Running Dark Page 9

  Service arrived at 8 a.m. and waited. Colt Homes was first to pull in; he parked next to him and got in. “Heard you pinched some camp raiders,” he said.

  “I got a tip that a couple of guys whacked some deer with crossbows.” He didn’t mention the recovered slugs because he still hadn’t worked out what had actually happened.

  “Don’t you love dis shit!” Homes chirped. “You never know where it will lead. I heard da value of da recovered goods is around forty grand.”

  Service hadn’t heard this. What he had heard was that the old man who’d been beaten up had positively identified Ivan Rhino in a lineup, and Eugene Chomsky by photograph. Neither man had a record. Rhino was twenty-two, from Peru, Indiana; Chomsky not yet sixteen, from Milwaukee—a juvenile runaway. Rhino had a court-appointed attorney and was not talking. Chomsky was still in the hospital, his condition raised from critical and stable to just stable. He would live.

  Because the robbery and break-in charges were far in excess of what the men would get from illegally killing deer, or even for burning raccoons alive, Service had not attended the arraignment. He was glad the Chomsky boy would live. The only lingering question for him was the identity of the woman. So far, she remained in jail, unidentified, and facing charges of attempted murder and felonious assault.

  “Here’s da kicker,” Homes said. “Da broad from dat night hired Odd Hegstrom. Can you believe dat?”

  “Ode, like in poem?”

  “No, man. It’s spelled O-d-d and pronounced Ode. He’s an Icelander, Greenlander—somepin’ like dat.”

  Service shrugged; the name meant nothing.

  Homes said, “He’s a lawyer out of Ironwood. When Order Seventeen come down, da Garden fish house boys hired him ta fight da DNR. He’s a very tough operator.”

  “And he took the woman’s case?”

  “Everybody’s shaking dere heads, but at least she’ll have ta identify herself now.”

  Service immediately wondered if she was a Garden woman, but shoved the thought aside. The potential for other connections was too large to dwell on. Still . . .

  Eddie Moody was the next to arrive, then Budge Kangas, a veteran CO from Menominee County, and, finally, acting lieutenant Lennox Stone.

  The four men stood in the morning air drinking coffee and smoking as snow continued to fall. Stone handed them dark green ski masks. “We’re gonna take a little ride this morning,” he explained. “I’ll lead, followed by Kangas, Moody, Homes, and Service. Keep a close interval, say, three car lengths.”

  “What’re these for?” Moody asked, holding up a mask.

  “Psychological warfare,” Stone said with a grin.

  “Garden Road?” Homes asked.

  “Yep, right down da gut, all da way ta Fairport.”

  “Why?” Kangas asked.

  “We need to test da crow line.”

  “What’s to test? We know it’s there.”

  “We’ll talk about it after we’re done,” Stone said.

  They pulled out and headed east precisely at zero-nine hundred. It was five or six miles east to Garden Road. Light snow continued to fall. Garden Road began at a spot called Garden Corners, the main landmark a nondescript gas station called Foxy’s Den; the road stretched the length of the peninsula. The patrol drove the speed limit, lined up like spring goslings, and passed through the village without incident. It struck Service as odd (if not ominous) that they had not seen a single northbound or southbound vehicle during the run down to the village, and there had been nobody on the streets when they passed through.

  The convoy continued south for eight miles, past Fayette State Park.

  The park was the former site of a pig-iron and smelting operation that grew out of the need for iron spawned during the Civil War. In its heyday it had been a stinking hellhole someone had once compared to Cleveland’s worst slums. Service had never been into the park and had little interest in seeing the ghostly remains of a town; the U.P. was filled with them, most of them the detritus of companies scarfing up the state’s natural resources and moving on.

  Their destination was Fairport, a village seven miles below the park, and the terminus of the twenty-one-mile-long peninsula. The snow had stopped as they left Garden, and they were bathed in morning sunshine as a few illuminated flakes swirled off the trees.

  They were approaching a sharp turn with a cedar forest on both sides of the road, when Service was startled by something striking his hood and skipping off his windshield, quickly followed by more impacts. Ahead he saw things raining out of the cedars toward the other vehicles, and wondered how Stone would play it.

  They went less than a hundred yards when Stone radioed, “Dat ain’t no confetti! Hang a one-eighty, boys!”

  Service cut sharply to the left, stopped, backed up, jerked his wheels to the right, stopped and shifted to drive, steered sharply left, and headed back to the north. Missiles continued to bounce off the Plymouth, but as soon as he got up the road away from the cedars, the assault stopped. He watched in his rearview mirror as the others turned and began to follow.

  Coming into Garden he saw a crowd of twenty or more men on the porch of Roadie’s Bar on the east side of the road, and as he got closer, he saw they were wearing black ski masks. They began to heave softball-size rocks and bottles at him. A brick or something as heavy smacked his passenger window with a popping sound and spidered it, but did not break it out.

  “Service, you’re too far out front,” Homes yelped on the radio, and Service executed a quick U-turn in front of the bar. The rock throwers immediately fled, some of them through the front door, others down the sides of the building.

