by Robin Lamont
Praise for The Chain
The First Book in The Kinship Series
Foreword Reviews 2013 Book of the Year Award Finalist
“A great read for lovers of mystery novels—with the added bonus of being an eye opener about life in a slaughterhouse town.”
- Norm Phelps, author of The Longest Struggle
“From the first page I was caught in the grip of this fast-moving tale. Robin Lamont is a smooth operator who cleverly navigates a subject too often swept under the rug.”
- Jonathan Balcombe, author of Second Nature:The Inner Lives of Animals
“Robin Lamont is a master of suspense, and her latest novel is no exception.”
- Paul Shapiro, Vice President of Farm Animal Protection, The Humane Society of the United States
“The Chain is a page turner … Just go buy it and read it, because it’s really, really good.”
- Mariann Sullivan, Our Hen House
“A gripping suspense novel which will hold readers rapt from page one, The Chain is a must read for both animal activists and the public at large.”
- Gail Eisnitz, author of Slaughterhouse
“Do yourself and the animals a favor. Read this book.”
- Bryan Monell, Farm Animal Rights Movement (FARM)
Also by Robin Lamont
The Chain
Wright for America
If Thy Right Hand
(Named Suspense Magazine’s Best of 2011)
The Trap
© 2015 All Rights Reserved, Robin Lamont.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover and Interior Design: AuthorSupport.com
Cover Imagery: Shutterstock/Helen E. Grose
Grayling Press
ISBN #978-0-9858485-6-9 (print version)
LCCN #2015902805
Printed in the United States of America
Acknowledgements
The Trap was set in motion by a personal story told to me by Anja Heister about freeing a marten from a brutal neck snare only to be later threatened with prosecution for trap interference. And thanks go to Tom Knudson for his bold expose in the Sacramento Bee which served as inspiration for incidents and characters in this book. For patiently answering all my questions, I am indebted to Brooks Fahy and his organization Predator Defense, which has taken on the mammoth task of shining a light on Wildlife Services. Much gratitude to Maggie Howell and the Wolf Conservation Center for her insights about wolves and the challenges of wolf conservation. Good luck to Brooks, Maggie, Camilla Fox, and all the other good people of the Northeast Wolf Coalition in their efforts to ensure that wolves will have a place in our country’s vast landscape. Thanks to Stephanie Boyles-Griffin at HSUS, to Suzanne Asha Stone at Defenders of Wildlife, and to the Natural Resources Defense Council for the advance screening of Wild Things. And to Martin Rowe, I appreciate his ongoing support and advice. Finally, thank you, Peter Young. This book took some twists and turns from where it started. But isn’t that the way with all journeys?
The Trap is dedicated to Ken. Without you, none of this is possible.
Chapter 1
Charlie Ferrow whistled for his dogs. They should have been back by now. It was getting cold – the kind of cold you might not see coming until its knife edge was at your throat.
The late evening sky had gone from charcoal to black and seemed impossibly clear, stars shimmered brighter, sounds carried farther. The other hunters had gone home and it was just him and his “boys” huntin’ raccoons. Pelt prices were on the rise, nearly thirty dollars for a good size skin, and the meat brined and barbequed, wasn’t half bad. Best though was times like this, listening for the excited squall-bawl of his hounds catching the scent, then trailing and treeing a coon – the sweetest music he’d ever known. But now the tips of his ears were starting to burn. Time to pack it up.
Ferrow called again, and the veteran coonhound Grit bounded in from the trees. “Atta boy,” crooned the veteran hunter, reaching down to scratch Grit under the chin. “Where’s Jocko, eh? Where’s your brother?” Expecting the young ’un to appear any moment, Ferrow leaned his .22 against the back of his greasy, mud-splattered truck. The bumper sticker glowed pale green in the dark: I Got a New Coon Dog for My Wife–Best Trade I Ever Made. He tied off the garbage bag that held two dead raccoons and swung it onto the truck bed.
