those aren’t reindeer,” he said.

  The animals appeared to be harnessed to a van. The voice on top said, “I’m Santa Claus, and I decide what reindeer look like.”

  The van suddenly lit up. It was decorated with Christmas lights outlining the windows, including the windshield. “You done boning my granddaughter?”

  Service heard Brigid Mehegen’s voice behind him and it was anything but pleased.

  “Jesus, Perry, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Came for my Christmas prezzie,” the man shouted at her. “I don’t see that a hormonally driven hornycane should change tradition. You know your Bampy likes getting his presents Christmas Eve, and here it is already by-God Christmas morning!”

  “Dammit, Perry, act your age and go home! I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “It’s already tomorrow,” the man pointed out. “And I’m already here!”

  “You don’t deserve a present,” Mehegen snapped at him.

  “I’m your beloved Bampy.”

  “Where’s the gun?” Service demanded as he got to his feet.

  “Right here in my holster,” the old man said, patting his hip.

  “Well, leave it right there.”

  “I just wanted to get my granddaughter’s attention,” the man said.

  “You’re a stubborn, self-centered old man. I never should have told you where I was going,” Mehegen said. “Who’d you steal the horses from?”

  “They’re reindeer,” he insisted. “And I didn’t steal them. They sort of followed me.”

  Mehegan stepped beside Service and poked him lightly in the ribs. “They still hang horse thieves, right?”

  “Uh, I believe so,” he said.

  “Hokum,” the old man grumbled.

  “He’s a cop,” Mehegen said, touching Service’s arm.

  “Not a real cop, just a game warden,” the man said.

  “Horses are animals,” she countered. “So are reindeer. That makes it his business.”

  “Why do you always have to go and ruin my surprises?” the old man complained.

  “Because you never think anything through,” she said, her rage barely contained.

  “You are going to return those horses right now and hope the owner hasn’t called the county.”

  “There’s no reason for that tone of voice,” he complained. “I’m your grandfather, father of your beloved mother.”

  “Not tonight you’re not,” she said sternly. “And mom was Bitchzilla on her best day. Where do these horses belong, Perry?” One of the animals turned and nudged Mehegen with its nose and she stroked it gently. In a mock whisper she said, “Don’t worry, we’ll save you from this madman.” Turning to her grandfather she demanded to know if his “rig” was running.

  “Would run good enough if I turned the key,” he said from his rooftop perch.

  “Get your scrawny ass down here,” she said. In an aside to Service, she added, “Let’s unhitch the horses. Do you ride?”

  “Not if I can help it,” he said.

  “You can’t help it tonight,” she said, looking at her grandfather. “He’ll drive and we’ll ride behind him. How far?” she asked with a growl as the old man slid off the roof of the van, bounced off the hood, and landed on his behind in the snow.

  “I wasn’t counting,” he grumbled, brushing himself off. They went into the trailer to put on more clothes and socks and get their coats.

  The ride took close to an hour, and by the time they approached a farm with open fields several miles from Service’s property, dawn was breaking. They were greeted by a cheery voice. “You found my kids, eh? Dey’re always runnin’ off. Dose two Percherons is smart horses, and no matter how I lock ’em in, dey always find a way out. Dey act up on youse?”

  “No,” Mehegen replied.

  “Dey’re s’posed to be workin’ animals, but I can’t find a job dey like. More like t’ousand-pound puppies.”

  Service and Mehegen dismounted and the old man whispered to the animals, who stepped toward him, nickering and nuzzling him while he slipped them some sugar cubes. The animals were twice as tall as the man, but obediently did what he asked, bumping him gently with their noses, their tails swishing the early morning air.

  “Merry Christmas,” the man called as he walked down the road between the animals.

  “See, it worked out fine,” Mehegen’s grandfather muttered as he got out of the van.

  “Keys,” she demanded, holding out her hand.

  “I got a license to drive,” he countered.

  “Not with me you don’t,” she said, snatching the keys away from him and ordering him into the back through the sliding side door.

  Service got into the passenger seat and Mehegen started the engine. When the Christmas lights came on, she screamed, “How do you turn these fucking things off?”

  “Toggle on the left dash,” her grandfather said. “Potty mouth.”

  “Shut up,” she commanded, turning the lights off. “How do you like my grandfather?” she asked as they pulled away. Service had no reply.

  “Hey, a little respect,” Perry said. “Where’s my present?”

  She didn’t answer, and when they got back to Service’s trailer she got out, opened her truck door, pulled out a gun case, and thrust it at him. “Merry Christmas. Now get the hell out of here.”

