Shadow of the Wolf Tree (31 page)

“Have you ever actually talked to the Art Lake people?”

“Only seen them at long range.”

“And you've never been on their property?”

Rigel Tahti stared at his boots. “What's the statute of limitations on trespass? Hell took me in there more than once. Like I said, he couldn't tolerate fences, and felt the territory was his to use.”

“Do you remember what you saw inside?”

“It was a long time ago and I was scared, sneaking in with him.”

“Still.”

“Big log building on a rocky hill, a pond created by the dam on the feeder creek, which is where we went in. There was a long skinny pond with little log cabins built along the banks, almost at the water's edge. Big brook trout in their pond.”

“Ergo, your grandfather's interest?”

“We took a lot of them out of there, that's for sure. He poached inside their fences all the time—his idea of payback, I guess. Hell was big on revenge when he felt he'd been wronged.”

“Did Hell ever tell you anything about the Art Lake people?”

“Called them Commies,” Rigel Tahti said. “Anybody who didn't think his way was a Red in his mind.”

A common attitude in Helveticus Tahti's heyday. “They ever come on to your property?”

“Not that I know of, but I haven't been out here that much.”

“You ever walk their perimeter?”

“Not with guards hanging around.”

“You've actually seen guards there?”

“I've heard their voices from time to time, but you can't see through their fence.”

“Where were you when they shot at you?”

“Northeast corner of my property.”

“You saw muzzle flashes?”

“No, but like I said, I heard both shots, and having been in Fallujah, you get a good feel for what's coming from where, or your ass ends up dead.”

“Did Art Lake have guards in your grandfather's day?”

“Yes, and word was they were always recruited from outside, never locals.”

“The guards live on the grounds?”

“Can't really say for sure.”

“How'd you and your grandfather get through their fence?”

“We paddled a canoe up from the Perch River, stashed it in the tags and cattails, and waded up to their outlet dam. The bottom was firm, the water shallow. Ukki said the amount of water coming over the dam was decreasing over the years. He wasn't sure why, but it really pissed him off to think they might dry up that pond and kill all those fish inside the fence. The dam was an easy way in, and I don't think the Art Lake people ever realized it was a weakness. Ukki specialized in exploiting the weaknesses of others.”

“I'm going to talk to the folks at Art Lake about the shots fired. You want to make out a formal complaint?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why'd you join the marines?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do. My dad served in Korea, my ukki in World War Two.
Ukki
was captured in the Battle of the Bulge and was a POW in Germany until 1945. He was a lawless SOB, but he was also a patriot. I think they both expected me to serve.”

“Write down what happened and I'll take it from there. Having your statement will help me to get a warrant if it comes to that.”
Which I hope it does.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” Rigel Tahti said.

“Want to show me where you were when the shots happened?”

Having seen the site, Grady Service concluded the Art Lake people had fired blindly, or, as Tahti thought, the shots were meant to warn. Either way, it had been reckless behavior, and Service knew he had grounds at least for a visit to Art Lake. Added to this, the old poacher's shack was inside the 450-foot no-hunting-or-shooting buffer law, which meant no shooting within that distance from occupied buildings without the occupant's permission. Of course, it could be argued that Tahti's shack wasn't fully occupied, but it was a wedge he could use, and he intended to do just that.

48

L'Anse, Baraga County

FRIDAY, JUNE 16, 2006

Pinky Barbeaux was jawing with a couple of his deputies when Service walked in. The deputies departed without being dismissed and Barbeaux offered him a seat and a cup of coffee, both of which he refused.

“The people at Art Lake took a couple of pot shots in the direction of Rigel Tahti,” said Service.

The sheriff showed no reaction.

“Someone needs to talk to the Art Lake people,” Service concluded. “It's more your bailiwick than mine.”

Barbeaux didn't move. “I think I prefer to leave the matter in your capable hands,” the sheriff said.

“You'll have an easier time getting inside than I will.”

“I won't argue that, but don't assume my getting in would be a gimme.”

“You won't be talking to Gorsline, letting him know I'm coming?”

“Whose team do you think I'm playing for?”

Service left the question unanswered.

Barbeaux added, “Gorsline sort of expects a heads-up on such things—a matter of courtesy.”

“And the price of new patrol vehicles?”

“That's not fair, Grady.”

“Fair or not, it's a fact. I understand your position, Sheriff, but you can always blame me after the fact for not being a team player.”

Barbeaux chewed on his bottom lip. “I won't call Gorsline, but have you got any notion of what can of worms you could be opening?”

Odd question. “Is there something you need to tell me, Pinky?”

“Just that we've got a nice balance in this county. Sometimes the status quo ain't all you'd want, but it's the best you can get.”

“I doubt my visit to Art Lake will create anything like a tipping point.”

The sheriff's face suggested deep skepticism.

49

Art Lake, Baraga County

FRIDAY, JUNE 16, 2006

Service considered several scenarios and decided to keep it low-key, a simple follow-up on a citizen complaint. As a precaution, he asked Kragie and del Olmo to hover in the area while he went inside.

Like the fence around the compound, the front gate was threaded with some kind of ballistic green fabric, which made it impossible to see inside. Service wondered who had the fence concession as he picked up a telephone from a box on a stripped cedar post and pressed a button.

