Chasing a Blond Moon (34 page)

26

Service awoke to find Newf where Nantz should have been. When he looked at the clock and saw that it was noon, he kicked off the covers and limped downstairs. He had more aches this morning than when he went to bed. He smelled something cooking, and Newf smelled it too as she bulled past him, nearly knocking him down the stairs.

He went into the kitchen, looked at the pot on a front burner, sniffed.

“White wine onion soup,” Nantz said. “Twelve minutes to touchdown.”

She put on a lavender oven mitt decorated with pale blue and yellow forget-me-nots, turned, hugged him, patted his butt, and gently hipped him out of the way. He stood with her, watching her stir in julienned carrots and remove a cookie sheet from the oven. She cooked as efficiently and confidently as she flew a plane. There were thick pieces of toast on the sheet and the scent of garlic engulfed the room. She took off the oven mitt.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Pants would be a move toward civilized,” she said with a smirk and a downward glance. She began to rub each piece of toast with the cut side of a garlic clove, drizzle on some olive oil, and add a small slice of Gruyère cheese.

She pointed the oven mitt at him once again. “Trou.”

The meal was on the table when he came back downstairs. Bloody Marys in tall glasses were in place, with feathers of celery sticking out like flags.

They ate slowly, relishing flavors.

“Politicians eat miserably,” Nantz said. “Always on the run, odd times. I'm surprised they don't all weigh three hundred pounds.”

“Like Clearcut?” he said. Sam Bozian waddled with splayed feet.

“Sam's always had a metabolic problem,” she said. She had known the governor since she was a child.

“He could jack up his rate by moving his ass once in a while.”

She rolled her eyes and said, “Meow.”

At the hospital Nantz and Kate Nordquist talked on about Lorelei Timms and her wardrobe and the practical concerns of campaigning day after day. Service went downstairs to have a cigarette.

Gutpile Moody rolled up in his truck, got out and yawned.

“All-nighter?”

“We had a plane over the Garden last night, bagged six shiners.” Officers sometimes employed group patrols and sent a light plane overhead to look for jack-lighting activity at night. When lights were seen, the plane's pilot directed officers on the ground to the site. The method had become so effective that in some areas poachers had taken to working in broad daylight. But not in the Garden Peninsula, where poaching and violating were taken by many as inalienable rights.

“That time of year,” Service said.

“It's
that
time year-round in the Garden,” Moody said. “Rumor is that Lansing's gonna put you to work on the fish runs with the hired help this spring.”

Service said, “Such decisions are above my pay grade.”

“Don't be an asshole,” Moody said with a sly grin. “You're Cap'n Grant's boy. How is he?”

“Bonked his head, slight concussion.”

“If you say so. Way I hear it, Fern LeBlanc is telling everybody he's had another stroke.”

“Is she now?” Service said. When Moody went inside he dialed Fern's home number and she answered on the first ring.

“You,” he said. “You have to exercise some judgment in what you tell people.”

“Ah,” she said. “The prodigal detective trying to talk management.
You
will not tell me what to think or say,” she said.

“Your thoughts are yours, but your words affect others. When you speculate, others take it for gospel.”

“I am
not
speculating,” she said, “and as you said, you are not management material. I intend to protect the captain.”

“The captain can take care of himself.”

“Like
you
would know,” she said angrily. “You're never around! He wants to see you tomorrow night—at his home.” She hung up on him, his point having found a fat vein, as his old man used to say after he had purposely antagonized someone.

Moody had joined Nantz and Nordquist and was regaling them with the tale of a shiner he had grappled with last night. Service and Nantz made their goodbyes and left the hospital.

Nantz called Walter on the cell phone as they drove toward Gladstone.

“Hey, you,” she said.

She listened and said, “Flying is flying.”

Then, “He's driving.”

More silence. “
Really!
No, I won't say a word.”

“What was that about?” he asked as she snapped the cell phone closed.

“He's just checking up on us.”

For dinner he grilled skirt steaks marinated in lime juice and zest, red wine, soy, ginger, garlic, sugar, and hot sauce. He cooked the meat rare and served it with a small tossed salad of Italian greens and grilled Spanish onion slices.

