21

Cur Tale

Joe’s information had removed any remaining doubt about what the purpose of the intruder’s visit had been. Particularly interesting was Joe’s speculation that Tucker might have known about Luck’s presence at Wards Cove. Mulheisen wasn’t so sure of that, but he hadn’t debated the point with Joe. The conversation wasn’t quite satisfactory for Joe, he knew, but there didn’t seem any help for it. There didn’t appear to be a role in this operation for him. The only suggestion Mulheisen had been able to offer was that it might be a good thing if he was able to monitor Luck’s home base, just in case the Traverse City situation didn’t succeed. Joe hadn’t asked for any clarification of what “monitor” might mean and Mulheisen hadn’t volunteered any.

Not so pleasant, however, was the ambiguous nature of Joe’s status in the presence of federal agents. Obviously, Mulheisen had no notion. Nor could he speak for how Wunney might react to Joe’s presence.

The problem was clear enough, but neither Joe nor Mulheisen had been willing to discuss it. What was the point? It wasn’t up to them. He’d left Joe with the implication that, if he were prudent, he might want to disappear now. Let the feds handle this.

When he hung up there was nothing for Mulheisen to do but wait for Wunney. In the event, Wunney and his men didn’t arrive for almost an hour. It was close to 12:30 before he heard the chopper come in. Shortly, Wunney appeared at the back door, accompanied by a couple of youthful officers. He looked uncharacteristically animated, almost enthused. The young agents made themselves at home and Mulheisen accompanied Wunney back to the marina. On the way, he related Joe Service’s news.

Wunney glanced at his watch and swore. “Hell, we’ve missed them, probably. But we can call ahead. Maybe they’re still there.”

They called from the chopper as soon as it lifted off. “They’re on their way to the airport,” Wunney told Mulheisen once he’d gotten through. He turned back to the cell phone and Mulheisen listened while Wunney yelled over the noise of the engine, exhorting the agents to “bust their asses” to intercept the meeting of Echeverria and Luck. “Approach with extreme caution,” he bellowed. “Luck is armed to the teeth and he’s got a killer in the jump seat.”

“All right!” he said when he hung up. “If those mopes get their butts in gear, this could be simpler than we hoped.”

Wunney explained to Mulheisen what he’d laid on. “We’ll go to Selfridge,” he said. This was a nearby air national guard base. Wunney had arranged for a jet to stand by. It would fly them to the Traverse City airport. The Homeland Security agents would be waiting there—with Luck and Echeverria, if all went well. If not, if the intercept failed, they could drive to Queensleap, which would take them about a half hour.

“It might be just as well if Tucker’s crew misses them,” Wunney said. “There could be some fireworks. Luck’s place is probably a safer place for that.”

Mulheisen had to agree. He was impressed with Wunney’s sense of authority and organization. For the operation Wunney had acquired a couple of blue jackets that had HOMELAND SECURITY/SPECIAL AGENT boldly emblazoned on them, as well as a couple of baseball caps similarly marked. He also had official government forms, identifying Mulheisen as an employee, a special agent. They were signed by some figure that Mulheisen had never heard of, but Wunney assured him that they’d hold up. They authorized Mulheisen as a federal officer, empowered to make arrests, to carry out official functions, and so on. He was even authorized to carry arms—Wunney handed him a Colt .45 automatic. Others were enjoined not to interfere with the performance of his official duty.

“And here’s the signed warrant for the arrest of one Martin Parvis Luck, aka M. P. Luckenbach,” Wunney said. “It’s all properly authorized.”

The aircraft waiting for them at Selfridge was a C-20, a rather fancy administrative jet, built by Gulfstream, and peacefully quiet after the racket of the chopper.

Mulheisen said, “Wunney, you’re a wonder boy.”

“This Homeland outfit has anything they want,” Wunney explained. “This plane was flown in for us from some base in Ohio.”

“I can’t help thinking the crap is going to hit the fan when Tucker finds out,” Mulheisen said, settling into a plush seat and strapping in. The aircraft started to roll almost immediately.

“You can’t think like that,” Wunney said. “That’s tomorrow. This is tonight. By tomorrow, if what your pal Service says proves out, Tucker’s gonna have to figure out some way to say it was all his idea. Otherwise, his ass is in a sling. This will be a real test of his bureaucratic survival skills.”

