Strike Dog (14 page)

He remembered standing numbly at his own father's grave. There had been no children singing the day they buried his old man, only a bugle and rifle shots as snow wafted across the gray November landscape. There had been shock more than sadness, a sudden void where a partial void had been before, his father working most of the time and rising to legendary status.

The six men used the ropes to lower Elray Spargo's coffin into the grave. One of the men helped Cotton Spargo climb down, and handed him a screwdriver as he slid the lid in place and tightened the screws. When the dead man's father had finished, the men helped him out of the hole, and the preacher went into his ashes-to-ashes, dust-to-dust routine, and the crowd began to sing “Good-bye Until We Meet Again.”

There was nothing rehearsed about any of this, nothing fake or forced, and Service felt himself enveloped in real community and family, and he found himself fighting back sobs with people he doubted he'd even recognize six hours from now. A steel-eyed Eddie Waco squeezed Service's arm.

The mourners dropped rocks and soil into the six-foot-deep hole until it was full. A wheelbarrow full of black dirt was dumped on top, and a dozen small children began tamping the dirt with their bare feet. Service looked at the pattern of footprints and saw young life walking on new death. He ­couldn't watch and turned away.

Fiannula Spargo watched her father-in-law hammer a small oak cross into a dirt mound and pile stones around it for support. She bent down, placed Elray's sweat-stained service cap on top, joined her hands, and straightened up. “All y'all come on back ta the house an' eat afore ev'thin' spoils.”

What did a game warden's career reduce to? A lifetime of unending responsibity and duty, Service thought, then ashes to ashes, dirt to dirt, and all that remained was an old baseball cap perched on a rough-hewn cross, pounded into hard ground. He told himself he would rather be left where he fell to feed the wolves and coyotes and ravens and crows. It was too damned hard to put the living through this. His old man's funeral had been a circus, mourning a drunk run down by a drunk. But this was different. It had quiet, simple dignity, an acceptance of death as part of the cycle of life, even if it was sudden and from the hand of an animal. Maybe he had been selfish in not holding services for Maridly and Walter. It was an unsettling thought.

“Ready to work, Michigan Man?” Eddie Waco asked, interrupting Service's thoughts.

Service nodded and followed the Missouri conservation agent.

The man seated on the rock ten yards from the grave had a plaster cast on his lower left leg and a sling holding up his left arm. From a distance he was youthful-looking, with windblown, corn-colored hair. Up close he looked ancient and battered, with a ruddy complexion and crooked teeth that jutted out from lips grooved like licorice twists. There were two empty plates on the ground by the rock.

“We knew you'n was feelin' poorly, some of the boys woulda hepped draw you up closer, Cake,” Eddie Waco said.

“I heared what got said,” the man said. “Cain't face the widder and them young 'uns. You know was a time I took the fever, and Elray carried me home, and he and Fi and them kids done ministered ta me. They even got the Cherokee ta drive his buggy up and have a look. They had me in thet house goin' on a month—just like I was kin.”

“You and Elray was close,” Eddie Waco said supportively.

The man sighed. “I got the shame upon me.”

Service heard the patter of raindrops on the oak leaves overhead and knew that if the rain came hard enough, it would leak through once the leaves were soaked.

“How's that, Cake?”

“What happened to Elray.”

“Ya'll thinkin' hit's yore fault?”

The man nodded. “Shou'n'ta happened.”

“You were with 'im, was you?”

“Made me stay back, but I seen what was done.”

“You seen it happen?”

“I seen afterwards.”

“After he met someone,” Eddie Waco said.

“Yessir.”

“You know who he met or what it was about?”

“I never seen the man and he wouldn't say. Jes said hit was official.”

“Thim his words?”

“'Zackly how he done said.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“Nossir. He done tole me stand tight for an hour less'n I heard a ruckus.”

“And you waited.”

“I always done what Elray asked.”

“I know you did, Cake. Did you find him where you thought he'd be?”

“Said he'd be by the old bat cave camp, but he weren't.”

“You found him at the abandoned Hurricane Creek Camp.”

Waco pronounced the word
hur-a-cun,
and it took a second for Service to interpret.

