by Robin Lamont
Taking back the conversation, Cash turned on the charm. “Hello, Judy Harris. My name’s Orin Cashman, but everybody calls me Cash.”
Jude consciously tried to soften the hostility in her gaze. You’re Judy Harris, she cautioned herself sharply, you’re a travel rep who helps people hunt animals. This is an opportunity. Do your job.
She extended her hand. “Howdy, Cash,” she said with as much friendliness as she could muster.
“You be careful of this boy,” warned Abby.
Cash clapped his hand over his heart as if wounded. “Me? This gal’s a nat’ral redhead and knows how to speak western. It’s me who needs the caution.”
“That’ll be the day,” huffed Abby. She leaned in to Jude with a conspiratorial whisper, “Cash works for the government.”
This time it was Jude who poured it on, pretending to be shocked. “The government? Are you a spy or a politician?”
“Which one would get me a date?” asked Cash, his eyes sparkling.
Abby looked disgusted. “I’m going back to work,” she said.
Roland Pike echoed her sentiment, telling Cash, “I’ll be outside.”
When they were out of earshot, Jude replied, “Neither. But I wouldn’t mind someone showing me around. Do you really work for the government?”
“Yeah.” He was still grinning. “Wildlife Services.”
Jude’s jaw muscles twitched in an effort to keep her face impassive. The information was coming too fast for her to digest. Wildlife Services? He works for the U.S. government? And he mowed down a collared wolf from an effin’ airplane!
“And what exactly do you do in Wildlife Services?” she asked.
“Predator control. You’re in wolf territory, ma’am.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned in flirtatiously. “Coyotes, bears, wildcats. We protect the good folks of Stanton from bloodthirsty beasts.”
“Mmm, in that case, I definitely need a guide,” said Jude coyly. She felt nauseous flirting back, but it wasn’t just the occasional meat and dairy she had to stomach to get information. “How about tomorrow?”
“Aw, gee. Tomorrow I gotta work,” he said. “Maybe this weekend?”
“Sure. Do you think your friend Roland Pike would take me up in his plane?”
“He’s workin’ tomorrow, too. He doubles as a hunting guide. Got a date with a couple of he-man hunters from Ohio,” he said, tingeing ‘Ohio’ with the same disdain that Mary had. “They gonna shoot themselves a big ole elk at The Mountain Elk Ranch.”
The name sounded familiar and Jude found it on her placemat. “Oh, sure. Here it is starred on the map. What is the Mountain Elk Ranch?”
“Private land hunt,” he replied and when she looked at him quizzically, added, “It’s owned by the Tripp family.”
“Any relation to the man who ran for state senator?”
“One and the same. John Tripp. He won by a landslide, too. He has the biggest sheep ranch in the area, but also operates ’bout ten thousand acres where they farm bull elk and bison. It’s like a theme park for limp-dick hunters … excuse the language. But that ain’t real hunting. These guys fly in with their brand new camouflage outfits and a check for ten grand. For that, they get a ride from the airport, snacks, and a guide who takes them to the right spot – usually because Pike’s already been in the air to get the elk coordinates – and then tells them what great tracking skills they’ve got. It’s a joke because the animals are raised from babies, they’ll eat right out of your hand. They’re not afraid of people.” As he spoke, he fidgeted constantly in his seat like a hyperactive five-year-old. “Don’t get me started on private ranch hunts.”
“I’ve heard of them,” said Jude truthfully. “And we have clients who might be interested. Is ten thousand really the going rate?”
“Depends on what you want to shoot. If you just want a cow, it’s two grand. But everybody wants to score on the big elk and that costs a lot more. We had a guy took down a monster bull last year, cost him thirteen-five. And that didn’t include field dressing, skinning, and shipping the whole freakin’ head and rack to Fort Lauderdale, or wherever the hell he lives.”
“Sounds like you don’t approve.”
“I don’t care for it, they’re as far from real hunters as you’re gonna get.” He shrugged. “But it’s a business.”
