Force of Blood (9 page)

They parked on Lake Superior State University property and hiked west down the beach from Vermilion, three sandy miles to the dig site.

“Could make better time on four-wheelers,” Service groused. He had called her from Wisconsin and briefed her on the Wingel meeting.

“If you don’t care about destroying orchids or piping plover nesting colonies,” Jingo Sedge pointed out.

Service looked at the peregrinations of four-wheeler tracks crisscrossing the terrain. “Doesn’t look like much of a priority for some people,” he said.

“
Post hoc, ergo propter hoc:
Four-wheelers aren’t people,” Sedge mumbled.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

They sat side by side on a fallen cedar at the northeast extreme of the amoeba.

“Wengel said this was once a harbor,” Service said.

“Toliver said the same thing. Musketball in the brainpan?”

“Claims Wingel.”

“But found
across
from where we’re sitting.” Service nodded.

“Why not bury it where you find it?” Sedge asked.

“Panic, cunning, stupidity—take your pick.”

“Cunning?”

“Assume it happened the way she says it did, and winter regurgitated the remains. But having found the corpse, she clearly and quickly recognized its importance historically. That being so, you just might put it somewhere else to mislead people in case it showed up again.”

“Based on wind patterns, there’s a good chance that if it did surface here, it would end up where she found it, over there,” Sedge pointed out.

“By that logic, the bulk of the Iroquois burials are beneath our butts,” he said.

“That’s sort of creepy.”

“She
knew
the bundle was Iroquois,” Service said. “She understands the significance, and you have to wonder if she happened to mention that to the state archaeologist. Did you see her written report?”

“No. Only the brief summary.”

“What do the regs require?”

“What regs?”

“Surely there
are
regs. We have regs for everything in this damn state.” She shook her head. “The state archaeologist is like God.”

“I wouldn’t waste my time praying to the bastard,” Service said, adding, “Wingel knows the truth about this site.”

“You’re jumping the gun, dude. She may have lied to you about the bundle.”

“Doesn’t matter. My gut says she did more than rebury remains. By her own admission, I’m guessing there are photos, diagrams. She may even have some of the bones.”

“Too big a risk.”

“I’ve looked in her eyes.”

“Do you think she might have continued digging here for all these years?”

“We don’t know if anyone has been digging here,” he said.

“Katsu says—”

“His motivation is not yet clear.”

“But you know his old man.”

“His old man’s totally batshit, but a man of honor. Nobody
knows
Santinaw.”

“Katsu doesn’t seem to think much of him.”

“The old man thinks enough of the kid to send me here,” Service said. “It’s not easy to parse father-son relationships.” His own son Walter and he had not had time to establish a pattern in their relationship before his murder.

“Well, here we are. What do we do? Check the cameras?”

“No, leave them for now. Let’s play in the sandbox, see what we can find—record our findings, make our own chart, mark everything. They teach you about this kind of work at the academy?”

She guffawed.

Over the next six hours they found seventy artifacts (mostly small bits and pieces), but there also was a most impressive small copper ring that had oxidized a powdery blue-green. Each item was marked, sketched, and put back with a marker using Katsu’s scheme.

“Is it possible we’ll catch a thief this easily?” Sedge asked.

“Possible, but not probable. Complex cases sometimes break on small things that initially seem entirely unrelated.”

“But all this is worth the effort?” she asked.

“You bet. We already have a better understanding of the site and the surrounding terrain.”

“Sit on it tonight?”

“No, let’s leave it, come back in a few days. I want to do some more walking around.”

“I’d love to stay,” she said, “but I need to get over to the Blind Sucker river mouth west of Deer Park. Four-wheelers are cutting new trails over there between the mouth and the campground. Addicted four-wheeling types are such major assholes. I write one, and he says, ‘Got ticketed for the same thing down home, so I come up here.’ I said, ‘Hey buttwipe, it’s also illegal up here—duh!’ ”

Service laughed and she asked, “You good here?”

“I’m addicted to what the French call
dériver
,” he said. “It means to wander aimlessly.”

“Really?” she countered.

“I like to wander.”

“I doubt that.”

It was late afternoon before he had cleaned the site of all signs of their presence, and he was meandering south quite a distance before he turned east toward Vermilion and his truck. At first he thought he was imagining the sound, a thin voice crying
Help!
When he heard it again he knew it was real, though the source was not apparent.

Ahead and right, maybe? Lower than me, slightly muffled
. “I hear you!” Grady Service said. “Say something louder if you can.”

“Help me!”