“I get the feeling that Tucker’s right at home in the bureaucratic jungle,” Mulheisen said. “I won’t be surprised if he comes out smelling like a rose.”

Wunney nodded. “Maybe. But it could be more than a career at stake this time. It could be his personal freedom.”

As soon as they had climbed to cruising altitude, Wunney got on the phone to the agents in Traverse City. This time, when he hung up, he shrugged philosophically. “They missed him,” he said. “They’ve seized Echeverria’s plane, but apparently Luck was waiting and as soon as the plane parked, Echeverria got in the chopper and split. Just as well, I think.”

The flight to Traverse City wasn’t long, but Wunney got the flight attendant to serve them coffee and sandwiches. He discussed how they’d deal with the agents up there. “It shouldn’t be a big problem,” he said. “Just let me do the talking. The important thing is not to let them assert themselves. They’ll try to take over. Technically, I suppose one of them would outrank me, but since I’m coming in with you and all the info, the impetus will be with us. Just back me up, and don’t defer to these clowns. They’re used to taking orders. The idea is we sweep into the place, snatch Luck and Echeverria and whoever else we can find, and bring them all back. An important thing will be to grab that chopper and impound it.”

“Don’t forget Hook,” Mulheisen said. “He’d be the grand prize.”

Wunney nodded. “Probably worth the op all by himself,” he said. “Well, might as well sit back and enjoy the ride.” He called to the attendant for more coffee. “Bring me up to date on the layout up there, will you, Mul?”

“So that’s it,” Joe said to Helen and Roman. “We’re in the way. Worse, we could get swept up with the rest of these clowns.” He tried to toss it off as a joke: “Imagine, getting busted for trying to do your duty. That’s what comes of messing around with the Home Guard.”

Helen wasn’t amused, but she shrugged. “We’re here. I feel like an idiot for tipping off that creep. I think we ought to recon-noiter. Who knows how these guys will react if Luck gets nabbed? It might be a good idea to stop them from destroying evidence, files and that kind of stuff. Besides, anything could go wrong at the airport, you know.”

Joe was looking at his Remington, the H&K. He felt the anticlimax deeply. Not given to depression, however, he bucked up and said, “Sure. Why not? Let’s take a look.”

Roman didn’t quite roll his eyes but he did sigh. He heaved himself up out of his chair and said, “Gimme the Stoner rifle, eh? How many rounds you got?” He filled the cavernous pockets of his overcoat with extra clips and walked out with them.

It took them all of fifteen minutes of careful walking in the dry leaves to get to the area near the hill. They had seen no one. The wind was kicking up a bit, tossing the tops of the trees, filling the air with tumbling leaves. It was quite dark, an overcast night. They gathered on a small rise, well back from the clearing where the chopper would have to land.

Helen pointed out the large lights that would flood the area when the hill opened and the chopper came in. “If it comes in,” she said. “If the federates don’t sweep them up in town.”

“That’s the thing,” Joe agreed. “If the bird comes home, if they weren’t intercepted, they might still be feeling the heat of pursuit.” He peered through the darkness at the hill. It was as quiet as any other part of the forest; the only sound, apart from the occasional hoot of an owl, was the rushing of the wind in the treetops.

“We could get closer,” he suggested. “It might be possible, in fact, to get inside.” There was a single pickup truck parked on the road near the hill. The entry to the hill was blind, they knew, but they hadn’t seen anyone go in or out. Joe thought that there must be some guys patrolling. It made sense. “But maybe,” he said, “these Huleys don’t have any sense.” He explained briefly who the Huleys were, leaving out any mention of barmaids.

Helen didn’t see any point to getting inside. “If Luck comes, the whole face of that hill will open.”

“But there’ll be too much light, too much activity,” Joe said. “I’d like to know what they’ve got in there, besides a retractable launchpad for a chopper. These guys could have tons of explosives, rockets maybe. Hell, they could have a tank in there. If the feds are in hot pursuit, it could be a slaughter.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just spoiling for some action?” Helen said. “The feeling I get is that all three of us might more wisely be heading down the road toward Cadillac.”

