Killing a Cold One (33 page)

“Things haven't changed all that much.”

“Yes. Are all whites the same, French and English?”

“Not hardly.”

“Black people, skin the color of obsidian knives, they are all the same?”

“Definitely not.”

“Indian people not same. Different. No Anishinaabe-Nishaabe, Bois Fortes, Leech Lake, Grand Portage, Bad River, Fond du Lac, Red Cliff, understand? We were all brothers once, one tribe, together, like one family, long ago. No more.”

“Everything changes,” Service said. He wasn't sure he was so partial to change either, and he shared the old man's obvious anguish.

“Bois Fortes, we believe nothing happens without a reason.”

Service kept quiet.

“Sometimes there are reasons we cannot see. If we live in balance, all of us, no imbalance. If imbalance, then everyone is not in balance. How people act tells us if the life is good and proper.”

“Boat rockers cause problems,” Service said.

“I will take you to Lakotish The False,” Crow's Flesh said.

“Lakotish The False?”

The man held up his hand for silence.

 

•••

 

They drove an old Jeep Eagle about a mile west of the village. There was no wind. The snow came straight down, the ice pellets turning to edged flakes. The old man drove slowly but steadily, parked, and led him through a canopy of cedar, tamarack, and balsam to an opening in the natural tunnel of winter-dead plants.

“Light,” the old man said. Service turned on his green penlight and moved it around, saw they were in an Indian burial ground, complete with spirit houses and some old white wooden crosses.

Crow's Flesh stood beside one such structure, six feet long, three feet high, holes drilled in the ends. “Lakotish The False,” he declared. A small board had been carved with the name
samuel wargus lakotish
.

“I don't understand.”

“Na-bo-win-i-ke was summoned to your country to hunt Lakotish.”

“But Lakotish is in the grave. Did he come back to life?”

The man hissed. “No.
This
Lakotish, the False One, is dead, and his body is here in this grave.”

“I don't understand. How can Na-bo-win-i-ke hunt Lakotish if he's dead? His brother or something?”

Crow's Flesh said, “Lakotish The Real did not want to be a warrior but became a soldier.”

“And died?”

“There is a body in the grave,” Crow's Flesh said.

Service thought on this. “But you're telling me it's not the
real
Lakotish in there?”

Crow's Flesh smiled. “Wrong man. Blue coats, they got it wrong, sent this man, Lakotish The False.”

“Nobody here noticed?”

“Body burned, almost nothing left.”

“So who is this, if not Lakotish?”

The old man shrugged. “Lakotish was afraid, but joined your army, trained, went to war, fought, and married a black robe. Then he died.”

“The black robe died?”

Crow's Flesh nodded.

“How can you know that?”

“Spirits tell us many things if we care to listen.” The old man touched his heart.

“Which war?”

“The bad one, in the jungle. ‘Hell, no, we won't go.' ‘Make love, not war.' ‘Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids will you kill today?' ”

“Vietnam. What oufit?”

“Van Tri Soong, Special Forces.”

“Green Beret, yet he didn't want to be a warrior?”

“Yes, Special Forces.”

He's making no sense.
“How old was he?”

“Twenty winters.”

“What year?”

“Six and six.”

“Who is Na-bo-win-i-ke hunting?”

“Lakotish The Real,” Crow's Flesh said, “but Na-bo-win-i-ke is dead, and now you will hunt Lakotish.”

“I don't even know him.”

“You will,” the old man said, and added, “Look for this, and you will know.” He took a finger and pushed it against Service's spine. “This lets the spirit out to begin its journey on the road of souls,” the old man said.

Crow's Flesh graciously gave him a cell-phone number and told him it would be all right to call him.

 

•••

 

Back in his truck Service punched in Gunny Prince's number in California. The old sarge answered, saying, “We just had Jesus's birthday. Who the hell are you calling so close to my personal savior's birthday?”

“Sixty-six, grunt named Samuel Wargus Lakotish, Special Forces, Van Tri Soong, eighteen years old, died, no details known, though there might be a chaplain involved in some way.”
The old man had said Lakotish had married a black robe. Chaplain? It was a good guess.

“Where you at?” Prince asked.

“Orbiting in Minnesota.”

“That sucks; what do you want?”

“Name, outfit, details. Could be the wrong body got sent home and buried.”

“Happens every damn war,” the gunny said. “Samuel Lakotish, that's the name?”

“It is.”

“Them boys up in the Puzzle Palace on the Potomac don't work weekends nor this close to Jesus's birthday, or to the new year.”

“The holidays are over.”

Gunny Prince howled. “You're a pip, Service. My personal Jesus worked miracles, not me, but let's see what he can do you for.”

Grady Service sat in his truck. Crow's Flesh had said, “Now you will hunt Lakotish.”
Had the old man talked to Johnstone? Weird.