Nantz had opened a bottle of the new Italian wine, a 1996 Avignonesi Grifi, and poured each of them a glass.

“Mmm,” she said, taking a bite of steak.

“Mmm,” he said, tasting the wine.

After dinner, they loaded the dishwasher and Nantz camped at the dining room table with books from the academy while he put on the Norah Jones CD and poured another glass of wine.

Nantz snapped a book closed at 10 p.m. and said, “Hon, get me a two-gallon jar from the basement, okay?” For reasons he never understood, she collected jars and bottles and vases of all sizes and descriptions. The basement shelves were filled with bags and boxes of glassware.

He brought a jar to the the kitchen counter and watched as she put a strip of masking tape around it and wrote with a large marker, “4F.”

“Okay,” she said, pouring more wine for herself. “Give me five bucks.”

He dug into his wallet and handed it to her. She took his five and another from her wallet, stuffed them ceremoniously in the jar, which she tucked under an arm, and picked up her wine. “Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to bed we go.”

She made love with unusual tenderness and gentleness, lingering throughout, and when they had finished, he rolled to his own pillow and said, “I'm gonna let the mutt out.”

She was breathing deeply when he returned. Newf flopped on a throw rug by the bed. Cat had gotten between the pillows while he was gone and opened her mouth with a silent hiss when he got into bed. He put his hand on Nantz's hip to feel her warmth.

“Go ahead and ask,” she whispered.

“Four-F?” he said.

“Every time we fool around we'll each put five bucks in the jar. When it's full, it will pay for our honeymoon.”

“Four-F,” he said again.

“Frequent Fucking For the Future,” she whispered.

They both began to giggle.

She patted his shoulder with a warm hand. “Sleep.”

He fell asleep wondering if he had five dollars for the morning deposit to the jar.

27

They made love at sunrise, put their money in the jar, went down to do their workout routines, and showered.

Nantz had arrived Friday night with only a small duffel bag, but packed a huge suitcase and garment bag after they got out of the shower. When she was done she ceremoniously opened her purse, took out a ten-dollar bill, and put it in the jar. She lay back on the bed and held out her arms. “This one's on me. Literally,” she added lasciviously.

By noon they were at the airport. He loaded her baggage and followed her through her walk-around and preflight routine. There was nothing about flying and airplanes that he cared for, but she had it in her blood and treated an aircraft like an extension of her body.

“Meet you in Jackson Friday,” he said.

“Plan on 2 p.m. We women will need time for construction before a big party.”

“I'll bring a wad of fives,” he said.

She smiled and kissed him. “Sorry I can't pick you up,” she said.

“Lori's schedule is awful again this week.”

“I don't mind driving,” which was true. “We'll need wheels down there. I'll call Tree about meeting him and Kalina for dinner on Saturday. You're sure your boss won't mind?”

“I suspect she and Whit are gonna be doin' just what we're gonna be doin'.”

Whit was the senator's stay-at-home husband. “Ooh,” he said. “Our aspiring governor likes nookie?”

She poked him. “All women
like
sex—with the right man.” She paused and added, “And sometimes with the wrong man.”

Before he could say anything she added, “You fit into both categories, big boy. You'll need a tux next weekend. I'll take care of it. Bring your good black shoes.”

“The pumps or the sling-backs?” he said.

She laughed and rolled her eyes. He said, “The only black shoes I have are boots.”

“You want to polish them up, that's okay by me.”

He said, “I'll get some new ones. You sure a suit won't do?”

“This will be a deep-pockets crowd, very neufy.”

They lingered in an embrace until she said, “Okay, gotta kick the tires and light the fires.”

“This thing has propellers,” he said.

“Whatever,” she said with a wink.

She got into the Cessna, closed the hatch, and started the engines. He saw her focused inside the cockpit and talking on the mike when she looked over at him, snapped off a crisp salute, blew a kiss, released brakes, and taxied away.

He watched her take off to the west and bank southeast toward Traverse City, experiencing a surge of fear as he pictured her all alone in the cockpit; but she was happy and knew what she was doing, and if she wasn't worried, he wouldn't be either. Too much.

