Killing a Cold One (36 page)

The savages here at the River of Blood are unlike any so far encountered in my travels. The men, upon our arrival, were intoxicated and belligerent. They carry stout knives with which they slash and gash their fellow savages, and on occasion plunge the blades into their own flesh in the throes of inebriation. I have witnessed these same savages drink their own blood and that of their fellows. Upon our arrival, these frightening creatures had painted their faces black, a condition which put my companion into great and immediate consternation. He urged us to move on quickly, calling this place one of great and deep evil, advising we quickly repair to more favorable conditions in location and company. But I confess, I was tired, possessed of a small fever, in need of rest, and had no intention of moving because of my guide's troubled mood.

It is, My Lord, my impression and experience that savages often present a brutal first sight, but with time the imagined ferocity gives way to a gentler and truer nature, the truth of God being that we are all equal beneath our flesh. But this phenomenon was not to be at Blood River, whose inhabitants continued their regrettable behaviors. What we confronted, I would learn, were warriors of the Bear Clan, a warlike faction of the Great Otchipwe People, whom we have come to respect and love. The people of this clan are uncompromising, and their women and young maidens are such wanton and foul creatures as to preclude detailed descriptions. Like their men, they painted their faces black and dyed their naked breasts vermillion, and fornicated in plain view with any savage in whom the urge commanded. It is further my observation that the women of this clan, rather than accept copulation as a husband's right in God's plan for man's procreation, seek out partners for the act in which they claim to derive great pleasure.

The winter is early this year, first snow arriving on 27 September, and it now being November, the ground is covered with a blanket of snow five or six feet in depth. It was my hope and prayer, Lord, that by wintering here among these creatures I might bring God's light to them, but instead, I now find my own faith shaken, and apply to you as my Holy Confessor to hear my confession:

O My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee. Over the days of our encampment there were regular bloody altercations, some of which took the lives of savages, or left them maimed and crippled. The clan was in vaporous frenzy when we arrived, and I expected it would slowly taper. I was wrong. It grew stronger, more violent and unpredictable, and I learned from my guide that the savages were in a frenzy over a windigo, which has taken residence among them, and whose identity is not yet known. The savages have at times begged my indulgence in forgiving their vile excesses, and they explained that they are powerless to behave in a more civilized manner until the monster that craves only human flesh is identified and killed.

It occurs to me that this may be a form of possession by Satan, and that the route to salvation might be a holy exorcism. Unfortunately, not knowing the beast's identity, and despite prayer, I was unable to judge if it had previously been a good and true Christian. On our fifth day, my guide and I were visited by a delegation, which begged me to bring the power of Christ to their aid, and to find and dispatch the monster lest it consume the entire clan. If I would do this, they agreed to give their hearts and souls to Lord Jesus.

I am hardly prudish, your Lordship. I remember well from the days of my youth in the gymnasium the debaucheries of the soldiers of Bonaparte; as they prepared to advance to battle they invariably entered into drunken and wanton behaviors. It occurred to me that what I was seeing at the River of Blood encampment was of a like ilk, but now I know I was badly mistaken, and that missionary priests being sent forth by the
Leopoldinen Stiftung
should be informed that one's learning under the tutelage of the Church cannot be used to extrapolate or interpolate situations in cultures of which civilized men cannot imagine. A missionary must accept what is, what presents to him, and act accordingly.

Last night the savages led us
sur les raquettes
over a crusty snow to a rocky promontory the savages call
wijiganikan,
the place of skulls. The river has such velocity below that normal voices a hundred feet above cannot be made out. Having hiked for several hours, we reached a grotto where we confronted a creature that defies my powers of language to fairly describe. I will say that it seems only distantly possible a human being, with sunken red eyes, and emitting a continuous flow of pink froth during its rantings and jumping around, the sounds being oddly childlike in tone, but with no discernible language. It caused me to wonder if the creature had suffered some sort of critical head trauma or mental infirmity; had we been in Europe, this thing surely would have been collected and safely established in an asylum. Torches showed the beast's grotto to be scattered with human remains.

I suggested that we apprehend the beast and restrain it with ropes, but this was rejected by the savages, who assured me that only death could remove the threat to their continued life, and that none of them dared kill it because they believed this could risk the creature's infirmity passing into their souls. My guide and I managed to rope the animal and subdue it long enough for me to drive a knife into its heart and deliver Extreme Unction in the hope that God would take pity on its pitiful soul.

