Running Dark (24 page)

As his feet hit the deck, something struck him on the forehead, and he found himself on his knees. He tried to get up, propping a leg against a gunwale, but another blow came, this time to the back of his head. He had the sudden impression of time suspended, and of levitating before smacking the water face-first, and skipping before sinking and bobbing quickly back to the surface, gasping for air like he was at death's door, so focused on the cold and getting air that he had no idea where the boats had gone.

Fucked
was the first word that came into his mind. Then, calm down, assess the problem, focus on what you have, not on what you don't have. He had his light and his pistol. Marine flares? No flares! Why didn't they issue marine flares?
Focus on what you've got,
his mind repeated. Thoughts coming in clusters, no order. Water temperature: What was the water temperature? He had taken a reading near Sac Bay. Thirty-eight there, or forty-eight? No, take the worst case. Warmer out here? No, assume same. Worst case.
Don't fight,
his mind said. Don't struggle. You're in the water and you can't change that. Conserve heat. You're in good shape, adapted to the cold, perhaps more this year than at any other time in your life. Big bodies cool slower than small bodies. Fifteen to thirty minutes before the lights go out, he told himself.
Stay alive.

He pulled himself into a cannonball position, which lifted his head up enough so he could see, but the waves immediately pushed his face under and he had to go through the contortion again, trying to make his body as tight as he could to reduce exertion and keep heat in. Slow down, relax; don't swim—float! He eventually learned to take a breath before the waves dumped him, even to look around. No sound of the boats, no lights. All alone.
Fucking rats!
he thought. He needed to see a light, any light. Why the hell were game wardens boarding boats like pirates? This was the sort of shit frustration caused.

No idea how much time had passed. Too much? No, still alive. Too cold to be dead yet. He had heard an instructor in winter survival training say, “You're not dead until you're warm and dead.” Where the hell was Homes? Body cold, but no shivering yet. That's good. Glass half full. He had wool under nylon, under an insulated jumpsuit. Thank God for wool. Not great for swimming, but he wasn't swimming tonight, just floating, trying to take one breath at a time, and not going anywhere except where the wind wanted him to go.
Don't think,
he warned himself,
Stay calm—no matter what.
Taste in his mouth: Salt. Blood? Forget it. The only sharks out here were in boats.

At some point he heard a sound, or imagined it. He uncurled his body and fumbled to get his finger into the trigger guard of the revolver, which was attached to his preserver by a lanyard. Stay calm, control breathing. Okay, finger set. He closed his eyes, tried to substitute hearing for sight. The crests of the waves seemed higher than five feet now. Eyes closed. There, yes. Sound for sure. A motor running hard. He lifted his arm as high as he could, fired a round, found himself temporarily blinded by the intensity of the muzzle flash. Had anyone ever calculated the candlepower of that?
Stay in the fucking game,
his old man's voice, the familiar refrain no matter what was happening. More sound. He lifted his arm, fired two rounds in succession; he ignored the muzzle flashes this time, his ears ringing. He hoped the rounds would land on some rat's head. Then: Wait, don't fire again too soon. How many shots left? Not counting, not paying attention.
Dummy!
No, wrong attitude. Okay, no problem. Not like he was going to reload out here. He laughed out loud, closed his eyes. Yes, a motor drawing toward him; he lifted his arm, fired another round, got dunked by a huge wave, came up coughing and choking on water. Christ, his lungs were going to fill with ice. How many rounds left? Never mind. Save it until nothing left. Under the water again, choking more, he bobbed to the surface and said out loud, “This ain't good.”

A female voice: “If I was Florence Nightingale I'd strip and get under da blankets wit' youse.”

“Is this a topless beach?” he asked, no idea why. He felt pressure near his rectum. “What's that?”

“We need your body temperature.”

“Ninety-eight point six is normal,” he said.

“You're not normal,” the voice said.

“That smarts.”

“Truth always does,” the voice said. “Haven't lost the sense of humor, eh?”

“Damn,” he said, flinching at the feel of the thermometer.

“I used Vaseline,” the voice said.

“It feels like a baseball bat.”

“I didn't feel a thing,” the nurse said. “Everything's a little constricted,” she said. “Ninety-four point eight. It's coming up.”

“It?” he asked.

“You're not
that
warm yet,” she quipped.

“That's not what the mermaid said.”

“Mermaid?”

“Can modern science measure the buoyancy of breasts?” he asked.

“Say again?”

“Never mind. You wouldn't understand.” Neither did he. His mouth was launching words unvetted by his mind. He felt heat on his forehead and neck.

“Drink,” the voice said. “Tea and sugar.”

“No candy,” he said. “Bad luck.”

“Tea,” she said, trying to reassure him. “Tepid, not hot.”

