by Robin Lamont
Sal never looked up.
“They’re going around asking about sprung traps. I told ’em some asshole messed with a couple of mine and Walt Beale got hit for even more, all busted up with a sledge hammer. He’s spittin’ nails. I asked the ‘feebies’ if they’re after Craig Eberhardt’s killer. Oh, they like to play it cagey, like they’re in the movies, so they didn’t say nothin’. Must think I’m dumb as stone. But make no mistake, they’re looking for who killed Eberhardt. Freakin’ eco-terrorists is who. Animal activist scum. Sick fuckers, the way they killed him. I don’t go anywhere without my shotgun. One of them comes near me and he’s looking at– ”
“Alright, you’re done,” broke in Sal. “You’ve met your quota, though. No more wolves.”
“Ah, Jeez,” he whined. “You siding with the tree huggers now? Wolves are evil. If we don’t kill ’em, they’re gonna kill us.”
Sal gave a weary sigh, having heard it before. Squaring up to him, she said sternly, “It’s my job, trapper. No tags, no wolves.”
“Shoot,” he said, turning away. “Just like a woman to ruin my fun.”
With a barely disguised glare, Sal stripped off her gloves and pulled a notebook from her back pocket. “Put him on the scale and let’s get him weighed. Then you can go.” She went over to wash up in the outdoor sink. The ice cold water made her chapped hands worse, but the predators she had just inspected, long since dead, were host to massive bacteria and gloves weren’t enough to protect her.
Jude took the opportunity to engage the trapper. “I heard about the man who was killed,” she said. “That’s horrible. Do they know who did it?”
“Oh, they got their ideas, alright,” he assured her. “Wouldn’t tell me his name, but they showed me a picture of the guy they’re looking for. Young man, but old enough to know better, dark hair tied back in a ponytail like a damn hippie.”
Jude stood planted, trying to rein in her emotions. This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to come to Stanton in the first place. It sounded like Colin. She suspected it might be after she’d seen how close Stanton was to his childhood home in Saint Claire. Of course she’d thought about him … a hundred times. But the memories had been worn threadbare over the years. Now, the trapper’s general description matching Colin brought them all back with a piercing clarity.
She was in her final year at the university and had stood at the fringe of some student protests to stop the school’s testing on animals. At one of them, a tall, lean young man approached her and asked if she cared about animals and if she knew what was happening to them in the labs. When Jude nodded, he thrust a protest sign into her hand and said, “Then if you don’t speak out, you’re complicit.” He pulled her into the center of the rally where she was welcomed. Jude had known what it was to be marginalized, treated as a something rather than a someone, and she quickly fell in with the small group of animal activists living near the university. There, in a run-down section of the city, she finally found a home, part of a band of comrades who shared the same passion to speak up for the voiceless. They protested and chanted, handed out leaflets, got handcuffed and dragged to jail, then released, only to do it again. Living off the grid, they were a zealous troupe of fighters, sleeping on couches in the basement, cooking vegan meals, vigilantly composting, talking late into the night about the best ways to expose animal cruelty.
There, too, she fell in love. Colin McIntyre was a grad student drop-out, not much older than Jude. Their number was loosely organized, but all of them looked to him as the leader, and she was captivated by his intensity. At the time, she was uncomfortable with some of risks they took, but she stayed for him. Colin became collaborator, lover, and her best friend. Jude couldn’t imagine being anywhere else or with anyone else.
But soon, the edges of the tight knit group began to fray. One of the members tiring of the transitory life, accepted his parents’ offer to pay for grad school. And then someone leaked plans for their sit-in at the university lab. Distrust seeped into the structure of the group like water permeating a wood foundation, rotting the framework. That last summer, Gordon appeared on the scene. He was ten years older, smart, strong-willed … and he was making waves in the animal rights movement, releasing undercover videos of cruel practices inside factory farms and at circuses and rodeos. Gordon didn’t engage in direct action. Instead, he fought for animals with attorneys and press releases. It was lawful, stable, and there was a job open for her if she wanted it.
The decision was excruciating, but Jude finally traded in a piece of her heart for the stability she’d never known. One night while the others were asleep, she threw her few belongings into a duffel and left, leaving just a note on the back of a crumpled anti-testing flyer.
She hadn’t wanted to come to Stanton, fearful that she might see Colin after all this time, fearful that she wouldn’t.