“I guess I’m on my own then,” said Jude, reaching for her wallet.
Cash fingered his mustache. “Well, I’m going to take you out, no doubt about that. But until I do, I wouldn’t be trekking around by my lonesome. A lot of strange goings on out there. Don’t know if you heard, but there was a man killed the other day.”
“Oh?” Jude hoped he couldn’t see her heart beating through her fleece vest.
“Damn good trapper, Craig Eberhardt. I learned most everything I know ’bout trapping from him. They haven’t caught whoever done it, but there’s a group of animal rights terrorists doing some illegal stuff around here and they’re real high on my list. They hate our way of life.”
“As in government employees?”
“As in trappers and hunters.” Putting a period on it, Cash rapped once on the table before getting up. “I’m serious. If you do go backpacking the hills up there, stick to the marked trails and watch out for ice.”
She looked up and said in her best western accent, “Well, thank you kindly, mister. I’ll see you around.”
He laughed. “Yes, you will.” Then he did tip an imaginary hat before strolling out the door.
A few minutes later, Jude paid her bill and followed in Cash’s footsteps. As she was leaving, she passed a gaunt man in his sixties coming into the café. He held the door and she murmured her thanks, but neither paid the other much mind.
* * *
Ben McIntyre walked in and sat at a table near the kitchen without removing his coat or winter cap. Abby spotted him and after delivering full plates to a nearby table, took the chair across from him.
“Hi, Mr. McIntyre. How’re you doin’ this evening?”
“Just fine, Abigail, just fine.”
“You want the usual? We have a really nice beef barley soup.” When he hesitated, she seemed to read his mind and added, “But maybe that’s a bit heavy. The other is potato leek. I haven’t tried it, but I was told they slaved all day in the kitchen over that pot.”
“Sounds unlikely. Nobody slaves over anything in the kitchen these days,” said Ben. “But I’ll take it.
“Sold,” Abby said emphatically. “You want a sandwich, too?”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t think so, I’m not that hungry.”
“I’m going to have Jimmy make you a turkey sandwich for later. In case you get hungry … later.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Ben gave her arm a gentle pat. “You’re a good girl, Abigail.”
She clasped his cold hand in hers. She wanted to say more, but couldn’t seem to come up with the words, so she gave him an encouraging smile and got up to put in the order.
Chapter 7
The vintage GMC truck seesawed from side to side as it rattled up the uneven dirt driveway. Ben McIntyre grasped the wheel in one hand, steadying his take-out container with the other. He pulled into his usual place, turned off the ignition, and sat for a moment to collect his strength. Not for the first time he considered throwing the pills away. They only made him feel sicker … and tired all the time. Or was that the cancer? The oncologist wasn’t sure about anything; it could be the medication, it could be the white blood cells, it could be this, it could be that, we’ll just have to wait and see. She was a nice lady who wanted him to stay hopeful. Ben didn’t have the heart to tell her it was too late for that.
He opened the truck door and it groaned in protest, reminding him that he ought to take some oil to the hinges … tomorrow morning when he was rested. He grabbed his supper, then picked h
is way over the frozen path to the house he and his brother had built nearly thirty-five years ago. It had started small, but Ben had added on something or other every few years so that now it was a bear to heat. First was the deck so he could look out over the pond, then an addition when the second child was born. Finally, he’d redone the kitchen for Joan. Tried to make it a surprise while she was visiting her cousin in California. But they were late delivering the counter tops, so that when he brought her back from the airport, the whole place was a disaster – a big hole where the sink ought to be, sawdust on the floor, and pots and pans spread out everywhere. Still, his wife’s eyes lit up like he’d handed her a diamond necklace. He didn’t use the kitchen much anymore.
The light over the front door threw its beam across the walk and over the covered woodpile nestled against the house. Somewhere down by the pond a coyote yipped and another one answered.
