Red Jacket (15 page)

39

Kowsit Lats, Keweenaw County

SUNDAY, JULY 13, 1913

The brooding Zakov parked the Ford a mile north of Seneca Lake, where Bapcat was hidden away on the edge of a pastoral expanse Finnish locals called Kowsit Lats, convoluted Finglish for Cowshit Flats, meaning grazing fields. George Gipp had heard talk in a pool hall about some deer being shot at night on the Lats, and had passed word to Bapcat. The night shooter was alleged to be the infamous Frenchman, Joseph “Sneaky Joe” Painchaud, a Lake Linden native and well-known year-round hunter of anything he could peddle. Zakov said Painchaud had been a sometime competitor in the wolfing trade, but had been “easily dissuaded.” Bapcat sought no details.

Right at twilight there had been a single shot northwest of Bapcat, who moved steadily toward the sound, but there had been no more shots so he'd taken a knee and listened and moved ahead a few feet at a time. Eventually he heard what he took for heavy breathing, and chopping sounds. He stepped into a clearing where a man knelt beside a deer.

Bapcat had known of Painchaud for years, and had met him once in his days as a miner.

“Hey, Joe, why don't you light a lantern before you cut off a finger?”

The Frenchman jumped to his feet. “
Who da hell?!
”

“Game warden, Joe.”

“We ain't got one, no.”

“Now you do, yes.”

“Dis ain't how it look, no. Somebody shot dis guy. I just put him out of his misery.”

“Finish what you're doing, Joe.”

“Dis ain't fair,” the man complained.

“Think how the deer feels.”

Painchaud laughed out loud. “Deer, dey don't feel shit! What dis cost me, hey?”

“The deer, to start with.”

“Start?”

“Good information and I'll not take you to the JP.”

“Okay, I give you money direct,
oui?
”

“No, Joe, no money to me. Just information.”

“ 'Bout what?”

“Who're you hunting for?”

“Me. I eat dese deers.”

“It's customary to gut a deer before you butcher it, Joe. You're cutting off the head.”

“I guess you got here too damn quick—din't give me no time get done my work, you.”

Bapcat moved closer, saw exactly what the man was doing. “You want the horns? You can't eat horns, Joe.”

“You din't let me finish.”

“With the deer, or the shit you're telling me?”

“I din't do nothing to you.”

“You killed my deer.”

“
Your
deer?”

“My deer, everybody's deer. The people of the state own these animals, Joe, and you've got a hatchet in your hand, not a knife.”

“Ain't no law against no hatchet, hey.”

“You chopped into the skull, pulled off the horns, haven't gutted the animal, which you are going to leave here to rot.”

Painchaud said, “You din't let me finish. What dis cost me?
Allez
, make number.”

“Information: the name of the person who pays you for heads and horns.”

“Can't say dat.”

“Your choice, Joe. No name now, we'll let the JP decide.”

“Jerko Skander,” Painchaud mumbled. “Goddamn Croat.”

“Jerko Skander pays you—that's what you're saying?”

“I said da damn name, didn't I?”

“How much does he pay you?”

“T'ree bits.”

“What about the meat?”

“He don't want no meat, just heads, horns.”

“Others work for Skander?”

“Don't know.”

“Who does Skander work for?”

“Himself.”

“Joe, you may be sneaky, but you ain't real smart. What fool's gonna pay just to have a deer shot and left to rot on the ground?”

“I just told: Skander.”

“But
why
. What does
he
get?”

“You wanted name, you got one. Now what?”

“How do you get paid, Joe?”

Painchaud described a process similar to what Hannula had described.

“You give him just the head and horns?”

“
Oui
.”

“What if someone pays him two or three bucks for the same head and horns?”

“Who do dat?”

“I'm asking you, Joe.”

“I don't know nothing, dat stuff.”

“Where's Skander live?”

“Don't know.”

“No idea?”

“None.”

“Get the hell out of here, Joe. Next time I catch you, there won't be a deal, but you know I'm going to have to make it known that you told me Skander's name.”

“Dat ain't fair!” the man complained.

“Unless you tell me where the man lives.”

Painchaud started to pick up the antlers.

“Drop them, Joe.”

“Dey're mine.”

“Walk on home, Joe, while you're still ahead.”

“I don't feel ahead. I feel behind, me.”

