Force of Blood (12 page)

It was the faintest stage of early-morning twilight, and Service found Sedge sitting in her truck, her face glowing with green light from her computer.

“You just get here?” he asked.

“No, I’m just clearing e-mail.”

She looked sleepy.

“You doze off?”

“Maybe for a little while.”

“You can’t work twenty-four seven,” Service said.

“Everyone says you do.”

“Everyone’s full of shit. I’m telling you I don’t.”

He lit a cigarette and let her finish on the computer.

“I was gonna call the handyman, but I decided showing up unannounced at the property might be better.”

Same choice I would have made
. “And?”

“Bait piles all over the place, some of them lighted, but the lights weren’t connected. I also found a blood trail and followed it to an outbuilding, which is padlocked.”

“What next?”

“I called Shields. He said he knew nothing about the property, that in fact it is for sale, and that I should call his watchman.”

“Whom you already know.”

“This time he gave me a different name—John Root. My guy is Kindal VanFen.”

“How does Shields explain that?”

“Claims he fired VanFen because he was hearing some, quote, ‘unsavory and disturbing rumors,’ end quote. Naturally he refused to elucidate. I called VanFen. The firing was news to him. Said he got a check last Friday. I asked
him if he knows John Root, but he’s never heard the name before, and he’s lived up here all his life.”

“Did you talk to Root?”

“I wanted to, but Shields didn’t have the man’s phone number, because, he said, ‘It’s in my flat in Ottawa.’ He’ll call me when he gets home. I called Information. No John Root listed in the Eastern Upper Peninsula or the Upper Lower. I called Shields back and he said Root has a cell phone, that he just moved here from Indiana.”

“Let me guess: Shields is headed into Canada today.”

She nodded. “The asshole called me from Sudbury.”

“Want to bet on getting a phone call from Ottawa?” he asked.

“I think not.”

“Are there ‘For Sale’ signs out on the property?”

“Not that I saw, and if there are, they’re not prominently displayed. I already checked online listings. Nothing there. I sent a note to the county board of realtors, but I doubt I’ll hear back from them for a few days.”

Service tried to weigh options, but he was groggy from driving. “Sure you can trust VanFen?”

“As much as anyone.”

“Did you get a blood sample from the property?”

“And some hair.”

“Deer?”

“Not sure. Think I should send it to the lab?”

The DNR’s state forensics lab was located at Michigan State University, in East Lansing. “No, hold the sample. The lab’s too jammed up for such a small thing.”

“What happened in Lansing?”

“I met Hectorio, offered him incentives to provide us a name.”

“Think he’ll come through?”

Service sighed. “No clue.”

“Good news. I talked to a Luce County dep. She said she knows a Bolf with a camp on Teaspoon Creek, south of Newberry.”

“Our guy?”

“Could be. She said there’s lots of dogs there, and the guy’s a mega-boozer.”

Before Service could speak, Sedge added, “I called Cugnet. He confirms that Bolf has had some bottle problems—beer, not hard stuff. You want to head over to the Teaspoon to take a look?”

He tried to hide a yawn, but failed. “I need a nap.”

She led him inside and pointed to an oversized, understuffed couch. He looked at the bare walls around him. “Lacks cachet,” he said.

“You want them back on the walls?”

He held up his hands. “I love it just the way it is.”

He had a thought he wanted to share with her, but the next thing he knew she was shaking him. “Sarge, it’s noon and we’re burning daylight.”

He groaned as he sat up and put his feet on the floor. “You hurt yourself?” she asked.

“When you get to my age you’ll understand. Why’d you call me Sarge?”

“An e-mail came through today. DNR’s first chief master sergeant. Congratulations. Does that mean you’re moving on?”

“This case comes first,” he said, adding, “
your
case.”

“Just how old are you?” she asked.

“Too old to joust with you. Point me at a head.”

“You want lunch?” she asked.

“Shiny shoes food, or real stuff?”

She laughed. “Shiny shoes?”

“Suits, people with expense accounts that
do
lunch instead of eat it.”

“It’s real, dude.”

“We’ll see,” he said, limping slowly toward the bathroom.

Sedge volunteered to creep the potential Bolf camp on Teaspoon Creek and check in with him afterwards. Grady Service had driven to Houghton to spend the night with his granddaughter, who kept poking his ear with her forefinger and chanting. “My Bampy, my Bampy, my Bampy.”