He was opening the door when he heard leaves rustle by the edge of the woodpile. Ben turned half expecting to see the swish of a coyote tail or a startled raccoon. But a figure appeared at the edge of the light. Apprehensive, but not frightened, Ben waited. A young man stepped into the full light. He had an entrenched stubble of beard and his wary eyes were drawn in an expression of perpetual opposition.
Ben stared, trying to fast forward the years so he could make sense of this moment. “Hello, Colin,” he finally said.
“Hello, Dad.”
* * *
As Jude came through the door of the Aspen Guesthouse, she heard the scrabble of canine nails on the wood floor, and Finn trotted happily around the corner to greet her. Behind him was Foster Dunne.
“Good evening,” he said. “How was your dinner?”
“Um, very nice, thanks,” Jude replied uneasily. “What is Finn doing down here?”
“I invited him,” replied Dunne amiably. “Heard him pacing up in the room and thought he could use a change of scenery.”
On the tip of Jude’s tongue was an irked, “What were you doing in my room?” But she’d just retrieved her laptop which she had left locked in the car, and other than that, there was nothing he could have found to give her away. She also remembered Mary’s admonition about his brain injury and decided to let it go for the present.
“Would you like some herbal tea?” he asked.
“You’re kind, but I should turn in.”
“Come on to the kitchen,” Dunne pressed. “I’ve got a kettle on.” He went back the way he had come, and Finn followed as though he had found his new best friend.
Jude rolled her eyes and trailed after them.
The professor was pouring steaming water into a large mug and began dunking a tea bag. “Chamomile or Lemon Ginger?” he asked.
Jude relented. “Lemon Ginger is fine.”
Finn thumped his tail against the lower cabinets hard enough to rattle the kettle on the stove. “This is a good dog,” said Dunne, bending down to take Finn’s head in his hands. “He’s been through a lot.”
“Yes, he has, as a matter of fact.” Jude was taken aback. “How do you know?”
“He told me.”
“He did, did he?”
“Didn’t tell me how he came by that limp, though.”
“He broke his leg when he was a pup,” said Jude.
She was glad that Dunne didn’t quiz her on the details because she didn’t want to have to invent a story; it was always best when maintaining a cover to stick as close to the truth as possible. Jude had rescued Finn during an investigation into a puppy mill. He was only a few weeks old and nearly dead when she found him, suffering from hypothermia and a broken leg. The property owner had dumped the sick and lame puppies – dogs he couldn’t sell – in a metal cage, to be disposed of when he got around to it. Jude contacted the local sheriff and the ASPCA, and while they were tending to the breeding females in the squalid sheds, she found the cage out back. Some of the puppies were already dead. But the tiny black and brown mixed breed struggled to reach her. Jude picked him up and warmed him underneath her coat, next to her heart – a place he continued to occupy.
Dunne handed Jude her tea and motioned for her to sit at the table. Above them the floorboards creaked each time one of the infamous “hunters from Ohio” walked across the room.
“Stanton seems like a lively town,” commented Jude, blowing on her tea to cool it. As long as she was here, she might as well dig a little. “Certainly if you go by the placemat at the café.”
Dunne chuckled, “I think their tableware might be overstating it.”
“You have a state senator from Stanton I hear.”
Silence.
“And, well … someone at the café told me that there was a murder recently. That’s got to be big news.”
“Seems so.” Foster took off his glasses and peered through them at the overhead light looking for smudges.
“It sounds as though he was a popular guy,” said Jude, probing a little more.
Foster put his hands on the table and used them to push himself into a standing position. “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear,” he said dully. He brought his cup over to the sink, poured out its contents, and walked out of the kitchen.
For a moment Jude stayed where she was, trying to regain her equilibrium after his abrupt exit. Then she got up and did the same.
Back in her room, Jude double-checked to make sure nothing had been disturbed. It didn’t appear so. Maybe Foster Dunne was just lonely and needed Finn’s company. Nevertheless, when she got on the phone with CJ, she spoke in hushed tones.
“I got the impression that I’d hit a nerve when I said that Craig Eberhardt was popular,” Jude informed CJ. “But he’s had some kind of brain injury, so I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Well, in all actuality, my dear girl, your host may not be totally off his rocker.”