  “You don’t have a nip and a taste of lussiketbröd for your Bampy?”

  “Git,” she said harshly. “I mean it, Perry!”

  The o
ld man opened the gun case and gulped. “A new scattergun!”

  “Sixteen-gauge, your favorite,” she said. “Don’t shoot your foot off.”

  “I had my scattergun stolen,” Perry said in Service’s direction. “Some Philistines from down below copped it.”

  “You walked out of the woods and left the damn thing,” Mehegen snarled. “You try to blame everything on people from below the bridge.”

  “Only because they deserve it,” he said resolutely.

  She handed the old man’s keys to him, took Service’s hand, and led him to the porch.

  “We’re going back to bed,” she said, tugging Service’s sleeve.

  “Lussiketbröd?” the old man said in a pleading, almost pathetic tone.

  “Next year—if you’re still alive,” she said, pulling Service inside and slamming the door. She immediately put her arms around his neck and said, “Memorable Christmas, eh?”

  “Is he always like this?” he asked.

  She laughed. “He’s a pip, and he’s got the world convinced he’s sane, but I know he’s totally nutso.” She pulled out a chair. “Sit. Still, you gotta admit, he knows how to capture attention.” She added, “This isn’t done yet.”

  Service sat down as Mehegen got out a plastic plate, cut a large piece of the bread, uncapped a beer, and sat down beside him.

  Seconds later there was a rapping on the door. “Sugarpie, it’s snowing out here.”

  “Come in,” she shouted at the door.

  Perry stepped inside carrying his new gun case.

  “That stays outside,” she said.

  “A flatlander will steal it,” he protested, clutching the case to his chest.

  “It’s okay,” Service said, trying to play peacemaker.

  “No it’s not,” Mehegen insisted. “He’s not allowed to have firearms in the house.”

  “This isn’t his house,” Service reminded her. “It’s mine, and I have firearms in here.”

  “I left my pistol in the van,” Perry offered.

  Mehegen threw up her hands and rolled her eyes. “Close the door! You’re letting the snow in.”

  Perry saw the bread and immediately grabbed at it, but Mehegen lightly slapped his hand. “Act civilized,” she said. “You remember how, right?”

  “Was me taught you manners,” he said, sitting down, the gun case propped against his leg. “And I don’t like that tone of voice.”

  The man devoured the bread and cut himself a second helping before grabbing at the beer, which he didn’t quite get and knocked over the edge of the table. It hit with a pop, spewing foam across the floor.

  Service grabbed a sponge and immediately got on his knees to soak up the beer. “Paper towels,” he told Mehegen, who stepped past him just as there was an explosion from the table. Service felt her collapse heavily on top of him.

  “Goddamn it, Perry! Goddamn it!” she began shrieking as she scrambled off Service.

  He looked up to see the end of the gun case tattered and burned, and a hole in the ceiling. Snow was wafting gently through the hole, landing on the bread and table.

  Mehegen began to shout at her grandfather, but Service grabbed her arm and began laughing, until all three of them were laughing and unable to speak.

  It was late morning before they could get Perry on his way and the roof hole patched.

  Work done, they immediately went back to bed. “I warned you not to invite him in with that damn shotgun!” she said.

  “Where did he get the ammo?”

  “From his van. He’s been carrying it ever since he lost the other one. Merry Christmas,” she said, kissing him lightly.

  They tried to make love, but kept breaking into laughter and finally gave up. Mehegen went to sleep in the crook of Grady Service’s arm as he lay there wondering if his ride on the Percheron had permanently removed a layer of his skin.

  9

  TRENARY, DECEMBER 28, 1975

  “I watched da whole sad parade.”

  It had taken several telephone calls to track down Joe Flap’s current address. Apparently the pilot didn’t stay put too long in any one place and moved from rental to rental. For the moment he was living in Alger County on a farm northeast of Trenary on Trout Lake Road.

  Christmas Eve with Brigid Mehegen and her daffy grandfather had been memorable to say the least, but what stuck in Service’s mind most was her T-shirt and homemade movie: naked skydivers go down faster. Late Christmas Day he’d begun trying to track down Joe Flap.

  Service grinned when he saw an airplane tail poking out of a barn-turned-hangar. There was a faded yellow windsock on the silo attached to the barn. A flatbed truck with a snowplow was parked next to the two-storied house, half of which was unpainted with exposed pink insulation. The other half was painted aquamarine blue, and not recently by the looks of it.

