Running Dark (23 page)

Service knew they'd been busted. Peletier was acting like the bag contained plague. He knew something was up. No way Peletier could have seen him dismount from the truck. All he could see from the house was the nose of the trash hauler in the driveway. Stone was a mile back, waiting for a radio call.
Shit!
Peletier had asked Aho where his pickup was. Son of a bitch: Aho had snookered them. He normally came in his personal truck, not the trash hauler. The big truck had tipped off his uncle. Bastards, Service thought as he stepped out beside Aho and said, “DNR.”

Peletier looked amused. “Dis like
Hawaii Five-O?
” the man asked. “Youse lost, Officer?” He pointed southwest. “Last I heard, da Big Island and Dano were dat way.”

“Gary Aho, you are under arrest for theft of government papers.” Service recited the man's rights and asked him to put his right hand behind his back, where he cuffed it.

Aho said, “You said it would be okay. This is a fuck job!”

Peletier said sharply, “Put a cork in it, Gary.”

“You promised,” Aho whined at Service as he cuffed the man's hands behind his back and held the cuffs to control him.

“Nazis,” Peletier said with a growl.

Service picked up the bag with his right hand. “I'll be back for you, Pete,” he said to the man.

“You got nothing, asshole,” Peletier said. “
Nothing.
”

Service lifted Aho's cuffed hands. “We've got him, and there are always fingerprints,” he added, holding the bag out.

Peletier didn't look particularly upset, but he shook a finger at his nephew. “Youse keep dat big mouth shut until da lawyer comes ta see youse.”

“He's already made a statement,” Service said as he engaged the radio and called Stone in to pick them up.

Service heard the door slam as he shoved Aho into the front passenger seat and got in behind him. “Hit it. I think we're gonna have company.”

As Service would have done, Stone immediately shut off all lights, inside and out, and fishtailed onto Garden Road as he accelerated. It was several miles before an oncoming vehicle lit them up and swerved as it passed, the driver obviously startled. Running without lights was a good way to stay hidden, if you didn't hit anything.

“You guys are nuts!” Aho said, holding his cuffed hands in front of his face.

Service used the brick to call the Manistique Troop dispatcher and asked for assistance and an escort from the nearest unit. A state police officer immediately responded that he was westbound on US 2, a mile east of Garden Corners.

Service radioed, “Unit Eight Six, we're running dark, heading north in an unmarked. Light it up and start your music. We'll flash lights twice when we have you in sight.”

Stone slowed for the ninety-degree turn just south of the village and accelerated straight through town. Service saw vehicle lights coming to life in Roadie's parking lot as they flashed by.

“Eight Six, we're clear of Garden. What's our speed?” Service asked Stone.

“Eighty,” the lieutenant said matter-of-factly.

“Eight Six, we're northbound at eighty mike-paul-henry, running dark.”

“Eight Six is southbound on Garden Road, all lit up.”

Service did a quick mental calculation. “Intersect, four minutes max,” he radioed. “Probable pursuit.”

“Roger, Eight Six will swing in behind and follow you up to US 2.”

Another state police vehicle reported on the radio that he was also headed for Garden Corners, ETA in one minute from the west on US 2.

“Do we stop an' circle da wagons?” Stone asked, concentrating on the road.

“We'll let the state transport the prisoner,” Service said as he spotted an oncoming emergency vehicle's flashing lights.

Stone flashed his headlights twice and the trooper wheeled a tight one-eighty and fell in behind them.

Moments later they skidded into the gas station at Garden Corners. A state police cruiser was already there, emergency lights blinking.

A half-dozen trucks and vans roared up behind their escort and men tumbled out and immediately began to throw rocks.

Service jerked Aho out of the sedan, pushed him into the backseat of the waiting cruiser, and told the trooper to take the prisoner to Escanaba. The officer didn't question him.

Stone had his revolver out of his holster and was pointing it at the rock throwers, who had left their headlights on, flooding the COs and using the lights as a blinding shield. “Next one gets a round!” Stone shouted.

“Nail the Nazi fucker!” somebody shrieked.

“Next one!” Stone roared.

Service knew it was a bluff. They were trained and expected to shoot at a specific target, not wildly and blindly, and rocks at this range did not equate to lethal force.

The men swore and called them names and began to slam doors. The trucks backed out quickly and raced south on Garden Road, honking their horns.