He sipped and spit it out.

“Too hot?” she sounded concerned.

“My lips don't work so good.”

“Try again?” she asked softly.

“Okay.”

This time he got it down. “Where am I?”

“Hospital,” the voice said. “Escanaba.”

“Where's Homes?”

“Right here, partner.”

“I'm sorry about your wife.”

Homes laughed. “She isn't.”

“Rats?”

“I finally got control of da assholes, called for emergency help, turned da boat around, an' come looking for youse. Len had an ambulance waiting for us at Ogontz, and da county was dere to transport da prisoners. Da
Little Rat
drifted away and got lost. The Glastrons went ta search for it.”

Service said, “Another drink?”

The nurse said, “You want to try to hold the cup?”

“Okay.”

She helped prop him up against his pillow and put the cup in his hands.

“You're not so blue anymore.”

“That's good, right?”

“That's very good.”

“Did I pass out?”

“I don't know,” Homes said, “but you looked
dead,
man. We got you on da deck and you started babbling some weird shit about mermaids wit' big tits.”

“Can we talk about this later?” Service said, turning away from Homes.

The man in the white lab coat was short with a prominent nose, a perpetual smile, and dark hair combed back. “You Otter?”

“Service, not Otter.”

“Sorry, your guys called you Otter. Cop humor, I guess. You'd think I'd learn. I'm a doctor.”

Service let his eyes scan the room. Light was seeping through the shades.

“Warm enough?” the doctor asked.

“Head hurts.”

“It should. I put six stitches in your forehead, eleven in back.”

“Tasted salt.”

“From the cuts. You're either damn lucky or Superman.”

“Sir?”

“You've got a concussion, not a mild one, and you could use a neurologist, but we don't have one in town. I'm an internist. Your brain's internal, right, so that makes it my territory. You feel dizzy, nauseous?”

“Just sore, thirsty.”

“We've got you on an IV for fluids. Body temp's normal now. You were in the water almost an hour. Most people wouldn't have lasted nearly that long. I'm not sure why you did.”

“How long have I been here?”

The man looked at his watch. “About twelve hours. We're gonna keep you tonight, release you tomorrow if everything goes okay.”

“Can I get up, walk around?”

“Later, maybe. There's a buzzer by your right hand. Use it if you need anything or feel dizzy. By the way, I'm Vince Vilardo.”

“Grady.”

“Not Otter.”

“Not Otter—Grady Service,” Service repeated. “Did we get the rats?”

“Rats?” the doctor named Vince said. “Don't worry about that. Right now you're gonna go to sleep.”

“How can you know that?”

Vince smiled and held up a syringe. “I'm your doctor.”

38

ESCANABA, MAY 9, 1976

“You really ought to clean up the place. It gives the Garden a bad name.”

Service peered into the room where Moe Lapalme sat with two black eyes and a bandage across his nose. Learning that it had been Lapalme in the boat had not been surprising. Moe might not be one of the leaders in the Garden, but he was in the thick of it. During his two-week recon he had not encountered Lapalme until he saw him with a rifle at Middle Bluff. Where had he been before that?

Colt Homes stood next to Service. “He's da one.”

“Never know it by me,” Service said. “All I saw were dark oilers. Too dark and too fast to see a face. Did he look like that when I left the boat?”

“It was kinda close quarters,” Homes said sheepishly. “I went over right behind you and jumped da driver. Dere was some wrestling, and when I got 'em settled down, you were gone, and I about shit my pants. Neither of da bastards wanted ta turn da boat around.”

Homes explained that he had threatened to shoot both men if they didn't calm down and do what he ordered. The scuffle in the boat had taken them way off course, and by the time Homes got the situation under control, he had no idea where Service was. Only the sound and muzzle flashes of his revolver had enabled them to find him and fish him out. “By den,” Homes said, “I was wondering if we had a funeral on our hands. Lapalme thought da whole thing was kinda funny.”

“Not now, I'd guess.”

“It was close,” Homes said seriously. “
Too
bloody close.”

“We get their nets?”

“Yesterday morning. Unmarked, but in da area where you dropped the buoy. Found da
Little Rat
south of da Stonington. Joe Flap spotted it from above.”

“Lapalme, of course, knows nothing about the nets.”

“Never seen 'em before. Dey was just out for a boat ride when we come roarin' up on 'em and scared 'em, which was why dey bolted.”

“Blood tests?”

“Both blotto and change,” Homes said.

Meaning they had been over the blood alcohol level for legally operating a vehicle—on land or water. “At least we have that.”

“An' some blood on Lapalme's oilers. He denies touching you.”

“Probably the truth. It felt like a club, not fists.”