“What do you mean?” Jude pulled the comforter closer around her shoulders. She had changed into thick acrylic socks, sweatpants, and a long-sleeved Washington Wizards jersey to fend off the chill in the room; the guesthouse wasn’t going bankrupt from heating bills, that was for sure.
“I just sent you a link.”
Jude opened her laptop, went into her mail, and clicked on the link. It directed her to a Facebook page, the profile picture displaying a white wolf hanging by a back leg, blood smeared along the side of his head. The page belonged to “Thrill-to-Kill.”
“What is this?” asked Jude in disgust.
“It’s a page managed by Craig Eberhardt.”
“How in the world did you find it?” Jude asked in awe. “And how did you get access to the page?”
“Ve hef our vays.”
Scrolling down the page, she saw similar images: coyotes caught in foothold traps, hunters proudly lifting the heads of animals they’d shot–a veritable parade of killings. Each photo was more repellent than the last. Below one of them, a man stated, Felt good to bring that sum bitch down. Thrill-to-Kill concurred, Yeah, hope to see a lot more! Others had equally hostile observations. Big dog down, keep up the good work; Like to put a bullet in some pregnant bitch and kill the whole pack!
CJ said, “You know, last year before wolf season began, the state counted 659 wolves. Then they killed over seventy percent of them during hunting and trapping season. There’s probably been some new pups born, but since this year’s season began, the count is already 75 wolves killed.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Are they trying to wipe out the entire species?”
“Go down to a picture of several wolves dumped in the back of a pick-up.”
Jude followed his instructions and soon found the photo with the caption, Half a pack, whacked and stacked.
“Mr. Kill gets some real pushback here. Check it out.”
A person named Shawn had written, You wolf haters are sick bastards. Eberhardt responded, Shawn, you�
��re a liberal, tree-hugging pussy. Then followed a childish exchange about who was more ignorant. Other posts and gruesome photographs of dead and maimed wolves spurred equally vile antagonism. Facebook fist fights. Eberhardt and allies lashed out at anyone who found fault with hunting, vowing to kill every wolf they could find. Some even claimed to ignore quotas and hunting regulations in their quest to get rid of them all. This drew bitter responses from a number of people. A person named Kylie H. threatened to shoot anyone who tried to kill a wolf on her property. Another, Tom Ryan, posted that he wouldn’t mind gutting every hunter in Idaho. And then one that read, I find out who you are Thrill to Kill and I’ll skin you and mount your head on my wall.
“So I’m looking at this stuff,” CJ was saying, “and I’m thinking it could just be the ravings of your basic social media lunatics, but I’m going to see if I can track down some of these folks. Maybe we’ll find one in Eberhardt’s back yard. Just maybe one who found out Thrill-to-Kill’s identity and made good on a promise.”
“You think the cops have seen this?” asked Jude.
“I doubt it. They might have my computer skills, but they don’t have the imagination. Who would expect a Wildlife Services agent to have a public Facebook page like this?”
“Speaking of, tonight I met the guy who shot the collared wolf. He works for Wildlife Services. Fancies himself some kind of cowboy. He actually had the nerve to come on to me.”
CJ grunted. “Does the name John Tripp mean anything to you?”
“Sure. He owns the big sheep ranch here and he just won a seat in the Idaho legislature. Why?”
“The FAA registration on that plane goes to John Tripp in Stanton.”
“The same person?”
“Him or a son, or father, I suppose.”
“What is he doing letting Wildlife Services use his plane? I thought it was illegal to hunt from a plane.”
“Well, apparently that doesn’t apply to Wildlife Services.”
“Is that true? They don’t have to follow state regulations?”
“It’s not entirely clear. Their policy directives say that they do have to comply unless it ‘conflicts with their statutory authority.’ Sounds like double-speak to me. Everyone I’ve talked to says it’s very hard to get information out of Wildlife Services. There are a couple of senators who have been trying for years, but haven’t had any luck.”