Killing a Cold One (9 page)

14

Friday, October 31

LITTLE HURON RIVER, MARQUETTE COUNTY

CO Dani Denninger rang Service's duty cell just before first light. “You know the DeJean family?”

He mumbled, “Yeah, Old Man Guy, his six asshole boys, and me go way back. Why?”

The DeJeans had poached Baraga and Northwest Marquette Counties for decades. Yearly fish runs seemed to mentally unhinge the family, like some strange genetic seasonal disorder. The family would haul out truckloads of salmon and steelhead, or walleyes, or northern pike, whatever was making spawning runs. And every year they seemed to try a new method. One year they tossed quarter-sticks of dynamite, stunning the fish. Another year they used two sixteen-volt car batteries to make a crude fish shocker. Another year they were using buckshot from twelve-gauge shotguns, ­marble-size pellets flying all over the woods and two of the boys catching wounds from them. The family's U.P. roots traced to Chippewa County more than a century ago, and patriarch Old Man Guy recognized no higher earthly authority than himself. In some ways Service could empathize with him. Change was getting harder and harder to stomach, for law-abiding citizens and criminals alike.

The one thing they used to be able to count on was that Guy DeJean and his boys were nonviolent and saw competition with the DNR as a dicey game to be played and enjoyed.

“Been a while since you've seen him; he's got ten sons now,” Denninger said. “His youngest, Donte, called me last night and told me some high school kids have something sick going on up along the Little Huron, east of Bald Mountain.”

“He say which kids, and define
sick?
”

“Negative. I let him walk last black-powder season on a tagging violation. Told him he owed me. I think this is the payback.”

“Halloween,” Service said.

“Go figure. The night when assholes howl at the moon.”

Service felt himself popping awake. “I heard something similar from Allerdyce a few days back. If it's coming from those two sources, you'd have to think it has substance. You want help?”

“I got a real gut-twister on this one, Grady, maybe because it isn't that far from Twenty Point Pond.”

Grady Service blinked a map into his mind. Allerdyce had offered the same observation. “I hear you. Be me plus three.”

“Sounds like an army,” she joked.

“It
is
an army,” he said, no hint of irony in his tone.

She said, “You know the two-track right after you cross Big Erick's Bridge, right?”

“Yep.”

“Keep on that until you get to the first major crossroad. The south leg is passable. Pull up to the south a half-mile or so and wait. The place we want is north, where a two-track cuts east over the river and a pair of culverts. I'll meet you, and we'll take both trucks down after dark. Seven work?”

“We'll be there. Allerdyce says he knows the way.”

“I bet he does,” she said, and hung up.

 

•••

 

Treebone and Noonan didn't ask where they were going, or why. “No snow,” Service told them, “but we'll be in the western Hurons right on Superior, so anything is possible. Dress warm.”

Allerdyce had not been at the cabin the previous night and did not appear until morning, just as they were getting into the Tahoe. Service thought the old man might be trying to avoid Treebone and was surprised when Limpy walked directly over to Tree, and, sticking out his bony hand, said, “I'm real sorry what I call you dat time out my camp.”

“Nigger,” Tree said. “I'm certain that was the word you employed.”

Allerdyce hung his head and mumbled “I'm real sorry” again.

Treebone said, “Apology accepted, you sawed-off, wrinkled, white trash motherfucker.” The two men shook hands, and Limpy cackled.

They're both looney tunes,
Service thought.

•••

 

They were parked where Denninger wanted them, and Service monitored her signal working its way toward them on the Automatic Vehicle Locator. Denninger was running dark, just as they had, about five miles out and closing.

Eventually she drove quietly past them, turned around, and pulled alongside Treebone's window. “All sorts of fresh vehicle tracks coming in,” she said truck to truck, through open windows. “I called the sarge; he's coming, too. Ought to be here soon. Willie says there's an abandoned trailer near the west bank of the river, about a mile south of the mouth, a hundred yards below the culvert road.”

“You know the place?” Service asked.

“Not the trailer,” Denninger said. “That's new to me. I usually work the river in the riffles and holes up this way. The river flows west and turns ninety degrees to the north just below the intersection we came through. It parallels the road north down past the culvert road and ends at the mouth.”

“Does Willie want to lead the charge?”

“Don't know,” she said. “But he knows this area.”

Allerdyce said, “Trailer got put dere nineteen ninety-t'ree by Finndian fum over Sidnaw. Name was Tom-Tom Joseph or some such. Use as deer blind an' camp when fishy runs was on.”

Service looked back. “You've been there?”

“Seen it, but never ast me in for coffee.”

“Where's Tom-Tom Joseph now?”

“Tree fell on 'im two t'ousand six. Lived mebbe twelve hours, but too much busted up in guts to fix 'im.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Perfectional pal, you could say, but dem was old days, not now.”

They watched Sergeant Willie Celt on the AVL, his truck turning up the road and stopping. Then he was at Service's window, on foot. “There's a one-lane wood bridge with a two-track a mile south of the river mouth.”

Service looked at the AVL map. “You think we should go on foot?”

“The DeJeans, high school kids, Halloween, salmon, and steelhead seem to me a pretty dicey concoction. There's sure to be booze and weed and speed and God knows what else. We'll probably need all our vehicles to hold prisoners, at least until we can sort out the assholes. I'm going to call Baraga and the Troops for support, see what we have. Probably too far for Marquette deps.”

“Okay, lead us on down,” Service said.

Denninger said from Treebone's side, “How about I slip down there first? I'll stash my ride and creep the place, give us some sense of what we're dealing with. Give me one hour before you guys roll?”