Next Friday night they would be in Jackson and he would meet Siquin Soong, he thought as Nantz disappeared from sight. He had no desire to see the captain tonight. Instead, he called McCants who was patrolling in the Haymeadow Marsh area. They agreed to meet at a picnic ground at Haymeadow Falls. He was to bring fresh coffee.

The days were shortening and the tamaracks, aspens, and birches along Haymeadow Creek were beginning to show the result of reduced light, which kicked in chemical reactions that turned needles and leaves a pale yellow or bright gold. Some leaves were beginning to drop, spackling the ground like a sloppy painter's palette. He breathed in the damp earth and decaying leaves, the perfume of fall hanging in the still air.

McCants arrived two minutes later. They sat at a picnic table, which had been chained to a tree, and enjoyed the silence.

“They flew the Garden two nights ago,” he said, “Plucked six violets. How's the Mosquito been?”

The Mosquito Wilderness would always be his baby.

“Quiet. I think you scared everybody away, you big meanie. This last week has been quiet everywhere,” she added. After a look at his face she said, “Almost everywhere . . .”

“This too shall pass,” he said. “Just keep your feet in the dirt.”

He remembered a Sunday of nearly twenty years before. It was snowing and raining and miserable outside and he had just pulled out his workbag when Sergeant Peter Slater had called.

“What're you up to today?” Slater had asked.

“Paperwork. You?”

“Thought I'd take a ride in the woods. Want to come along?”

The weather was beyond miserable, but Slater was a subtle man with a wry sense of humor, and he agreed to join his supervisor. By day's end they had written eighteen tickets for an unimaginable array of violations and problems, and the experience had taught him better than any lecture that the only way to enforce laws was to be out where they were being broken. After that he did paperwork at night or in little snatches of time.

He had known McCants so long that they were content to simply sit and drink in the sounds and scents of the changing seasons.

Service was pouring more coffee when McCants said, “Swans.” He looked up to see four of the huge birds flying high above the creek descending toward the area where beaver dams formed several small ponds.

McCants lit up and stared at the creek glissading over gray and black rocks. “I still can't believe we get paid to do this,” she said, adding, “I heard that sergeants and detectives are going back to the field to fill gaps after the first of the year.”

“I heard that too,” he said, leaving it at that.

“You think you'll work the Mosquito?”

“I doubt I'll get to choose.”

McCants smiled. “You want to work it with me, I'd like that. Is Captain Grant going to be okay?”

“I hope so,” he said. LeBlanc probably was right about it being another stroke, but if the captain said it wasn't, he would stick by his captain.

“What do you think of the senator's chances?” she asked.

“What is this, Twenty Questions?”

“I think she's a great choice,” McCants said. “Be good to have a woman running the show. If she wins, you think Tenni's out?”

“After his contract expires,” he said. “It will depend on the makeup of the commission.”

“His departure alone will be a plus for all of us.”

They were walking to their respective trucks when two shots popped over the hill toward the beaver ponds north of them. Instinct stopped both of them as they listened. The swans came back down the creek, lower now, flapping frantically to gain altitude.

Service counted three.

“One unaccounted for,” McCants said.

He ran along behind her as she raced through the trees up a hill, pausing by a downed white pine and putting her binoculars up. They both scanned the ponds through the trees. There was no wind and the air was heavy, promising rain. Somewhere below they heard snippets of voices.

“There,” McCants said, pointing. “Just inside that little peninsula. The blind's on the far shore and there's a camo johnboat against the bank.”

Service glassed the area, saw what she saw.

“They must be parked on the other side of the creek,” she said. “Up on the hill line.” She pointed. “We can get in east of the ponds, curve our way in from the south, and come up behind them. They're probably parked further north. Got your waders?” she asked.

They'd been in the back of the Yukon at one time and maybe they still were—somewhere in the clutter. In his old patrol truck he had been pathologically neat and orderly because there was so little room, but in the Yukon he was becoming a slob.

They took both trucks and looked for and located a little-used twotrack that led up to the hill where they wanted to be. The roads were pitted deep and rough, the frames bottoming out. After they had found a place to stash the trucks he rooted around for his waders, found them, kicked off his leather boots and slid into the waders. He strapped his gun belt over them.

McCants was ready before him. “Search first, confront second,” she said.

