Strike Dog by Joseph Heywood Page A

could damn well see where he was—to within 25 meters of accuracy.
    â€œWe need for you to get over to Florence, Wisconsin. Check in with Special Agent T. R. Monica at the Florence Natural Resources and Wild Rivers Interpretation Center. It’s a half-mile west of town at the intersection of US 2 and Highways 70/101; got it?”
    The term special agent usually added up to one thing. “Feebs, sir?”
    â€œThat’s affirmative. You’ll be there in a consulting role. The order comes directly from the governor’s office. Your mission is to remain with them until they kick you loose.”
    Just great, Service thought. “When?” he asked. A consultant to the FBI? It sounded like a goat rodeo in the making, he told himself. It figured that the governor was interfering in his life, but he kept this to himself. Governor Timms had been a good friend of Nantz’s. He’d already received the expected condolence call from her. He had been through Florence before and knew where the center was. CO Simon del Olmo in Crystal Falls often worked closely with a Wisconsin warden from Florence County. Service had met the man several times, once at the center, where he maintained a satellite office. Florence was about ten miles due south of Crystal Falls. He had a Wisconsin map book somewhere in his truck, and he eyeballed the backseat, but couldn’t see it.
    â€œGet there ASAP. I assume you’re rolling,” the chief said. “Check in as you can. Any questions?”
    â€œNine thousand one hundred and twenty-two,” Service quipped, aiming his vehicle south toward US 2.
    â€œJoin the club,” the chief said.
    â€œSir, I’ve got two furlough days this weekend.”
    â€œNegative. You’re working and the feds are paying for your time.”
    The state budget was in bad shape. If there was a chance to pick up reimbursement from the feds, O’Driscoll would jump on it. The order to join the FBI was mostly about money, he concluded.
    He was about to pull away when he thought about the deer he had seen earlier. Something had registered vaguely as not being right with the animal, but he had been anxious to get to the creek and had shrugged it off. He got out of the truck and went back to where he had seen the deer and found it in the same place, still drinking—and urinating at the same time.
    â€œOh boy,” he said out loud. The department and the state’s 800,000 licensed hunters were worried about Chronic Wasting Disease moving into the state from Wisconsin and devastating Michigan’s herd. So far CWD had not been detected here, but all officers had been briefed on symptoms, and this animal was showing some of the classics: spread legs, droopy ears, no fear, constant thirst, and urination. He trotted back to the truck and got on the cell phone.
    It was answered after two rings. “Wildlife, Beal.”
    Buster Beal was a biologist in the Escanaba office, a man who loved white-tailed deer, took care of the herd as a sacred responsibility, and killed them with equal fervor during rifle and archery seasons. Beal was well over six foot, burly and hairy and known throughout the DNR as Chewy, after the hirsute Star Wars character.
    â€œChewy, it’s Grady.”
    â€œYou find me a big boy?” Beal expected calls from COs who saw large bucks and most of them complied. “I’m up near Mormon Creek. I’ve got a buck here, spread legs, droopy ears, doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by me, and he’s drinking and pissing at the same time.”
    â€œOh, man,” Buster Beal keened. “Shit, fuck, shit.”
    â€œHey, I’m not giving it a label; I’m just reporting what I see. How do you want me to play it?”
    â€œWait for me,” Beal said. “I’ll be in my truck in thirty seconds, there in thirty minutes.”
    Service explained his current location. “I’ll move my truck, meet you