Strike Dog (40 page)
Authors: Joseph Heywood
“You brought the bag to let me know.”
Another curt nod. “You know how I said Joycie in da room dere dat day? I lied. It was Joanie. Couldn't let 'er reputation get mudded. You don't owe me nothin', sonny.”
Service knew he had heard most of the truth. He called Wink Rector and told him where to find Bonaparte's vehicle.
He sat on the curb and lit a cigarette. Limpy had brought finality to the case, and now he owed the old bastard, and the thought made him sick to his stomach.
EPILOGUE
NORTH OF NOWHERE CHIPPEWA COUNTY
SEPTEMBER 28, 2004
Summer was gone, the maples beginning to turn, tamaracks starting to yellow up, leaves already falling under the assault of seasonal rains and gusty northwest winds. Karylanne was installed in an apartment in Houghton and back in classes; Shark and Limey, and Gus, were acting as her extended family there.
The day before, Grady Service had held a memorial for Maridly Nantz and his son Walter. The Slippery Creek camp had been crammed with people, and there had been tears. As tragic as their deaths were, both Mar and Walter had been positive people, engaged with life and laughing at everything. After several people had spoken, he had tried to say something, but his voice and nerve had failed him. Tree had draped his arm around his shoulders, Karylanne moved over to hug him, and that had ended the ceremony, such as it was. Kalina had gone back to Detroit and Tree stayed, announcing he had finally decided to retire. He had been talking about it for years, and Service knew the only reason he'd delayed was Kalina didn't want him underfoot.
Grady Service was on a five-day furlough. Wink Rector told him that the FBI's push to punish Waco and him for using the animal drugs had been dropped. Wink didn't know why.
Wink added, “Bonaparte was the one. Pappas found some way into cyberspace and learned that Bonaparte had partnered with one Duane Royant, aka Rud Hud, aka Check Six.”
“Duane Royant?”
“The one you guys took down that night. He's the one who ran Nantz off the road. They got fingerprints off of the rental and matched the ones we got from him. Once the Bureau had a name, they were able to track Royant. He's Québecois, a former medical student at McGill University. Came across the border with false papers. He and Bonaparte hooked up, and Bonaparte was teaching him, and I quote, âto attain perfection.' Royant has no record, has never been in trouble, at least that we know of.”
“The same relationship Bonaparte had with Frankie Pey. Bonaparte was Marcel.”
“We couldn't find a Frankie Pey here at Northern, and we thought maybe your tip from Indiana was actually for Marquette the school, rather than the town, but that went nowhere, and as Pappas dissects Bonaparte's background, it isn't holding up. Apparently he looked fine and everything was copasetic when he joined the Bureau, but that was a long time ago and now we have better tools and it looks pretty much like his background was as bogus as an air castle. Pappas can't say that Bonaparte was Marcel, but she's digging deeper and so far there's no indication of a connection with Frankie Pey or Ney. But there's no doubt he and Royant are the killers in the second batch. Royant is probably not competent to stand trial, but they'll put him away somewhere for the rest of his life.”
“So what the fuck was this all about?”
Wink Rector exhaled. “Pappas thinks it's tied to his theory of the perfect serial murderer. Apparently he developed the notion early in his career and took a lot of shit for it.”
Service thought about this for a moment. “If he was Marcel, he'd know about what Frankie Pey had done.”
“Possibly,” Rector said.
“He picked game wardens because we're both the easiest and the most difficult. We work alone and where there aren't witnesses. ”
Rector nodded. “Could be.”
“Maybe he realized his perfect killer notion wasn't being bought so he used Royant to reveal the first groupâan attempt to make some believers.”
Service wished they knew more, but he knew from experience that the end of a case was often less than complete, as was justice. Unless his gut was wrong, one of the killers was dead, this thing was over. For him, though, it would never be over. Nantz and Walter weren't coming back.
Â
He and Tree spent all morning working with a chain saw on fallen trees near his camp. He had not worked seriously on the camp for three years, and it needed attention and care, including a wood supply for the stove for winter. They had split wood by hand ax and enjoyed the sweat. Since the death of Tatie Monica, he had gone back to working out with weights every morning. The small amount of fat he had accumulated was gone; all that remained was muscle, and he felt strong.
After a three-hour drive they were at the end of a long, pocked, and twisty two-track, staring at a camp gate. A sign on a tree said
north of nowhere
.
As Bowie Rhodes had promised, Service's code opened the lock. Newf bolted ahead of the truck as they drove a quarter-mile along the edge of a cedar swamp up onto a finger of hard ground that pointed north. The cabin was tidy and small and glowing orange in the afternoon sun. They parked the truck and began to unload. “You think there's fish here?” Tree asked.
“Bowie Rhodes wouldn't have a camp where there wasn't fish,” Service said.
They got their gear into the cabin and Tree climbed up into the loft. “Two beds,” he called down.
“Floor down here is good for me,” Service said.
They filled their fishing vests with trapper sandwichesâpeanut butter, jelly, honey, and oatmeal, assembled their rods, and started north into the swamp, the dog leading the way, sniffing everything. Service had talked to Rhodes at the memorial.
“Walk north along the wall of cedars,” the writer had said with a teasing smile.
They walked for nearly twenty minutes, saw a line of trees that looked like they had been planted, and stopped. Service heard moving water. Another fifty yards on they came to a small, deep creek. Tree moved to the bank and looked down. “Lordy,” was all he said as he stripped line off his reel and roll-casted against a log up stream.
A brook trout struck on the first cast; not just any brook trout, but a fat, foot-long fish, gleaming with fall spawning colors, orange and blue and red and green.
Service said, “I'll be right back.”
Treebone caught two more fish before his friend returned, carrying the ashes of Nantz and Walter.
“What're you doing?”
“Nantz and I talked about death only once, and she told me to sprinkle her ashes in the most beautiful place I saw.”
“This is it?” his friend asked.
“No, but if I sprinkle a little of them at every beautiful spot I find, they'll be able to enjoy all of them and not be stuck with one view.”
“You need serious professional help,” Treebone said, holding out a beefy fist.
Service tapped his fist against his friend's and grinned.
“Don't it bother you, leaving some of their ashes here? Who's gonna look after them?”
“You are,” Service said.
“Me?”
“It's your camp.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Bowie sold it to me, and I'm giving it to you. For everything we've been through together. Now you got a place to give Kalina some space.”
“North of Nowhere,” Treebone said quietly, tears in his eyes.
It was a term game wardens used to describe their typical situations: off the grid and alone, a place without specific reference, but with meaning for every man and woman who had ever worn green and gray.
Grady Service made a cast, caught one fish, released it, got the ashes, and sprinkled some from each box in the spot.
Treebone stood next to his friend with his head bowed as the ashes fluttered to the water and were absorbed into the flow, which would carry them north.