“He was gone,” Cake Culkin said, looking off in the distance. He took a deep breath. “I peeked quick and run,” he said.

“Did you see anyone?”

“I just lit out and hit me a tree and whanged my shoulder and fell down a drop-off an' busted a bone in mah leg. Cracked it like a dry stick. Had to wait till first light to make me a splint and find a stick to hold on to, and then I come direckly here.”

“When was this?”

Culkin looked up, like he was trying to recall. “Four days ago?”

“You hain't sure, Cake?”

“Like I said, I done hiked on over to Cotton's thet next day, an' me an' him done told Fi, and Cotton a'hauled me on over to the Cherokee's in his wagon, and the Cherokee popped my shoulder back in an' put that dang plaster on my leg. Ask Cotton when it was I come.”

“You walked all that way on a broke bone?” Eddie Waco asked.

The man looked up at them. “Thet day I got out a jail, I went right out to my pap's and got me my twinny-two and went out and shot me a turkey to take over to my gal. I called a big ole Tom right in and put 'im down neat and quick. When I got over to thet bird, old Elray stepped out and grabbed a'holt a' my arm. He sit me down and lit up 'is pipe. Elray done said he was mighty perplexed about what to do with the likes a' me. He said he didn't want to send me back to jail since I'd just been gone six months. But he didn't feel like he could trust me, he said.”

Cake Culkin paused. “Ole Elray finally says, ‘Let's us do this with honor. Right here, right now, man to man. You c'n whup me, you go right on shootin' and fishin' whenever you a-want. I whup you and you'n never break the law again.'” Cake paused again, obviously reliving the moment. “Elray was a big ole boy with considerable grit, but I was on the wiry side myseff and I had me some nasty scraps and allus handled what got throwed my way. So I said, ‘It's a deal.' We spit on our hands and shaked, fair and square. Then my head done exploded and I could feel I was goin' out and all I could see was Elray's eyes. I swear, he was
enjoyin'
whuppin' me near to death. Next thing I knew the Cherokee was a-tendin ta my face. He done sewed me up and Elray took me to my kin and give 'em thet turkey, too. For that man, I'd a' crawled to his kin with my head cut off.”

“You become his pine shadow.”

Cake Culkin nodded. “I never broke the law once, all them years—not that I weren't tempted time to time—but when I seen him dead like that, I run like a yella dog.”

Eddie Waco patted the man's back. “You're no coward, Cake. You backed up ole Elray for twinny years, and the two of you'n barely got through some of them times. He was here now, he'd say you done right by 'im. You'n done what he asked and you'n cain't ask a shadow more'n thet.”

“I cain't face the widder,” Cake said.

“Sure you can,” Eddie Waco said. “And soon as thet laig gets healed up, you gon' be my shadow; that sound okay by you, Cake?”

“I'll jes let you down,” the man whispered, studying the ground.

“You'n do and I'll put a whuppin' on y'all make you'n think what Elray done give you'n was a schoolmarm's slap. You with me?”

“Sir, I reckon,” the man said, nodding unenthusiastically.

The two game wardens helped the man walk to the house and set him down with the widow, who hugged him. They left them talking, with the kids gathered round. Service saw that the kids had great affection for Cake Culkin.

“State's never got money for enough agents,” Waco explained. “Was Elray come up with the idee of shadows—unofficial helpers. Cake there was a young man when Elray took 'im on, poachin' since he was tin. Not a better man in the woods, and he never did break the law again—leastways not that Elray or any of the rest of us knew.”

Michigan had used unarmed volunteer conservation officers—VCOs—for many years. They had twenty or so hours of training and worked for free. Last fall Chief Lorne O'Driscoll had canceled the program because the state's lawyers felt there were substantial liability issues. A lot of officers were still complaining about the decision. Two sets of eyes always beat one set, and two bodies at night served as a deterrent when violets turned frisky or vicious.

“The state knows about shadows?”

“Not officially, and ain't nothin' writ down on paper,” Waco said, “but a body don't rise to top dog less'n he works his way up. It just don't get talked about . . . officially or unofficially. I believe Elray even done give some of his pay to Cake, but I hain't sure on thet. Wouldn't surprise me none, though.”

