Running Dark (30 page)

“You just don't want the paperwork,” McCants said. “Still no lights,” she added. “Maybe they decided to move on.”

“How close are we to the creek?” Service asked.

“About a hundred yards. Can't you see it?”

He couldn't, but despite the sound of the downpour, he thought he could make out the the roar of water boiling out of the culvert.

McCants picked her way along like she had X-ray vision, and eventually stopped. “Light,” was all she said. They were still in knee-deep water. “There,” she said, “two o'clock. Let's set up here,” she added.

Service bent over and groped around, felt a hump of firm ground. He got on his side on the east side of the cover, slid off his pack, and got out his night scope.

“See it?” she asked.

“The rubber eyepiece fell off this damn thing,” he grumbled. It did that a lot.

“Two flashlights moving just left of us,” she said. “They have them pointed at the ground. Branching off now, one to our left, one to our right, headed upstream toward the culvert.”

“Are they in the water?” His night vision used to be exceptional. No longer.

“I can't tell,” she said.

Neither could he. How could she see at all? She was curled up an arm's length away and he couldn't see her through the wall of rain.

She clicked on the thermal imager, which threw out backlight, and lowered the device to just behind the top of the rock.

“They just took a fish,” she said. “Look.”

He scootched over to her and saw red, yellow, and green outlines of two people. One held the light, the other held a slender black straight line in front. “The dark line's a spear?” he asked. He'd already misread one silhouette today. Suddenly the man made a downward thrust and stumbled around.

“I think he just nailed another one,” he said, releasing the device and sliding to his right to escape the glare. Now he was completely blind. “Goddamn thing blasted my night vision,” he said. “How far from the road are we, and are they above the marker?”

“The road's just over to our right, and I think they're well above the marker,” she said as the rain pounded them, making a steady
whooshing
sound. “I think the other guy just got a fish. The lights are converging.”

He saw nothing.

“Move on them?” she asked.

“Let them take another,” he said, his eyes beginning to readjust, but not fast enough.

“Got another,” she said. “They're together and one of the lights is flickering. I think the battery's going bad. Let's leave the gear and move!” she whispered as she got up and bolted ahead into the rain and black.

He followed, but stopped after a few steps. Where the hell was she? He could hear the rush of the creek ahead. Had she veered left from their hide or gone straight ahead? Probably the latter: Candi always went right to the heart of things, taking all problems head-on.

He felt stupid standing still and began to ease forward. Had she cut through the creek or gone over the berm road? He had no idea. He stopped and listened to see if he could hear her boots, but there was only the rain and creek pouring through the culvert. She probably kicked it in gear, trying to intercept the poachers before they got to their vehicle.
You don't have to run,
he told himself. Let her young legs do the hard work.
Where the hell was the road?
He stopped again, moved his eyes while keeping his head still, trying to get his rods and cones working. No good. He had angled right from the hide, right? Not sure.
Shit.
The creek was ahead. He could hear it. Slow down, you can't catch up now. She's too damn fast. Move deliberately, be ready to help when she yells. He chuckled involuntarily. She had bolted like a deer.
You used to do that,
he told himself. Get the lead out and stop walking like Sandy Tavolacci, he admonished himself. He took one stride confidently and the ground felt solid and smooth.
Okay, go!
He took another stride.

There was a moment when he imagined he was flying, until gravity took hold, his right thigh struck something hard and sharp, and he was underwater and pulling instinctively with his arms to surface. He came up gasping, his chest heaving from the shock of the cold and the surprise.
Jesus Christ!
The current was spinning him counterclockwise. He tried to do a couple of breaststrokes against it, but immediately knew it was too strong, the force too concentrated near the culvert opening. The culvert!
Fuck!
He looked, saw the opening, black and gaping, and realized he was going to go down headfirst. Desperately he kicked and stroked and managed to turn his body around, and then he was inside, on his back, racing boots first down the black tube, rocks and debris banging the back of his head and back. Ahead he saw a gray circle, light at the end of the tunnel. He almost laughed. You are in the fucking water, you clumsy fucking moron!