“See, every minute we live makes us smarter. Maybe someday they'll call you Smart Joe instead of Sneaky Joe.”

“
Who
call me dat?”

“Everybody, Joe. For years. Hope to see you around, but if not, good luck in whatever place fate takes you,” he said, as Joe took off.

Sneaky Joe was a major violator, and had been for many years. Like all good ones, he didn't blab about his work, but Bapcat felt certain Painchaud would spread the word that the game warden was afoot.
Too bad the man didn't tell me where his buyer lives.

Bapcat looked around the area to see what else might be there, and after awhile, made his way back to the truck and threw the antlers and head in back. “Bait or harvest tonight?” Zakov asked.

“Bait, maybe.”

“I think it worked. There's a man by a tree over there, says he wants to talk to you.”

Bapcat found Painchaud waiting. “Skander lives over Atlantic Mine, him.”

“Miner?” Bapcat asked.

“Pump-house gang.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

“You won't say my name?”

“Not if this checks out.”

Bapcat put his rifle in back of the truck and stepped up into the passenger seat.

“You seem pretty elated for being empty-handed,” the Russian said.

“The race goes to those who are patient,” Bapcat said.

“There is no race,” Zakov contended.

“There is always a race,” Bapcat said. “Drive us home. For once, I'm hungry.”

40

Kearsarge

MONDAY, JULY 14, 1913

It was close to a mile from Bumbletown Hill to Enock Hannula's cabin on Slaughterhouse Creek, on the northwest corner of Kearsarge. The air was choked with thick red and yellow smoke, all sorts of dust hanging, making breathing difficult. Bapcat waited for dark before visiting. He went on foot, leaving Zakov back at the hill. Hannula had not called since his release from jail. Had Cornelio Mangione and Tristan Shunk smelled trouble and backed off? It had been a week since union members had started voting. The deer-kill scheme should be at full boil, but not a word from Hannula. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

Bapcat watched the house from cover and saw Hannula's wife Mayme, but not her husband. He made sure Mayme saw him before he approached the house. She had stepped onto her small porch to smoke her pipe.

“Evening,” he whispered.

“He ain't here,” she said. “He come back one night, had what he wanted, told me next day he's going hunting, and he ain't come back since. I asked him, Ain't you had enough trouble? 'Course, he just swore at me, told me to mind my own woman business. I told him I guess my woman business was good enough last night when he was atop me.”

“Did your husband say where he was going to hunt?”

“Got only the one place I know of, over to Black Creek Canyon. Case you care, he ain't took a rough hand to me since he come back. 'Course, was just one night, and he got something he likes real good. Truth is, me too. Don't know what you done said to him, but for now, it works good.”

Mayme Hannula had once been an attractive woman. Did her husband beat her to make her unattractive to other men? Had she given him reason? Or did he think the Good Book told him to beat her?
Not important. Keep your focus.

He considered fetching Zakov and the truck, but decided to walk to Hannula's camp, which was less than five miles away.

•••

There were squirrel and hare bones in a cold fire pit outside Hannula's cabin. The door was open, but there was no sign of the Finn. Bapcat checked the cache of deer along the creek, smelling it because of the humidity and heat. Ungutted, they had bloated and would no doubt explode.
Something wrong here. Wait for light. Get help
.

Arriving back at the hill around 3 a.m. Bapcat saw a Model A parked behind the truck and stepped inside the house to find Jaquelle Frei drinking tea, while Zakov snored in a chair, looking like he would fall over at any moment.

“Good God, do you always keep such dreadful hours?” the widow demanded to know.

“Sometimes I'm out all night.”

“Good thing we are not knotted matrimonially or I might well be harboring jealous notions. Your schedule is not good practice for the enhancement of connubial bliss.”

“Like you said, good thing we're not married. What do you want, Jaquelle?”

“I have to go to Chicago for a spell, so thought I would pay a visit on my way south. You know, assist you in erasing some debt.”

Bapcat pointed at the Russian and gave her a look meant to say, Are you serious?

The Widow Frei smiled. “Sleeps like he's dead, 'specially with what I put in his tea.”

“There ain't even a real bed here, Jaquelle.”

“Oh hell, Lute—floors been around a lot longer than beds.” She was already undressing and looking for a place.

“What's in Chicago?” he asked.

