Free Running Dark by Joseph Heywood Page B

and bugged out. I watched da whole sad parade.”
    â€œYou never said anything on the radio.”
    Joe Flap shrugged. “What would be da point? If our so-called leadership don’t have da balls to get in da dirt wit’ da grunts, why should grunts hang out dere cajones? ”
    â€œYou’re saying this isn’t the first time?”
    â€œDepends on who goes. Get da wrong mix and dey settle for a symbolic drive-through. Problem den is dat all da locals see a bunch of game wardens wit’ dere tails between dere legs. Dis sure ain’t da same outfit your old man and me signed on wit’.”
    Service had heard similar lamentations from a couple of people, but he had ignored them. “Do the locals down there monitor your radios?”
    â€œI s’pect so, but I usually run radio-silent an’ open my mouth only when I have to. Why?”
    â€œI had that one patrol down there and I didn’t much care for what I saw,” Service said.
    Flap nodded solemnly. “You’re not alone, son. Your old man was still alive, he’d get some of da boys together and dey’d go down dere one night wit’ saps and brass knuckles.”
    â€œTimes change,” Service said.
    â€œMebbe,” Flap said, “but assholes are forever assholes, and dere was a time not dat long ago when a warden wouldn’t back down from anyone. You did, you might as well turn in your badge.”
    Flap was right, but this tight-jawed attitude had also caused several men to be killed in the line of duty over the nearly ninety years that the state had employed uniformed game wardens. “You think we’ve backed down?”
    â€œHow many shots fired at your patrol dat day—seven, eight?”
    â€œEight,” Service said.
    â€œYou return fire, defend yourselves?”
    In fact, they had swerved and run when the attacks became direct. Until Stone boarded the boat, they had had only handguns for defense.
    â€œDon’t feel bad,” Flap said. “Da boys ain’t never shot back at dose ratfucks. Da Garden’s startin’ to put a stink on green uniforms. You just visitin’, or you got an official reason for droppin’ in?”
    â€œI didn’t realize you were still flying for the department.”
    Joe Flap grunted. “I’m fifty-two: Guys my age make a hundred grand wit’ da airlines, and all da stews they can screw.”
    â€œYou regret not joining the airlines?”
    Flap sneered. “I ain’t no bloody bus driver.”
    â€œI always thought you’d head west again,” Service said. “Or up to Alaska.”
    â€œUsed ta say that, an’ I almost did. But when dis Garden mess kicked up, I decided ta see ’er through. I ain’t much for walkin’ away from a scrap.”
    The two men made small talk for a while and Service asked his father’s old friend about aircraft procedures and capabilities, but kept his other thoughts to himself.
    Joe Flap walked him out to his patrol car. “Sorry you had ta join dis sorry outfit,” he said. “Your old man—”
    Service cut him off. “My old man’s dead, Joe. Let’s leave him that way. I’m not him—I’m me.”
    The pilot looked at him quizzically. “I guess we’ll see about dat. Bear scat don’t never fall far from da bear.”

10
    SHOW-TITTIES POND, DECEMBER 31, 1975
    â€œDo they expect you guys to live like this for twenty-five years?”
    Once again Brigid Mehegen had shown up unannounced, pounding on Grady Service’s trailer door just after dark. He opened up to find her with a bottle of Cold Duck in one hand and a package of meat in reddish-brown butcher paper in the other. “Just so we’re clear on this,” she said, extending the gifts to him. “Fuck buddies, nothing more.”
    Service laughed and let her in, put the sparkling wine in a bucket of snow outside the door