She was not wrong, Joe knew. “If both of you agree,” he said, “we can leave right now. Sometime down the road I’ll have to deal with Echeverria. This may be the chance.”

Helen didn’t bother to look at him. It was dark, anyway. What could be learned from a face in shadow? She listened to his voice. She knew that, Echeverria or no Echeverria, Joe was excited by the prospect of some action.

“There’s no reason not to stay and at least see if Luck returns,” she said. She felt excited as well.

Neither of them concerned themselves with Roman. Apparently, they were confident that he would do as they did. Roman didn’t comment.

“If I’m going in,” Joe said, “now’s the time. I think it might be a good idea.” When the other two didn’t respond, he said, “Just don’t shoot me when the balloon goes up.”

Helen said, “When, and if, the balloon goes up, what are we supposed to do? Watch?”

Joe said it was impossible to say. They would have to simply be patient and calculate their actions according to events. The important thing, obviously, would be to prevent Luck and/or Echeverria from leaving before the feds arrived. At some point, assuming that the feds arrived and he hadn’t reappeared, they would have to withdraw to some safe location and wait. In other words, leave it all to the feds.

With that, he departed. Five minutes later he was inside the hill. It proved to be simple. One of the Huleys came out for a smoke break. Joe dropped him with a chop. A few seconds later he entered.

The interior was essentially a large Quonset hut with earth mounded over it. The entry was a narrow passage that descended by concrete stairs, six steps down, to a spacious dayroom with a low ceiling. It was furnished with cots, shelves, worktables, desks, display boards, a couple of computers, a television set, refrigerators, cooking facilities, plumbing, and so on. The larger area, which had been revealed by the opened hangar doors, was not apparent from this location. Presumably, if a visitor were brought in here, he would likely be permitted to see only this aspect of the interior. There would be no reason to suspect that beyond the dayroom and an adjoining storage room, no doubt an armory and ammo magazine, there was a much larger area.

There was no one in the dayroom. Joe retreated and hauled in the unconscious form of the man he’d dropped. He tumbled him into one of the cots, with some effort, and trussed him with his own belts and gear, then covered him with a blanket. Then he went to the steel door that led into the hangar. The other men—there were a half dozen—were lounging about the plywood-sheathed platform, mounted on a track. They were talking among themselves, not so much arguing or disputing as spiritedly discussing some familiar sports topic—evidently, a high school basketball team, from the sound of it. One of them, a rangy fellow leaning against a tool bench along the far wall, was loudly expounding and demonstrating certain moves. The others occasionally asserted their opinions. They seemed in good spirits.

Mounted above the long workbench, a bank of radio receivers uttered occasional remarks, obviously from normal aircraft traffic. The Huleys mainly ignored it, although Joe noticed that whenever a voice initiated a comment with a call sign, a couple of the men would momentarily turn toward it. When it proved not to be addressed to them, or to concern them, they immediately ignored the message. Clearly, the men were waiting for a call from Luck.

Joe returned to the dayroom, checked his still comatose victim, and then went into the armory/magazine. This room, he saw, was basically a poured-concrete vault, complete with a reinforced concrete roof. The wiring for lights was all metal conduit stuff, secured to wooden members embedded in the concrete itself, obviously cast in. There were also ventilation tubes cast into the ceiling, white six-inch PVC tubes, which presumably extended up through the soil above. Probably, the whole room had been cast in a single unit and moved into place with a crane, then covered over with several feet of soil.

Much more interesting was what was stored inside. There was stuff here he was unable to identify. Besides rifles and ammo there were some rocket-propelled grenade launchers. He’d used these before, specifically to attack the aircraft of Echeverria. There were also metal containers of hand grenades. And in one corner there was an array of tall, slender rockets. It was likely that the launchers for these were mounted on vehicles, but he hadn’t seen them on his earlier reconnoiter. They looked like they had a considerable range. Joe was unfamiliar with most of the armament here. Possibly some of it could be mounted on the chopper.

Suddenly, Joe heard someone enter the dayroom. He hid.

“What the hell?” the man said. Then he went back out. Joe raced to the door in time to hear the man call to the others, “That fuckin’ Harley is sacked out!”