“Who are you?” a female voice asked.

“Michigan Department of Resources, Detective Service.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but someone in there does—with me.”

“And who might that individual be?” the voice inquired without emotion.

Service growled. “It's not gonna go this way. I have a complaint of someone shooting firearms recklessly from inside this compound. If I have to get a warrant, I can play it that way, but if it goes that way, I won't be coming in alone. Right now I just want some questions answered, but I gotta tell you, your attitude is beginning to rub me the wrong way.”

“Please stand by,” the voice instructed. Service lit a cigarette and stared up at a surveillance camera staring down at him from a post above the gate. He wondered what sort of discussion was under way inside.

Friday called him on his cell while he waited. “Golden Lake doesn't open until a month after the trout-opener, late May through October first. There's a resident campground host couple all summer, but they don't start until just before Memorial Day. Mike and I talked to the host. He's retired and lives in Corpus Christi in the wintertime and comes up here summers with the wife. He said before and after official campground openings campers are still required to register and pay on the honor system. He says Ottawa National Forest personnel pick up the registrations and money. The host said not everybody follows the rules.”

“Anyone get paper on our boys?” Service asked. Campers in various Michigan campgrounds had to fill out camp registration forms and openly display them near their campsites. Passing national forest personnel, COs, deputies, or other officials tore off the bottoms of the forms and held onto them in case emergency notifications were needed. Over the years Grady Service had delivered bad news to too many camps to count.

Friday said, “Mike and I can call around and see if anybody might've.”

“That would be good.” Do the work, he reminded himself.
Do every little scut task, no matter how inconsequential it seems.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Waiting at the Art Lake gate.”

“You think they're going to let you in?”

“I think that question is under active discussion.”

“Have you got backup?”

“Kragie and del Olmo are in the area.”

Service heard a hum in the electric gate motor, said, “Later,” and closed his cell phone. A young woman with thick yellow hair squeezed through the gate opening and the gate immediately closed behind her. She wore frayed cutoffs and a white T-shirt emblazoned with the word
Oedipussy
.

“Detective, I'm Alyssa Mears, retreat coordinator. What can I do for you?”

Early thirties, small-boned, muscled, obviously fit; her dark blue eyes beamed directly at him, with no apparent anxiety over his presence. The closed gate suggested that her appearance was perfunctory, and that he was not going to be admitted. “We have a report of firearms being discharged from your property.”

“There are no firearms on this property, Detective, and even if there were, it is not illegal, I believe, to discharge weapons on private property.”

“It's not legal if the discharges endanger neighbors, or if the discharge is within the 450-foot buffer protecting other private property.”

“There are no neighbors near here,” the woman said.

“You're wrong. You have a security detail here.”

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“Don't play games with me.”

“We have security
technology
on the premises.”

“And if a breach is detected?”

“We would call 911 and notify the authorities.”

Petite, polite, polished,
resolute.
“The state requires that for a complaint such as this, I come onto the premises and investigate. I've already looked at events from the other party's perspective,” he said.

“I'm sorry, Detective, but you can't come inside. It's just not allowed.”

“Maybe so, but I have state laws to follow.” Her attitude pissed him off. “Call Gorsline and tell him what's going on. Tell him if I don't hear something PDQ, I'm going to call for a warrant, and we
will
be entering, with or without your consent.”

“A warrant based on a single individual's allegation?”

“That's the way the system works. We don't look lightly on the reckless use of firearms.”

“I must repeat, Detective: There are no firearms on the premises.”

“What we have here is something between intentionally aiming a firearm without malice and discharging a firearm without malice. Now if somebody intentionally fired a shot at an individual, the implications are different, and the charges would be far more serious.”

“I'm telling you, there are no firearms here. This is a wild goose chase—or is it something else? A fishing expedition?” she asked, staring hard at him.

“You also just told me that I'm here because of an allegation by a single individual,” Service said. “I never said how many people complained, or how often, which makes me think you know exactly what I'm talking about. And is there something inside I'd be interested in fishing
for
?”

“You said you had a report, singular. If there had been more than one, I assumed you would have chosen the plural. But you didn't. I'm a very good listener, Detective.”

“I guess this is going down the hard way,” he said, adding a theatrical sigh to suggest he didn't want to take the formal path.

“Do what you must, Detective.”

“How many people are on the premises at the moment?” he asked.

“That's privileged information,” Mears said.

“Well, tell them if anyone tries to leave, they will be detained and questioned. I want everyone who is here now to remain here until my business is concluded.”

The woman cocked her head, picked up the telephone, and commanded the gate to open, sliding through it as soon as it was wide enough to admit her slender frame. Service tried to peer past her, but she was too fast, and moved like a cat.

He called Kragie and told him what had happened. “I hate to tie up you guys, but I need you and Simon to sit on the front gate until I get the warrant.”

“Uncooperative, are they?” Kragie asked.

“But polite.”

“Lousy combo, polite and uncooperative. You want us just on the gate?”

“For now. I don't think they'll do anything until they talk to their lawyer.”

“Did you find Rigel Tahti?”

“I did. He's not like his
ukki.
”

“What the hell is that?” Kragie asked.