Free Ice Hunter by Joseph Heywood Page B

Izenhall had played alto sax with Louis Jordan and the Tympany Five and their breakneck boogie-woogie was one of Treebone’s great passions.
    Service used his handheld radio to make a quick call to a contingent of deputies waiting to move in. They were in the woods in their vehicles a couple of miles from the compound’s parking area.
    â€œOne-ninety, this is DNR 421. We’re moving in.”
    â€œGood hunting, 421.”
    â€œLet’s get it done,” Grady Service said to his friend.
    â€œâ€˜Let the Good Times Roll,’ ” Treebone said softly. Izenhall again.
    Service walked slowly through the woods. Why writers talked about a silent forest was beyond him. Tree frogs sawed and crickets chirped and blended into a white-noise buzz that masked their movement. Off in the distance he heard crows on their night perch. The closer they got, the louder the camp frenzy sounded. Somebody was playing a fiddle and somebody else whanging a drum, whack-whump-whacka-whack , with no discernible rhythm, and now and then a weapon was discharged. When Service got close enough, he saw the clan bunched loosely around a huge bonfire, and the scene made him shiver. They were mostly naked, screaming and dancing herky-jerky around the fire. The muzzle flashes of rifles fired upward added sparks to the smoky air.
    Limpy’s tribe.
    The camp comprised a dozen or more construction trailers and blackened log cabins, situated more or less in a circle. The din from the celebrants was amazing; the sounds from the people gyrating around the fire were barely recognizable as human.
    Ten feet from where Service stood he saw a man with a woman bent forward, her hands clutching a rickety chair back. They two were squealing and grunting like pigs as they copulated.
    The CO worked his way from cabin to cabin until he saw Limpy sitting in a metal rocking chair near the bonfire. There were clan members gathered around him. The king and his vassals.
    Service used the darkness to get as close as he could, sucked in a deep breath, and stepped boldly into the fire’s flickering light.
    The noise stopped almost immediately. All eyes locked on him. A dog bayed pathetically. There was no other sound but the crackling from the bonfire and the frantic trilling of tree frogs in the distance.
    Allerdyce, who was a small man when Service had last seen him, looked even smaller now. He was shrunken and wizened, his skin sallow and hanging loose, his eyes black beads sunk deep in his triangular skull. He wore a beard now, and his hair was pulled back into a dirty gray ponytail.
    â€œYou,” Allerdyce said calmly.
    â€œI thought I’d pay my respects, Limpy.”
    One of the vermin near the fire pointed a lever-action rifle in the conservation officer’s direction, but the old man motioned him away.
    â€œHoneypat’s here, you want some pussy,” the patriarch said. “Remember her? Ever’body dings ’er. I expect one more won’t be makin’ no difference.”
    Honeypat stepped from behind a group of people. She wore no clothes, and her black hair and her eyes were wild. She had aged twenty years in the past eight. She was in her early thirties now and looked fifty.
    â€œThat’s generous, but Honeypat looks like she could use a long rest.”
    â€œThat one don’t never need no rest,” Allerdyce said, letting loose a long belch. “Coming here wasn’t too smart, eh?”
    â€œI figured you’d be looking for an escort back to Jackson, Limpy.”
    Allerdyce stared at the fire and rocked back and forth. “You think you can put me back in there?”
    â€œYou’ve already broken your parole, Limpy.”
    â€œHow’s that?” Allerdyce asked, ever so slightly raising an eyebrow.
    â€œYou are gathered with armed ex-felons. I’ve witnessed the reckless discharge of firearms. You want me to keep on with the list?”
    â€œThat’s just so much