“Three-pound fish bat to be precise,” Homes said. “Your blood type was on da bat and it matched da type on da oilers. Neither Lapalme, nor da other guy, have your blood type. 'Course, dey say it was a pal who cut himself earlier. Dey've been arraigned for attempted murder, assaulting police officers, resisting arrest, fleeing, fishing in a closed zone during a closed period, driving while intoxicated, and more charges are going ta be added. We got dere boat, dere's no registration, and da VIN is missing.”

“Does Murray think he has a case?” Murray was Delta County's prosecuting attorney.

“He says it will come down to da jury.”

“Same old story.” Juries were notorious for siding with poachers and lawbreakers in the U.P. “Did Lapalme lawyer up?”

“Young worm outta Negaunee named Tavolacci. We've bumped heads wit' him in several counties. He's one of da first lawyers da bad guys call.”

“Is he good enough to get them off?”

“Can't rule it out, but if Murray and his people get dere shit together, Tavolacci will plead it out. Dat okay by you?”

“No,” Service said, “but it would take two rats out of the pack. I'd like to talk to Lapalme, alone.”

“Bad idea.”

“Colt.”

“Okay, okay. We'd better let Tavolacci know. He'll go ballistic if he ain't at da party.”

“It's not about the other night.”

Homes cocked his head. “You want a tape recorder?”

“Yes, but if it's okay with you, I'll hang on to the tape.” Homes shrugged and handed the device to him.

“You know,” Service said, pausing near the door to the room, “I never saw his face. I was in the water almoast immediately.” He didn't tell Homes he had previously seen Lapalme in the Garden.

“Don't worry,” Homes said. “I told you I jumped da other guy.”

“Who is he?”

“Duperow.”

“Regular rat?” This was a new name to Service.

“Fringe type—sort of an apprentice,” Homes said with a grin.

“He wasn't on the fringe the other night.”

“As he is now so painfully aware,” Homes said. “If he decides ta get his own lawyer, he'll turn on Moe. You sure you don't want me ta sit in wit' you?”

“Thanks, I'll be fine.”

“Da yak-shack's all yours.”

“Yak-shack?”

Homes pointed, enunciated, “Interview room.”

Lapalme sat across the table from Service.

“I guess we both had a rough night,” Service said.

“I never touched you, man.”

“You know me?”

“Seen you around.”

“Really?” Service said. “Where?”

“How I'm supposed to remember. Your face looks familiar.”

“How do you know I'm the one who got thrown out of the boat?”

Lapalme stared at him. “Because I helped fish your waterlogged ass out of the lake.”

“Thanks,” Service said. “I appreciate that.”

Lapalme shrugged.

“Looks like you had some problems,” Service said, nodding at the man's injuries.

“That fucking Homes,” Lapalme said. “I tried to help Dupe and he beat the shit outta me.”

“Homes jumped Duperow?”

Lapalme stared at the wall. “I want my lawyer.”

“This isn't about the other night, Moe.”

“No?”

“You know Anise Aucoin?”

Lapalme sneered. “That psycho bitch. What did she tell you?”

Service delayed answering, let silence eat at Lapalme's attempt at nonchalance. “What do you think she told me?”

“I—no! I want my lawyer.”

“You've seen her since she got back,” Service said, a statement rather than a question.

“I dropped that scag years ago, man.”

“I don't believe you.”

“What're you trying to pull, man?”

Service lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Lapalme. “I'm sure I saw you and her in your truck a couple of months back.”

Lapalme leaned away from the table. “She told you that?”

“You're not listening, Moe. I said I
saw
you up on US Two by the Fishdam.”

“You'da seen me that day, you'da come visiting,” Lapalme said.

“Blue pickup, home just north of Garden. It looks like a junkyard, Moe. You really ought to clean up the place. It gives the Garden a bad name.”

“What is this shit, man!”

“You were with her.”

“Like I give a shit what you think.”

“You like venison, Moe?”

Lapalme got up from the table and knocked over his chair. “You're as crazy as that cunt. I want my fucking lawyer!”

Homes was waiting outside the room. “What was all dat about?”

“Keeping my head in the game.”

“You need ta call it a day, pal. Your concussion's showing.”

“You're probably right.” In fact, he had a headache that seemed to be getting worse rather than better. But he was sure now it had been Lapalme driving the truck with Aucoin as his passenger. Lapalme had slipped up and said “that day,” as much as admitting he had made the drive-by at the Fishdam. He needed to talk to Lasurm's daughter, and he needed to talk to her without Hegstrom running interference. But before that, he knew he needed to go back to Show-Titties Pond. Hegstrom had asked some questions he couldn't answer, and before he went off on a tangent he wanted to know what Hegstrom thought he knew.