“She likes the rhythm,” her mother explained. “Don’t worry, she’ll have a new mantra tomorrow.”

“I won’t be here,” he said.

“Your loss,” Karylanne said. “You going back to Marquette?”

“That’s the plan.”

But Chas Marschke had called to let him know that the billboards were all set to go. “Do you want to review final wording?”

“Too tied up,” Service said, and gave his financial advisor-manager a thumbnail of the case.

“Taxes,” Marschke said.

“What about them?”

“Rich people give artwork to museums and take substantial tax deductions. It’s often a dodge. What they claim for certain pieces isn’t even close to actual market value, and a lot of times the stuff is either fake or stolen with virtually no provenance.”

“Stolen?”

“Yes, and usually the collector-donor and recipient—and sometimes even the IRS—knows, or suspects the truth.”

“Case of the rich getting richer?”

“That, and museums living off the ill-gotten gains of certain collectors. By the way, you now more than qualify as rich,” Marschke added.

“I don’t feel rich.”

“Some people never do,” Marschke said. “If you want, we can pull the trigger on your project earlier.”

“How much earlier?”

“June first.”

“Do it,” Service said. “The sooner people start talking and bitching to their politicians, the better I’ll like it.”

• • •

Service had known the peculiar Zhenya Leukonovich since late 2004 and had worked a couple of cases with her. She was a star investigator for the IRS, and well connected in the miasma of the federal alphabet soup bowl. As she often did, she answered on the first ring when he called.

“Special Agent Leukonovich is most pleased to hear from the mysterious woods cop in Michigan’s wilds.”

He had come very close to a less-than-professional involvement with her, but had somehow steered clear. “This is strictly a business call, Zhenya.”

“Zhenya is of course unsurprised. The wilderness peace officer invariably leaves her disarticulated.”

She loved to wade endlessly in verbal sludge.

“Artifacts,” he said.

Silence on her end. Then, “Artifacts or relics?”

“Either, both—what’s the difference?”

“Humans make artifacts. Human remains over time
become
relics.”

“People give such stuff to museums and get tax breaks,” he said.

“Deductions, not tax breaks. Technically there is no such thing as a tax break. That is the inexact language of the ignorati mass media.”

“Whatever. Some of the stuff is stolen.”

Leukonovich said nothing. Then, “Why are you making this inquiry?”

“I need a name, someone to guide and advise us in a potential case.”

“Where?”

“Here,” he said. “Close.”

“Artifacts or relics?”

“Either and both,” he said. “We’re not sure yet.”

She paused. “Professor Ozzien Shotwiff, University of Chicago, emeritus, an archaeologist of great repute,
the
authority on Native American cultures east of the Mississippi River. Be warned: This is not an individual to be trifled with, and he can be most difficult in his relationships.”

“The fat part of the Mississippi, or the headwaters?” Service countered.

“If that is an attempt at humor, be advised it is wide of the mark.”

“Duly noted. How do I reach Professor Shotwiff?”

“I believe he lives from May through October at his Lake Superior cabin near a reputedly quaint village called Silver City. Do you know such a place?”

Ontonagon County.
He knew it. “Yes, I know. Thanks, Zhenya.”

“Zhenya clings to the hope the detective might wish to thank her in a more intimate way at some juncture.”

“I’d probably like that in a different life, but I don’t think that’s going to happen in this one.”

“Zhenya never says never,” she said, and hung up.

Service called Sergeant Joe Delucca, newly promoted and covering four western U.P. counties. “Joe, Grady. Professor Ozzien Shotwiff of Silver City—you know him?”

“We call him Ding Dong Disney. The dumb bastard thinks he’s St. Francis of Assisi incarnate, feeds goddamn bears, wolves, you name it, right out on the beach in front of his bloody cabin. His wife of forty years got slightly clawed by a bear last fall and she immediately divorced his clueless ass. There’s no law against the lack of common sense—or feeding bears. We’ve tried to convince him to stop, but he insists he has a higher duty to care for God’s lesser creations.”

“Your guys ever talk blunt to him?”

“Tried, but he’s one of those glass-half-full assholes who never sees the downside of anything—for people or animals.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Yeah, good luck with that, man. His other nickname with the folks in Silver City is Ozone. You want me along?”

“We can do bad cop, terrible cop,” Service said.

Delucca laughed. “I’m all over that shit. Everyone knows about the coot. Some local businesses have started feeding bears to attract tourists. This is a potentially dangerous situation, but our hands are tied.”