The others hooted. Someone shouted, “Don’t wake him! Let Imp find him!” There was laughter. The man went on across the hangar to join his comrades.

Joe returned to the storeroom. He filled his pockets with grenades and, slinging his H&K across one shoulder and the shotgun across the other, he lugged three RPG launchers outside. He laid them down in the brush, then made a quick tour around the exterior of the hill. On the far side there was an open Jeep with a .50-caliber machine gun mounted on a stand in the back. Two Huleys were sitting in the front seats, smoking cigarettes and talking.

He doubled back to recover his RPG launchers. He was almost there when every light in the place went on. Huge floodlights lit up a cleared area. Machinery began to grind and whine and the massive doors of the face of the hill began to part and roll back, obviously running on heavy tracks buried in the earth. The lights created virtual daylight before the vast maw of the opening hillside. Joe raced for cover.

In the end, he decided to simply scramble up the grassy hill itself, until he was perched, breathless, among some pine saplings near the top. He’d had to drop one of the RPGs, but he still had two. This spot, at the very crest of the hill, provided an excellent view. He could see inside the now opened hangar, where the men were busily running out the mechanically driven telescoping track that bore the plywood-sheathed landing platform. On the other side, he could see the Jeep start up, someone standing in the back to man the cannon and another pulling forward to a position from which the gunner could cover the landing zone.

Overhead, he could hear the approaching whomp, whomp, whomp of the chopper. Then its landing lights went on, and the bird came whirling down out of night sky. The ground crew walked forward, one of the men brandishing the twin red-light torches of a wing walker, gesturing toward the landing platform. Another had pushed out a small cart on which was mounted a tall, flexible pole bearing a wind sock, positioning it to one side but well illuminated for the benefit of the pilot.

The chopper came in very fast, very adroitly, and settled onto the platform. The pilot cut the power and the rotors began to slow. The men rushed forward to apply hand clamps to the skids of the chopper. Almost immediately the doors of the chopper flew open and Luck dropped to the platform. Two other men, one of them clutching an arm, hopped out the other side. The third man was wearing a suit. Joe assumed that was Echeverria. He held a white hat down on his head and stooped, skipping nimbly off the platform to the ground. One of the Huleys helped him dismount. Another helped the wounded man down. Echeverria and the wounded man—Joe assumed from his stature that it was Hook—walked together into the shelter of the hangar.

Luck was bellowing, “Get ‘er inside, quick! Quick! On the double! Get those doors closed!”

Everybody ran to comply. The huge doors began to grind shut even as the track bearing the chopper on its platform started to retreat. The blades had stopped. A man was clambering up to restrain them.

Joe thought, This won’t do. He squatted on his perch, armed his weapon, took aim at the track, and fired. The angle wasn’t good, too steep, but he’d corrected for it. The rocket whooshed through the night, struck the front of the platform, and exploded. The blast dislodged the helicopter, which tumbled sideways, off the platform, despite the restraints. Joe tossed the launcher over the side and it tumbled down inside the hangar.

He snatched up the other. The doors were continuing to close but, of course, now they wouldn’t be able to close, because the retractable launchpad was stopped. One side of his brain considered what would happen when the powerful motors driving the doors ground up against the pad. The other side of his mind was concerned with the Jeep and its heavy machine gun.

They knew he was on the roof, of course. The Jeep swung out into the clearing, slewed around, and faced the opening of the hill. The man on the gun was peering up into the darkness of the top of the hill, where Joe was. Joe gave him something to aim at: he fired his second RPG at the Jeep. It didn’t hit it but it did not miss by much. The cannon thundered, spraying bullets wildly, as the driver tried to evade any further RPGs. Joe unslung the H&K, racked it, and began to descend.

The back of the hill was quite dark and covered with saplings. Joe slipped down rapidly. He could hear a lot of shooting going on from out front. By the time he was halfway down, he’d decided that he was outgunned here. Now was a very good time to take to the woods. Still, a notion struck him. He recalled the PVC ventilator tubes he’d noticed in the vault ceiling. He began to search about for the point where they would exit in the hillside.