Not louder, but two words instead of one. Sometimes progress comes in small steps.
“One more time, please.”

“Help me, dammit!”

“Okay,” Service said. “Gotcha.”

The voice was floating up from chest-high ferns, unusually lush and high this early in the year. It was like a leprechaun or some silly thing deep in the green, and when he found himself looking down at a frail, naked elfin man, he had to fight back a laugh. The man had matchstick, unsteady, bandy legs.

“You hurt?”

“Weak, undernourished—nothing I haven’t anticipated.”

“Want water?”

“Is it pure and unadulterated?”

“Is anything?”

“Point conceded,” the man said, holding out his hand, which seemed to glow in the low light in contrast to the darkening air.

Service handed a water bottle to the man and listened to him slurp and cough.

No point telling thirsty people to drink slowly. They never listen
.

When the man tried to return the bottle, Service said, “Keep it. I carry several. I’m Service, DNR.”

“Godfroi Delongshamp. People call me God, which is meant to be a joke, but turns out to be not so funny. You or I could have created an equally failed world. So much for perfection and other exalted claims for Him. Why not either one of us as God, eh?”

“I don’t want the job.”

“You pass judgments like God. It’s the nature of a cop’s work.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Which only increases the mystery. The religious thugs love the mysterious. The more bizarre and utterly unbelievable, the better.”

“Are you with the religious community?”

“That’s difficult to answer. Are rejects technically part of a group? Or castaways?”

“Does either condition pertain to you?”

“More like I’m just a lousy joiner.”

“Like that community believes in wearing clothes and you don’t?”

The man cackled. “I like you. You can assume part one is true, but part two isn’t. I had clothes, but the fools who pranked me left me like this.”

Pranked? Strange man
.

“How’d you get out here?”

“I have a camp.”

“Close by?”

“To be frank, I’m not entirely sure. I’ve got end-stage macular degeneration and don’t see as well as I once did. Think you could help God find his way home?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.” Service lit the man with his SureFire, saw he was covered with insect bites and welts.

“Those hurt?”

“No. I’m trying to ignore them.”

“How’s that working?”

“Not well.”

Service took some Adolph’s Meat Tenderizer out of his ruck and used a water bottle to mix a paste that he applied to the man’s bites.

“Holy cow,” the man said. “Instant relief!”

“It’s temporary, but it’ll help for a while.” Service gave him a long-sleeved tee and sweatpants from his pack.

“I’m going to leave you here and find your track. When did you leave your camp?”

“Late yesterday. My camp overlooks the Shelldrake River.”

Service gave the man a chocolate oatmeal PowerBar.

An hour later Service found a ten-by-fourteen log cabin, ancient by the look of it, in bad need of re-chinking. The door was open, the interior trashed. He had followed the man’s trail, saw no sign of anyone else. He’d look again in daylight to be sure, but the old man’s story wasn’t holding water.

Deslongshamp looked relaxed and had not moved from where Service had left him. “You got neighbor problems?”

“Not with all those lame God Squadders on the other side of the river. My reality is out-of-control kids on four-wheelers buzzing all over my place, night and day.”

“Your camp’s been trashed. Were you here when they came?”

“No. Every day I take a walk—same route, just to sit and listen. They jumped me, took my clothes, slapped me around, but I’m not hurt. I’m tougher than I look.”

Who the hell is this guy?

“You have family?”

“Used to. Been living in my camp for nearly twenty years.”

“Year-round?”

“Not every year, but most of them.”

End-stage macular degeneration? What the hell is that?

“How do you get in and out?” Service didn’t know of any nearby roads.

“Peewee Bolf over to the Falls brings groceries, keeps me in firewood, always looks in on me. I have a well and a generator. It’s not as bad as you think, and most of the time it’s quiet.”

“Excepting four-wheelers.”

“Alas and alack. Peewee is a good man,” Deslongshamps said.

Service told the man, “Okay, let’s get you back to camp and I’ll clean it up. For convenience, I’m going to carry you. That dent your pride?”

“Not in the least.”

• • •

After the camp was put back together, Service sat down to talk to the man. “Any idea who the night-riders are?”

The man shook his head. “One machine runs rough. The other one has a problem with its sound baffling.”

“Two machines?”

“Just two. If there were more, I’d hear them. When one sense goes, others compensate.”

“But you didn’t hear them this time.”

“I happened to be meditating. I thought I heard footsteps but pushed the thought aside, and then they pounced on me.”

“They jumped you out there?”

“Yes, during meditation.”

“They say anything in particular when they jumped you—use any names, anything?”

