“I heard your ma’s took an interest in Arlon’s eldest, Selena. That’s good. She’s quick as a ferret, that girl. She needs to be out of that shack.”
“Why?”
“Arlon’s a bad ’un. Used to do sawmill work, but he’s been fired from every crew in the county, the last time for pulling a bowie on his foreman. His wife had the good sense to run off to Minnesota last time he got locked up. I thought he might wise up, but—” She shook her head. “He just wangled hisself a job in town with one of them newbie antiques dealers. Auerbach, I think.”
“What does Arlon know about antiques?”
“Must be a rougher game than we think, ’cause stomping folks is all Arlon’s good at. The man’s trouble, Dylan. If he thinks your ma is trying to steal his daughter away? You tell her to take good care, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am, I will.” I nodded.
“Then don’t let me keep ya,” she said, turning back to her knitting. “Or was there somethin’ else?”
“One other thing, but it’s a bit odd.”
“Odder than them birds?”
“Maybe. It’s about the graves.”
“Graves?” she snorted, looking up, bright-eyed as a sparrow. “Dead folks, Arlon, and now graves? My lord, son, you are full of surprises. What graves?”
“Old graves lost in the great fires, a hundred plus years ago.”
“Hell, everything was lost in them fires. Whole towns burnt down. So?”
“There were big estates in these woods back then, some of the same families that live on Sugar Hill now.”
“The barons.” She nodded. I could almost see the gears spinning behind her bifocals. I’ve no idea how old she is. Seventy? Eighty? More? No cobwebs, though.
“Well, if their graves were lost, sonny, I imagine whatever they held dear is still with them.”
“How do you mean?”
“Black walnut. Back in the big timber days, this area was famous for its black-walnut caskets.”
“Caskets? Why?”
“There was plenty of walnut in these hills back then. The tree’s natural oil makes it bug proof, so folks figured bodies would keep longer in a black-walnut coffin.”
“And did they?”
“How the hell would I know? Or anybody, unless they dug ’em up after a century or so. Is that what’s happening? Someone’s digging them old-timers up?”
“I don’t know, Tante Em. But if you hear anything...?”
“I’ll pass it to your ma, sonny. But my, she has raised herself a storyteller,” she said, shaking her head. “Black walnut, indeed. Who’d a thought?”
I left her, still chuckling to herself.
“Young LaCrosse?” she called after me. “While you got one eye out for them coffins, keep the other peeled for black birds, eh?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m on it.”
And I was. I wanted to know about the aliens haunting the deer woods as much as she did. They weren’t birds, and Tante Em damn well knew it. When she joked about the bees tailing me, she called them drones. Some bees are drones, of course, but that wasn’t her meaning.
Driving back to town, I hit speed dial to put a call in to the DEA’s metro Detroit office.
“Drug Enforcement Agency. How can—?”
“AIC Ken Tanaka, please. I’m Sergeant Dylan LaCrosse, Valhalla P.D.”
The operator asked for my badge number, and I gave it. A moment later, a familiar voice picked up.
“Tanaka.”
“Ken, it’s Dylan LaCrosse. I’ve got a question about ops going on in Vale County. Are we okay to talk on open line?”
“We can talk in the lobby of the Detroit News if you want. My agency’s got nothin’ shaking in your neck of the woods, Dylan. Zero, zip, nada.”
“Not even reconnaissance?”
“Recon? Ahhh, you mean the bird? Have you seen it?”
“Not personally, but I’m hearing things. What’s going on?”
“My best guess is, it’s a Predator drone, Dylan. Two of my guys were bowhunting whitetails last weekend, camped out on state land? One said he heard a drone cruise overhead in the dark. Said it was definitely a Predator. He’s an Afghan vet. He knows ’em.”
“So it’s military? But why would they be flying drones over the state forest? What are they looking for?”
“I thought ATF or the Feebs might be testing some new drug sniffer on the quiet, Dylan, but it turned out to be stranger than that.”
“Strange how?”
“You’ve probably read the Defense Department’s replacing the Predators with a shiny new unit called the Reaper. Bigger, faster, with five times the firepower—”
“—and costs ten times as much,” I Finished. “What’s the weird part?”
“You’re gonna love this, bro. Know what they’re doing with the retired Predators? They’re selling them off, as war surplus, high-tech gear and all, everything but the Hellfire missiles.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. GPS, infrared, ultra-violet, heat-sensitive cameras, ground penetrating radar. It’s nineteen eighties tech, but it all works.”
“I don’t understand. Who’d buy one?”
“You tell me. He’s in your jurisdiction.”
“Who is?”
“I traced the sale, Dylan. The only drone sold in your area went to a guy named Hans Auerbach. Ring any bells?”
“He’s an antiques dealer.” I nodded, still absorbing what he’d said. “Moved up here from Motown maybe eighteen months ago.”
“What’s a relic-seller doing with a drone?”
“No clue, Ken, but I plan to ask. What gear did he get with it?”
“Technically, you’d need a warrant to ask that, Dylan.”
“Technically, the next time your crew raids a meth lab in Vale County I’ll guide your guys into a swamp and leave ’em for the coyotes. I know damn well you checked, Ken, so? What equipment did Auerbach buy with that Predator?”
The Lakewinds Mall is barely a mile down the shore from Olde Town, but it’s newer by a hundred years. The shops are bright, shiny, and ultra modern. Blazing video billboards flash above the storefronts, displaying merchandise and messages in high-def images that flicker by so fast that only speed freaks can follow them.
Inside, Auerbach’s shop was equally sleek, the diametric opposite of my mother’s place. Stylish glass shelving, Eames chairs with canvas cushions, surreal lamps and mannequins. The walls were massive mirrored panels that virtually doubled the shop’s size.
A large display near the front of the main showroom was given over to high-end, high-tech smartphones, digital cameras, notebooks and laptops with iris-recognition technology.
“Interested in a phone?” a salesgirl asked. She was young, blond, and perky.
“No, I’m just surprised to see state-of-the-art gear in an antiques shop.”
“Mr. Auerbach loves his toys. If you have questions, I can page him,” she said, reaching for her phone. “I don’t know the first thing about all this.”
“No need,” I said, opening my jacket to show her my badge. “Just point me at him. It’ll be a surprise.”
“He doesn’t like being surprised,” she said nervously.
“I don’t much care. Where is he?”
She pointed, reluctantly, then hurried off like I was an Ebola carrier.
I made my way to the rear of the store, looking over the stock as I passed. I paused a moment at one elaborate display. Memento mori, railroad watches, several engraved rings, beautifully carved cameo brooches. Something written in Latin wreathed one face. Too small for the human eye, even if I could translate it. High-end goods, outrageously expensive.
Mementos aside, most of his stock consisted of overpriced collectibles. I spotted a few reproductions that weren’t labeled as such, weren’t labeled at all, in fact. What you’d pay would likely depend on whether you could tell the difference or not. It told me a lot about the owner.