Service guessed he’d need a hook to get the professor interested and feeling helpful. He sat at a table on the front porch of Karylanne’s house with Maridly in his lap. “
Doing,
Bampy?”

“Rewriting history, honey. You know what history is?”

“Un-unh, but I do it too, okay, Bampy?”

She was already a pill and not yet three.

The
Jesuit Relations
talked about another battle south on Lake Michigan, toward Green Bay, he thought, but he wasn’t sure. What if Iroquois Point involved the same group heading home
after
the battle farther south, looking to redeem egos and bent reputations? His eyes locked on the map where the Whitefish River emptied into Little Bay de Noc in Delta County. He ran his finger north along the river; the more he thought about it, the more possible it seemed. Probability, he knew, remained a major issue, but Katsu was insisting the Coast of Death was the actual battle site, and while the Ojibwa had no written history, their oral tradition was strong, and sometimes accurate.

“Bampy needs a smooch-smooch,” he announced to his granddaughter.

She rubbed her little hand on his chin and shook her head. “Whiskers too
scratchy
. Smooth first!”

God
.

The ancient-looking cabin had been built of hand-hewn square logs creosoted black to prevent rot. Thick moss covered the roof and plants grew out of the moss. It sat less than fifty feet from the water’s edge, and about six feet higher. There was no garage, no carport, and only a small lichen-covered toolshed.
How the hell does this place escape obliteration during November storms?
Bird feeders were all over the grounds. The cabin faced north at Lake Superior. The ground around the buildings was matted with thick brown pine duff.

Service knocked on the door several times. “Around back,” a muffled voice called out.

“Here goes nothin’, ” Joe Delucca muttered.

Service paused at the corner of the cabin and looked west. A sow bear and four cubs were moving up and down the beach. A male voice was calling softly, “Your babies are okay with me, Mama.”

The voice came from a tall man with a shock of wavy black hair and dark, leathery skin.

“Professor Shotwiff? I’m Grady Service.” He motioned for Delucca to keep watch for other bears. Where food was being handed out, crowds could be anticipated.

“You come to dissuade me from feeding my animals, or to take me to jail?”

Service walked over to him, careful to keep the sow in sight. “You like to play with hand grenades with the pins pulled, Professor?”

The man glanced over and shook his head. “That would be pretty damn foolish.”

“The pins are out of these bears, Professor.”

“Nonsense, young man. I’ve known this sow since she was a cub coming in with her mama. I’ve been doing this over multiple bear generations now. They all know me and trust me.”

“I’m not a young man, and don’t you patronize me. You may think you’re doing a good thing, but you’re setting up these animals for premature deaths. You’re killing them.”

“Poppycock. Are you going to arrest me?”

“Nossir, but I wouldn’t mind beating some sense into you.”

The old man grinned, stood up, and turned to face the conservation officer. “Bring it.”

Service saw Joe Delucca’s eyes popping and focused to the east, and just as quickly the other officer was pointing. Service looked and saw a rangy young male emerge from the woods, and just as fast the female lunged at the professor and Service ran toward her, waving his arms and screaming. She stopped and clacked her teeth in warning, saliva cascading out of her mouth, a signal for everyone to back off.

“You brought that on,” Service told the professor.

“Patent nonsense. You enticed it,
sir
.”

“She came after
you,
” Service pointed out.

“It’s just a false charge. I’ve seen this before.”

The professor’s hands were shaking so badly that Service guessed he was about to keel over. He took the man’s elbow, steadied him, and helped him sit on the edge of the deck.

“Easy,” Service told the man.

“I don’t understand.”

“Joe,” Service said.

Delucca chased the bears west down the beach until they fled into the trees. The boar loped in pursuit of the other animals from the east, following at an unbelievable speed.

“I think you need a drink for your nerves,” Service said. “That boar is looking to kill one or all of those cubs.”

“There’s a bottle of Calvados on the kitchen table.”

Delucca brought brandy in water glasses.

Service could faintly smell apples in the drink, didn’t like the burnt aroma or the harsh flavor. Too much like antiseptic mouthwash.

The man’s hand was still shaking as he tried to sniff the drink.

“You familiar with the boar?”

The old man shook his head.

“Tell him, Joe.”

“The male wants to rub out all potential competition.”

“What’s the story here, Professor? You’re a smart man. You have to know this is how it is.”

“But they’re
my
animals.”