“They were laughing with glee, but no words.”

“They’ve trashed your camp before?”

“Twice, each time while I was on my walk. They never bothered me before.”

“Have you reported the previous incidents?”

“To what end? I’m too far out for the law to protect me.”

“Mr. Bolf’s your only regular visitor?”

“He is. But I hear four-wheelers in summer and snowmobiles in winter.”

“All kids?”

“No, the others are well-maintained machines, quiet ones. I can see the vague flash of their headlamps sometimes.”

Okay, he has partial vision.

“This is a nighttime thing?”

“Always.”

More here than meets the eye. But what? He’s off-bubble, but that’s also irrelevant. Aren’t we all off-center in our own ways?

“Would you mind if one of our officers stops by from time to time?”

“It’s not really necessary. Are you leaving?”

“I am.”

“Watch your step,” the man said. “This country can be downright treacherous.”

Some sort of message?
“You bet it can.”

Sedge had sounded out of sorts when he’d called her the night before to tell her about his encounter with the eccentric Godfroi Deslongshamps.

“What am I supposed to do about it?” she’d asked with a growl.

“Just check in on him once in a while.”

“I’m not a goddamn nursemaid.”

“He claims there’s night activity out there.”

“You told me that, and you also told me he’s going blind. What good is he to us?”

“You never know. Be patient. He’s alone.”

“Which got his ass kicked. I’m not too good with touchy-feely crap, Service.”

“Listen to me,” he said. “Katsu thinks something’s going on, and he thinks it’s Toliver. But you’re not so sure Toliver’s a bad guy. Delongshamp claims stuff is going on at night. He’s all we’ve got, Sedge.”

“All right,” she said. “What next?”

“I’m going to see SuRo.” Summer Rose Genova was the premier animalrehab specialist in the Eastern Upper Peninsula. A veterinarian, she had a facility fifteen miles east of the Mackinac Bridge in western Mackinac County.

“Major bitch,” Sedge said.

“No argument. She can be touchy, but she’s good at her job, and she’s connected to the whiffer-ding tree-hugging crowd.”

“Big whoop,” Sedge responded.

“What’s your problem?” Service shot back at her. He was quickly losing patience with her, along with his civility—never his strong suit.

“Figure it out,” she said, and hung up.

This morning she had called while he was having coffee with SuRo. “Sorry about last night,” Sedge said. “You with Genova?”

“Yeah.”

“Someone wants to see us noonish.”

“Who?”

“Toliver’s lady friend.”

“Her idea?”

“Wasn’t mine. She’s a total skank.”

Service thought for a moment. “I never caught her full name.”

“Jane Rain,” Sedge said.

“You
know
her?”

“Not so much. She showed up in Paradise late last summer, works at Punk’s.”

A bar south of Paradise, near Eckerman Lookout on M-123. “Waitress?”

“You sexist dinosaur. She’s the summer catering
manager!
”

Boy
. “Okay, when and where?”

“SeeWhy. You know it?”

“Fountain of Youth,” Service said. “Why SeeWhy?”

“She wants anonymity. Noon work for you?”

“I’ll be there.”

“There’s an old cabin site,” she told him.

“Listen to me, Sedge: Luce and Chippewa were my first areas.”

SuRo Genova had nothing for him.

SeeWhy was named for the postmaster of the village, which once had featured a sawmill, general store, and train stop for the Duluth, South Shore and Atlantic Railroad. As Service remembered, it stood for the postmaster’s initials, “C.Y.” Years ago, an artesian well just east of the location had been dubbed “The Fountain of Youth,” and the name had stuck. Years back a secondary road came into the area along the Tahquamenon River from the south, but the entrance to the road was now private, the route blocked off and heavily posted. The only way in now was over the abandoned rail bed, which had been stripped of ties and rails and was used mostly in winter by snowmobilers.

Why is Sedge so edgy? First she called the woman a skank, and then she jumped me for assuming she’s a waitress
.

• • •

Jingo Sedge was leaning against her truck when Service parked beside her. He got out, checking his watch. It was noon, straight up. “She late?”

The young officer answered by looking past Service toward the woods. He looked back and saw a ghost stepping out of the brush, zipping his fly.

“Ye gods!” Cornwallis “Smoke” Ghizi yelped. “Bro, when I heard you got out of ’Nam alive, I called it a miracle, first-fucking-class. What happened to that big black sonuvabitch you used to run with?”

“Treebone made it too. He’s a retired Detroit cop, el-tee.”

“Gadzooks and ye gods—you two assholes surviving the shit
and
the suck! That’s gotta beat all odds.”

