Ice Hunter (13 page)

“Call the county,” he said up to her.

Service checked for a pulse. None. He knew from experience not to disturb the corpse. Too much experience.

“Dead?” Nantz asked calmly from above.

“Nantz, make the call,” he said sharply.

She left and Service climbed back up the same way he had come down.

Several people had gathered on top, but Nantz was shooing them away to continue the sweep.

“The ME will eventually pull the body out,” he said. “Don't let him leave until I get back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To talk to Voydanov.”

Bravo was still on her hands and knees gagging. Nantz looked down at her, then at Service. “Catch you later?”

Voydanov's damn dog raised a ruckus, but Service heard the octogenarian tell the animal to hush.

“'Nother fire, eh?” the old man asked when he opened the door. He immediately stepped outside and closed it behind him. The dog stopped barking, but continued to scratch at the door from inside.

The sound gave Service the willies. “You knew about the fire?”

“I seen the vehicles and equipment going by.”

“Did you walk your animal last night?”

“Nope, me and ole Millie parked ourselves in front of the TV.”

“The last fire, when you saw that vehicle parked back in the trees, you said you thought the driver might be fishing at the log slide. Why?”

Voydanov grinned. “Path of least resistance, I guess. Park there an' you can walk a circular route, along the contour to the log slide. It's longer that way, but it's also faster. You go direct and you have to bust a gut down through the bush. My kids and me used to hike around the contour. Pretty open walking all along that route.”

Stupid me, Service thought. As a CO he spent so much time off trails that sometimes easy routes didn't register. It had never occurred to him that the stranger he'd met had come downriver, but now he realized that he may have. His mind that night had been locked on fishing for his own enjoyment, not on his job. Dumb. When he was a kid his old man had taught him to bodycheck. Said, “Forget the bloody puck and lock your eyes on the man's chest.” He hadn't done that this time. Good thing the old man was gone; he'd be disgusted by his son's performance.

“Have you seen any other vehicles?”

“Not around here.”

Service evaluated the answer. “Somewhere else?”

“No cars, no trucks.”

“Some other kind of vehicle. ORV or ATV?”

“Just that chopper.”

“You saw a chopper here?”

“Not here, back in the woods. I thought it belonged to you people.”

“By the log slide?”

“Nope, farther up.”

“Our chopper. Markings?”

“Nope, just a chopper and the bird.”

The bird? Talking to Voydanov was like traveling a labyrinth with a blind person leading. “What bird?”

“Under the egg beater.”

“There was a bird
under
the chopper?”

“Right, flying right under it, like a fat old goose, long neck and everything. You ever see that movie about some Canadian girl teaches geese to fly, then leads 'em down south with one of them udderlights?”

Movie, udderlight? “Ultralight?”

“That's what I said. Damn birds flew right along with that kid.”

“You saw a bird flying with the chopper? How close?”

“Underneath, maybe fifty feet, maybe a hundred. Close.”

“Upriver from the log slide?”

“Yep, a mile or so, maybe two.”

“When?”

The old man pursed his lips in thought. “That would be the day before yesterday, right after sunrise.”

“What color was it?”

“Mostly gray, with a long neck.”

“I mean the chopper.” Geez.

“Blue but not like a bluebird sky.”

“With DNR markings?”

“Nope, no markings at all. I just assumed it was you fellas. Who else would be hovering over the Mosquito?”

“And this was yesterday?” Service asked, testing him.

“Couple of days ago, right after sunrise, early in the morning. Me and Millie was fishing.”

“How long was it up?”

“One hour, two, but not covering a bunch of ground.”

“Hovering?”

“More like moving real slow. He'd fly north, then south. Maybe a hundred yards apart each time. Maybe more, but that's close. He was being methodical.”

Service fought his frustration. “What shape was the chopper?”

“It was a Huey,” Voydanov said confidently.

“Are you sure? There are all kinds of choppers.”

“This was a UH-1H Iroquois, made by Bell, single engine, old fart. Bell called them the Indian name, but the grunts called them Hueys and if they didn't have weapons they were called Slicks.”

