Shadow of the Wolf Tree (5 page)

8

Tunis, South Baraga County

FRIDAY, MAY 19, 2006

Detective Friday had so far determined that there were eight major razor wire manufacturers in the United States, all of their output contracted to the Defense and Homeland Security departments since January 2004, which suggested the wire had been acquired before then, or stolen since. The state crime lab had analyzed the chemical composition of the blackening agent: red oak bark mixed with carbon. Apparently some unnamed, hush-hush military units used the same process to blacken wire, but end-uses and units were classified. Friday was now talking to manufacturers to determine if there had been thefts since the government contracts took effect. Predictably, none of the manufacturers were in Michigan. The state had once been a world center of major and minor manufacturing, but those times were long past, and unlikely to ever return; and with gas prices rising steadily, the tourism industry was tanking.

Next, Tuesday Friday would go to DOD and DHS, which Service suspected would be an empty exercise on her part. Unless there had been a major theft, small quantities of all kinds of things had a way of walking out the doors of factories and businesses, not to mention government agencies at all levels.

Mike Millitor had traced the shotguns, minus serial numbers (no surprise), to Blunt Dog Arms of New Haven, Connecticut, which produced the model between 1961 and 1980, at which time the company had declared Chapter 11 and disappeared. A blind alley, except that Millitor learned the metal used in the first ten years of the weapon's production was unable to sustain modern shotgun loads, which had to be hand-loaded. Hand loads meant somebody knew about weapons, and the fact that the razor wire had been coated once again suggested the possibility of a trapper's involvement, or someone with trapping knowledge.

It was a slow grind, not atypical of most cases, but a start nevertheless, and Tuesday Friday had calmed down. She was a bulldog, and optimistic, and he liked working with her.

Genova had called two days earlier to report that she had convinced Frodo the Finn to meet with him today at 11 a.m.

He was driving south of Watton on Tunis Road when he heard a call on the 800 megahertz. “Twenty Five Fourteen, Three Two One Niner. Now who's
lost
?”

Denninger! He made a quick decision. “Busy?”

“Not for you.”

He pulled over to the side of the road. “I'll wait.”

Minutes later she was getting into his truck with him. “What's this about?” she asked.

“Nosiness.”

She gave him an innocent look. “I just
happened
to look at my AVL. I'm learning my way around the county.”

Might be true, might not,
he told himself.
She's a friend. Cut her some slack.
“I've got someone I hope can give us information about LF Two. A friend arranged it. The guy's a felon and former activist, did seven years for blowing up a resort in Colorado.”

“Maybe you should go alone,” she said.

He appreciated the gesture. “Your observations would be good. Four eyes are better than two.”

“I'm in uniform, you're not.”

“It's okay,” he said, knowing she had a point. Some people tended to get jumpy or uptight around uniforms.

The address was a fire number off Northwest Tunis Road. Exactly where Tunis was, he still had no idea, but guessed it was probably an old railroad stop on the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul and Pacific Line, and his guess proved correct. There was no gate across the entrance—unusual for camps so far out in the bush. Neither were the trees on the property perimeter plastered with no trespassing signs. The two-track had muddy ruts, with a grass hump down the middle. No fresh vehicle tracks showed in the dirt. The road stretched west through a mature aspen grove. The house at the end of the drive was made of ancient black logs, but the roof was green metal, obviously new, and pricey, easily thirty or forty K. No owner's name on the mailbox, no wacky camp name; the place felt sterile. Garden beds flanked the house, the earth in them freshly turned over. Too early to plant. There could be heavy frosts into late June. He had once been caught in a daylong snowstorm in the Mosquito Wilderness Tract on Independence Day.

Grady Service stepped onto the porch and knocked. After a minute or so a voice from the side of the house said, “Is it that time already?” The man was in his mid-forties, thin, wore coveralls and no shirt. His arms were black with dirt to his elbows. His head was shaved clean and he had thick black eyebrows that looked like they had been drawn on with some sort of makeup pencil. He looked freaky. “You Service?” the man asked, still standing at the corner.

“Yessir. Mr. Lidstrom?”

“Who is
that
?
” the man demanded, with a glance at Denninger.

“New officer in Baraga County. She's out meeting people.”

Denninger walked toward the man and stuck out her hand. “I'm Dani.”

The man took a step backwards. “Why can't you cops keep things simple? I explicitly told Dr. Genova I'd talk to one cop, not two.”

“I can take the truck and come back,” Denninger offered.

The man scowled. “I guess you can stay. Just don't snoop around.”

“Not a problem,” Denninger said, trying to make eye contact with Service.

“I'm working in my greenhouse,” the man said, pivoting and walking toward the back of the house.

The two officers followed. Service saw a small security camera mounted on the eaves of the house roof.

The greenhouse was large, fifteen by forty feet long, bags of peat piled in back, rows of red clay pots on the floor, some of them full. There were clumps of loose peat spilled all over the floor.

“No shoots?” Denninger asked.

“They're under lights in the basement at the house.”

“I wish I had a green thumb,” she said. “I always wanted to grow plants.”

“Learn on your own, the way I had to,” Lidstrom said sharply.

“I wasn't suggesting—”

“Sure you were. I know how cops think.” The man turned to Service. “Dr. Genova said you're a good man, and fair. You've got some questions?”

“Let Fish Live Free. Heard of it?”

“I still support and follow the environmental movement. I've read about the group.”

“What's your view on fishing?”