Much thankful, our savages informed us today that, now clear of the windigo, they are preparing to move north to a location they call L'Anse, the head of the bay. They have invited me to visit them, which I intend to honor in order to instruct them in the ways of Christian living.

My Lord, I commit this confession to your judgment. I have committed murder in the coldest of blood and in violation of God's law. This letter will be carried east to the Soo and be taken by packet to Detroit, and from there overland to be delivered to your hands. It is my fervent hope God will forgive me.
Fiat voluntas dei—
Let the will of God be done. I am well physically, my Lord, but I fear the rending of my soul by this great sin I have committed. I have no doubt that like all men I will be asked to atone for this abominable act on the Day of Judgment. In this knowledge I wish to spend the remainder of my life among these savages, to rescue their unconsecrated souls, with God's help. In our Lord's name I remain faithfully, Frederick Baraga, missionary priest.

 

Service looked at Friday. “Baraga killed the thing. Does it matter if he thought it was an actual monster, rather than a psycho?”

Friday had no response, and Service thought:
Pincock from the FBI told me to kill this thing if the chance presents itself. Seems like the priest led the way in this.

“That puts us in a quandary, doesn't it?” Friday finally said.

“I think I know who we're looking for.”

“Do I get to know?”

“When I'm sure.”

“How much do you think the bishop's letter is worth?”

“Incalculable,” Service said. “And I suspect if it became public, a large part of the world would talk about nothing else for a long time to come.”

“You're thinking a man has done all this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Not an animal.”

“No.”

“So you are free to wash your hands of it, if you want,” she said.

“Man or animal,” he said, “when it comes to tracking something in the woods and bringing it to ground, that's what we do.”

62

Wednesday, January 14

MARQUETTE

Larry Holemo was a longtime forester, could have retired years ago, but kept working and never complained.

“Larry, we need help,” Service said.

Noonan and Treebone were back and had gone with Service and Friday to the Marquette DNR office.

Holemo picked up the plastic bag that held the wood chips picked up by Jen Maki at the crime sites. The forester pushed his glasses up his nose. “
Pinus gloriensus,
” he announced. “Glory pine, rare as a beanstalk, thought extinct in the state and never abundant anywhere in the Upper Midwest. Prefers the climate further north. Technically, we're outside the tree's southern range limit, but plants, animals, and people don't pay a heckuva lot of attention to arbitrary lines drawn on paper.
Gloriensus
is a tough customer. Indians considered it sacred, used the sap for everything from glue to medicinals.”

“What's it look like all grown?” Friday asked.

“You won't find it in an
Audubon Guide,
” Holemo said, and went to another cubicle, coming back with an old, dusty book. He also had a photo album and flipped carefully through the pages until he stopped and handed the book to Friday. “There ya go.”

The sepia photo was faded.

“We once had a few thousand stands scattered around up here, but loggers tore through the woods and weren't particulary discriminating. The specimens in the picture are from northern British Columbia in the early 1930s.”

Service looked at the photo and pushed it to Noonan and Treebone. “How big are we talking?”

“Twenty or thirty feet, tops. Likes extremely acidic soil and cold-ass temperatures, both of which limits growth around here, but there were some pockets. Nature gives and takes. Specimens in Canada have been aged between four and five hundred years. Nature doesn't easily kill them. Only man seems to do that.”

“Pockets in the U.P.?” Treebone asked.

“Probably here and there.” Holemo opened the photo album. “This one was near Bruce Crossing one summer.”

Friday sounded exasperated. “A tree's a tree.”

The forester looked horrified. “It's rare for them to grow alone like the one in this picture. Usually you find them all packed together inside a lattice.”

“Lettuce?” Service asked.

“Lattice. Personally I've never seen it, but I've read descriptions. In areas where the species is abundant, they grow in colonies, and are almost always surrounded by thick groves of slippery elm,
Ulmus rubra.
” Holemo took the book again and turned it. “The slippery elm likes the edges of wet areas, swamps, and floodplains.”

Friday studied the photo. “The branches are grown together.”