The water shot him out of the tube like a bullet and the outfall swallowed him as he smacked his right thigh against another large rock, the impact turning him clockwise onto his stomach. He tried to swim up and get onto his back, and looked up to catch a glimpse of a light shining at him before momentum and current swept him downstream into the night.

He tried to swim with the current, and as he did, he accelerated, making his body ride higher so that a couple of kicks and backstrokes enabled him to get on his back, his feet facing Lake Michigan. He considered yelling out, but decided to keep quiet. He had no idea where Candi was, or if she had approached the suspects yet.
Don't fuck it up for her,
he told himself. It's bad enough to stumble into the river, asshole. Don't fuck up the patrol.

Think,
he told himself. How far out to the big lake? Two hundred, three hundred yards? The creek was up and fast, but no way it can carry you that far.

Could it?
Put out your arms, Christ on the cross going down the river. Wait for obstacles. When you feel something, catch it with your arm, kick your legs, scissor out of the main current into a side eddy.

He missed the first four or five rocks, but managed to stay relaxed and focused, closing his eyes to concentrate on feeling rather than sight. Ow!
Damn!
A large rock bashed the end of his elbow and he missed grabbing hold as he recoiled from the pain. Okay, you survived the big lake. This pissant creek isn't going to win this thing. Get your head in the game. He missed two more rocks before he caught a third one with his left arm, and violently twisted his body left and kicked his right leg over and felt himself drop out of the main current into smoother water. He was still moving downstream, but with less speed. He put both arms down and felt for the bottom and found only cobble, some of the rocks sharp. He jammed his gloved fingers between the rocks like a rock climber and started pulling himself to the left, toward shore.

His face was in pea gravel and sand, his lower body still in water. Hypothermia, he told himself. Replay evolution, crawl out of the slime, get to your feet,
move it.
Motion is life, rest is death.

He got his knees beneath him, put one foot out, used his fist as a prop on the gravel, and pushed up. Hell of a ride, he thought, not wanting to think about all the things that might have happened, all of them negative. Move, don't stand, stop gawking.

A flashlight was shining about seventy-five yards to the north and above him. Was the rain letting up? He could see the berm and the creamy gray froth of water being expelled from the culvert.

“Ca-di?”

“Up here,” she called down to him.

He stumbled forward, his clothes heavy with water. He was cold. He got to the bottom of the steep berm and started to scramble up but lost his grip, hit his face in the mud, and slid down. He immediately started back up and kept scrambling until he was facedown on the road.

“We've got them,” McCants said. “They went east toward the dead end. They have to come back this way.”

“I-wa-in-wa-tah,” he said, thinking he sounded like Eugene.

“I know,” she said, “we have them.”

“Don-un-stan,” he said. Why couldn't he talk normally?

“Grady?” Concern in her voice.

“Wen-true-cul-ver,” he said, trying to enunciate.

“Oh Jesus!” she said. “Are you okay?”

He felt her hands on him. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Cold,” he said, his teeth chattering.

“Here they come,” she said.

He looked up, saw headlights approaching, reached for his flashlight. Not there. The lanyard had ripped off during his swim.

McCants lit up the vehicle, a Japanese model. “DNR,” she said, letting her light sweep inside. He saw three people, two up front, one in back.

“Dee-en-ah,” Service parrotted, knowing it came out convoluted. He tried to take a step but tripped on something, bent down, and clawed at it with both hands. A broom? He worked to lift it.

McCants said, “Their spear. They must've dumped it.”

She ordered the driver out of the vehicle. His face was pale under her light beam, his eyes wide with fear as he stared at Service. Why wasn't the man squinting?

“Get the truck, Grady.”

“Okay.”