Just then, he heard Jocko, still deep in the woods. His urgent yelps cut through the crystal chill. Something wasn’t right, and Ferrow felt the hairs rise up on his neck. Grit heard it too and bolted off to investigate. Ferrow grabbed his rifle and went after him.
The headlamp fitted over his cap paved the way across the snow-crusted ground. As he got closer, he could hear the two of them. Winding his way through the trees and pushing aside low branches, Ferrow gripped his rifle tight, hoping Jocko hadn’t stumbled on a predator in a trap. The young coonhound wouldn’t have the sense to stay well clear of the slashing jaws of a cornered coyote or worse, a wolf.
About fifty yards in, the headlamp caught the darting figures of his dogs in a small hollow between two big lodgepole pines. They were anxiously circling a mound of snow at the base of one of the trees, their tails held high and stiff with warning.
“Com’ here,” snarled Ferrow. “Git back.”
Only Grit obeyed.
What the hey? No coyote. Had to be a coon. Ferrow shined his light up into the tree where it would reflect the gleaming eyes of the cornered animal. He raised up the .22, ready to fire. But the sparse branches over his head revealed nothing. As he moved in to get a better look, his foot kicked something. He looked down and saw raw, bloated fingers reaching out of the snow.
Ferrow dropped to his knees and hurriedly uncovered the hand, then an arm clothed in stiff flannel. He brushed the snow from a face he recognized. The man’s eyes were open, ice crusted on his lashes and mustache, his skin waxy, the color of chalk, his mouth half open as if trying to scream. Very, very dead.
Heart pounding, Ferrow began to sweep the rest of the snow from the man’s body. What the fuck happened here? Suddenly, he cut his hand against something hard and sharp – the rusted tip of a wire spring. With the body now partially exposed, the glare of his lamp revealed a gruesome sight. Soaked in blood, the man’s lower leg was caught in the locked jaws of a coil spring trap. A big one, ten, twelve-inch jaws – a device that could have taken a bear or a hundred-twenty-pound wolf.
Holy Christ. Craig Eberhardt had stepped in his own trap.
Chapter 2
A young woman stood on a ridge overlooking the canyon floor peppered with rabbit brush and dried grass, tips poking through the snow cover. In the dawn that coated the landscape with a dreamy, blue-gray film, Jude Brannock peered intently through her binoculars, oblivious to the wind that painted bright pink patches on her cheeks. She wasn’t pretty by conventional standards, her high cheekbones too angular, her chin too strong. But there was a spirit in her dark hazel eyes that captivated anyone who cared to look beyond the tabloid definition of beauty.
Next to her, Lisbet trained her spotting scope in the same direction. “Keep focused on that knot of elk by the curve in the creek,” she told Jude. “See how they’re all bunched together? Could mean they’re uneasy … they sense somethin
g. Be patient.”
No problem there. Patient was what Jude did for a living. You couldn’t conduct investigations into animal cruelty and not have a high tolerance for watching and waiting. Watching for the right moment to snap the photo. Waiting for the right time to approach a reluctant witness. She worked for The Kinship, a small group of animal rights investigators based in Washington, D.C. This week, however, Jude was taking a much-needed vacation and had decided to visit Yellowstone National Park for a chance to see wolves in the wild, a lifetime dream for her. The Kinship’s founder Gordon Silverman had steered her to his old friend Lisbet Hammond, one of the park’s wolf biologists.
Today, Lisbet had taken Jude to the Lamar Valley where a pack had been sighted mid-week. As they studied the elk, the biologist quietly relayed the history of the Yellowstone wolves. Throughout North America, the gray wolf had been hunted to near extinction before being given federal protection. Then in 1995, wolves were re-introduced to the vast landscape of the national park where they began to thrive. In that time, Lisbet saw the ecosystem in the park rebound as well. The wolves kept the herds of elk, moose, and deer from overgrazing near rivers and streams; in the newly flourishing undergrowth, bird species and beaver colonies returned, the rivers filled with fish. The Canis lupus kept the coyote population in check, they left food for scavengers, and the park saw a resurgence of eagles, lynx, cougars, grizzly bears, wolverines, and great gray owls. Such a landscape rich with wildlife needed the wolf. But two years earlier, pressured by the ranching and hunting lobbies, the federal government had removed wolves in the Northern Rockies from the endangered list and their numbers were plummeting again.