  When the other vehicles got closer, he did another U-turn into the lead and they drove out of the village and off the peninsula without seeing another vehicle.

  Out on US 2, Stone accelerated and passed Service, settling into the lead position, and led them to the Ogontz boat launch, which was five miles south of US 2 and located on the west shore of Ogontz Bay.

  Four other DNR vehicles were already parked in the lot, officers milling around outside.

  Dean Attalienti nodded at him as he got out of his squad with his thermos and joined the group.

  The acting captain said, “While you men went down Garden Road we went down Harbor Road on the east side. We got eight miles in and got cut off by trees dropped across the road, so we turned around, and a mile back they had dropped more trees. It took us thirty minutes with a chain saw to clear the barricade.”

  “Dey rain rocks on youse?” Stone asked.

  “Just the tree barriers, but now we know that they have enough people for the crow line to cover both sides, and we have to assume some of the middle roads and trails, too. They obviously don’t want us down there without knowing about it, and they’ve put enough resources on it to get what they want. All this business today was to let us know it’s their turf.”

  Service considered telling them that the rock throwers at Roadie’s had fled when he’d made his sudden U-turn in front of the bar, but he kept his mouth shut. Mobs acted like mobs as long as they felt in control. The slightest threat to such a group usually shifted psychology to every man for himself.

  “We got stoned north of Fairport,” Stone said.

  “I got hit in Garden when I was in front of you,” Service added. By the time the patrol caught up to him, his attackers had disappeared.

  “I seen da rocks and stuff on da street,” Stone said.

  “We need unmarked vehicles,” Homes offered.

  “Not just unmarked,” Attalienti corrected him, “but blenders—vehicles that look like they belong down there—trucks, vans, that sort of thing.”

  “So what was the point of today?” Moody asked.

  “A probe in force,” Attalienti said.

  “But we turned
tail an’ ran!” Homes said angrily. “Now dey tink dey’ve won another round.”

  “Winning a round isn’t winning the fight,” the acting captain said. “You men did fine today.”

  “I’m sick of being a target,” Homes groused.

  Ninety minutes later, Service was back in the Mosquito looking for snowmobile tracks; the machines were banned from operating in the wilderness tract, but this didn’t keep a few idiots from trying it. While he drove around he thought about the excursion onto the Garden, and decided it had not been a total waste of time. Now they knew the crow line covered the entire peninsula, and whoever organized it had enough manpower not only to put together simple assaults, but to drop trees behind the eastern patrol—a clear message that they could cut off and isolate officers whenever they chose.

  It was also interesting how the crowd at the tavern had split so quickly. This suggested they didn’t want one-on-one confrontations, which meant they were in total group-think down there. Marines were taught to fight alone and in groups, but in all circumstances to keep fighting until ordered otherwise. Attalienti was right: The Garden crowd seemed to have considerable manpower at their disposal, and some sense of tactics. But it was still not much more than a mob, probably held together by beer as much as fidelity to a real cause.

  The sniping tactics around the peninsula suggested recklessness and a desire to harass rather than homicidal intent. If they had wanted to kill officers, today would have been the day—but there had been no gunshots, just rocks and projectiles. The Garden people weren’t looking so much to kill their rivals as to simply keep them at bay while they took fish illegally and made their money. This wasn’t about philosophy or politics—it was about money. And if Cecilia Lasurm could point them to the leaders, there was a chance the DNR could focus pressure and gain some control.

  Attalienti was on the phone with him around 8 p.m. “I’m having second thoughts about your recon. It seems to me that the only way to beat the crow line is to go in on foot at night and hope there’s no snow to give you away. Have you got a plan in mind?”

  “I thought we agreed that whatever I work out will remain with me.”

  “Yup, you’re right; I guess I’m just a little edgy. You’ll let me know when you get the timing worked out?”

  “That’s what we decided.”

  He liked Attalienti, but he’d begun to wonder if he was one of those managers who had to have his hand in everything, delegating nothing. On the plus side, the acting captain was showing a distinct interest in the welfare of his men.

  12

  HARVEY, JANUARY 10, 1976

  “Are you serious?”

  Mehegen’s house was a small bungalow with Cherry Creek meandering through the back yard. As soon as Service pulled into the driveway, Perry came out of the house and stood on the front stoop.

  “She’s not home,” the old man announced gruffly. He was wearing a red plaid wool shirt, suspenders, and black pants tucked into knee-high leather logging boots.

  “Steal any more reindeer?” Service asked.

  Perry said, “How much did it cost to fix your roof?”

  “Nothing. The fix we put on it will last.” Sooner or later he had to build a permanent cabin on his Slippery Creek property. “I’ll just wait for Brigid.”

  “So you can bone her?” Perry said.

  “Jesus,” Service said.

  The old man grinned and held up his hands. “Don’t take it personally. She bones everybody. Got it in her genes, no pun intended.”

  “You should watch your mouth,” Service said.

  Perry shot back, “I didn’t say anything to you I wouldn’t say to her.”

  “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “What the hell for? You’re not here to see me.”

