Chasing a Blond Moon(158)

“I don’t like the so-far shit,” Gutpile Moody said.

“Use it to stay on track,” Service told him.

McCants was studying the photo. “What’s with the cage?”

“I don’t know that,” he said.

“Lotta unknowns here,” Ebony said.

“The scene looks medieval,” McCants said. “Creeps me out.”

“That was the nineteenth century and a lousy photo,” Service said. “This is now.” He took them through the case again, in more detail, concluding, “I think they’re testing the waters. If they can bring this animal in, they can take out what they want.”

“Bring the animal in for what?” Moody asked.

“We’ll find out,” Service said, thinking about the picture but not sure what it meant.

None of the officers asked what they would do if this was not the group he was after. They came up empty lots of times and simply regrouped. Failure was part of the job.

Light rain began to fall when they got down to the riverbed. The water was still angling down, moving fast, and there was a light mist from the falls, the river about seventy-five feet across. Service had no idea how wide it was below, but they needed to move down the right wall and he led them across. He stopped on the other side and put on his rain jacket and gloves. The temperature had dropped fast since they left the trailhead, as it always could in the Superior watershed, especially this time of year.

“Cold front coming across the lake,” he told them. “Supposed to hit the area around noon.”

Moody sniffed the air. “I smell snow. She’ll be wet and slippery.”

McCants looked at Service and winked, got no response, rolled her eyes, said, “I know . . . focus.”

“Have you seen the grotto?” Gutpile asked.

“No, but Jake’s been there with Santinaw. They’ve been scouting the area for a couple of days.”

“That crazy old Indian’s still alive?” Moody asked.

“Candi, you and Gary will set up closest to the grotto, then Gut, and I’ll be last so I can maneuver to meet and talk to Jake. Everybody on 800s, earphones. Only Jake and I will talk. Acknowledge with clicks.”

The canyon was more of a gorge and the river wasn’t deep, but it moved with force, driven by gravity and slope. The rocks all along the way were slick and they had to be careful of their footing. The sides of the gorge were nearly vertical, in shelves twenty to thirty feet high, stacked on each other. Here and there was some greenstone and exposed strata. Shards of broken stone littered the river, having been snapped off by the cycles of freezing and thawing. At one point, McCants raised her fist and they all squatted. A beaver came swimming up the river toward a two-foot-deep pool, carrying a six-foot-long aspen toward a small dam in the making. The structure wouldn’t survive the winter, but failure never deterred beavers. Service thought about how far the animal had to drag the aspen and sympathized.

The rain fell heavily for nearly an hour, then let up, and as the temperature continued to fall, turned to snow. Snow wouldn’t raise the river level, which wouldn’t impede the movement of things up the river. Service was almost glad to have the snow, knew the ground was too warm to hold it, that it would hit and soon melt.

They got into their hides just before noon. Service met with the group one final time and told them he didn’t know how long they would be there, but to get comfortable and be prepared for a long wait. There were no smartass remarks now. They had all done surveillance and stakeouts many times, understood what had to be done, and were getting their minds into the zone where time would pass and they would stay attentive only to the moment. Some people never developed the ability to do this.

Service found a place under an overhang that afforded some protection from the wet snowflakes and got on the 800. “We’re here,” he said.

The captain said, “Might get two inches tonight. Our friend says that bird is not yet on the ground. Nantz got off safely.”

Service toggled his transmitter twice, click click. Where the hell was the other aircraft?

He needed to talk to Mecosta, but would let him take the initiative.

The snow intensified around three o’clock, coming down so heavily that it was impossible to see across the river, which was about ten feet from where they were. Leaves were shooting down the river, brightly colored wrinkled rafts. The river level had risen, but not much. A mature bald eagle came soaring down from upriver, got almost to the surface, saw one of them and lifted off, scattering feathers. Service could hear its wings batting the air as it struggled for altitude and safety.

Behind him a mink pussyfooted along the rocks, saw him, and reversed direction. He could smell the animal’s musk.