The two women shifted their feet to keep themselves warm as they continued to watch and wait. After a few more minutes, Lisbet pulled the scope away from her eyes, “It may not be our day,” she said. “We can try again tomorrow.”
The disappointment hit Jude like a punch. She’d planned this visit even before her last investigation. Wolves had fascinated her since she was a child, but she’d never seen one in real life, not even in a sanctuary. Her wolves always galloped across a TV screen on Animal Planet or National Geographic. Just once in her life she wanted with her own ears to hear the sound of a wolf howl, she wanted to breathe the same air, perhaps look into a wolf’s eyes.
She became aware of Lisbet packing her scope away, but couldn’t seem to move. A ball of sun emerged between two peaks twenty miles to the east, casting a pink glow on the mountains. And as if summoned by the light, they emerged from a stand of pine trees on the far side of the creek. Jude caught her breath. The wolves had come.
The leader had a thick pearl gray coat and a white muzzle that accentuated his almond-shaped eyes. Cautiously, he stepped out into the open, and one by one the others followed.
“Hello there,” whispered Lisbet, back at Jude’s side. “Meet the Stone Mountain Pack.”
Close behind the leader trotted another wolf, lighter in color, her tail capped with a distinct black tip. Her head was thrust forward and low to the ground. Two more came into view, one with a reddish coat, the other nearly all black. They were followed by a pair of identically patterned, charcoal gray wolves, smaller than the others. All were fixated on the elk who huddled close together and sent bursts of foggy, anxious breath into the chilled air. The energy between elk herd and wolf pack hummed.
“Are they going to try to take down an elk?” asked Jude.
“I think they’re just window shopping for now,” said Lisbet, moving closer to tell Jude their story. “The big guy in front is 945M. He’s the alpha male. We’re pretty sure he originally made the trek from Montana.”
Through her binoculars, Jude could see his rippling shoulder muscles, bits of snow on his whiskers, and his intense gold eyes … inquisitive, watchful. So close, she could imagine reaching out and stroking his fur. The light colored wolf came up to sidle against the alpha male, and Jude asked, “Is that the alpha female?”
“Yes, at least we hope so, which is why we call her Eetsa, which means ‘mother’ in the Nez Perce dialect. She replaced a beautiful female 944F that we collared the same time as this alpha male. But we lost her last spring. She was shot by a hunter.”
“I thought there was no hunting in Yellowstone,” said Jude, never taking her eyes off the pack.
“There isn’t. But the wolves don’t know boundary lines. Yellowstone extends into Montana in the north and Idaho to the west. If the elk or deer wander outside the park, the wolves follow. We know that hunters set up just outside the park’s borders and as soon as they spot a wolf on their side…”
The alpha male turned to make sure he had his pack together, his dominance displayed in his tail held high, his ears erect. Eetsa touched noses with him and then lay down. The two smaller wolves seemed to lose interest in the elk and began to play. One would nip at the other’s thick ruff, then sprint away, looking back to see that his brother was following. Then they’d reverse roles. They ran to the edge of the river and tumbled in a mock fight, sending up sprays of water. Whenever they separated, their tails wagged furiously.
“Those two are the juveniles,” Lisbet pointed out. “They’re part of 944F’s litter from last year.”
The rust-hued member of the pack bounded up to the pups, then lowered his head and gave them each a quick, subservient lick to the muzzle. One of the young ones snapped at him for interrupting their fun and he quickly retreated off to himself.
