Hard Ground (20 page)

Dancing for the Dead

Night, black as the inside of a cow, and Conservation Officer Joseph “Shaky” Jolstaad had his truck aimed down a grassy two-track so tight that jack pine branches clawed at the truck and scraped the windshield as he motored slowly along, running dark, an invisible steel creature prowling silently. Jolstaad liked being alone, even if he was afraid most of the time, which he was. Petrified sometimes.

His last-phase field training officer had been the legendary Army Kelley, murdered six weeks ago. First phase, recruits watched their FTO do the job. Second phase, the recruit did the job and was coached daily by the partner. In phase three it was up to the recruit to do the job, the FTO there solely to evaluate the recruit's ability to cut it. When Jolstaad's last patrol in phase three ended, Kelley looked at him and grinned. “You pass,” the experienced officer said. “You done damn good.”

Kelley then drove them to a stream with a six-pack of beer and some small cigars. “I think you're gonna be great CO, Joey. I know you're afraid, and sometimes that shows when we're alone, but you never let the public see it. That's good,
really
good. Don't worry about the shakiness. We each prepare and funnel adrenaline and nerves in our own way. You did good, Joey. You could be my partner any day, any time. I'd damn well go to war with you.”

They each took a slug of PBR and puffed a Swisher Sweet cigar. Kelley pointed up at the night sky. “Belt of Orion, those three stars up there in a line. Orion was a hunter, according to the Greeks. That belt holds him together. Every morning you put on your duty belt, think about Orion. We're the hunters, Joey. That's our job.”

Jolstaad said, “I can't shoot for beans. I struggle every time on the range.”

“Practice shooting, practice drawing, make the weapon part of you so you don't have to think about it. It's a tool, like a hammer, nothing more. You'll get better. Trust me.”

At first Jolstaad had been elated to have passed, then he was relieved by not failing, and finally he was terrified by the reality of what lay ahead. That had all been four years ago, and from the start his colleagues called him “Shaky” but always to his face, never behind his back. Hell, he didn't mind. After all, it was true.

Still, he'd never shared with anyone what Army Kelley had told him that night on the creek bank.

Now Army was dead. The mere thought made him tear up and feel angry like he'd never felt before. Tomorrow there would be a memorial service in Grand Marais, where Kelley had grown up. Jolstaad was supposed to be done at 10:00 p.m. tonight, but he'd stopped for gas in Bergland, where a logger named Valk ambled over to him and told him he'd seen some fresh timber cuttings southwest of Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park, an area where no contracts had been let. Jolstaad decided to go take a look. Illegal logging was endemic nowadays.

If he got into something, he'd rejigger his daily report to reflect the longer day. As it stood, he was out of hours for the pay period, but Valk was a solid guy, not one to bullshit. If the ride turned out to be nothing, he'd eat the extra time himself. Not the first time he'd donated his time to the state. No biggie; it was the work that mattered, not the accounting.

•••

Cara O'Brien Kelley sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her husband's urn. It looked a lot like the old dented thermos he took in his truck every day. His ashes, she had decided, would remain with her, go where she went. Selfish, maybe, but the urn was all she had left of her Army. They'd known each other only two months when they married. It had lasted five years. There were supposed to be so many more.

The first morning after they'd slept at her place, she had watched with horror as he suited up, putting on his bulletproof vest and gun belt. She must've made a face because he said, “Here's the deal, hon. I'm a cop. I make enemies. And some assholes just don't like badges or what they stand for. Overall the job's pretty safe.”

“Overall, but?” she said.

“You know,” Army Kelley said, and she did. He was telling her a day or night might come when he'd not come home from a patrol. She remembered shuddering then, wondering if she could handle that. But she also knew the day he walked into her eighth grade social studies class that he was not just special, but the one. He came with his fur kit, and the kids loved him. He didn't talk down to them, but talked to them with lots of give and take and smiles and jokes and laughs. God, he was funny! She was forty then, same as him, neither of them ever married before, and she just knew. That afternoon when she walked out to her car his green patrol truck slid silently up beside her, his window down.

“Dinner sometime?” he'd asked almost sheepishly.

“Tonight would be good,” she answered.

He smiled and said, “Pick you up at six, which for a game warden is pretty much of a very approximate time.”

But there he was at six sharp, all showered and shaved and smiling, and things progressed in lockstep from there.

From a day in class with eighth graders to married in what amounted to a blink. God, he was such a man's man, tough as seasoned hemlock, yet sensitive, meticulous, precise in all things. When they picked blueberries, his bucket was all berries, not a single piece of extraneous debris.

Five short years, she told herself, as she sat there on the bed. Not fair! But I should be glad for what I had, not what I don't have. Tomorrow is his memorial. No tears. You're Army Kelley's wife, and you have to act like it, be worthy of him. She lay back on the bed but knew she wouldn't sleep.

Murdered, no suspects, the whole thing sudden, out of the blue. No clues. Alive in the morning, dead that afternoon. What had followed were endless interviews with DNR personnel, state police detectives, deputies, questions, questions, questions. Did he have enemies? For God's sake he was a game warden in the UP. Of course he had enemies!

On and on, and never a word or hint about the progress of the investigation, which meant they'd hit a wall. Army had taught her to read cops' words and silences for real meanings. He was so damn smart, so aware. How the hell could he let himself be killed?

She had learned about Army's death from his lieutenant. Army had been found shot.

“But he wore a vest,” she'd said.

“In the head, Cara. I'm sorry,” the lieutenant had said, staring at his boots.

Soon after, Chief Cameron Campbell had told her, “We'll get him, Cara, by God we
will
get him.”

