Hard Ground (21 page)

Reverend Polly Wade putzed around the front of the church. There was some sort of CD player, and Cara caught Polly's attention and handed her the disc. “When I say, okay?”
If I can do it.

The disc was the only unusual thing in Army's will.

The Kelleys, when they went to church, which was rare, came here. Army had been born and baptized Catholic, and he was a deeply spiritual man but not a joiner, and he was always skeptical of all organized religions and the petty bureaucracies they spawned.

All that aside, Cara knew he had loved this little church, always told her it made him feel, albeit briefly, that mankind had a chance. He never went beyond that, and she didn't ask, but she also knew that while what he said was heartfelt, he liked the fact that there were two small-caliber bullet holes in the stained glass windows on both sides of the church, evidence of an errant shot that had come down the hill and gone through the church without striking anyone. She was sure the bullet holes were the main reason he like the church so much.

•••

Jolstaad was stitched in the local emergency room in Ontonagon. The state police took a preliminary statement, and his El-Tee talked to him. Everyone was polite until he said he had to get to Grand Marais for Army's memorial service. The doctor raised hell. “Thirty stitches in your damn face and a small fracture in your left forearm. You can't drive. The drugs will dope you up.”

Sergeant Nick Carter stepped forward. “He ain't driving. I am.”

This ended any opposition. Carter handed Joey a Guinness, and Jolstaad looked at this sarge. “Yeah, he was my final-phase FTO, too.” Carter looked at his watch. “We can make this run in five flat, I think. Three hours to Marquette, two from there to Grand Marais. We'll scoot across the Adam's Trail, and we ain't stopping for shit,” he declared.

It was ten till three when they pulled up in front of the church. There were more than a hundred officers milling around outside. Carter handed Jolstaad a small brown envelope. “Give that to Cara, eh,” he said before looking at the other lawmen. “Get your spiffy butts out of the way of two working officers.” Carter led his man to Cara Kelley and pointed to a seat beside her.

Cara whispered, “Joey, you look like you just wrestled a damn bear.”

“Something like that,” Jolstaad said, trying to grin. This was Army's moment.

Cara patted his leg. “He thought the world of you, Joey.”

Jolstaad fought tears, kept his eyes straight ahead on the simple urn.

Chief Campbell materialized in the front of the church and said, “Reverend, may I say something?”

Polly Wade gestured toward the congregants and stepped backward.

The chief took out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and began to read. “Just after midnight this morning, Conservation Officer Joseph Jolstaad was fired upon without provocation in Ontonagon County. The perp fired three rounds. Officer Jolstaad returned fire with two rounds, striking the shooter twice and killing him. The shooter has been identified as Clarence Carl Boost, a man wanted for murder and numerous other crimes in eighteen states, and third on the FBI's most wanted list. Boost had no known history in Michigan.” Campbell looked down at Joey. “Officer Jolstaad, I believe you have something for Mrs. Kelley.”

Joey had forgotten the envelope, but dug it out of his pocket and handed it to her. Cara opened it, looked inside, and began to sob.

The chief continued. “An investigation of Clarence Carl Boost's camp turned up a .40 caliber Sig Sauer, a .12 gauge shotgun, and a .308. Investigators found Conservation Officer Army Kelley's wallet, badge, and bulletproof vest. The perp was not wearing the vest when he expired.” The chief paused, looked out at the uniforms in the pews, and said, “You are hard men and women, walking hard ground. Cara, would you hold that up, please?”

Cara Kelley raised her husband's gold badge, and Polly Wade said, “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.” But the chief corrected her. “Not vengeance, Reverend, justice.”

The air went out of the congregation with a collective gasp, followed by applause that morphed into a colossal cheer, pumped arms and fists, hugs, high fives, fists and shoulders banging together, instant total chaos heard by townspeople a quarter mile away and wondering what the funeral ruckus was all about.

The chief had to shout to regain control as news raced out of the church to those listening outside. Nick Carter got to his feet and pointed at Jolstaad, “We thought you was a toad, Shaky!” It was Army Kelley's favorite line from his favorite movie,
O Brother, Where Art Thou?.
Cara Kelley pointed at the minister, shouted, “Now,” grabbed Jolstaad's hand, and jerked him to his feet as the boom box began to blare “Sunny Side of the Street,” with Irish madman Shane MacGowan's boozy cigarette voice slurring words and rasping lyrics with the Pogues, Army's favorite group and song, the one he had called his battle hymn.

Cara Kelley began to dance, steering Jolstaad this way and that. Chief Campbell danced with the minister. Every person in church danced, partners irrelevant. As did those outside. There was a time to live and a time to die. And on this day hard men and women rejoiced.

Cara pulled Joey close. “He's so proud of you,” she said.

Joey Jolstaad didn't ask how she knew, and when she handed Army's urn to him, he began a frantic, spastic jig of jubilation officers would spend the next few years trying unsuccessfully to describe, finally settling on the day Shaky shook the world. As he danced that day, all Joey Jolstaad could think about was the Belt of Orion and the kind words of his friend, Army Kelley.

About the Author

Joseph Heywood is the author of
The Snowfly
(Lyons),
Covered Waters
(Lyons),
The Berkut, Taxi Dancer, The Domino Conspiracy—
and all the novels comprising the Woods Cop Mystery Series. Featuring Grady Service, a detective in the Upper Peninsula for Michigan's Department of Natural Resources, this series has earned its author cult status among lovers of the outdoors, law enforcement officials, and mystery devotees.

Heywood is also the author of
Red Jacket
, the first historical novel in a series featuring Rough Rider-turned-game warden Lute Bapcat.

Heywood lives in Portage, Michigan.

For more on Joseph Heywood, visit his website at
josephheywood.com
.