  Another five inches of snow had fallen, and the temperature had dropped nearly to zero for the third consecutive night. Lake surfaces had gone from skiff ice to the real thing, and if it remained cold it wouldn’t be long before ice-fishing fanatics would be hauling their shanties onto lakes.

  There were fresh footprints from the house to the barn.

  Service found Joe Flap sitting on a bar stool. He wore a sleeveless gray sweatshirt streaked with grease, military flight coveralls turned down to the waist, a green John Deere ball cap, and his traditional Errol Flynn pencil ’stache. His old horseblanket coat was hung from a peg and it was as greasy and stained as everything else around the man. Service saw that the engine cowling was open and the pilot had some sort of device with protruding wires held in his lap. Flap was a short, wiry man who shaved his head and had a scar that ran from the center of his skull down to his left eyebrow, a memento of one of his numerous crashes. Service had never known the man’s age; he hadn’t seen him in years, and now he looked a lot younger than he remembered.

  Service plopped a case of Old Milwaukee on a workbench.

  The pilot stared at the beer, then at Service. “You got youse a pretty good memory,” he said. “Heard you joined da green,” the pilot added, “and got da Mosquito, too.”

  “I haven’t been there that long,” Service said.

  “Long enough ta make some of da dirtballs whine.”

  Flap got up, opened two cans of beer, and handed one to Service.

  “Glad you made it home in one piece,” he said with a crooked grin. “Dat Vietnam was one serious clusterfuck.”

  Service raised a can in salute. “There it is.”

  They both lit cigarettes.

  “You’ve been flying the Garden,” Service said.

  “When dey need me.”

  “Is there an airfield down there?”

  “Skis out on da ice,” Flap said.

  “An inland strip?”

  “If dere was, da ratfucks down dere would turn it into a flak trap.”

  “No place to let down?”

  “Couple places, mebbe in an emergency, but only if I was plumb-out-of-IOUs-desperate—and even den I’d have second thoughts.” Flap studied him. “You got somepin’ in mind?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

  Thoughts too amorphous to share yet, Service reminded himself. “I heard you on the radio last month.”

  Flap looked at him. “You know,” he said, “our people never went to da slip where I spotted dat white boat.”

  “No?”

  “Dis time our guys were willing, but da Troops wit’ dem were new and a little shaky, which isn’t unusual, eh. Dey made one ceremonial loop and bugged out. I watched da whole sad parade.”

  “You never said anything on the radio.”

  Joe Flap shrugged. “What would be da point? If our so-called leadership don’t have da balls to get in da dirt wit’ da grunts, why should gr
unts hang out dere cajones?”

  “You’re saying this isn’t the first time?”

  “Depends on who goes. Get da wrong mix and dey settle for a symbolic drive-through. Problem den is dat all da locals see a bunch of game wardens wit’ dere tails between dere legs. Dis sure ain’t da same outfit your old man and me signed on wit’.”

  Service had heard similar lamentations from a couple of people, but he had ignored them. “Do the locals down there monitor your radios?”

  “I s’pect so, but I usually run radio-silent an’ open my mouth only when I have to. Why?”

  “I had that one patrol down there and I didn’t much care for what I saw,” Service said.

  Flap nodded solemnly. “You’re not alone, son. Your old man was still alive, he’d get some of da boys together and dey’d go down dere one night wit’ saps and brass knuckles.”

  “Times change,” Service said.

  “Mebbe,” Flap said, “but assholes are forever assholes, and dere was a time not dat long ago when a warden wouldn’t back down from anyone. You did, you might as well turn in your badge.”

  Flap was right, but this tight-jawed attitude had also caused several men to be killed in the line of duty over the nearly ninety years that the state had employed uniformed game wardens. “You think we’ve backed down?”

  “How many shots fired at your patrol dat day—seven, eight?”

  “Eight,” Service said.

  “You return fire, defend yourselves?”

  In fact, they had swerved and run when the attacks became direct. Until Stone boarded the boat, they had had only handguns for defense.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Flap said. “Da boys ain’t never shot back at dose ratfucks. Da Garden’s startin’ to put a stink on green uniforms. You just visitin’, or you got an official reason for droppin’ in?”

  “I didn’t realize you were still flying for the department.”

  Joe Flap grunted. “I’m fifty-two: Guys my age make a hundred grand wit’ da airlines, and all da stews they can screw.”

  “You regret not joining the airlines?”

  Flap sneered. “I ain’t no bloody bus driver.”