In Vietnam, Ghizi had always whispered and acted like the enemy could come in at any moment. He was an odd combination of relaxed and wired, but suspicious of everything and everyone, and always asking penetrating questions in his soft voice. As an intelligence officer he liked to work alone, and he moved like shade in the shadows. Service and the other marines called him “Smoke.” Son of an Egyptian diplomat father and an Anadarko Indian mother from Oklahoma, he was slight in stature and maestro of his own emotions.

The man now before Service looked a little gray, but otherwise pretty much the same as he had been all those years ago. But this Smoke was much more verbal and outgoing.

“What the hell are you doing
here
, Smoke?”

“Long story. I retired some years ago from Fish and Wildlife, but they called me back as a consulting agent, which means damn good pay but no bennies.”

“Where’s Jane Rain?” Service pressed.

“No need for her to be here.”

Service considered events. “She works for you?”

“Not exactly. I’m just a consultant, but she’s a helluva agent.”

“You know Carmody?” Service asked. “Barry Davey?”

“No games, Service. I am who I say I am. Yes, I knew Minnis and ten other aliases he used, and Davey too. Minnis is dead.”

“When?”

“Just last year. His stump never healed right.”

Minnis/Carmody was an Irish-born Fish and Wildlife undercover agent who had worked a wolf case with Service some years back, and lost a leg in the process.

“What’s the deal with Jane Rain?” Sedge interjected.

Ghizi wagged a finger at her. “
I’m
talking, girlie.” He turned back to Service. “You people got
tombaroli
operating here.”

“
Tombaroli?
” Service said.

“Italian for tomb raiders.”

“This isn’t Italy,” Sedge said.

“Brits call them nighthawks,” Ghizi said, ignoring Sedge. “National Park Service estimates the country loses half a billion bucks a year to these asswipes. Given government accuracy, it’s probably twice that.”

“Lost to people like Dr. Delmure Arcton Toliver?”

“We’re not sure yet about Toliver, but we’re pretty sure some bent archaeologists, amateur pot hunters, and relic dealers are working deals. This shit is going on in virtually every state, and we’re just beginning to figure out how to get our noses into the dragon’s shit.”

“Not much here of value.”

“Pricing is an art unto itself. So is finding real relics. There’s a boatload of skilled assholes out there making and selling relics in their shops and over eBay as legit crap.”

Service saw that Sedge was listening.

“Duncan Katsu?” Service asked.

“Possible bad boy,” Ghizi said. “A good possibility.”

“He claims he’s protecting a historic site,” Sedge said.

“Words are cheap, girlie.”

“Don’t call me girlie,” she snapped, stepping toward him with her fists clenched.

Ghizi raised his hands, took a step back, and smiled. “The relic snatchers in national parks call nine-one-one to distract law enforcement with bogus calls, then they swoop into sites and take stuff they’ve already scouted. The parks don’t have enough people to patrol or to enforce everything.”

“Evidence on Katsu?” Service asked.

Ghizi tapped his chest. “Hunch.”

“Our judges don’t issue warrants on hunches,” Sedge said.

“Not on
your
hunches, maybe,” the man shot back. “But mine? Diff deal.”

“What the hell do you want, Ghizi?” Service asked to stop a brewing fight.
God, every time I get into a case up in this country, the fucking feds show up. What’s that about?

“Rain said you two were in the middle of their shit the other night. She did some checking and found out you both have reputations as hard chargers who won’t let go.”

“Are you asking us to let go?” Sedge said.

“No, we just don’t want to be gettin’ in each other’s way.”

“How do we prevent that?” Service asked. “Give you the lead on the case?”

“By talking and no swoop-and-scoop unless we clear it with each other.”

“Same for your side?” Sedge challenged.

“We’re all on the same side,” Ghizi said.

“How long you people been after this?” Service asked.

“On Toliver, two years, but Katsu was new as of last fall.”

“You got somebody in Katsu’s camp?” Service asked.

“No comment,” Ghizi said.

“Same team?” Sedge challenged with a scowl. “Bullshit.”

“What kind of relics are we talking about?” Service asked.

“So far, none. But they’ll show up. Count on it. They always do, if you know where to look for them.”

“And you do?” Sedge asked.

“We’re learning as we go. There ain’t no DIY book on this deal, and the academics are scared shitless of spoiling their colleagues’ reputations, so they pretty much clam up when badges get pulled out.”

Sedge said, “I got into this because Katsu was blocking access to public land. When I confronted him, he backed off.”