It took too long to find. The Huleys were rapidly moving about the perimeter of the hill, trying to trap him. But then they began to take fire from Helen and Roman, who had separated and were firing from the woods. The Huleys were forced to respond. In the respite that provided, Joe finally stumbled on a weathered wooden box with louvered panels. This must be the covering for the ventilator tubes. Joe tried to figure out how to remove it, to get at the tubes, but it was securely anchored. At last, he simply kicked in the louvers. The framework gave way and he kicked the whole thing aside.

He pulled the pins on three hand grenades and dropped them, one after the other, down the pipe. Then he scrambled down the hill, tumbling in his haste and tearing his clothes, even his cheek, on the branches of saplings, in order to get the hell off that mini-mountain before it blew. In the event, he got to the ground and reached the perimeter road before it went.

He didn’t hear the grenades themselves, or at least he didn’t think he did. But whatever blew up inside there was pretty impressive. The hillside bulged, chunks of dirt flew, finally a crack opened in the earth, more explosions rocked and reverberated, and finally a spectacular ball of fire spewed out of the side of the hill, caught the trees on fire, and was followed by a thunderous, growling, crackling, rumbling blast that knocked Joe down.

He was on his feet in a flash and began running. He had no idea of the direction at first. Then he began to arc through the woods, his way lit by the flames behind him, headed toward the river. He caught up to Helen and Roman before they reached the cabin.

They could hear sirens somewhere beyond the trees behind them. They ran through the woods to their vehicles. “Follow me,” Joe yelled, leaping into his truck. The other two pushed the old Cadillac at a lunging pace along the river road, following the leaping and bounding pickup truck. When they got to the highway they still didn’t stop, driving on to Manton. There was a bar open there.

Over a cold beer, Joe advised his companions, “Let Mul sort it out. Who’s dead and who’s not. I don’t care. For now.”

Mulheisen was describing the layout of Luck’s place to Wunney—the guards, the gate. They had no idea how many guards Luck might have, or if they’d put up any resistance.

Wunney didn’t think they would. “From what I’ve seen of the reports on Luck’s activities, most of his supporters are local sympathizers, not ‘soldiers.’ Obviously, if we’re right and the operation at your house was engineered by Luck, he’s got some guys who are willing to trade fire, some kind of trained grunts, but not overly bright from the looks of it. Those aren’t the ones who are listed as members of his patriot group. He’s probably got no more than a dozen grunts, is my guess, and at any time he might have only half of those around him. But he’ll be on his toes. He knows we’re bound to react to this strike at your house. He’s got to figure we’re on to him. So there could be resistance. I just don’t think a bunch of backwoods guys playing soldier will offer much. I could be wrong, though. We sure as hell don’t want another Ruby Ridge or Waco.”

Mulheisen pointed out that there was a major difference here: Luck had initiated the violence with his strike. Still, it was obviously important to minimize the potential for explosive reaction.

Mulheisen wondered if it didn’t make sense to come in the back way, from McVey’s cabin. They debated these and other possibilities as the plane rushed through the night, high above the clouds. It seemed the plane had hardly leveled off at cruising altitude before they felt it tilt to descend.

Wunney remarked, “It musta been kinda weird hanging out with Joe Service, eh?”

Mulheisen had tried to put Service out of mind, not very successfully. He thought about him now, wondering what he was up to. Joe could take care of himself, he thought, and he’d have to, because there wasn’t anything Mulheisen could do for him.

“Joe’s got his own agenda,” he said.

“We’ll have to do something about Service when this is over,” Wunney said.

Mulheisen didn’t think that likely, but he didn’t say so.

“I’m sorry about your study, Mul. But you’ll be able to rebuild. You had insurance, didn’t you?”

Mulheisen thought it would be covered under his existing home insurance.

“It was lucky you hadn’t moved anything in it,” Wunney observed.

“You know, I’m thinking,” Mulheisen said. “Maybe I ought to get a place up north. A fishing cabin.”

“That’s the spirit,” Wunney said. “All right, buckle up. We’re going in.”

“I can’t help feeling there’s more to it,” Mulheisen said, as the aircraft turned on final.

“What do you mean?” Wunney asked.

“From what I’ve learned about Tucker, he’s a devious, complicated man. This operation has the earmarks of that kind of thinking. I have a feeling he was after something bigger, all along. He protected Luck, but he may have just been using Luck to get to somebody else.”