“They’re
not
yours, but you could end up as
their
meal.”

“I will not accept that.”

“It doesn’t matter what you reject or accept. Because of you, others in town are now feeding bears, which means the bears you think you know will have to compete against animals they don’t know. We’ve seen this scenario play out before. Right, Sergeant Delucca?”

“There it is,” Delucca said. “These deals always end up the same way.”

“Why’re you two here?” the retired academic asked.

“Iroquois Point,” Service said.

“What about it?”

“You’re familiar with how it was named?”

“Of course; what’s this got to do with bears?”

“Absolutely nothing to do with bears, but what if it’s misnamed?”

The man pursed his lips. “I’m listening.”

“How does a war party that large move by water westward past the Soo in the first place?” Grady Service asked. “If they came up the St. Mary’s from the east, the fight would more likely have been east of the Soo, not west.”

Professor Shotwiff had a crooked grin, his eyes tight. “Is that your professional theory, and, if so, why should either of us care?”

“I just can’t buy it happening to the east, but how the hell did they get past the Soo without being seen? I’m thinking it might have taken place farther west.”

“The thing about amateurs is that they can let fantasy captain their imaginations.”

“What if someone found a bear-bone-handled breakhead with an agate striking head, or several of them?”

“
Did
someone? Items, plural?”

“Theoretically,” Service said.

“First, such artifacts would be quite valuable to collectors and archaeologists. Second, their presence at a site would strongly suggest
Na-do-we-se
presence.”

“Ever heard rumors along those lines?” Service asked.

“In my business I used to hear all sorts of peculiar and equally asinine things. I ask again: Why are you here?”

“Zhenya Leukonovich.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Her.”

“Same answer. No joy.”

“She knows you, and recommended you as
the
authority on Native American cultures east of the Mississippi River. We need an expert to advise and guide us on a case we’re working.”

“Involving relics or artifacts?”

“That’s not yet all that clear. Maybe both.”

“How much does this consultancy pay?”

“It doesn’t.”

Shotwiff smiled. “Are you always so abrasive with the public?”

“My superiors have tried real hard to reform me. And hell, here I thought I was treating you with kid gloves.”

“Stubbornness can be a virtue,” the professor said. “I’ve always harbored doubts about Iroquois Point, but not for your reasons. What’re you thinking?”

“I barely qualify as an amateur with this stuff.”

“Presumably you’re not an amateur at solving puzzles; amateurs have made a lot of important historical discoveries.”

“Father Lalemant in the
Jesuit Relations
wrote about a battle that might be the one we’re talking about, but he talks of one hundred Iroquois warriors, not three times that many.”

“Of course. I’ve read Lalemant; all Jesuits exaggerated all things—especially when exaggeration would promote a heroic image for the often-infamous Society of Jesus.”

“Then you know he talked about another fight on La Baie des Puants.” This was French for Bay of Stinkers and referred to modern Green Bay.

“I remember there were no details.”

“Meaning it didn’t happen?”

“Not necessarily. The Iroquois attacks drove Potawatomi, Huron, and even some Ottawa westward, all the way down the Bay of Stinkers, which refers to the Winnebago tribe at Green Bay, living in mud huts.
Winnebago
translates in Algonquin to ‘evil-smelling.’ The Winnebago, or Ho-Chunks, seemed to rub everybody the wrong way. Let me hear
your
theory.”

Am I amusing the old bastard?
The old man was hard to read. “What if they had the scrap over toward Green Bay, and on the way east and home decided to cut north to the Soo, trying for a little payback?”

“An attack on either side of the Straits of Mackinac would be too risky. Too many people, no way to come in unseen, too many tribal fragments in the area. Please continue.”

“You can run all the way up the Whitefish River, make a short portage to the AuTrain River, and pop into Lake Superior west of Munising. From there they could work eastward toward Bawating.”

“Why would they go to such extremes?” the professor asked.

Service found himself caught short and blinking in the face of the professor’s challenge. “Too hard to get past the Soo. Too narrow there, too much chance of being discovered.”

Professor Shotwiff smiled. “At the time you’re talking about, there wasn’t a permanent village there. Years of attacks by the Iroquois had pushed Nipissing, Saulteur, Ottawa, and Huron way west, even when the Saulteur won all the battles. At the time you’re talking about, I believe the main Saulteur force and their allies from Sault Ste. Marie were staying with their Keweenaw kin near L’Anse.”

