Ice Hunter (31 page)

Service scouted the area cautiously. All he found that looked to be relatively new was a two-hundred-gallon fuel oil tank behind the shack. A new tank at an old shack, a nonfit. Everything Flap mentioned was petroleum based. Could the Huey fly on fuel oil? Maybe. Better be safe. He checked the gauge on the tank. It was full. “Damn,” he said out loud. “This valve seems open. Better close it, be a Good Samaritan. Honest mistake, Your Honor.” Sometimes you bent little laws to keep the big ones from getting broken. He heard the oil go
glug-glug
. Nice sound. He checked the gauge again and saw that the volume was falling slowly. Good.

He went to the chopper, crawled under the camo cover, and looked around, opening panels. There was a confusing maze of lines and pipes inside the machine. By process of elimination he located the main fuel line and a pressure lock. It was tight. He used the butt of his .40-cal to knock it loose, then twisted it. He hand-tightened it again, but not all the way, creating a small leak. In a few hours the chopper's fuel tank would be bone dry. The pilot would come back, find no fuel in the tank behind the cabin and none in the Huey. The pilot might siphon gas from his vehicle, but what good would that do? Forty-gallon tank, max, 6 pounds per gallon, 240 in fuel, barely enough to make the Huey fart.

A reasonably intelligent person would conclude sabotage and he would be right. Would he call for help? There was no phone line to the shack. A cellular? Not likely. Too easily eavesdropped. No, he'd size up the situation and bug out. The big question was how long they would have to wait. Hours, days? He had to prepare for the worst. It was time to babysit the chopper.

He tried McKower at the office, but she had gone off duty. He used his cellular instead and caught her at home. He heard her daughters squealing in the background.

“I'm on the chiller,” he told McKower. Chiller was their term for the cellular because it chilled and retarded official conversations. “I need assistance. Those two probies, Sarah and Dan, can I borrow them?”

“Call me back on a secure line.”

She was perturbed. He had always been able to read her moods.

“No time for that. I'm sort of in a bind here.”

“Where are you?”

“They should meet me at Mossy Camp.” Mossy Camp was an area on the west slope of the Huron Mountains he had named years ago when she was his probie, a long time ago. It was a great place for brookies, and a name only she knew. The place had been good for more than brookies back then.

“I'll do what I can,” she said.

There was no emotion in her voice now. He checked his watch.

“They should meet me at nine tonight. If the fishing's good, we may have to stay a while.”

“The fishing
better
be good,” she said firmly.

Ouch. A threat, and not an idle one either. There was no way he could explain all this. She was about to become an LT and would have to walk the straight and narrow even more than she had as a sergeant. A CO working the field had more room to maneuver.

“Thanks, Lis.”

She hung up. She was pissed at him, not for the first time.

He called Nantz. “It looks like I'm gonna be out of pocket.”

“Why tell me?”

Her unexpected tone made him stop. Now what? “I thought you'd want to know.”

“I've got no claim on you, Service.”

What the hell?

“I just wanted—”

She cut him off. “But I do have your dog. You'll be back.”

Left, right. She was like a jabber.

“Try not to leave any pieces out there,” she added.

“What?”

“You heard me,” she said with a chuckle. “Be careful. You want to talk to Newf?”

“She's a
dog
.”

He heard the dog panting into the phone and said, “Hi girl,” and began laughing.

Talking to Nantz was like trying to catch smoke with your hands. She had him spinning.

Mossy Camp lay beside a gravel road, six miles south of the helicopter. The West Branch of the Huron River flowed around the site, which was on a flat area with small cedars and pines. The river spilled over a series of natural slate steps. Boulders and rocks along the bank were covered with soft moss, giving the whole area a soft and fuzzy appearance. Upriver Service had seen moose, and twice while he was fishing black bears had ambled by. South of camp the roads turned bad and eventually impassable. Vehicles could not get through, but in winter the road was a thoroughfare for snowmobiles. It was unlikely that Will Chamont would venture down this way, but if he did he would see a camp and assume they were fishermen.

