The radio hissed static as the car headed deeper into the U.P. jungle. Bertil hung the handset and scanned the dense vegetation and expanding shadows. He liked this area, liked the Hurons and the Black River. But damn if something wasn’t keeping him on edge. He’d run an awful lot of thirty threes up here, but this one had a vagueness to it he couldn’t crystalize. Gah, he thought. He pictured his wife smiling next to the Black River and his mind eased. Bertil watched the woods on either side of the road in easy, timed intervals. But make no mistake, he had the eyes of an eagle, always looking for the tiniest movement.

As he drove on, slow and methodical, a trickle of irritation pooled in his gut. Tourist hikers didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. He had nothing against the tourists, especially the pretty girls during the summers. But he held disdain for their numerous and ridiculous questions. A few of the pretty girls seemed to like his uniform too, their eyes sometimes lighting up as he walked over to them, his leather belt and holster creaking. He’d always rest his hand on his firearm, going for that extra dash of power and their eyes would flare even more. Well, most of them laughed, actually. But he tried to block that part out. He wasn’t a rock star, but in a way the gun trick was his guitar solo. Officer Bertil smiled and licked the sugar and cinnamon from the roof of his mouth.

Two deer on the western side of the road poked their heads above the browse, flicked their tails, and bounded away into maple and birch.

Fifty yards up the road a figure disappeared into the ferns. Bertil tapped the gas pedal and scooted the squad car ahead. As he peered into the brush the backside of a slender man revealed itself. The man carried a set of traps over his shoulder, the trap receptacles clanking together as if a deadly wind chime. An orange hunting cap covered his head, and he trotted away from the patrol car. Bertil lowered the passenger window and leaned over.

“Hello Skeet,” he said.

The man with the orange hunting cap continued walking, the traps rattling louder.

“Don’t make me get out of this fooking car,” Bertil said, his voice rising. He knew Skeet from The Thirsty Boar, a local watering hole. Bertil had always considered the Thirsty Boar the Earth equivalent of the Star Wars Cantina.

Skeet whirled around with the submissiveness of the most obedient dog, greasy hair sticking out from his orange cap. His eyes narrowed.

“Come on over,” Bertil said with a wave of his hand.

Skeet walked slowly to the squad car, but avoided putting his boots on the road.

“Whatcha up to?” Bertil asked, eyeing the trees behind Skeet as if his answer was preordained pointlessness.