Safer to keep moving. Her extra keys were in the thigh pocket of his bibs. He stopped, took off his waterlogged gloves, dropped them on the ground, and groped with numb fingers in the pocket. He heard the keys jingle, clawed them out, and held them in both hands, manipulating them until he got a key between the first two fingers of his right hand. He picked up the gloves, stuffed them in the left thigh bib pocket, and began walking down the middle of the road, not caring about prints now, his boots squishing with each step. Face and hands frozen and numb, feet warming up—
A good sign,
he told himself. Visibility not good but better, his legs stiff, clothes heavy. He squinted into the rain and tried to move steadily if not quickly.

Finally at the truck, the fucking thing parked almost flush against the cabin wall. Jesus, Candi! Go through the passenger side. No, computer and commo console are in middle. Too easy to get hung up. Squeeze through here, think skinny. He held the key in his right hand, groped an inside pocket for his lighter, found one of the four he carried. Lighter in left hand, he tried it, but got only a raspy sound.
Shit.
Again, go slow. This time it ignited briefly and went out, but he saw the lock. Okay, again. You can do this. Candi's alone with three poachers. Got to get back to her. He fumbled to get the key against the lock with his right hand, tried the lighter again, and got only a brief flame and light, but it was enough. He pushed the key in, turned it right, and felt the lock give way with a soft
pop.

He hit his chin trying to squeeze into the driver's seat, but finally made it. He got the engine started, put it in gear, touched the gas. No movement. What now? Think it through. He sat still. She had turned left. Wheels still that way? Yes. He straightened them out, tried the gas. Still stuck. Okay, reverse. Tried that, moved a little, felt another thump. What the hell? Okay, back to drive, cut wheel slightly right, accelerator. This time the truck surged forward. He turned on his headlights.
Shit.
There was a windrow of small trees in front of him. Tired of obstacles and blockages, he floored the accelerator, crashed over and through the trees, bounced wildly into a rock field and fishtailed, cutting the wheel hard left and back to the right when he saw the muddy road.

McCants had the driver outside the car. Service pulled up behind them, lit them with his headlights, and got out. The man stared at him as he grasped his arm and ushered him around the truck and pushed him into the passenger seat. He stood outside, shuffling his feet and shivering while McCants interviewed the three people, one at a time, the poachers in the passenger seat, Service standing outside in the rain, shivering.

Tickets written and all three released, McCants searched the creek bank and recovered four dead pike while Service stumbled back into the marsh grass and retrieved their packs.

“Open beers in the car,” she said as they headed west to leave the Stonington.

“You write them?”

“All three are nineteen. They were really polite,” she said.

“Turn on the goddamn heater!” he grumbled.

“It's on full,” she said, stopping the truck, digging her thermos out of her pack and filling the cup with coffee for him. “They swear their tribal magistrate told them anything below the culvert is fair.”

“Which magistrate?”

“Etta, in Manistique.”

“She wouldn't tell them that,” Service said.

“Well, the rule is confusing.”

“Out of our hands,” he said. “If she told them that, she'll dump the tickets. If not, she'll nail them. You write MIP?”

“No. You could barely talk when you came up on the berm,” she said. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Fine. Some bumps, cold.”

She began to laugh.

“What?”

“After you went for the truck, the driver asked me if you had been hiding in the culvert.”

“You said?”

“Yeah, he's got a special suit! He said, ‘Far out, dude . . . '”

They both laughed. McCants said, “Every poacher in the U.P. is gonna be checking culverts from this night forward. How does it feel to create a legend?”

“Bite me,” he said.

“You're lucky the culvert wasn't blocked with debris,” she said. “Why didn't you yell for help?”

“I didn't want to mess up your tickets.”

“
Jesus,
Grady! There will be other tickets! Been me, you'da heard me twenty miles away. I want to be like you when I grow up, Grady Service.”

“I stumbled into the fucking river,” he said. “How many of you have done that?'