“Now you’re thinking like Tucker,” Wunney said. It wasn’t clear if he meant that approvingly. “Anyway, we’ll soon find out.”

A half hour later they were standing on a county road, watching the combined volunteer fire departments of eight townships battle a small forest fire with the help of the Forest Service. They seemed to have it well under control. No buildings had been burned; even the tinderbox barn had been saved. But ground zero could not be approached yet. There were still occasional explosions and isolated rounds of ammunition were firing off.

Wunney conferred with one of the agents, Dinah Schwind. When she left, he said to Mulheisen, “We’ve got what’s left of the hill cordoned off, and the buildings. Special forensic crews are coming in. They’ll start sifting the ashes as soon as the embers cool. But it doesn’t look like anybody got out of the bunker, or whatever it was, that blew.”

Mulheisen left Wunney to coordinate with these details and he wandered off into the woods, where firefighters were still dousing small fires. He wore his “Homeland Security” jacket and hat for identification. When he had the opportunity, he’d question a firefighter about the possible presence of individuals whom they couldn’t identify. The men working—felling trees, directing equipment, clearing fire lanes—were mostly young and exuberant. They didn’t get much of this kind of action and they enjoyed demonstrating their techniques, which they had learned and practiced for years. But no one could recall seeing any odd personnel wandering about, or fleeing.

A first-aid station had been set up at Luck’s house to deal with injuries to the firefighters. They hadn’t seen any survivors of the horrendous explosion and subsequent fire. Old doctor Hundly was there, bandaging burns and sprained ankles. He nodded to Mulheisen but they didn’t converse.

Mulheisen skirted the ground-zero site and wandered toward the river. As he’d expected, there were plenty of cops at the river road and near Charlie McVey’s cabin, which was unharmed. McVey himself was standing on the deck, surveying all the activity.

“By golly, Mul,” Charlie exclaimed, “looks like ol’ Imp has bought it this time! I wouldn’t of wished it, but damn, he went out with a bang! C’mon in and have a drink. I seen you left some good stuff for me.”

He admired Mulheisen’s jacket. “I knew you was somebody,” he said.

Mulheisen stood with him in the kitchen, sipping scotch. He affirmed McVey’s supposition that no one had apparently survived. He asked if McVey had been aware that Luck had been flying a helicopter out of the area.

“Well, you know, folks talked about hearing a chopper,” Charlie said, “but no one took it seriously. The Forest Service and the Fish and Game use ‘em, and the Coast Guard comes in and out of the area all the time from the station in Traverse City. Their route takes ‘em over this way if they’re headed for Frankfort or Lake Michigan. So no one paid it too much mind.”

“Did you imagine that Luck might have all those explosives in there?”

“Well, he was all’s doing something with Cats and stuff, working on his place. I never paid no mind. I don’t think anyone did. But lord, he must have had a regular ammo dump in there!”

“He did, apparently,” Mulheisen said. “Some of the agents who know about these things said he must have stockpiled tons of explosives. They estimate the blast was bigger than Oklahoma City. But tell me, have you searched this property?”

McVey hadn’t. He’d been at home when he heard the blast, as far away as Summit City. He had tuned in his scanner and heard the fire departments responding, so he’d hustled straight over to the cabin. “They was cops here when I came in,” he said. “State police and the sheriff’s. They let me on in. No one’s been in the house. No damage a’tall. I was afraid a window might of been broke on the woods side, from the blast, but they was all okay. The door was unlocked,” he added accusingly, “but no harm done. Tell you the truth, I was more worried about them big windows in the front. Them puppies run a purty penny.”

“Let’s take a tour,” Mulheisen said.

A quick tour of the interior didn’t reveal anything. Charlie picked up the bottle of scotch and led him outside. They walked around the house. There were three windows on that side, all of them intact and locked, except for the bathroom window, near the back.

“The bathroom window was open,” Charlie said. “But you know how it is, a feller goes in there and sometimes the fan don’t quite clear it out, so he opens the window. Must of forgot to close it when you left.”

