We went to pick up old Joe and Stella Kubiak in the sheriff’s unmarked cruiser. No need to draw undue attention to such a decent couple. They had done what they had done, and I can’t say I blamed them.
It was a forty minute trip through Pigeon River country. At one point a great-antlered elk and its harem of cows paraded in front of us, the bull pawing at the dirt road as if the vehicle were a rival. We watched the display in silence, admiring the beasts in their natural habitat. We were in no hurry to arrest our neighbors.
The trailer was set back a quarter mile from the road, the narrow drive snaking through stands of yellow birch and spruce. The front yard opened into a sea of fern interrupted only by Joe’s rusty pickup and rows of cordwood. Bernie, the floppy eared beagle whose arthritis had long since ended his days marching in the Labor Day parade, bayed twice if to say hello and then put his head back on the porch and returned to his slumber.
Sheriff Peck killed the ignition and we sat listening to the engine click. It was a hot summer afternoon, the sun high in the northern Michigan sky, yet neither of us felt much like venturing out. We could see Joe shuffling about in his lean-to, a can of beer in hand. This would make our task all the more difficult.
"Let’s do it," the sheriff said finally.
Sheriff Peck was a young man, barely into his thirties, elected two years prior upon his father’s retirement. He had yet to develop senior’s patience or political savvy but was a fine lawman in his own right: tough and decisive. When the Army lawyer had called that morning, the sheriff had replied, "You send over the warrant, I’ll do what I have to. But I’ll tell you this much: I think it’s a crock."
Old Joe was laughing to himself. When he got drunk, which was four or five days a week, he would speak his own brand of gibberish and generally keep himself entertained.
"You boys after summa that cordwood?" His eyes were bloodshot. Spittle flew as he spoke.
"Got enough for now, Joe. You remember me coming by a couple weeks back to pick some up?"
"The underboss," he said, having fun with my title. "Underboss Murdock. Well, let me tell you something, siree. Let me tell you right now." Joe closed his eyes tight when he got going, as if addressing someone, or something, deep within himself. He could be jovial one moment, volatile the next. No one was entirely sure what he was talking about when he was inebriated, but the man had served in two wars and filled our woodstoves and plowed our driveways for thirty years, and so was given the benefit of the doubt.
"Hunt ’em down," he blabbered. "Raise the flag. Train the heathens."
Sheriff Peck removed the last two beers from the cooler, lifted it to his shoulder and tossed the ice water in old Joe’s face. Stunned, he stumbled back and fell on his ass. The look on his face, the roundness of his eyes, said he was back with us.
Old Joe took a few minutes to pull himself together. He wiped the wetness from his face with two leathered hands. Produced a handkerchief and blew his nose, then mined around in each nostril before returning the soiled cloth to his pocket. Finally, he leaned his head back against the lean-to and draped his arms over his knees, squinting at the sheriff.
"How’s your daddy these days?"
"Missing the job something fierce."
Joe nodded. "Best sheriff this county ever had." It wasn’t a cut, and Sheriff Peck didn’t take it as such. "No argument here," he said.
"And the undersheriff," said Joe, turning to me. "That boy of yours still tradin’ them stocks and bonds in Chicago?" Old Joe had a good dozen years on me, but our sons had been in the same grade, played football and hunted together for a time, Johnny even spending the occasional night at our home.
"Not much trading going on these days," I said. For the fiftieth time in the past few days I touched the cell phone in my pocket. "He had a big interview lined up, but I haven’t heard from him. Probably out celebrating."
"Let’s hope so," Joe said. The pleasantries over, he hung his head and watched the ice water seep into the ground. He stayed that way for some time, as if coming to a decision, although we all knew it had been made.
"Sheriff," he said, "God only knows where that boy of mine is."