  Service was opening the door of the Plymouth as Mehegen pulled into the driveway and jumped out. “Sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly. She skipped over to Perry and pecked him on the cheek. “You didn’t invite him in, offer him coffee or a beer?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

  The old man shrugged. “What do I care if he has a beer?”

  Mehegen rolled her eyes, waved at Service. “C’mon.”

  They sat in the kitchen at a small table with a yellowing formica top. She put out two cups and reached for the coffee.

  Perry stood in the doorway. “What, nothing for your old granddad?”

  “What do I care if you have coffee, old man?” Mehegen said.

  Perry swore softly and made a show of stomping upstairs.

  “Well,” she said, “our New Year’s Eve was the most interesting one I’ve ever had. I’m glad you called me,” she added. “I was beginning to think I was going to have to take the reins on this. Should I be encouraged?”

  “Where do you get your parachutes?”

  “This is about parachutes?” she asked incredulously.

  “It’s a simple question,” he said.

  “Asked by a cement-head,” she said. “I thought this was about a different recreational activity.”

  He remained silent, waiting for her to get it sorted out in her mind.

  “Wildcat Jump Club,” she finally said. “All of our purchasing is done through the club, and we store our stuff out at Marquette County Airport. We’ve got a building out there.”

  “Is there a way to borrow a chute?”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Something,” he said evasively.

  “Open your eyes! This is the season for jumping into a bed, not out of a goddamn airplane.”

  “I need to borrow a chute,” he repeated.

  “For you?”

  “No details,” he said. “Sorry.”

  She studied him briefly and sighed. “These days the harnesses are custom-built to fit each jumper; chute size reflects experience and the kind of jump being attempted. You can’t just borrow a generic size.”

  “For discussion purposes, say somebody about my size,” he said.

  She laughed. “Are you serious?”

  “I’d appreciate the favor,” he said.

  She raised an eyebrow and smiled. “With a quid pro quo, right?”

  “As long as you don’t ask for details and set me up to talk to your guy.”

  “When?”

  “As quick as you can arrange it.”

  “People are funny about loaning their gear,” she cautioned.

  “Just get me someone to talk to.”

  “You’re certainly not your happy-go-lucky self today,” she said.

  Perry huffed through the foyer and slammed the front door.

  “I have to get going,” he said.

  “You’re gonna owe me, pal.”

  Perry was chipping ice off the edge of the driveway when Service went outside.

  “That was fast,” the old man said.

  “That’s why it’s called a quickie,” Service said, getting into his patrol unit.

  13

  GARDEN PATROL, JANUARY 21, 1976

  “Three patrols and you’re bitching like an old-timer.”

  It was nine degrees Fahrenheit when Service left the Airstream, bound for the old Indian cemetery on the Stonington Peninsula. This time he had two days’ advance notice to get ready. He was told to bring along his snowmobile and make sure it was in working condition. He had spent a good portion of yesterday changing plugs and oil, and doing other routine maintenance. It was not quite 6 a.m. when he towed the trailer with the Rupp into the gathering area. A weathered picket fence peeked out of the snow, marking an old grave, he guessed. The group would not assemble for another forty-five minutes, but he hated to be late; he spent the time worrying about how well he had packed for the patrol. Group activity irritated him; he preferred working alone in h
is own territory.

  Last week he’d acquired a second thermos in Rapid River, and today he had both filled with coffee, laced with sugar and cream. He poured a small cup and sat as other vehicles began to pull in and jockey around to park. He stayed in the Plymouth, smoking. It was too damn cold to be out shooting the shit.

  Eventually Colt Homes wandered over, rapped lightly on his window, and gestured for him to get out. Service refilled his cup and got out, twisting his head to stretch his neck and back. He had so many layers of clothing on, he felt like an overstuffed sausage: wool long johns, two pairs of knee-high wool socks inside Bean arctic felt liners and military-surplus white Mickey Mouse boots, heavy wool uniform pants, a wool undershirt, his winter-weight uniform shirt, a black wool sweater, and military-surplus gauntlet-style mittens that reached up to his elbows, and all of this under one-piece insulated coveralls that were too tight with everything crammed underneath.

  Homes had taken up a spot in the center of the vehicles and was crunching an apple as he waited for the men to gather around him. The others shuffled toward the center, their boots making the Rice Krispie snow crackle and pop in the frigid air. The men all wore the same black coveralls and stomped their feet to keep circulation going.

  “She’s a fine mornin’, boys,” Homes proclaimed.

  “Cram the bull, Homes, we’re freezing our balls off out here,” Budge Kangas complained.

  “Dere’s no wind,” Homes countered. “It could be a lot worse.”

  “It will be a lot worse when we get on the sleds,” someone pointed out.

  “Exactly,” Homes said, “and den we’ll stop and it will feel warm!”

  Service counted seven men, including himself: Homes, Moody, Kangas, Shaw from Mackinac County, and Stevenson and Larry Jakeway, both from Menominee County.

  Budge Kangas said, “I’m at a hundred and twelve hours for this pay period. Are those Lansing assholes ever going to kick in overtime? These Garden shindigs are always twelve hours, minimum.”

  “That’s what override’s for, right?” Eddie Moody asked. Like Service, he was relatively new to the job.