It had been a less-than-convincing statement, but what else could he say? The chief was a fine man and not to blame for Army's death. The only blame lay with the killer. She stared at the urn. “They'll get him, Army. I know this for certain.” It was all she could think to say as she tried to will herself to stop thinking at all and get some sleep.

•••

Jolstaad's nerves were frayed as he drove on. The grassy section turned to rock, and with all the windows down he could hear small rocks popping off the tires and pinging off the undershield of the truck. He tried to will the road back to grass, but it remained rock, and he kept driving.

At one point he stopped, got out, and thought about advancing on foot. Valk's description put the cutting site a quarter mile or less ahead, but it was hard to judge because the logger shared no coordinates.

Jolstaad was about to get back into the driver's seat when his windshield exploded, showering him with glass shards and stinging his face. Not thinking, he ducked low, pushed open the door, reached over with his right hand to activate the panic button, turned on all the vehicle's exterior lights, including the spotlights, which were pointed straight ahead, crouched behind the open door, his .40 caliber Sig Sauer in hand, and saw a man with a long gun, which thundered again, the round hitting the steel deer guard and some of the grill, to his right.

The spots and brights lit the man. Forty yards, max. A third round pounded through the door by his left leg, but Joey Jolstaad carefully aimed and fired twice, saw the man go down. He waited for more movement, his heart pounding, saw none, put the truck into gear, and let it move forward with the wheels in the ruts until he got closer and reached over to turn off the key, his hand shaking.

Automatic in hand below his SureFire, he approached the man. No movement. Rifle beside him. Jolstaad got the sling of the long gun and tossed it back toward his truck while keeping the pistol aimed at the man. He knelt, felt for a pulse, found none, and began to shake violently, willed it away as best he could, got on his radio, and called county dispatch and Station Twenty in Lansing.

“DNR One, One Thirty-nine, shots fired, one down, requesting backup and EMS,” he said without a hint of tremor in his voice.

Both the county and state told him backup was en route, and Joey Jolstaad hunkered between the body and his truck, keeping his Sig pointed at the man on the ground, just in case he came back to life. He had searched and found no other weapons, just the .308 rifle, identical to the one in his truck. This coincidence passed through his mind, but he was too scared to lock onto much except wanting help to get there.

The man had long, unkempt white hair, a bushy white beard, and faded, filthy military fatigues, like he lived in them.

Off in the distance sirens wailed, converging on him like avenging furies. Army Kelley would have had a better word for this. He always had the right word, read all the time, seemed to know everything, could remember details like a subject's eye color from a stop fifteen years before. Army's memory had been astonishing.

Jolstaad's shaking turned to tremors. His body shuddered so hard he thought his heart might stop, and this time he let it go. He'd just done something he'd hoped he'd never have to do. At least three sirens, he told himself. Not that close yet. He wished they'd hurry.

•••

Cara Kelley sat up in bed, rigid, electrified, certain she heard Army's voice, clear as could be, “It's over, hon.”
Good God!
She swung her feet to the floor, went into the bathroom, and looked at her alarm clock: 12:05 a.m. In bed two hours, and now you're having nightmares, she told herself.
You'll be in shambles tomorrow
.

She got into her shower and stayed under the water a long time, letting the heat melt the knots in her neck and shoulders until she heard pounding on the bathroom door and a frantic voice yelling, “Cara, are you okay? Talk to me, honey!”

The widow got out of the shower stall, draped a towel around herself, and opened the door. “It's okay, Mom. I had a dream, and I thought a shower might help me get back to sleep.”

Her mother was seventy-nine, feisty, cool under stress, and stared at her.

“Sleepy tea,” her mother said. “It'll help the both of us. I can't sleep, either.”

The two women embraced, stood there a long time, mother and daughter, now both without mates. “Don't forget the disc, hon,” a voice said in Cara's mind. She didn't share this with Mom.

•••

Sergeant Nick Carter was first on the scene, jacked up, ready to jump into the fight. He came slithering up the side of Jolstaad's truck, found him by the body, and looked him over. “You hurt, Joey?”

“Windshield,” Jolstaad said. “Just some dings.”

“Man, your face is all blood. Let me get my kit, clean you up some.”

“He opened fire on me, Nick. No warning.”

Carter checked the dead man. “Well, his shootin' days are over now, so let's just take care of you, okay, Shaky?” The sergeant snapped a photo with his digital.

Joey Jolstaad laughed. “You think a drink would stop this shaking, Nick?”

Carter held out his own trembling hands. “Not the kind of shakes we have, partner.”

•••

The Methodist church was a box, small, neat, well kept, very Methodist. There were cop cars and CO trucks everywhere, the small village overrun by an occupation force of crisp green uniforms. Cara and her mother drove over from Newberry, just the two of them. No pass-the-time chitchat; each woman was lost in her own thoughts. Oddly, Cara felt almost lighthearted, didn't bother to try to examine the feeling, just let it wrap around her. She glanced at her mother, who stared straight ahead, her jaw set, eyes slits.

“It'll be okay, Mom,” Cara finally said.

They pulled up to the church around 2:00 p.m., an hour before the service would begin.

Chief Campbell met them and escorted them into the church, down one of the two middle aisles. The chief's face was lined with concern. He had wanted to form a line of officers for them to walk through with the urn, but Cara had rejected this. “He'd hate that, Cam. You know how he was.” Army preferred the background in almost everything, except at parties, where he usually emerged as the most boisterous troublemaker, putting the spotlight on him and revving up the crowd with endless darts and jibes and an Irish laugh that shook walls harder than his snores. Cara took the urn to the altar and set it on a small table.