57

Sunday, January 4

DULUTH, MINNESOTA

The Hotel Voyageur sat at the bottom of a long, steep hill. From his room Service could hear eighteen-wheeler brakes protesting the grade. There was a terrible snowstorm outside, and he had holed up rather than push on. Gunny Prince called back.

Specialist Samuel Lakotish of Nett Lake, 301st Special Services. Enlisted for three years in 1964, trained in infantry, switched to chaplain's assistant, and killed in '66. Killed, not KIA, a major distinction, that. Died eight months into his tour.
Switched to chaplain's assistant? Why?
Volunteer, not a draftee, yet Crow's Flesh said he hadn't wanted to fight. Finished in the ninetieth percentile of his class at Basic, won some sort of fitness ribbon that normally only freaks could qualify for. The man had some aptitudes. AIT for infantry, then two other schools, names omitted.
Damn government is worse than a cop house.

How did a rifleman end up as a sky pilot's Sherpa?
Some chaplains were chickenshit, to be sure, but there were plenty with gigantic balls and a hankering for living in the real and deep shit among their flocks. Standard fruit salad: National Defense Service Medal, Vietnam Service Medal, Vietnam Campaign ribbon, Combat Infantry badge, Bronze Star, no V for valor. M16 expert.
Odd damn background.

“Efficiency reports?”

“His last one with the chaplain. High as you can get.”

“Photos?”

“Active-duty personnel only.”

“Who signed the efficiency reports?”

“A captain named Varhola.”

“
Clement
Varhola?”

“Yep, that's the name I got,” Gunny Prince said. “How the heck did you know that?”

The name Father Bill Eyes had mentioned. What are the odds on this coincidence?

“Not sure; can you have the records sent to me?”

“Not for a few days.”

“That's fine. Can you also get me the name of their CO, the one Varhola reported to? And when Lakotish began his chaplain's assistant gig? What outfit was Lakotish in before that, name of his CO, all that.”

“Text or call you back?”

“Call me, Gunny.”

“Oorah, son.”

 

•••

 

Sitting at the bar, he telephoned Father Eyes. The priest said, “I don't know whether to be flattered or flabbergasted.”

“Depends on how well you can spell,” Service said. “How long have you known Father Clem?”

“Long time. We first met at a retreat in Oklahoma City.”

“Last time we talked, I got the distinct impression you're not a fan.”

“Too stiff. Believer with a capital B. You know the type. Got his calling directly from God.”

“That's not par?”

“Hate to break your bubble.”

“You met him at seminary?”

“No, it was after that, and after his tour in Vietnam.”

“Where was he ordained?”

“Maybe Kansas City, St. Louis . . . wait, I think it was St. Looey, for sure.”

“Any way to verify that?”

“Priests may work holidays, Service, but church bureaucrats don't. Why not just ask the man directly?”

“Prefer not to. You wouldn't happen to have a photo of him?”

“Actually, I do. I can shoot you a cell-phone shot. It's a group photo from the seminar we attended.”

“Do seminaries have yearbooks?”

“Most do—just like real colleges. It's the College of Christ the Savior,” Father Eyes said. “I just remembered that. Usually the people who come out of there are first-rate, socially, intellectually, and theologically. Clem stood outside the mold, and I guess that's why I remember him.”

“St. Louis?”

“Brintwood, Rintwood, Brentwood . . . an inner suburb, something like that.”

The bartender in the Voyageur appeared to be Indian, had a gray ponytail, skin the color of burnished maple. “Tribe own this place?” Service asked.

“Only place we own shit is on our own lands, of which Duluth ain't.”

“Your tribe?”

“Cree. You a cop?”

“It shows?”

“Does now.”

“You ever hear the Ojibwe name, Lakotish?”

“Jump bail and run?”

“Dead. He was Ojibwe.”

“Never heard that name, but there ain't no letter ‘L' in the old tongue.”

“Your lingo?”

“Cree and Ojibwe are pretty close kin. I get by in both.”

“No ‘L,' huh?”

“Could be Sioux maybe—a takeoff on Lakota—or it could be some strange dumbass knockoff from
akotewagis
or
kateshim.
Lot of funny stuff happens with Indian names. Frenchie meets an Indian, can't prounounce the Indian word, slaps an ‘L' on the front like it belongs, and cements the ignorance gap.”

“You mentioned a coupla words.”

“Just popped into my mind, ya know. Barkeep boredom.”

“What are they?”

“
Akotewagis
means something like ‘got a weapon,' or ‘armed and dangerous.'
Kateshim
means ‘catechism,' the book the missionaries used. I'm no language guy.”

“You seem to do pretty good.”

“Might could be bullshittin' you for a good tip.”

“I don't think so,” Grady Service said.

“A philosophical cop.”

“Have a drink on me?”

“What the hell,” the man said.

Service opened his phone, looked at the photograph from Bill Eyes. Which one was Varhola?