“Suppliers' meeting,” she said kicking off a shoe. “The vote is in: The miners will strike if the operators refuse to meet. I'm hearing it's a sure thing, and I'm also hearing the big union is against the strike, but it will happen despite what the national boys in Denver want. My suppliers and vendors need to understand there will be some dark times in these parts—no more business as usual until this thing runs its course. I'm a major client for some of these people, and I'm going to call in a few favors to keep my business afloat.”

“They'll go along?”

“There's no right or wrong in business,” she said. “Just profit or loss.”

Later, entwined with him and sweating profusely, she said, “I always told myself I could take or leave this, but by God, Bapcat, I believe you have awakened in me a hunger of immense proportions, and some days I can think of nothing else. Care to offer an opinion on what that might mean?”

“I'm sure I don't know.”

She bit his earlobe hard. “Oh, you bloody well know, sir. You just ain't come to grips with the enormity of it yet. When do you have to go back to your work?”

“Early,” he said, trying to keep his breath even.

“Sakes alive, I'd better turn the crank on your motor and get us back to business,” she said, breathing heavily.

•••

He dozed afterward, wondering why it bothered him that she was going all the way down to Chicago. Just before giving in to deeper sleep, he admitted to himself that despite her difficult manners, this was a real nice way to relax and hit the hay, even if a man didn't have debt to work off.

But this was not a thought he'd allow himself to explore at length. His mind turned back to Enock Hannula.
Where is he?

41

Upper Black Creek Canyon

TUESDAY, JULY 15, 1913

The Borzoi severely angled an eyebrow as Widow Frei sashayed out the front door and Bapcat set a cup of hot coffee in front of the Russian. “Your vigilance leaves something to be desired,” Bapcat told the man, who looked bored.

“I find no intellectual fulfillment in trivial and mundane tasks,” Zakov countered.

“We've got work today.”

“I am not your lackey.”

“Hepting is going to meet us at Black Creek Canyon. I walked down to Allouez and used the telephone in Petermann's store. The sheriff's bringing a new deputy.”

“For what purpose is this exalted foray?”

“Not sure yet.” He hoped Hannula had not met with foul play, but he refused to speculate. Saying or thinking things sometimes caused what you were thinking about to happen. He knew this was pure superstition, but you couldn't change how you felt.

•••

The new Keweenaw County deputy turned out to be Chilly Taylor, who looked extremely nervous about his new promotion and badge.

Bapcat explained that according to Mayme Hannula, her husband had gone hunting a week ago and had not come home.

“If you hadn't stopped at the house, would Mayme have reported this?” Hepting asked.

Good question.
The game warden shook his head. He'd not thought of it, and had no way to know. Off to the side Zakov and Taylor were involved in quiet conversation.

They spread out, and it was the gingerly moving Zakov who found blood spatters near the cache. The Russian was using one crutch now and getting around all right most of the time. Bapcat was once again impressed with the man's toughness. A hundred yards farther downstream Taylor found a deer carcass stuck in a logjam. It had been shot once in the head, was bloated and putrid, sloughing off flesh and fur.

The four men sat on the rocks at streamside. “Carcass intended for the cache, you think?” Hepting posed.

“Let's look around carefully between the blood and where Chilly found the deer,” Bapcat said.

“If he needs only the heads to get paid, why does Hannula keep the rest of the deer parts?” Hepting asked.

“Could be that before we arrested him he planned to play both sides of the game; why else bring ice to the cache? Shoot the deer, get paid for their heads, then maybe sell the meat to those who'll pay? Claimed he'd eat them, but it wasn't convincing,” Bapcat said.

“That fits Hannula,” Hepting said.

“There will come a day when we will be able to examine blood and not only determine if it is animal or human, but from which exact human or animal,” Zakov declared.

“You damn fool,” Hepting said.

Chilly Taylor slapped his leg. “Steer clear of the breaky-leg, son.”

“It is a matter of prognosticating a future from the possibilities and probabilities now at hand,” Zakov insisted.

“Does the man talk this way all the time?” the new deputy asked Bapcat, who nodded.

The Russian said, “I think you are all sadly unfamiliar with Mr. Darwin's theories of natural selection, and what evolution portends for all living creatures.”

“Darwin,” Taylor said. “That damn fella who says we was once all monkeys?”

“A gross oversimplification,” Zakov said. “My point is that all species develop, and we are all different. I have no doubt there will come a fine day when lawmen depend more on science than their eyes, or those of faulty witnesses.”