Holemo grinned. “And you won't find one unless there's latticing to make it stand out. When I was in school at Tech a timber cruiser claimed he'd seen
Pinus gloriensus
over the Kaisick Holes area, west of Sidnaw. But that was a long while back, and the guy was pretty much of a bullshitter. Loggers have gone through that area numerous times, so the chances of the species being there is low to nil, and this isn't the time of year to be looking around.”

“Where in that area?” Service pressed.

The forester crossed his arms. “I don't have a clue. Sorry.”

They stood in the entrance after the meeting. “Mount a search?” Friday asked.

Service had doubts. “Not without more evidence. Big woods, rare tree—those odds suck, and that turf is not exactly user-friendly.”

“Lamb's memorial is tomorrow,” Friday told Service.

“Where?”

“Church of the Wilderness Redeemer, Assinins, fourteen hundred tomorrow.”

“We both going?” Service asked.

“Out of respect for Lamb,” she said. “She was a colleague and a friend, and a good gal, never mind her predilections. Nobody's perfect.”

63

Thursday, January 15

ASSININS, BARAGA COUNTY

The Church of the Wilderness Redeemer was made of red brick and sat on a steep rolling knoll overlooking the winter-gray waters of Keweenaw Bay. The church was new and not quite part of the old Father Baraga property, which had included a church, a convent, and a graveyard.

Gunny Prince had called to pass on details of the Lakotish death and autopsy done in Vietnam so many years back. No DNA, of course; DNA had barely been identified as the stuff of life then. Lakotish had been burned, his head gone, identity confirmed with dog tags on his boots, and a gold ring. The absence of the head and extent of fire damage eliminated certain identification, but for that day and time, Service knew, this was normal. More than a few families had gotten the wrong remains back then. Fire damage, of course, obliterated the possibility of fingerprints, but blood type matched Lakotish. Nobody tried to explain the whereabouts of the missing head, or how it was separated from the body.

Service listened, making mental notes, told himself that if nothing else, here was a perfect opportunity for an identity switch. Motive, of course, was a separate issue. He handed coffee to Friday as they headed west. “Na-bo-win-i-ke came here to hunt Lakotish, whom the army believes died in Vietnam. But Crow's Flesh at Nett Lake insisted that Lakotish's grave there contained someone else, not him. I talked to a couple different sources, one from the war and one afterwards.” Service gave her his phone and showed her the photographs. “I think Lakotish is Father Clement Varhola.”

Friday stared at him, her mouth slightly ajar. “That's one big goddamn leap!”

“Crow's Flesh told me to look for cuts along the spine, which is done to release spirits. Lakotish was with an infantry unit before his transfer to be Varhola's assistant. His old platoon sergeant caught him with a bag of heads and hands, and the army pushed him aside to get him out of the way. Some bodies were found with the spinal cuts.”

“Grady,” Friday said, “this is a stretch
at best.
”

“Varhola's body was burned, the head missing. They identified him by blood type, dog tags, a ring. Apparently the two men had the same blood type.”

“Do you understand what you're saying?” she said.

“It's
him,
” Service said.

“I only hear piles of circumstantials.”

“I think Lakotish is now the priest in Baraga. He's got Indians in his parish.”

She took a deep, audible breath. “We have to go carefully, Grady. Physical evidence: We need to link him to the killings, but we can't even declare him a suspect yet. Between us, he's barely a person of interest, and even that's not for public consumption,” she concluded, staring down the highway.

“We take it slowly, one step at a time,” he agreed. “No more big leaps, let evidence provide the trail.”

Friday said quietly, “Okay. Do you know Varhola?”

“I met him briefly many years ago when he was in Marquette.”

“Impression?”

“Not great. Creepy, slimy type. To be fair, he was friendly in an awkward way.”

“And now he's saying mass for Lamb,” she said, then jumped subjects. “What about fingerprints? Varhola and Lakotish both had to be fingerprinted when they went into the service.”

“My source is pursuing that,” he said.

 

•••

 

The church parking lot was full. Service and Friday slid into the standing-room-only crowd in back of the church. The congregants were mostly tribals, and Service wondered what the precise split was between the Bay's and Johnstone's community.

The priest stood in a raised dock. An image of Captain Ahab flashed through Service's mind. Father Clement Varhola's voice boomed out over the crowd, loud and precise, with no sense of emotional tie to the deceased.