Service felt deflated. “Sorry to waste your time, Professor.”

“You haven’t wasted anything, son. Some accounts report the Saulteur et al. had traveled east to Bawating to fish and hunt, and that’s when they bumped into the Mohawk-Oneida force, which presumably had come up the St. Mary’s looking for a village to eat, but this isn’t necessarily the final word on that. It’s only the account endorsed by the Jesuits and other French reporters, none of whom were in attendance at the event. You’re a detective. What would you do to find the truth?”

“In our terms this one is a really cold case—like frigid.”

Shotwiff chuckled and nodded. “Welcome to the historian’s world.”

“I’d talk to the Iroquois, see if that side has a different memory of the battle. All we have now are secondhand accounts from the Anishinaabeg side.

Shotwiff grunted. “The Whitefish route,” he said tentatively. You’re sure you don’t mean up the Manistique-Fox, with an east portage to the upper Tahq?”

“Nossir, the Whitefish.”

“You’ve floated this route?”

“Full length, several times. Over the years I think I’ve floated all the major river courses in the U.P.”

“I’ll be damned,” the professor said. “You think they could have come north from Green Bay?”

“Afterwards, if they prevailed, they could have shot the rapids eastward past the Soo, or they could have reversed course and come back the way they’d come in,” Service offered.

Shotwiff said, “Distance was meaningless to
Na-do-we-se
war parties. They often left their towns for two and three years to travel the war road. What do you think you have?”

“An old harbor, sanded in, but once open and a good place for an ambush.”

“Somewhat west of Iroquois Point, I presume.”

“Fifty miles on crow fly, more by canoe.”

“Huh. Artifacts?”

“Copper points, but mostly pottery shards.”

“The breakheads?”

“Maybe, maybe not. They were found, but precisely where isn’t yet clear, and nobody seems to know for sure. What would such weapons be worth?”

“Anything from a thousand dollars to fifty times that—or more. But if you have a group of them, the collection could be worth a whole lot more, depending on the quality.”

“People have that kind of money?”

“Private collectors and museums. What about bodies? How many?”

“Only one we know of, allegedly turned up by winter weather and wind.”

Shotwiff sniggered. “Could happen, but it’s also the old dodge of ambiguity used by archaeologists when they get caught off the reservation. Where’re the remains now?”

“Reburied.”

“Huh. Photos?”

“Not acknowledged.”

“Trust me, there
are
photos. Archaeologists and treasure hunters are like Nazis—they can’t help keeping detailed records even when they’re enthusiastically committing crimes against humanity.”

“Do a lot of archaeologists break laws?”

“One is too many,” Shotwiff said, “but most of us are wimps
and
greedy,
at least for ego reasons and professional reputations. The big-money jackals in the archaeological business are looting crews.”

“You know about them?”

“In my line of work, we all know. It used to be a bunch of raggedy-ass local pot hunters looking for easy cash. Now they’re well-equipped, experienced, professional looting crews. They can dismantle and empty a site in no time. Is it possible to see this site of yours?”

“To what end?”

“I can probably tell you if professionals have gotten to it.”

Grady Service sensed opportunity. “No more bear feeding?”

“Goddammit, that’s blackmail!” the professor said.

“Pretty much. Do we have a deal?”

“I suppose. What if they keep coming back?”

“Call us. We’ll trap them and move them.”

The professor’s face contorted. “What are
game wardens
doing policing archaeological sites?”

“One of our many unacknowledged services. You ever deal with the state archaeologist?”

“Flin Yardley? I know him,” said Shotwiff.

“Opinion?”

“Bureaucrat, paper pusher, neither a first-rate scholar nor overly experienced field man. Barely more than a glorified high school history teacher with family political connections to Clearcut Bozian.”

“Honest?” Bozian was former governor Sam Bozian.

“Can you define that word?”

“Not absolutely,” Service said.

“Therein lies the rub with values,” the professor said.

“You ever deal with looting crews?”

“I have, and it’s often unavoidable. Some are technically quite good, so we ask ourselves: Is it better to buy from them with some sense of provenance, or to let amateurs simply strip away history and make it disappear? There’s no simple answer.”

“Honesty and law pitted against reality.”

“The classic conundrum.”

• • •

Service tried several times to call Sedge on his way east but couldn’t raise her by cell phone, radio, or computer.

He called Sergeant Jeffey Bryan. “Sedge talk to you and Lis about her case?”