“How do you know so much about Hueys?”

“My son flew one in Vietnam. Two tours.”

“He make it back?”

“His body did,” Voydanov said sullenly. “Part of him's still over there, I think. Guess that damn war done that to a lot of our boys.”

Service gave the old man a business card. “You think of anything else, call me. Anytime, okay?”

When Service got back to the burn at the log slide, the medical examiner was still working on the body and photographs were being shot. Service got a cup of coffee from the cook fire, which Nantz had rekindled. He left the ME alone to do his thing. Science types could be quirky and needed their space to do their jobs. Nantz came over and sat beside him.

“ID yet?”

“No,” she said.

“Voydanov told me that he saw a chopper upriver of here two days ago, a dark blue machine with a bird flying underneath it. The old man thought it was ours. Is Forest Management doing any work in here?” Forest Management was the DNR group charged with taking care of state forests and the group that controlled fire marshals like Nantz.

She puffed her cheeks. “Not that I know of. A bird beneath a helicopter? That's weird. Was the old guy sober?”

“He's just old, which sometimes is a lot like being drunk.”

“You think the chopper is connected to this?”

“I don't want rule out anything yet.”

“Roger that,” Nantz said.

Eventually the body was recovered and carried out. The stiff was in a black body bag, strapped to the litter.

The medical examiner was Vincent Vilardo, an internist from Escanaba appointed ME by the county board of supervisors.

“Hi, Vince. We know who it is?”

“Not yet. No wallet, but he's still got fingers and teeth. I expect we'll find out quick enough.”

“Can I take a look?”

Vilardo unzipped the bag.

Service found himself staring into the charred face of Jerry Allerdyce, the husband of Honeypat. Limpy's son. This thing was getting more and more complicated and confused.

“You see a ghost?” Vilardo asked.

“It's Jerry Allerdyce, Vince.”

“One of Limpy's mutts?” Everybody in the U.P. law enforcement community knew about the Allerdyces.

Service nodded. “Do me a favor and run prints to be sure, but we need to hold off on a public ID for a while.”

Vilardo shrugged. “Just make sure you clear this with the county and your chain of command, eh?” he said. “We can say we aren't releasing the name until we notify the next of kin. Arson will go along with us.”

“I appreciate this,” the conservation officer said.

“There's something else you should see,” Vilardo said. He unzipped the body bag farther.

The body reeked and its chest was charred to a shiny black sheen, but Service could see a huge hole over the heart area. No fire caused this.

“Just a preliminary,” Vilardo said, “but I'd say subsonic, explosive-tip bullet. Shot in the back. The entry hole is teensy, but the bullet played havoc when it came out the front.”

A homicide? “Time of death?”

“You'll have to wait. Seems to me somebody doused this poor bastard with gas and lit him.”

“Are you telling me the body was the POO?”

“Peterson says no, that this was in addition to the starting point.”

“Thanks, Vince.”

“Grady, you should drop by for dinner sometime, we'll have some potato gnocchi with sweet pepper sauce. It'll melt in your mouth. You stop, okay? Rose would love to see you.” Rose was his wife. Vince was the chef.

Nantz hiked out beside him, her shorter legs keeping pace. “What next?”

“We get those aerial shots and you get some sleep.”

“I'll get on it,” she said. “If you need help, call me. You need
anything,
call me,” she added with a raised eyebrow.

“I will,” he said, trying to avoid her eyes as he got into his truck. He immediately got on the radio. “Delta County, this is Marquette DNR 421.” This was standard department commo. There were two sergeants in his area and one lieutenant. The LT was DNR 400. The sergeants were Charlie Parker, 402, and McKower, who was 403. The people who reported to Parker were 421, 422, and so on. Service reported to Parker, a fact which didn't set well with either of them. McKower's people were 431 and up. In the DNR, people had numbers, but county sheriffs and state cops went by the numbers of their vehicles. Communications tended to be pretty confusing to rookies in any uniform, and to everyone during a crisis.

“Go ahead, 421.”