“Darwin said all that?” Hepting asked.

“Mr. Darwin's seminal work has catalyzed my own original and inspired thinking.”

“He talking monkey or Russian?” Chilly Taylor asked.

“More nonsense than either,” Bapcat said.

But Hepting responded, “I guess I wouldn't be so fast to write off what the man thinks.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Zakov said. “Innovative thinking draws criticism the way feces draw flies.”

Chilly Taylor said, “And here I thought my whole life it was plain old shit brung flies.”

The men all laughed. “Let's get to it,” Bapcat said.

Hepting said, “That Zakov has lots of theories; how about you, Lute?”

Bapcat took a deep breath. “It could be that Hannula was dragging a dead deer up to the cache and someone did something to him. Might be useful if we can find where the deer was shot.”

“Might have been in the river,” Taylor said.

“Let's move,” Bapcat told them. “Evidence first, then guesswork.”

Hepting smiled. “Seems you're getting a handle on this police business.”

“New paint on an old building don't make it stronger,” Bapcat said. “I'm trying.”

“Don't underestimate yourself,” the sheriff said. “The last man in your job rarely left the confines of Red Jacket or Houghton.”

It was an hour later when Bapcat found a splatter of dry blood and followed it west to the road, where the trail disappeared.

The others gathered to look at the terminus. “Ideas?” Hepting asked.

“This isn't the deer,” Bapcat said. “I'm wondering if maybe there was a head shot and Hannula got dragged up here where he got dumped into something to haul him away.”

“Head shot?” Taylor asked.

“So much blood where this starts. Head wounds bleed, even lethal ones.”

“What next?” Hepting asked.

“I need time to think.” Bapcat looked at the sheriff. “We don't tell Mayme anything yet, right?”

“Nothing to tell,” Hepting said, agreeing. “All this is speculation.”

•••

Instead of Bumbletown Hill, Bapcat had Zakov drive them to the icehouse in Centennial. Taylor and Hepting headed for Eagle River.

“Look at any wagons here,” Bapcat told the Russian before going inside.

“For what?”

“Dried blood, anything not right.”

Bapcat asked a clerk inside if he could talk to Herman Gipp, but the clerk fled, and in his place, sales manager Celt Ogden appeared.

“Mr. Gipp is no longer employed by this establishment,” the man said gruffly.

“Since when?”

“That's not your business, young man.”

“There's no call for your tone of voice, Mr. Ogden.”

“I simply convey information. If you disapprove, that is, of course, your right. Now please leave this place of business; you're interfering with legal commerce.”

Zakov was beside the Ford with one crutch.

“Anything?” Bapcat asked.

“Not exactly. A young man out back said a wagon got demolished late last week. They'll use the wood to rebuild other conveyances.”

“Why break up that one?”

“The youth simultaneously proclaimed ignorance and his own suspicions. He insists the wagon wasn't old or broken—in fact, it was fairly new and in good repair, to his knowledge.”

“Who broke it up?”

“Ogden and another man, with black hair and a silver streak in back.”

“What day?”

“Wednesday or Thursday, he isn't entirely certain.”

“Did he show you the woodpile?”

“Says it's not on these premises. He says Ogden and the other man took the pile to the business's repair shop.”

“Which is elsewhere?”

“The boy told me Ogden's brothers also have an interest in this business, but they don't get along with people, so this Ogden runs things. The brothers build wagons at their place on the Heights, up Bumbletown Road, which, fortuitously, is on our way home.”

“Let's find a telephone,” Bapcat said.

He called Sheriff Hepting's house from the Centennial post office, but his wife said he was still out.

Ogden's brothers' place consisted of a pedestrian house, several outbuildings, and a large barn. Chickens wandered the grounds, as did two large brown hogs. Two black-and-white cows were tethered near the unpainted barn. Two large wagons were parked between the house and barn, and near the latter was a large pile of shattered wood fragments. No point searching without a warrant, so Bapcat got back into the Ford.

“Where to now, master?”

“Home.”

“You seem somewhat disquieted.”

“How I seem is none of your damn business.”

“I rest my case,” Zakov said with a cackle. “What every husband says to the spouse when he is frustrated.”

Bapcat slammed his door after turning the crank and setting the Krag in his lap. “Shut up and drive.”