Running Dark by Joseph Heywood Page A

was not sure whether to be impressed at her determination or her foolishness. The thermometer was almost down to twenty, under a bitter and stiffening northwest wind. Being wet in such conditions invited exposure and hypothermia. He grabbed the deer’s antlers, but she pushed his hand away and dragged the deer to her truck alone. She let him help her heave it into the bed and he let her get in the cab, start the engine, and turn on the heater. She took off her gloves and put her hands over the vents, waiting for the warm air to come.
    She handed him her hunting license and driver’s license without him having to ask.
    â€œI’ve been dogging this big boy since July,” she said. “My own fault I made a lousy shot, but I wasn’t going to lose him to jerks or brush wolves.”
    Brush wolf was the Yooper term for a coyote. “Been hunting long?” he asked. A woman hunting was unusual. Alone was unprecedented, even in the U.P. where women were famous for going their own way.
    â€œMy grandfather started taking me with him when I was ten, and I went on my own as soon as I was sixteen. I’ve gotten a buck every single year, but this is the best one so far. I used to hunt the high country west of Cliff’s Ridge, but the damn ski resort crowd got to be too much to deal with. Bampy used to hunt down this way and he told me where to come.” She paused for a second and added, “Sorry I jumped you for not helping. I can get a tad cranky when I get tired and cold.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” he said, handing her licenses back to her. Bathsheba had gotten more than cranky when she was cold, and nearly as often when she was warm.
    â€œYou’re Service,” she said, and added, “I’m Brigid Mehegen, a Troop dispatcher out of Negaunee,” she said. “It’s my job to keep track of new law enforcement personnel in the area.”
    â€œGrady,” he said.
    â€œThanks again,” she said, closing her door and rolling down her window. “With all the deer you guys confiscate, you probably eat venison year-round,” she said with a gleam in her eye. This myth—that they allegedly took home all the illegal game they confiscated—irritated all game wardens.
    â€œNot that often,” he said defensively. In fact, all the illegal game that officers confiscated went to families and shut-ins who needed food.
    She laughed out loud. “I’m puttin’ you on, guy! I know you’re all a buncha Boy Scouts.”
    â€œThat old buck is likely to be tough,” he said. Who was this woman?
    â€œNot the way I’ll cook it,” she said. “See you around sometime,” she said, putting the truck into gear and driving away.
    Three or four times since deer season she had been the on-duty dispatcher when he was on the radio, and she had given him a bump and made wisecracks about the cushy life of game wardens and how he’d better be nice if he wanted Santa Claus to come. He had smiled and shook his head when he heard her on the radio, but didn’t think much more about it. He met a lot of peculiar people in the woods, and she was just one of many. The dispatcher was totally unlike his ex-wife who had dispatched their marriage.

    He had not seen her in six weeks, but as he got out of his patrol unit, Brigid Mehegen popped out of her truck. She was wearing a red parka and beat-up Sorels.
    â€œI hope you have an oven in that little bitty rig,” she greeted him.
    â€œA small one.”
    â€œSize doesn’t count as long as it gets hot,” she said with a wink.
    He stood staring at her as she opened the passenger door of her truck. “Help?” she said.
    They carried two large cardboard boxes and a smaller one into the trailer. He turned up the heat and helped her take off her coat.
    â€œBeer’s in the bed of my truck,” she said, taking something in aluminum foil out of a box and putting it on the