Stone holstered his revolver and patted the shoulder of the first trooper who had come to their assistance. “Youse ever want to transfer, youse let me know,” he told the Troop, who started laughing out loud.

En route to Escanaba, Service said, “Peletier knew something was up. He played dumb over the bag. Arriving in the big truck was a prearranged signal.” He knew it had been his fault for not anticipating this.

After a lull, Stone said, “Ya know, sometimes I seen dat trash hauler parked at a house down by Garden. I shoulda said somepin'.”

“He probably swaps the big truck for his pickup,” Service said, disgusted by his failure to nail the secretive rat leader. So close—and it was his fault they'd missed.

Stone looked over at him. “Buck up, boy. Youse stopped da leak been right dere in front of us for years. Youse figured it out. None a' us did. Dat alone is one helluva day of police work.”

“I'll drop the bag at the Troop lab in Ishpeming tomorrow,” Service told his lieutenant. “Peletier's prints will be on the bag.”

“Don't waste da time,” Stone said. “His lawyer will claim he give da bag to his nephew as a gift and why wouldn't his prints be on it, eh? An' he won't know nuttin' about no papers. We could try for a search warrant for Pete's house, but dere won't be shit to find by den.” Stone looked over at him. “We're in dis for da long haul. We plugged da leak. We'll take dat for now.”

Service lit a cigarette.

Stone said, “You got an extra one?”

“You smoke?”

“Tonight I do.”

37

BIG BAY DE NOC PATROL, MAY 6–7, 1976

The only sharks out here were in boats.

The average date for ice-out on Big Bay de Noc was April 20, but not this year, when it was eight days late because of the hard winter and late spring. Service had not been back to the Garden since the confrontation with Peletier and Aho two months before. Aho, after his arrest, initially had been fired from his company, but was rehired when the prosecutor withdrew the charges, saying he didn't think a jury would find Aho guilty. This made it not worth the cost to the county, especially after Lansing also passed on taking the lead in the case. Service was unhappy about the developments, but Stone once again pointed out that they had stopped the leak, and told him it was time for him to come back into the Garden fray.

Stone and Attalienti had been busy in the Garden since ice-out in the bay. Stone and a marine patrol had gotten lucky two days after ice-out when they forced two rat boats onto boulders and ice berms on the shore of Ansels Point. The rats had abandoned their craft and scrambled into the woods. Within an hour the owner of the two boats called the state police to report them stolen. Stone towed the boats back to Escanaba, started condemnation proceedings in district court, and had his men clean up the craft and put them in working order, including blue flashers on six-foot-high metal posts and yelper sirens. Finally, the DNR had a couple of boats that could keep up with the rats, and Stone planned to use them until the court said otherwise.

This morning the fifty-foot PB-4 was to come across the bay to Burn't Bluff from Escanaba and grapple for nets southward. Service and Homes had put in at Thompson Creek, on the northeast extreme of the Garden Peninsula, and were running south checking out some of the shoals and bays along the east coast. Homes told him sometimes the perch spawned on the east side, but most of the action was on the west. Because soft ice preceded ice-out and made it impossible to run their ice-netting operations, and because ice-out was late, the rats were almost into the legal fishing dates. This meant they had lost money because of the weather conditions and that, out of desperation to take fish before legal fishing began, they could be anywhere.

Service and Homes were in one of the captured boats, a sixteen-footer with a two-hundred-horsepower Mercury outboard. Homes had renamed the boat
Little Rat.
The other confiscated craft was a twenty-footer, also with a two-hundred-horse motor; it would launch today from the Fishdam site as
Fat Rat.

Service and Homes were to patrol south past Point Detour, continue past Summer Island, and move north through the cut between Poverty and Little Summer.
Fat Rat
was coming south from the Fishdam, and the two DNR Glastrons would be coming over from Ogontz. The PB-4 would come east from Escanaba.

They would all rendezvous mid-afternoon off Sac Bay, where Stone planned to grapple for nets. Attalienti and three other patrol cars were on the peninsula to provide land cover. Service had to admit that this patrol seemed more organized, with more resources and force committed than he had seen previously. A state trooper was parked at the Port Bar acting as a visible deterrent, and Service guessed that the information he had brought out was being used by Attalienti in planning Garden operations. Joe Flap would be overhead all afternoon and into the early evening.