Varhola began: “The way to God is through Jesus Christ. Without Christ we are all susceptible to evil. You take your children to the medical clinic to have them vaccinated. Christ is our protection against evil. He is the only way, His, the only path to truth. Those who do not choose His path are doomed to perish. We are all afraid. It is human to fear. Christ is peace, the absence of fear.”

The last time Service had seen the man preach, the only time, he had been a preaching drone, a human tape recorder, spitting lines without emotion from a church reduced to rules shorn of all human passion. This was not the same man. Varhola expertly modulated his voice, his gestures were practiced, and he virtually dripped intensity.

Friday nudged him. “Impressive turnout.”

“Since
it
came,” a woman behind them said quietly.

Friday looked back at her. “Before that?”

“No reason to be here,” the woman said.

They waited outside the church and watched mourners file out. It was snowing lightly and people opened golf umbrellas and hovered around the church entrance, visiting.

“Maurice Prendergast,” Friday said.

“Huh?”

“
Umbrellas in Venice.
A famous painting.”

“It snows in Venice?”

“Moron,” she said, rolling her eyes, and walked away.

Moron?
He was just wondering why Indians had so damn many golf umbrellas.

The priest came out and mingled with mourners, looked stiff in the cold wind, made his way over to Service almost immediately.

“Did you enjoy the memorial?” the man asked.

Service stared at him. Who
enjoyed
a funeral mass?

The priest didn't wait for a response, added, “Will you join us at the cemetery?”

“Can't,” Service said. “Duty.”
Where the hell was Tuesday?

In fact, why were they even going to the cemetery? Lamb's spirit was gone, this whole thing ceremonial. Her remains couldn't be interred until spring when the ground thawed. Her winter would be spent in the back corner of a beer warehouse awaiting breakup.

“Pity,” Varhola said. “Physical death reminds us poignantly of the glorious and eternal life that is to come.”

“You're sure there's something after this?” Service asked, the words out before his filter trapped them.

“Oh yes, indeed,” the priest said. “What matters for the living is how we prepare for the inevitable.”

To his mind churches were exclusively otherworldly.
Eat shit in this world for a theoretical “something better” in the next. Piss-poor bet. A strange man, Varhola, his voice, mannerisms—everything about him makes my skin crawl.

Friday miraculously appeared at his side. “Lamb was a friend?” Varhola asked her.

“Colleagues,” Friday said, “and friends.”

The wind was biting. Varhola pursed his lips and patted her arm. “Police are temporally anchored, too, wed to evidence. What you need is faith, like true believers.”

Friday bristled. “Cop is what we do, not who we are. Same as priests, I would think.”

Varhola bobbed his head. “Point taken. Actually, I see us both engaged in explaining the apparently inexplicable. There's a natural connection between our callings. We both live by the Book,” he concluded, nodded, and walked on to talk to others.

Friday left again as Service watched the priest visit and circulate. He didn't seem nervous or jerky. Very relaxed. All of his instincts told him the priest was putting on a show. Children beamed at his attention. Priest: major authority figure, someone given trust immediately and unconditionally. Was it possible for a priest to appear so affectionate, yet . . . ? He refused to finish the thought.
One step at a time. Ease up and let your quarry come to you; don't charge it.

Friday was in the truck. “You left early,” he said.

“Needed to stretch my legs.”

He didn't look at her. “We don't have a warrant,” he reminded her.

“What do you guys call it—open fields doctrine? I don't like the man,” she said.

“I can tell.”

“I found the woman who spoke to us before the service. She said the church has been full only since the killings began. Before that, hardly anyone went.”

“People have to find their guts where they can,” he said. Service looked at her. “Gonna tell me what you found?”

“He likes to whittle; actually, it's more than that. He's a woodworker, one hell of an artisan. He makes totem poles, some of them thirty feet high.”

“Rome lets its priests make totem poles?”

“This one does.”

“What else did you see?”

“His workshop was open. Wind must've blown the door open, so I closed it for him. Most completely outfitted workshop I've ever seen. No religious items, a few clothes, no mementos; a very boring place.”

“Fishing rods, fly boxes, anything like that?”

“Nothing like that.”

Service remembered from the Marquette meeting years before that the priest was acclaimed as a true trout fishing fanatic. “He's got to keep his gear somewhere.”

“Not in his workshop.”