The widow came over to them. It had been raining off and on since the funeral and the field was muddy. She carried two cups of coffee and handed them to the men.

“You'n not a G-man?” the woman said to Service.

“No, ma'am. I'm just along to see if I can help.”

“You want to hep, find him which murdered my husband,” she said. She held up a large cloth sack and Service looked inside. It was the horse headdress with the tall black plumes.

“Each a' them feathers rep'sents a Spargo done fell in service to his country. Most of 'em was durin' the wars—One, Two, Korea, Vietnam. Elray's the first lawman in the clan, and he deserves his feather, but I cain't put it in till we know justice's been done. You get things took care of, you bring 'em back, and I'll know.”

Grady Service tried to return the bag to her, but she pushed it back at him. “Let it remind you what it is you got to do,” she said.

Her sweet scent overwhelmed him, and all he could do was nod as she marched away to talk to others.

“What is that perfume?” Service asked.

“Plumgranny, not perfume,” Eddie Waco said after a theatrical sniff. “Bin around as a sweet scent since the time a' Shakespeare, I hear.”

“Does she actually think I can do something about finding her husband's killer?”

“Seems to me, you'n the one holdin' the bag,” Eddie Waco said, grinning and looking down. “You done been made Elray Spargo's champeen, and thet hain't no little thing in these here parts.”

Service rolled his eyes and muttered, “Just great.”

15

WEST PLAINS, MISSOURI
MAY 26, 2004

The glassed-in lobby of the hospital in West Plains had the sharp angle of a ship's bow. Service found Special Agent Tatie Monica in a single room, in bed, flat on her stomach.

She craned to look over her shoulder and glared. “They stole our body.”

“They?”

“Them, they, somebody. Our evidence is gone.”

She was a very unhappy fed. He said, “You mean the man's family? They didn't steal him, they buried him.”

“Some damn hillbilly sheriff carried it away in a helicopter,” she said. “Without authorization, which is tampering with and impeding a federal investigation.”

She wasn't listening. “He did it for the family, and relax—I know where he is.”

“You know? You
know!
Jesus, why didn't you stop them?” she asked.

Service got a chair, pulled it around so she could see him, and sat down with the back of the chair against his chest. “They have some pretty firm convictions about how and when they bury their dead.” He didn't reveal Agent Eddie Waco's role in what had happened.

She rolled her eyes and clenched her fists.

“You'll heal faster if you stay calm,” Service said.

“I'm trying to find a murderer, some hillbilly sheriff ganks my evidence and . . . and
now
I'm getting health advice from a man who makes his living chasing people who chase
animals!
”

“Add fish, and that's a pretty good job description,” he said.

The agent let loose a hiss of anguish. “I want
out
of this fucking place!”

“Who's stopping you?”

“They had to do surgery.”

“I thought you said no cutting.”

“Bite me,” she shot at him.

“You brought it up.”

She looked at him through tight eyes. “No bull, you
really
know where the body is?”

“I was at the funeral.”

“I can't believe you didn't stop them,” she keened.

“I also met a man who saw the body right after the killing.”

Special Agent Monica sucked in a breath. “Don't shit me,” she whispered, propping herself up on her elbows.

“Truth,” he said. “He was the dead man's pine shadow.”

She rolled her eyes again. “English, Service. What the
fuck
is a pine shadow?”

“Down here it's an unpaid volunteer partner to a conservation agent. Other places it's probably the darkness behind and below a tree when the sun shines on it.”

She grimaced and switched on a professional tone. “This guy told you something?”

“Not yet.” Cake Culkin had been in no shape for cogent thought, much less a penetrating interview.

“But he will?”

“That's the plan.”

“Jesus,” she complained. “Does the lead agent get to know this plan?”

“That's why I'm here,” he said.

“Visitors are supposed to boost a patient's spirits and confidence.”

“Real confidence comes from within,” he said.

“Are you pathologically objective?”

“When I need to be.”

“I don't like how this is playing out,” Agent Monica said. “Two kills so close in time—that's never happened before.”

“Maybe he's in a hurry.”