“You
think
he backed off.”

“Dude,” she said.

Service cut her off. “Let the man talk.”

Ghizi seemed to weigh every word. “August of 2005 Toliver acquired five breakheads.” Ghizi looked up. “Know what I’m talking about?”

The two Michigan officers shook their heads. Service did not want to let on what he knew to any fed and decided playing dumb was best.

“Spike club. Club with a knob on it, used to beat the bejeezus out of your enemies. One of them was made of a bear-leg bone and fit with a big agate as the striking surface. He also got a carved elk horn stone-blade knife, a primo thing, worth beaucoup bucks to the right collector. It was all Iroquoisian, and Toliver allegedly got them from a dealer in Milwaukee, who verbally
swore to a certain provenance for the items he couldn’t prove on paper. Toliver got suspicious and called the FBI. The dealer claimed he had bought it all at a relic collectors’ swap meet, but he copped to amnesia about time, place, seller, and so forth.”

“What law did Toliver break?”

“None we know of, and neither the Feebs nor us could build a case against the dealer, so he was released. Six months later he died suddenly.”

“Cause?” Service asked.

“Campylobacter,” Ghizi said. “Animal shit in the water supply.”

“Not uncommon up north,” Sedge said.

Ghizi raised an eyebrow. “True enough, but at the time the dealer was having dinner with Toliver at the dealer’s cabin in Ashland, Wisconsin.”

Service’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “But Toliver reported the dealer to the FBI.”

“Right, and nighthawks like to call nine-one-one to divert attention.”

“Toliver wouldn’t kill the guy so obviously.”

“That’s our conclusion too. It looks like somebody wanted to pin it on him, but it didn’t work. However, the breakheads disappeared from the dealer’s collection. After suspecting they were bogus and calling the FBI, the agency took them as evidence, but when they couldn’t make a case, Toliver told the Feebs to give the stuff back to the dealer because his college was only interested in legit relics.”

Service rubbed his face. “The dealer say where the stuff came from?”

“No. Claims he made it all up, which isn’t unusual in this game. Every artifact has to have a story to help it sell. Where there isn’t real history, stuff gets fabricated.”

“Anybody else look at the items?” Sedge asked.

Ghizi nodded. “We had experts from Yale and the Smithsonian. They said the items were legit, and they managed to date them to mid-seventeenth century, give or take.”

“Iroquois?” Service said.

“Yep,” Ghizi said. “Baddest motherfuckers in the Northeast, and then they moseyed out this direction into the Midwest and got their asses handed to them, and that pretty much ended all that.”

“Smallpox got the Iroquois,” Service said.

Ghizi nodded. “You’ve been doing your homework.”

“Where are the clubs now?” Sedge asked.

“No clue. They disappeared,” Ghizi said.

“Your people got any notions about the source of the relics?”

“Kinda hoping you might have some,” Ghizi said.

Service looked over at Sedge, who said, “If we come up with something, we’ll let you know.”

Ghizi said, “Figured you’d say that. Repeat—we’re on the same team.”

Service asked, “You want us to stay clear of Jane Rain?”

“Please.”

“We supposed to meet regularly like this?” Sedge asked the Fish and Wildlife consultant.

“Works for me.” He handed the two Michigan officers business cards and waited to receive theirs.

“That dating’s certain?” Service asked.

“As certain as carbon dating can be.”

“What’s Toliver have to say about the dating?”

“We never told him. In fact, you two are the first to hear it.”

“Other suspects?” Service asked.

“Not yet.”

“Something in the works?”

“Possibly. We’ll let you know. Thanks for this meeting, and Service—tell that ole boy Treebone I’m glad he made it.”

After Ghizi left them by cutting south into the forest, Service looked Sedge in the eyes. “Thoughts?”

“You know
Alice in Wonderland?
”

“Neither personally, nor biblically.”

“Not funny,” Sedge said.

“Not sure I ever actually read it.”

Sedge took a deep breath and continued. “Alice is talking to the Cheshire Cat and she says, ‘Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’ The Cat says, ‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.’ And Alice said, ‘I don’t much care where.’

“ ‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat. ‘—So long as I get
somewhere,
’ Alice explained.

“ ‘Oh,’ said the Cat, ‘you’re sure to do that, if only you walk long enough.’ ”

Service grunted. “You want to know where
somewhere
is, or how long it will take us to get there?”

“Hell, I think we know where
somewhere
is. Don’t we?”

“Nighthawks,” Service said. “Maybe we need to revisit Mr. Delongshamp and find out more about what’s been buzzing around out by his place at night.”