Probationary Conservation Officers Sarah Pryzbycki and Dan Beaudoin arrived in an old Ford and a newer Camry. Beaudoin drove the Ford. Service had hurriedly shopped in L'Anse and had just driven into Mossy Camp with several cartons of food and supplies. The young officers looked weary. They had driven a long way fast on little notice with no idea what lay ahead of them.

“We couldn't believe you asked for us by name,” Pryzbycki said.

“No?”

“Word is, you crush probies,” Beaudoin said.

Service frowned. The genesis of this was the situation with Trip Bozian. “Knock off the tag-team drill,” he said.

The probies laughed. They'd do well, he thought.

Service helped the probies build lean-tos with poles he had cut years ago and kept nearby. Roofs were made from camo green tarps. The probies worked efficiently and cheerfully.

“Did you bring sleeping bags?”

The rookies nodded.

He took time to explain the procedure he wanted, but not the reason for it. Having four watchers reduced the likelihood of detection. One vehicle seen regularly might arouse suspicion, but four vehicles alternated would not. They would work twelve-hour shifts, 6
a.m.
to 6
p.m.
If someone came to the chopper, the on-duty watcher was to call for backup. If that someone drove off, they were to follow and call for backup. He tested their knowledge about following vehicles and gave them a couple of pointers to add to what they already knew, the main thing being not to get too close and crowd the target vehicle.

Tonight he would relieve Flap. Base camp was here, close enough to the target yet far enough away. He hoped this surveillance didn't take too many days. Sooner or later, he had to have some luck with this crap. The chopper was well maintained. It wouldn't stay like that without attention. Somebody would come.

He hoped it would be soon.

It was stupid to wish for luck. The Indians said never to let out your fears in summer, when all the spirits were alive and anxious to interfere in men's affairs. Better to talk in winter when everything was frozen, especially spirits. Most of them, anyway.

Unable to reach Turnage or del Olmo, Service called Nantz.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Newf and I are bonding. You may not be able to get her back without me. We're that close.”

Nantz. Cast and reel, set the hook. He was willingly on the end of her line and grinning.

On the third day of the stakeout, Joe Flap had the watch. Pryzbycki and Beaudoin were parked next to the river, trying to sleep in their vehicles with the windows up. The mosquitoes were thick, and there were remnants of early-summer blackflies lingering. Chiggers and no-see-ums were in the on-deck circle. He hoped his probies had patience and crossed his fingers that Lisette didn't recall them for other duty, but if she did, they would have to go. After this stint, the pair would begin to know if they were patient enough for this kind of work. This was real CO work, sitting and waiting. Most nights you sat in the dark, getting cold or bug bitten, and went home empty handed. Lansing didn't like to talk about sheer hours spent unproductively. Perception was the prevailing reality in Lansing. He got a rash if he got closer than a hundred miles.

A radio call from Turnage interrupted his reverie.

“I've acquired that target you've been looking for,” Gus said.

Fox. “Where?”

“Pure luck. I sent a copy of your photo to Simon and he spotted Fox outside Crystal Falls and followed. He handed him off to me about thirty minutes ago. How do you want me to play this?”

“Where are you now?”

“Uh, south of L'Anse.”

Was Fox headed for the chopper?

“What's he driving?”

“Dark blue Ford Bronco with Michigan plates. I ran them through the computer. The vehicle belongs to Wildcat, Inc. Simon said to tell you that Wixon and Wildcat are not connected.”

Dark blue Bronco and Wildcat! But no link to Wixon. Scaffidi was not part of this. Fox was and he was probably in the Tract the night of the first fire too. Things were beginning to come together. But who had the stranger with the rock hammer been? Service felt his heart revving.

“Can you see him?”

“I'm hanging well back, but I have him.”

“What direction's he headed?”

“North. He just got on Skanee Road. Where are you?”

“You're both headed for me now.”

“I didn't know.”

“I haven't been able to get through to you. You can break off and we'll take it from here.”

“No problem. I'm pulling off now.”