He remembered the shy probie she had been, smiled at her confidence now.

It took twenty-five minutes to get down to the pond, its edge overgrown with tag alders, the bottom of the pond deep in black silt. They crawled through the dense cover, slithering along, easing over blowdowns, trying to avoid stumps left by beavers.

Eventually the trees ended and they were in brown grass. The cottony white entrails of cattails hung down like the exploded batting of ruined beds.

“I am so fucking wasted,” a voice said.

“Shut up,” a second voice said. “Voices carry.”

“Yeah sure, what I'm gonna do, spook fuckin' beavers, eh?”

McCants was almost flat just ahead of him. She turned her head and nodded for him to come up to her. Service sank in sphagnum moss and black water up to his thighs as he crawled. The waders had a leak. Shit.

“Right there,” she said, mouthing the words soundlessly. She held up three fingers, then looped her forefinger and thumb, lifted her foot out of water and touched it. Thirty feet. McCants delicately cleared a space in some mud and drew a picture for him. They would crawl forward about five yards apart, circle, and come back by different routes. Even the dumbest violet would not keep a swan in the blind. She wanted to find it before confronting the men.

The cold water coming in through the waders was soaking his pants, and it made him cringe as it seeped through to coat his legs.

“Goddammit, now I gotta piss,” one of the voices said.

Service peeked through the grass, could not see McCants, but saw two men in camo clothing.

He could hear a stream of urine splashing in the marsh water at the base of the brown grass.

“You jerk!” McCants said with a yelp. “DNR!”

Service looked through the grass. Candi was standing up and angry.

“You pissed on me,” she said.

The man was trying to button up. “Serves youse right crawlin' around out here!” the man shouted.

The second man looked over, said, “What the fuck? Jesus!”

“Put that little thing away,” McCants told the second man.

“DNR,” the first man grumbled, eyeing her. He looked over at his partner.

“A cunt,” the second one said.

They were weighing options, Service knew. He began to gather himself to intervene.

“Hey, what's the problem, Dickless Tracy?” this from the first man.

“Little girl like you out here all alone.”

“
God
is my copilot,” McCants said calmly. “Let's see your hunting licenses,” she said.

The second man grinned. “Mine's in the blind. I'll just—”

“Stay where you are,” McCants said, stepping toward the first man. “Licenses,” she repeated.

“Like Dray says, in the blind.”

“Sir, move over here,” she told the second man.

Service thought about standing up, but he was enjoying watching her work.

The two men were tall and rangy with triangular heads, ponytails, bushy black beards.

McCants stood at ease, but Service saw her hand resting near the grip of her SIG Sauer.

“Kneel,” she said.

The men looked at each other and dawdled but eventually did as they were told.

“Okay, who shot the swan?” she asked.

“What swan?”

“Don't lie to me,” she said. “I hate liars.”

“Hey, you see a swan?” the first hunter said to his partner with a crooked grin.

She said to the first man, “Give me your hat.”

The man laughed and took it off. She dropped it on the ground.

Service crawled closer so he could see what she was doing.

She reached under her tie and pulled out a green pouch.

“This is a lie detector,” she said.

“Bullshit,” the first man said.

“Shut up,” his partner said.

“Now,” she said. “You're hunting here, right?”

“If you say so,” the first man said.

“You've got dope in the blind.”

“No way.”

“I smelled it,” she said. “Don't lie. This pouch always reveals the truth.”

“What's in there?” the second man asked.

“Truth,” she said. “You shot the swan. Four came over, three came back. I was up there on that hill.” She pointed. “Who took the shots?”

“We din't shoot no swan,” the first man said.

“Swear to God?” she said.

“Swear to God.”

She looked at the second man. “You swear?”

He nodded unconvincingly, said nothing. Service was fascinated, wondering what the hell she was doing.

“I'm warning both of you, if you lie over the bones you will have bad luck you cannot believe,” she said. “The curse will be on you.”

“You can't hurt us,” the first man said.

“God will do it, not me.”

“Did you shoot the swan?” she asked the first man.

He shook his head.

She dumped the contents of the pouch into the hat and nodded solemnly.

It began to drizzle.

“Did you shoot at the swan?” she asked, looking up at the man.