“This guy doesn't make mistakes: He's unbelievable. We're taught that the average murderer makes at least two dozen mistakes. This guy hasn't made any so far . . . but it could be his psychosis is deepening,” she said, almost to herself.

“We've got a potential witness here and the kill site in Wisconsin. Those're mistakes, and maybe there are more.”

“And?” she said impatiently.

“Wayno's body was warm and wet. Thorkaldsson could have walked up on the killer, which means his timing was off, his source of information and calculations not what they've been, right? And he didn't bother to collect the fishing gear, which led us to the kill site. There's bound to be more if we look in the right place, and ask the right questions.”

She looked at him for a long time before covering her eyes with a forearm and moaning loud enough to concern him. “You want me to call a nurse?”

Tatie Monica struggled to sit up and hissed, “I want
out
of here. I've been after this asshole for three years, and now that he's accelerating I am not going to lay here like of leg of ham.”

“Lamb,” Service said. “Leg of lamb, not ham.”

“Lamb, Spam,” she grumbled.

“Is that what happens in these cases—the killers speed up?”

“This one defies generalization,” she said. “I've insisted all along that man is an imperfect animal. Locard's exchange principle tells us that when two things come in contact, each will leave something behind. There has to be
something
this guy is missing,
has
to be.” She looked at him. “What's the plan?”

“Agent Waco is with the witness. When you're ready to leave, we'll go see them.”

She pointed at a wall locker. “My clothes are in there.”

“You were sorta short on clothes last time I saw you.”

“My people brought more stuff.”

He took out slacks, a blouse, and boots, and set them on the chair.

She managed to swing her legs down to the floor and sit up, but not without a lot of puffing and contorted faces. He pushed the chair down the side of the bed so that it was in front of her.

“You sure you want to do this?”

She said, “Stop gawking and get out.”

He stepped outside the room to find Special Agent Larry Gasparino carrying two Styrofoam cups. Service blocked the door. “She's getting dressed.”

“They're kicking her loose?” the young agent asked.

“In a manner of speaking. You got off the river okay?

“We had to use chain saws and axes all the way down. How is she?”

“Testy,” Service said.

“Normal, then.”

“She thinks things are falling apart.”

Gasparino stared at him. “Optimism isn't part of her genetic wiring.”

“Perfectionist?”

“Tendencies, but usually she knows when she goes too far.”

“Pressure's getting to her,” Service said.

“The list is her safety valve,” the agent said.

List? “We all gotta believe in something,” Service said, “and a list is as good as anything.” What was Gasparino inadvertently disclosing?

“So far,” Gasparino said. “Not that it's put us ahead of the game.”

A
list of what?
He knew he couldn't ask directly. Gasparino had let something slip and didn't seem to realize it. “Been with her long?”

“January,” the man said. “Fucking Wisconsin winters. We got people in our office who pray for thirty below for Packer games, and I'm talking, like,
out-fucking-doors!
They paint their man-boobs in Packer green and go to the frigging games
shirtless
. Is that supposed to be normal, or what?” The man shook his head.

“Monica good to work for?”

“Better than I thought she'd be,” Gasparino said.

Service saw a flash of panic in the man's eyes. Rule one for feds: Never talk outside school.

He backed off and told himself he needed to know more about the list but didn't want to spook the young agent.

“You talk to the agent holding down the site in Wisconsin?”

“Bobbi?” He shook his head again. “I've been too busy securing what we brought down the river. Then I slept like a dead man. I thought chain saws were supposed to make wood cutting fast and easy.”

Service nodded sympathetically. Were any of the agents focused on the big picture in this case? “That storm was bad.”

“I was in the city on 9/11,” Gasparino said. “Not near Ground Zero, but it was scary enough. This was worse.”

The disaster in New York City had become the standard for measuring the magnitude and meaning of all disasters and atrocities, Service thought. People who survived natural disasters had similar respect in the aftermath. Gasparino was young and seemed earnest, but he was also green. He had mentioned the list on the unwarranted assumption that Service was in the loop, and his gut told him he'd better quickly find a way into it.

Tatie Monica limped gingerly out of her room and started down the hall with the two men flanking her. “This turns out to be bullshit . . . ,” she muttered, not finishing her statement.