Celt said from the other side of the truck, “Works for me. Donte's tip wasn't that specific?”

Denninger said, “Something sick . . . here . . . tonight; that's about the extent of it.”

“That damn family wallows in sick,” Celt said bitterly.

Denninger said, “Donte's not a bad kid, and I'm hoping he's giving us the tip because his family isn't involved. You can't help what family you're born into.”

“Think Old Man Guy will be there?” Service asked Celt.

“If there's fish, that sonuvabitch will be somewhere in the area. He can't help himself.”

“Saw plenty of fish last week, all the way up to the upper crossroad,” Denninger said. “Salmon are sort of playing out, but I saw some fresh chrome steel up high. I expect lower holes will hold a lot of fish. Gotta go.”

Service checked his watch. Fifty-five minutes. He found himself thinking about Guy DeJean and his six—now ten—sons, the DFC, DeJean's Family Circus, some cops called them.
What the hell are they up to this time?
Whereas the Allerdyce clan was deadly mean and smart, the DFC tended toward playfully mean, and dumber than a bag of rusty nails.

Celt moved without saying anything on the radio, and Service followed. No lights, no moon. At least it wasn't snowing. “Tree, take Noonan down the west bank. Allerdyce, hang with me across the culverts and down the east bank.”

Service could see the occasional glint of Celt's truck ahead of them. Nosing down the steep road, it dawned on Service that his new army had no radios, or call signs. He'd have to solve that tomorrow. They could probably operate on a special event channel and not step on other operations.
Details you should already have taken care of,
he chastised himself.
Good reminder why you didn't deserve stripes. You're no good at staff shit.

They stashed their trucks side by side in thick underbrush and started downhill on foot through the woods, west of the two-track. In the distance they could hear the thump of music, voices, the usual din of a backwoods party.

Denninger's voice came up whispering on the 800 MHz. “They've got a bonfire by the river, weed clouds in the air, a lot of screaming. There's a couple doing some vigorous
unh-unh
in a white van out by the culvert road. I left them alone. The river's pretty loud: They won't be able to hear much. I'm at the end of a finger-rock ledge, and I can see the trailer beneath me. The fire's just west of the trailer, which they don't seem to be paying much attention to, at least at the moment.”

“Moving your way,” Celt told her over the radio. “Both banks. How many vehicles?”

“Twelve,” she said. “That I could count. There could be more down toward the mouth, but a dozen was my quick tally, including the couple in the white van.”

“Weps?” Service asked.

“Haven't heard or seen any, but that's not saying there aren't.”

Celt again, “We're coming up on the first vehicles. Looks like most are clustered around the culvert crossroad, and north.”

“That's affirmative,” Denninger said. “Clear.”

Service grabbed Allerdyce's down coat. “You got a red penlight?”

“Sure, sonny.”

“Break off when we reach the vehicles. Write down license numbers, makes, and models. You got a pencil and pad?”

“Got one writes in rain, and won't wash away.”

Service thought it was a weird comment, but had no time to ask why the old man possessed such a thing. “If the couple are still shaking the van, go easy around that one.”

“An' after I get plates?”

“Wait here and we'll be back to get you. Okay?”

Allerdyce nodded.

Celt on the radio to Denninger: “You got NVD or IR?”

“Both,” she said. “Infrared shows kids creeping over to the trailer, looking in, and going back to the bonfire. They just look in and scoot, don't say a word. Major weird. Clear.”

Service stopped his team. “Everybody got good lights and fresh batts?”

The other three men patted pockets with their gloves.

“Don't turn on any lights until I do. I want to mix in with them before we bring the light of the law to their sad little corner of the world.”

Allerdyce split off to collect license-plate numbers. The other four headed down the Little Huron River from the culvert, and almost as soon as they started north, the wind picked up in velocity and began to blow hard. In ten minutes they could see the faint glow of a fire ahead. Service and Noonan veered right to where the trailer was said to be. Service said on his radio, “Dani, we're moving to the trailer. Hundred yards out, maybe. Clear.”

“Meet you there,” she whispered. “From your east. Clear.”

A sudden east wind was making a metallic tapping sound. At first, Service thought branches in the giant oaks and maples were scraping and banging in the wind, but this was definitely metallic, almost like an off-key cymbal. He saw the silhouette of the trailer ahead, and a door, top hinge gone, bottom hinge holding it in place but askew, the wind making it flap like a broken bird wing. The place stunk from twenty yards away, and his first thought was that it might be a meth lab, but the odor wasn't right—less ammonia than something else.

Fuck: I know this smell. Goddammit to hell.

The sides of the trailer were clawed, the wood bits chewed. A bear had been here. Service got to the trailer, handed his rifle to Noonan, took out his red penlight, approached the door, peeked inside, and pulled his head back.
Porkies have been in there: Two black turd piles two feet high—like termite mounds.
The interior had not been chewed and not devastated the way a bear would do.

He leaned in again:
Empty DeKuyper root beer schnapps bottle near the far wall. Fishermen and hunters: Lots of them are slobs. Somebody using the trailer as a deer blind?

Service put a knee on the trailer floor and shone his light toward the end. Something white shone pink in his light beam.
Something hanging. A coon?
He used his hand on the old jamb to get to his feet and take one step toward the back of the trailer.

Fuck. Not an animal,
he thought, gorge rising in his throat.
A kid.

This time, the killer had left the head and the hands, but the feet and buttocks were gone. Jesus.

He felt light-headed and fought through it to maintain composure.
Do your job, do your job, do your job.
“Dani, you close?”