“Patch me through to Joe Flap, in Gladstone.” He gave her the number.

Flap was an old-time CO, a true horseblanket who until retiring several years ago had been one of the few contemporaries of his father's still on the force. Flap was an experienced pilot who still flew an occasional mission for the DNR and always pitched in during deer season. Flap had flown combat in Korea and for the USFS in the West after that. He had also flown supplies to bush outposts in Alaska and Canada. He had crashed so many times and had so many close calls that other pilots called him Pranger.

The patch went through quickly.

“Joe, this is Grady Service. I need your help.”

“Air or ground?”

“Information.”

“Cost you a six-pack of Old Milwaukee.”

“I want to ID a chopper. Navy or dark blue Huey, no markings. It was seen two days ago over the Mosquito.”

“You think it's down?”

“No, we just want to know who was flying it and who owns it.”

“Never seen it.”

“Could air traffic control paint it?” Service asked.

“That depends. Talk to Lonnie Green in Escanaba. He works the tower at Delta County; he's the local ATC feed. Good man. I think they keep radar tapes nowadays.”

“Thanks. You'll get that beer.”

“I'd better, and soon. I'm sixty-seven and getting older by the minute. I die, just plunk that six-pack in my coffin, okay?”

Service laughed and got a patch to Lonnie Green. He explained what he wanted and arranged to meet him. They met on US 41, just north of Rapid River. Green was a short, trim man with pale eyes, shiny pink skin, and a head of thick, unkempt white hair. Service spread a map on the hood of this truck.

“Two days ago there was a chopper up here for an hour or two. This was in the early morning. Is there any way to track it?”

“Do you know the altitude?”

“Low, right down on the deck.”

“Well, that's a bitch. Below twenty-five hundred feet we have a hard time, unless it's way out over the lake.”

“It was well inland. But you do have tapes?”

“Voice and radar. We keep the tapes for fifteen days and if nothing comes up, we tape over them. Thing is, if this guy is VMC—”

“VMC, you mean VFR?”

“Same-same. New term, visual meteorological conditions. If he's VMC, there's probably no way to find him. FAA reg fourteen CFR allows for all sorts of jobs to be done without filing flight plans, especially if they're local. That fourteen CFR covers all sorts of stuff.”

“Pilots can just go up and do their thing?”

“As long as the weather cooperates. Most of your shoe clerks don't care to fly when the soup is in.”

“Shoe clerks?”

“Amateurs, blue-sky flyboys. People file flight plans or they don't. Or they file false flight plans. Sometimes they use real call signs, sometimes not. Sometimes they use their transponders, sometimes not. Sometimes we get a body paint, sometimes we don't. We also paint flocks of birds and even the occasional Amtrak if it's up on a hill. And if the weather's bad, forget painting aircraft; all we paint is rain or snow.”

“It's dark blue, a Huey with no other markings.”

“Radar doesn't see markings and unless a bird skates by the tower, we can't see either.”

“Sounds like there's not a hell of a lot of control,” Service said.

“Puts a choke-hold on your sphincter, doesn't it?”

“You mean somebody can just take off and do what they want?”

“Well technically, if they're VMC. Reg 19 CFR 122.32/33 requires them to land back where they started, even if they don't file a flight plan. The reg is mostly a formality and gets treated as such.”

“Meaning locals ignore it.”

“Bingo. I'll see what we have and get back to you, but no promises. Is this urgent?”

“I don't know yet. We're investigating a fire.”

“I'll do it quick as I can. Do you have a time for the sighting?”

“We have a report that it was just after sunrise.” Service gave Green his card and reminded himself how COs were more and more being asked to act like a bunch of junior executives, handing out calling cards.

Service tried to remember if Jerry Allerdyce had been at his father's compound the night they had arrested Limpy. He hadn't been among the detainees.

Honeypat's trailer looked abandoned, but Service drove up the long two-track and parked nearby. The woman emerged from the door as soon as he stopped. She was shoeless, wearing black pantyhose and no blouse. A faded
green bay packers
championship cap was tilted backward on her head.