Good, finally. “Thanks, Gus. Call Simon and let him know what's going on.”

“Roger, pal. The Bronc's all yours now. Don't let him buck you off.”

Service drove north and parked down a two-track off Skanee Road so he could see the Bronco when it passed. Pranger would see what went down at the helicopter site.

When the Bronco came by him, it was traveling the speed limit. Service called Joe Flap. “You're about to get company,” Service said.

The answer was two clicks on the radio. Flap was ready.

Service smoked, ate an apple, and gnawed a tough piece of venison jerky. The radio was silent for nearly thirty minutes. Then a patch came through.

It was Pranger, his voice calm. “Blue Bronco, headed south. Checked his birdie and cut out. I'm in his six, not pushing.”

“Good job,” Service said. “Did he get out and look or just swing through?”

“Just a drive-by.”

Why hadn't Fox stopped? Had he seen something and spooked? “Stay with him. I'll be in your six if you need me.” If Flap felt he was being made by Fox, he would pull off and Service would move up to be the primary follower.

Click-click.

When Fox came by he was still keeping the speed limit and didn't seem spooked. Flap passed three minutes after Fox, grinning as he drove by. Service headed for Mossy Camp to release the PCOs. Flap could handle the tail for the moment.

Service radioed Turnage and del Olmo, told them what was going on. They would both join in when Fox reached a destination.

Fox led them to a one-story house two miles east on the outskirts of Crystal Falls. Service, who hurried to the area after meeting the probies, kept everybody back. He couldn't take Fox yet. It was too soon. He met with del Olmo and Turnage about a mile from the house, asking del Olmo to get rid of his official vehicle, get his VW, and be ready to tail, but not make an arrest. “We need to know where Fox goes, what he does, who he meets with. If he breaks the law, grab him, otherwise just stick to him.”

Service made a mental note to look up the probies later, fill them in on what this was all about, share some beers. Maybe he'd ask Nantz to come along.

It was tough to get this close to Fox without moving on him, but he didn't have the evidence he needed and when he dropped this one on Fox's head, he meant it to stick. He was sure Fox was the killer, and this made him uneasy. Letting a killer run loose was a risky proposition, but it was in Simon's hands now and he trusted Simon.

With the surveillance organized, and del Olmo in place in his VW, Service called Flap and Turnage and told them they could leave.

He called Nantz as he departed Crystal Falls.

“I'm on the way,” he said.

“I'll believe it when I see it,” she said.

On CR 422 just before Ralph he saw four pickup trucks and a car parked along the road. A fistfight was under way. He stopped and parked, got out, and waded in among the combatants. All but one of them stopped when they saw his badge. He had to knock down the recalcitrant one. “What's going on here?”

The question prompted a barrage of garbled words, accusations, anger, blue-streak swearing, red faces.

“Everybody put a cork in it!” he shouted. With control established, he tried to get the story, one liar at a time.

The woman had hit a deer and went to call her husband to come get it.

While she was at the pay phone, a passerby stopped to claim the deer.

When she saw the latecomer dragging the carcass toward his truck, she ran over to him and pushed him. Then her husband arrived.

An argument ensued.

Mine.

Not yours.

Meanwhile another man stopped, assessed the situation, and tried to grab the carcass while the others fought.

The first bunch then turned on the last guy, angrily pounding him.

Everybody had a bloody nose and torn clothes. Even the woman.

Service was too tired to deal with it. Nearly seventy thousand deer were killed by cars in the state every year and more often than people might think, this was the sort of fiasco that resulted. It was worse during hunting season when armed people sometimes argued over who shot what.

He sent the lot of them on their way, flagged down a logging rig, and gave the surprised driver the venison.

Farther down the road he saw a dead mother coon with five dead babies, all flattened, probably last night, a poignant example of where blind obedience could take you. Nature had taught him much, and so far all the lessons had been brutal.

About ten miles from Gladstone, he got a call from the county, the kind of call cops hated most: he was needed as backup in a domestic dispute, in Trombly.