“I eat fish—does that answer your question? What is it you're after?”

“I'm trying to get a feel for the group.”

“Their anti-fishing gig is a sidebar, a nonproductive non sequitur in the movement.”

“How's that?”

“Reckless development, sprawl into animal and plant habitat, the rape of natural resources, lethal pollution, global warming: I assume you're familiar with the core issues.”

“I am,” Service said. “Sadly.”

“Someday there'll be condos all over the side of Mount Everest,” Lidstrom said, adding, “That's hyperbole, not a prediction.”

“You consider bombing a resort hyperbole?”

“That was a statement; nobody got hurt.”

“A potentially deadly statement.”

“Lots of background noise, clutter, short public attention spans. It costs money to be creative and capture the media's attention.”

“I guess you accomplished that. You're lucky no one got hurt.”

Lidstrom stared off in the distance. “Wasn't luck. If I'd wanted a body count, there would have been a body count.” The man looked at his feet. “It was dumb, but I did it, I admitted it, and I paid for it.”

Lidstrom sounded contrite—and something else Service couldn't quite peg. “While others walked.”

The man sighed. “Why is it so difficult to think one man lacks competence to do something on his own?”

“Footprints, for one thing.”

“Planted by the feds, or someone,” Lidstrom said, “to make it look like I had help.”

“You don't get the credit if you're one of many,” Service said.

“I didn't plan to get caught.”

“But you confessed to Detective Orly.”

Lidstrom showed real attention for the first time. “How is she?”

“Retired.”

“She treated me with respect and dignity. She was the only one.”

“She had your fingerprints.”

“The FBI had one partial,” Lidstrom said. “Off a detonator part. I thought the heat would take care of the evidence.”

“It didn't.”

“Which is why I confessed. Obviously I'm not cut out to be the lone wolf eco-superhero.”

“What got you into the movement?”

“That's a very long story. Maybe I should write my memoirs.”

“About seeing the light or being drawn into the darkness?”

Lidstrom smiled. “That's pretty good. Most cops trying to suck up for information avoid making value judgments. Dr. Genova said you were straightforward and blunt. I think the point is my finding the light, don't you?”

“I guess I never thought of right and wrong as a voyage of self-discovery.”

“Granted,” Lidstrom said.

“Why here . . . in Tunis?”

“I grew up just down the road, in Sidnaw. My old man and his brothers had the family camp here.”

“Now it's yours?”

“Not mine. A friend owns it. He lets me stay here.”

“Must be a good friend.”

“Any more questions? I've got work to do.”

“I hoped to get a name, someone who could provide insight into the anti-fishing movement.”

“Sorry, I can't help you. That life's behind me. Can I get back to work?”

“What do you grow?” Denninger said, interrupting.

“Basil, Thai peppers, dill weed—mostly herbs.”

“You sell them?”

“Some. The rest I give to friends. No dope, if that's what you're driving at.”

“You use?” Service asked.

“I have. Now I meditate. It's a lot more effective.”

Service stopped as he stepped out of the greenhouse and turned around. “Where'd you learn to handle explosives?”

“Self-taught, like everything else,” the man said.

Back in the truck Denninger said, “Nice brows. You catch what he said?”

“Yeah. He acted surprised that we were there, but I got the feeling he'd been waiting and watching. You see the security camera? I think the dirty arms were for effect,” said Service.

“What do you make of him? He kept saying he understands how cops think, and from what I saw, he does.”

“Don't know yet what to think.”

“You want help?” she asked.

“All I can get.”

She grinned and said in a low voice, “Good thing I happened to look at the AVL, eh?”

“Do me a favor? Creep his place tonight, see what vehicles he has—you know the drill.”

“Yes, boss. This is just like old times. Makes me want to rip off my gear right here, right now.”

“Please don't go there, Dani.”

“Just teasing,” she said unconvincingly.

“Don't. You meet Kragie yet?”

“We talked on the phone.”

Service checked his watch. “You want to grab lunch, see if he can join us?”

“Works for me.”

He dropped Denninger at her truck and got on the cell phone to Kragie. “Had lunch yet?”

“Not even breakfast.”

“Denninger and I are headed toward L'Anse. You want to meet us at the Hilltop?”

“You buying?”

“Sure.”

“Be there in thirty minutes.”

• • •

Service and Denninger parked their trucks beside the restaurant, which faced US 41, the main route between Marquette and Houghton. The restaurant was famous for one-pound cinnamon rolls, with enough sugar to plug a moose's arteries. The place was homey and well-lit inside.

Kragie came in after they'd ordered coffee and plopped down at the table. He was forty, had fifteen years on the job, and tended to be self-contained, almost a loner. He was also famous for his frugality.

“You two have talked on the phone,” Service said.

Kragie nodded at Denninger.

“Shall we order?” Service said.

Denninger got a tuna salad, Kragie two cinnamon rolls. Service ordered coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich on limpa rye, with lots of dill pickle slices on the side.

“You got it, hon,” the waitress said, ignoring Junco Kragie.

“The waitress not your fan?” Service asked.

“I probably stroked one of her relatives.”

“Or you tip for shit,” Service said.

“We don't get tips—why should a waitress?”

Service saw Dani's right eyebrow flutter.

“You know a place called Art Lake?” Service asked.

“Know where it is. Never been inside.”

“Some sort of artist colony?” Service asked.

“The locals call it Pussy Pond. It's not on maps and not on our AVL.”

“How come?”

“No idea. Ask the USGS, I guess.”