“Poor Mika,” said Lisbet tenderly. “They’re always picking on him.”
“Why?” asked Jude.
“He’s the omega of the pack, the lowest ranking member. Always the last to eat, and always at the bottom.”
“That’s sort of sad.”
“Sometimes I feel bad for him, but Mika is actually quite important to the family. He diffuses the tension when a fight is brewing and he’s the absolute best babysitter. The pups are from a bigger litter. Maggie – that’s the alpha female I was talking about – had five pups. But when she was killed, the pack kind of fell apart. No one was in charge of getting the babies food and three of them died. Then Mika, who’s Maggie’s brother, stepped up and helped feed them even though he was pretty distraught himself. He carried one of the dead babies around in his mouth, showing the others before he buried it. Wolves adore their pups and they were all heartbroken. We could hear them howling for days.”
Almost on command, the alpha male threw back his head and let loose a mournful howl. His feral cry swept through an octave of notes and echoed on all sides of the valley, coursing through Jude’s body like an electric charge. The others took up the chorus, sounding like an army of twenty or thirty wolves, not just the Stone Mountain six. An unearthly music, so wild and primitive, so utterly beautiful, it made Jude gasp.
Just as suddenly, they stopped. The pups went back to wrestling and jawing at one another, and the herd of elk began to move away, still in a tight group. A wisp of Jude’s long auburn hair blew in front of the binocular lenses, obscuring her vision, and she brushed it back impatiently. For someone who cared so deeply about animals and had waited so long, nothing could intrude on this moment, not even a single strand of hair. Every cell of her being was concentrated on the wolf family circling, playing, nuzzling. She pushed Lisbet’s sad tale of Maggie and her dead pups to the back of her mind. Jude wanted to revel in the wolves so full of life, right here, right now.
“Looks like they’re on the move,” noted Lisbet.
She was right. This time it was Eetsa who led the way back into the protective shadows of the pine trees. The juveniles, with Mika in tow, trotted obediently behind at a respectful distance. Finally, the alpha male – the Canis lupus who had no name, just a number, the majestic creature who carried the burden of keeping his family safe, fed, alive – took one last look at the valley and disappeared.
“So what do you think?” Lisbet asked.
Jude finall
y lowered her binoculars, her eyes brimming with tears. She didn’t respond, afraid her voice would crack with emotion. Lisbet smiled in understanding and they stood silent on the ridge, watching the sun continue its climb, the light shimmering through the frost that coated the sagebrush and cottonwoods.
A rattle of stones beneath the tires of a Land Rover drew their attention away from the valley. The jeep came bouncing up the dirt road and pulled over behind Lisbet’s vehicle. A young man bundled in a green bomber jacket and a National Park Service cap got out. “Sorry to interrupt” he said, heading over to the two women. “But we’ve got a situation you should know about.”
“What’s up?” asked Lisbet with a frown.
“Just outside the park, over the Idaho border in Stanton,” he said. “Some hunter found a Wildlife Services agent dead.”
“Who?”
“Craig Eberhardt.”
“Oh, God,” said Lisbet. “That’s terrible.”
“It’s worse than that,” said the young ranger. “He was killed.”
“What?”
“He was shot and then stuck in a leg hold trap.”
Lisbet exchanged worried glances with Jude before asking, “Do the police know anything?”
“I don’t have any details,” said the young man. “Only we heard that a couple of FBI agents from Boise are on their way.”
“That’s odd. Why wouldn’t the cops handle it?”
“There’s a rumor that Eberhardt was killed by animal activists,” he said, sneaking an apologetic glance at Jude. “Your office also called, ma’am. Someone named CJ? He says you’re to sit tight. Your boss is on his way.”
Chapter 3
Jude buried her cold fingers into the warm fur of Finn’s neck while the ninety pound dog sat contentedly at her feet, happy to be of service. They were usually inseparable, but Jude had left him at the park station so his mere scent wouldn’t scare away the wildlife.