Homes piloted the
Little Rat
like A.J. Foyt, putting the stripped-down sixteen-footer on the plane and running it wide open, throwing up a ten-foot roostertail as they raced southward, the hull slamming against the waves. Service had never been particularly comfortable in boats, and thought about telling Homes they were wasting fuel as a way of slowing him down, but they had two extra tanks of fuel on board. He clutched his seat, let the spray sting his face, kept his mouth shut, and endured.

They ran around the south shore of Summer Island and turned north. Homes finally slowed down to creep their way through the shoals that stuck up in places like a broken atoll. When they reached Sac Bay, they found the PB-4 thirty yards off the ice-packed shore. Someone was in the fourteen-foot aluminum deck boat, close to shore, throwing the grapple rope and dragging it across the bottom, hoping to snag illegal nets—either those that had sunk when the ice went out, or new ones they had just set by boat.

Homes eased the
Little Rat
alongside the PB-4, pulled the throttle to idle, and had Service toss out the sea anchor. There was a slight breeze and a small chop. Stone leaned over the rail of the PB-4. “Dere's a heap a' perch up to Ansels Point,” he told them as they bobbed beside the mother ship.

“Nets in the water there?” Homes asked.

“Haven't checked,” Stone said. “Buncha fish on gravel next ta shore down here, so dey'll be against shore all da way up to da Chicken Farm. Da rats know our schedule 'cause I been keepin' us pretty regular since we took dose two boats. Dey got somebody on shore watchin' us right now, and dey know how long our shifts been runnin'. Pretty soon dere gonna come out wit' dere short nets and see what dey can grab. Youse boys run up between Stoney Point and Ansels and anchor up. We'll give youse a bump on da radio when we start for home, but we'll anchor between Round Island and Chippewa Point and see what happens. Da rats only got a week till dey can net legally, and da dirty ones will want to get into da fish before dat.” Stone looked down at Service from the larger boat and winked. “Since Feb-u-ary da rats been real nervous. Somepin' musta shook 'em up good.”

“Bingo!” the man in the deck boat yelled. “Not marked,” he added, as he began to pull the net hand over hand toward his boat. Stone flung his grapple into the water and began hauling to see if there were nets closer to the big boat. Service saw Ed Moody working the front of the PB-4, and waved as Homes ordered the sea anchor up. When Service hauled it into the boat, they blasted off northward.

They were anchored about halfway between Stoney and Ansels Points, bobbing in three-foot chop, the wind picking up from the north. The sky was overcast, no moon, no stars. The PB-4 had reported leaving its station, and since then, the radio had been silent.

Service and Homes ate ham and cheese sandwiches and drank coffee as they waited. It seemed to Service that as a conservation officer, he was always waiting.

“Who was working with Moody and Stone?” Service asked.

“Name's Moomaw, from downstate. Len's runnin' guys up here from all over, givin' 'em a week ta ten days in da Garden and shipping 'em home. Da more guys we give experience up here, da more support we'll have around da state. You fucking anybody dese days?”

“Just your wife,” Service said.

Homes laughed out loud. “She's more fun den my mum, eh!”

“What's a short net?” Service asked.

“Hundred, two hundred feet with small mesh. Easier ta trow and recover den da longer gangs, best for shallow water work. We're gonna sit here and wait. Eleven or so, we'll start putt-putting toward Ansels, see what we can see. Want a candy bar?” Homes held it out. “Keep da energy up out here, eh.”

Service chewed mechanically, not paying attention to the taste or the sugar.

“Da rats will run dark,” Homes said, “but sometimes dey need to flip on dere flashlights ta handle dere nets. We'll look for dat, an' if we see anyting, we'll charge dere sorry asses.”

“Without lights?”

“Just like on land. We want ta surprise da bastards.”

“What about support?” Service wanted to know.

“Da rats will try to run ta Garden, I'm thinking. Attalienti and da boys will be land-side, strung out along da coast. Got three trucks ready to head south to where we need 'em, and Troops on standby in da wings. Attalienti says he has a pretty good idea where ta find and intercept da rats. How he knows, I don't know, and I ain't askin'. Our job is ta cut da rats off from Garden and hope dey run north. If dey do, dis time we got da boats dat can keep up; dis time, we got darkness and speed on our side.
Fat Rat
will wait out near Ogontz, and the PB-4 and the Glastrons will be south of us, so we'll have plenty of backup, just not close. Don't worry,” Homes said.