The falling snow made him remember he'd soon have to start trailering his snowmobile behind the Tahoe. The snow was going to get a lot deeper, and snowshoes wouldn't handle some of it.

58

Tuesday, January 6

BRENTWOOD, MISSOURI

There were no further call-backs from Gunny Prince, and Service pushed south to St. Louis, a good eight hundred miles south across Snowberia and the tundra of Minnesota, Iowa, and northern Missouri. Somehow he managed to get a call through to the College of Christ the Savior, where some nameless factotum informed him that Monsignor Pilfpolf would see him today at noon. By driving all night Service felt he could make it and agreed to the timing, hoping snow and fate wouldn't intervene.

He called Friday as he looped around Minneapolis.

“Are you headed home?” she pressed in her professional voice.

“South to St. Louis.”

“Is there a point to this road trip?”
Irritation in her voice?

“Sources tend to talk more openly when you can look them in the eyes.”

“Oh,” she said. “The kids are good, I'm good, thank you for asking.”

Lessons of life: Never jog in a minefield, never interrupt a venting woman. Let her calm down.
“So what
are
you up to?” she asked after an interval of seething silence.

“Wendell John Bellator, aka Na-bo-win-i-ke, came specifically to the U.P. to hunt the windigo, which is in some way connected to the Bois Fortes and Nett Lake.”

“Are you on magic 'shrooms?”

“Beats group Kool-Aid,” he said. “Has Quigley backed off?”

“So far, and more importantly, Jen Maki says she's gotten some wood chips and bits from every site, only she can't identify the wood.”

“Call the Marquette office, ask for a forester.”

“I already have a call in. What happens after St. Louis?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Would be faster to fly than drive.”

“The truck fits my ass,” he said, “and you know I don't like to fly commercial.”

“What's in St. Louis?”

“A Roman Catholic college and seminary.”

She laughed. “Makes sense. We're already damn near celibate.”

“Sorry I'm not there,” he apologized.

“I know. Just be safe, and let me know where you are, okay? And it might be nice if you also filled me in on your FBI meeting.”

“Shit,” he said.

“Shit, you forgot to tell me, or shit, I found out?”

“BAU agent named Pincock. She's trying to help us focus.”

“Did she?”

“Too early to tell.”

“Lupo's in the news again, and every crank in the Midwest is reporting the cannibal.”

“Call Lupo and chew his ass.”

“You know he doesn't make call-backs.”

“Send Limey over to push him around.”

“I'm not going to do that, Grady. Take care, all right?”

 

•••

 

The college of Christ the Savior sat among cottonwoods in a community called Brentwood. The college had an assortment of old three-story buildings made from brown bricks. There was no grass on campus and only a few large, empty planters. It reminded Service of West Point for priests. All concrete, religion, and business, a professional army undergoing indoctrination and basic training for the lifelong battles to follow.

Monsignor Joseph Pilfpolf was a short man with weathered skin, short white hair, and thick eyeglasses. He was strapped to a wheelchair with a sign on the side proclaiming
joe the jet
.

“Officer Service?”

The man had an easy smile and lively eyes. “Monsignor. Thanks for seeing me.”

“Call me Joe. I'm retired now, and I was never one for formalities. I was told you want to know about Clem Varhola.”

“Do you know him?”

“Didn't go to school here with him, but I met him later. He's a good man with a natural talent and calling for pastoral life. Not academic and bookish like a lot of us. I never met a man with such a pure joy for people, and life,” Pilfpolf said.

Service opened his cell phone, pulled up the Bill Eyes group photo, and handed the phone to the priest.

“Mind if I put on my cheaters?” the priest asked. Pilfpolf looked at the photo on the phone for a long time, squinting his eyes, then looked up at Service. “Is this a joke? Show me his picture and I'll be glad to confirm it.”

“He's not in that one?”

“No. What's this about?” the priest asked. Grady Service laid it out for the man.

 

•••

 

Service sat at a coffee shop afterward and called Friday, who sounded tired. “Something wrong?”

“Two more, Grady.”

“Same area?”

“West of where we found Anne Campau. Decapitated, arranged neck to neck, legs and arms extended like a da Vinci drawing in an eight-point star. Total evisceration this time. Both bodies were found in a tree.

“How high?”

“Twenty feet off the ground.”

“Jesus. Feet and hands?”

“No heads or hands. He suspended them with braided fishing line. They're displayed, Grady. Do windigos display their kills?”

“Could be, but this guy ain't no P. T. Barnum.”

“It's a huge change in MO,” she said.

He could tell she was desperate, and reaching.

“Tuesday, could you ask Kristy Tork if she's seen any small cuts along the victims' spines, say, three inches or so?”

“Why?”

“Something I heard in Minnesota, and it just now popped into my head.”

“Okay. Are you in St. Louis and did you get what you wanted?”

“Got something, but not sure what. This case may have just taken a real strange turn.”

She sighed. “Are you
ever
coming home?”