Chasing a Blond Moon(75)

“A hunting camp? Interesting. I don’t know a man named Dung, but that doesn’t mean anything. As for the camp, maybe I can get that information for you. Do you mind my asking why the DNR is interested in such a lowlife?”

“It’s our specialty.”

“I imagine it is,” she said, her tone one of amusement.

“I have a potential international poaching case.”

“Now that sounds interesting.”

“An informant puts Wan in the business, but he’s a new name and personality for us.”

“Shouldn’t U.S. Fish and Wildlife be involved in this?”

She knew the bureaucracy well. “At some point. Right now we’re just taking a preliminary look at players, trying to figure out what it is we have.”

“Fair enough—why get the feds involved until you have to.”

“You’ve been there.”

“Too many times to count. What sort of timeline am I on?”

“Soon as.” He gave her his office, home, and cellular numbers. Once again, he owed his friend Tree.

Later, on his way to lunch, Fern LeBlanc said, “You have a visitor.”

He looked around and saw no one. “Outside,” LeBlanc said with a nod of her head.

There was nobody in the parking lot, but as Service got behind the wheel of his truck, the passenger door opened and Limpy Allerdyce struggled to get into the seat.

“Haven’t seen much of youse, sonny,” Limpy said wearily.

Allerdyce had shot Service during a scuffle and spent seven years in the State Prison of Southern Michigan for attempted murder. Allerdyce was one of the most notorious poachers in the state’s history and the leader of a tribe of poachers, mostly his relations, who lived in the remote southwest reaches of Marquette County—the largest county west of the Mississippi and by itself larger than the state of Rhode Island. The summer after Allerdyce got out of jail, Service had found the murderer of the poacher’s son and he and Allerdyce had reached a sort of agreement, which Allerdyce claimed to have had with Service’s late father: no poaching in the Mosquito Wilderness, and he would provide tips from time to time. Limpy had made the deal to avoid going back to jail for parole violation, and last year he had helped Service break a major wolf-killing case. But it turned out that Allerdyce also had gotten money from the poachers, who were his competition. He had played both sides like a chess master.

“You’re my visitor?” It had been months since he had seen the old man. He looked gaunt and sallow, his neck thin as a bird’s, his skin yellow.

Allerdyce put a shaking hand on his belly. “Gives me the wop-agita gettin’ so close to a cop house. Been too long, hey?”

Wop-agita? “Not long enough,” Service said. “I’m on my way to a meeting.”

“Don’t bullshit me, sonny. You’re goin’ for grub. Limpy buys.”

“I can’t accept a gift from a felon,” Service said. There was no policy that stated this, but he didn’t want to spend time with the old man. “I’ll pay,” he said when Allerdyce made no move to get out of the Yukon.

They drove into the drive-through at McDonald’s. Limpy ordered four large orders of chicken nuggets. Service drove them over to “the island,” what locals called Presque Isle Park, a tiny and scenic peninsula jutting into Lake Superior. Sitting in the truck with Limpy’s body odor would have been too much to bear. They got out of the truck and sat on boulders by the water’s edge. The rocks were pinkish-red, showing their iron content. It was sunny and cool, clouds racing across under a brisk northwest wind, their shadows skating like sea creatures just under the surface of the frigid gray-blue water. The air had lost its summer softness and Service could feel fall coming.

Limpy put one nugget in his mouth and put the rest of the boxes in a brown shopping bag he was carrying. Service had a cheeseburger and coffee, and after the burger lit a cigarette and held out the pack to Limpy, who refused.

“Got a question for youse.”

Service didn’t look at the old man. Limpy never asked a question without a purpose, did nothing without intent. He was a predator in human form, a demon and shape-shifter, a crow pocketing a bauble at a five-and-dime, a wolf taking easy and helpless prey. He was cold-blooded and calculating, most of his children sired from his other children or their spouses, a dirtbag who took and did as he wanted, with no remorse. In Allerdyce’s mind all that mattered was what he wanted, and if you disagreed, you were in deep trouble.

“What?” Service asked. The old man was acting strange. He couldn’t put a finger on what it was, but something was different—the weight loss, some uncharacteristic fidgeting and nervousness.