“What's the Chicken Farm?” Service asked. Attalienti was definitely using his information, and it was filtering down to the officers.

“Dis Twenty Questions? It's a shoal north of Kates Bay. My wife any good?” he added with a chuckle.

“Below average,” Service said.

“Man,” Homes said, and guffawed. “You
have
been wit' her!”

The wind continued to rise, and with it came increased wave action. By ten the waves were regularly at five feet, some higher, and their anchor had come loose. They had drifted before Homes started the engine and began burrowing slowly over the peaks, the motor gurgling and chortling like an emphysemic gasping for air.

Service sat just in front of Homes with his binoculars sweeping the horizon ahead of them. It was almost too rough to see. A couple of times he had to grab hold to avoid being bucked out of the boat. Going overboard, he decided, could be lethal if help wasn't close by.

It was almost eleven when Homes tapped him on the shoulder. “We're about a mile out.” Service felt Homes's binoculars over his right shoulder.

The engine shut off suddenly.

“What?” Service asked.

“North wind reduces wave action along da shore. Let's try ta listen for a while.”

Service thought he heard something.

“What is it?” Homes asked.

“Sounded like metal against metal.”

“Where?”

Service pointed a little left of their bow.

“Dat's Ansels,” Homes said. A minute went by. “Okay, I heard it too. Dey tink dey're safe, making so much noise. Dey tink we all went home . . . dis will be
fun!
”

Fun wasn't the word Service had in mind, but Homes seemed to relish any action that entailed risk.

“Scalded dog!” Homes said before Service could ask what was next. “I'm gonna run full out. You keep your glasses ahead. When we have visual, I'll turn on da lights and da yelper.”

The engine went from a growl to a high-pitched whine, the nose popped up, they bounced over a few waves, and began skimming the tops like a skipped rock, wave tops continuing to hammer the metal hull. Service checked his flashlight to make sure it was tethered to his life preserver. Likewise, he had attached a lanyard from his PFD to the trigger guard of his revolver. He wished there was more light and less wind.

Service tried to concentrate on the view through his binoculars, but the ride was too rough, the spray blasting from the bow. Even so, he thought he detected a blink of a light.

“There,” he called to Homes, “a light.”

Homes leaned forward. “Where?”

“Ten o'clock.”

“Yes,” Homes shouted. “I see the motherfuckers!”

The blue light began to rotate and the yelper began its eerie warble as they raced toward the target.

“Hundred yards,” Homes yelled at Service. “I'm gonna put us alongside. You jump over an' shut dere motor off!”

The other craft was less than fifty yards away when Service saw light-colored froth erupt behind it.

Homes yelled, “Dey're runnin'!” Service thought he sounded almost happy about the prospect.

“Make sure you get dere bloody motor shut off!” Homes repeated as the quarry began to flee, holding the interval between them. Service knew his job was critical, that both men would board to make the arrest and prevent evidence from being cast over the sides.

Homes seemed to find more power, and as the distance closed, the other boat immediately began a series of abrupt right and left turns. No matter what they tried, Homes stayed with them. He seemed to anticipate each maneuver and they were closing steadily. Service saw piles of shore ice passing precariously close, and hoped Homes was paying attention.

Amazingly, the other boat seemed to gain some space with a double left turn when Homes was cutting right, and when they turned back, the other boat was moving away. Homes soon had them closing, and instead of north, the other boat was running due west into the main bay.

Service felt a sense of foreboding. Homes made it seem like the rats would throw up their hands, or if forced to run, try for the north. So far they hadn't done anything Homes had predicted. Not a good sign, he told himself, but Homes had gained on the other craft and was almost beside it now.

“Ready?” Homes called out.

Service moved forward to the bow in a low crouch, braced himself, put a foot on the gunwale and waited, his heart pounding. Stepping out of an airplane was a lot easier than this shit.

The distance between the two craft decreased steadily, and whenever the quarry tried to turn, Homes was ahead of their moves and drawing ever closer—like he had radar, or a sixth sense. Finally, they were within six feet, and Homes cut sharply into the other craft and grazed it gently. Service saw a man in dark oilers standing there, and aiming at the figure, he launched himself over the side into the other boat.