“I confess I didn’t close up the place,” Mulheisen said. “Joe, my, ah, associate, did. I should have stopped and checked it. Sorry.” It occurred to him that Joe had reentered the cabin, at least following the takeoff of the helicopter—he’d talked to him on the phone from there. Presumably, he’d left too abruptly to bother closing up again, probably following the blast. Mulheisen didn’t say anything about that to Charlie.

They stood outside in the dark for a moment, sniffing the smell of burning wood and leaves. Mulheisen noticed a low structure to the rear, some sixty feet away. “What’s that?” he asked.

“That’s the ol’ pump house,” Charlie said. “Ol’ Tom Adams put that in. It sits over the well. Sumbitch used to freeze up ever’ winter. When I took over, I put in a submersible pump. That was the end of that problem. I should of just jerked that ol’ mess out of there but it didn’t seem worth it.”

Mulheisen wandered over toward the little house. Basically, only the roof stood above the ground. The door was down in a shallow well with steps. Mulheisen looked at it. It appeared to have been jimmied; the hasp where a padlock hung looked broken to Mulheisen. He called back to Charlie, clearly, “Well, it looks all right. Let’s go.”

They reentered the cabin through the rear door. Mulheisen stopped there and looked back toward the pump house. He said to Charlie, “I think someone’s in there.”

Charlie peered over his shoulder out the window of the door. The pump house entrance was dimly visible in the dark. “Who do you think? Imp?”

“Could be,” Mulheisen said, “but I doubt it. More likely Joe. Whoever it is, he’ll want to get the hell out of there while it’s still dark, if he’s not injured.”

“I’ll get the troopers,” Charlie said, excited.

“No, no,” Mulheisen said, stopping him. “Relax. What you don’t want is a bunch of armed men in the dark, ready to shoot. Let’s just wait.”

He took the bottle of scotch and uncapped it, then took a quick swig. He handed it back to Charlie. “You wait here,” he said.

He opened the door quietly and stepped out. He pulled out a cigar and clipped it, then lit it. When it was well lit, he walked softly back toward the pump house, but angling off to the right. About thirty feet away and well to the right of the door well, he took up a position next to a mature pine tree. It gave him excellent cover. He stood and waited, puffing occasionally on the cigar. He hoped this wouldn’t take long. Charlie was almost bound to alert the troopers out front if Mulheisen didn’t return soon. He was counting on the hidden fugitive realizing that a quick move was in order.

As he’d expected, he hadn’t long to wait. First there was a soft scrape as the door was opened. Mulheisen cupped the cigar to hide the glow of the lit tip and drew out the .45 that Wunney had given him. In a moment, the head of a man appeared above the rim of the door well. In the darkness, Mulheisen could not identify him, but he appeared to have a full head of black or dark hair. If it was Joe, Mulheisen hoped he wasn’t foolish enough to shoot first.

The man crept up the stairs. He didn’t appear to be armed, or at least no weapon was evident. At the top of the stairs, the man moved around the pump house in a crouch, toward the river—away from Mulheisen.

Mulheisen stepped quickly toward him, using the roof of the pump house for cover. The roof was low enough that Mulheisen was able to look over it when he got close.

Captain Hook was crouched beyond, his back to Mulheisen, peering intently toward the house. Mulheisen leaned on the roof of the pump house, resting his hand on the ridge and holding the .45 in plain sight.

“Stay still,” Mulheisen said quietly.

Hook spun around. His face was smeared with soot. When he realized who it was, he straightened up and lifted his arms slowly.

“I am unarmed,” Hook said. He smiled wryly. “So I was right. You are not a retired policeman.”

“You have the right to remain silent,” Mulheisen said.

Fifteen minutes later, Wunney arrived.

When Hook had been bundled away in a trooper’s car, Wunney and Mulheisen stood in the yard, talking. Mulheisen said, “I wonder if these warrants will work on Tucker.”

“What an interesting idea,” Wunney said. He sniffed the night air. “Love the smell of pines, even when they’re a little scorched. When I got the call, I figured you had run your faithful hound to ground. But Hook’s better. I guess Joey tucked his tail between his legs and ran, probably as soon as you said you were on your way.”

“Think so?” Mulheisen looked around. “He’s a wary pup, for sure. But he’s no man’s dog.”