“The FBI is right, that trapper is dumber than stone,” said Sal, interrupting Jude’s train of thought. “‘Just like a woman to ruin my fun’” she mimicked. “But not everybody in Stanton is like that. Just so you know.” The trapper was gone and they began to walk back to her office.
“How much is a wolf tag?” asked Jude.
“Eleven-fifty. But that’s if you’re a resident. For your tour group you’d be paying the nonresident fee, and that’s thirty-one dollars.”
Jude swallowed her horror at the notion that one could kill such a magnificent animal for the price of a party pack of Budweiser. “Thanks, you’ve been really helpful. One last thing,” she said as if she had just remembered. “I saw a program about biologists who put special tracking collars on wolves? Are those animals off limits?”
Sal began to strip off her overalls. “We discourage it,” she said. “Radio collars are to keep tabs on them in the hope we can avoid conflict, but we can’t stop folks from hunting them. Just have to return the collar.”
“That goes for everybody?”
“Of course. The equipment is expensive. But it doesn’t happen often. We had a few last year, but this year none so far.”
None so far. That meant that Cash hadn’t reported killing the wolf to the state authorities. This disregard for the regulations made Jude angry all over again. For her, the whole hunting and trapping culture was grotesque, but at least a misogynist, misguided trapper like Curt came in to get his “take” tagged and accounted for. As she stepped quickly back through Fielding’s, away from the wolf carcasses and the smell that seemed to have attached itself to her clothes, away from the traps and the realities of a world where for many, killing animals amounted to a day’s entertainment, Jude decided that she was going to find out if there were any rules constraining Wildlife Services.
Chapter 9
Jude’s new task made it all the more imperative to find the ALF cell in town – if, in fact, there was such a group. Whoever was sabotaging traps would likely know a great deal about how Wildlife Services operated.
Stanton was nothing like the urban streets of her early protesting days, so she didn’t expect to find a vegan restaurant where animal advocates might congregate. But using her EO Travel story to study menus, Jude canvassed the main street, searching for a place that might at least offer soy milk or a veggie burger. No such luck. But in the window of a craft shop, she spotted a flyer promoting an upcoming debate between John Tripp and Margaret Cunningham, a representative from his district. The issue was Stanton’s Wolf and Coyote Derby. Jude had seen posters in town heralding the two-day shooting event, which offered trophies and a $1000 cash prize to whoever killed the largest wolf (length and weight) or the most coyotes. Children were encouraged to participate with “youth prizes” in the 10-14 age group. The flyer had been put out by Cunningham’s camp and her position against the derby was clear. In this hotbed of hunting and trapping, an animal-friendly position was a place to start, and Jude asked the shop owner if she knew who was distributing Cunningham’s material.
The owner pointed down the block.
It was nearly four o’clock when Jude pushed through the door of a small bookstore called Eat, Sleep, Read. Their marketing plan looked simple: cram as many books into as small a space as possible along with a few comfortable chairs … and keep a pot of coffee on hand. The aroma of a strong Italian roast led Jude to the back of the shop.
A young man came out through a beaded curtain carrying a tray of clean cups. His head was shaved and he had a nasty bruise under his left eye. But what caught her attention was his tattoo – a series of paw prints that ran from the back of his right hand up his arm and disappeared beneath his rolled up sleeve. She decided this was a place to linger.
“I’ll have a black coffee, de-caf, please,” she said. “Very cool place you have here.”
He poured her a cup from a glass pot on a hotplate. “It’s alright.”
On the counter was a stack of Margaret Cunningham’s flyers. “This looks interesting,” said Jude, picking one up.
“Yeah, well, she’s the only politician making any sense about the wolf issue.”
“What is a Wolf Derby?”
“It’s a contest to see how many wolves and coyotes you can kill – our town’s equivalent of a county fair, only instead of rides and cotton candy, you get guns and blood.”
Jude made a face and asked innocently, “Do you think wolves should go back on the endangered species list?”
“Of course.” He took the opportunity to lecture. “The federal government is totally abdicating its responsibility to protect wolves and other wild species by letting states like Idaho do their own wildlife management. When your own state wildlife agency is funded by hunting fees, you think there will be any wolves left?”
He seemed ready to launch into further explanation when a woman came out from the back. “Oliver, I have to go into Saint Claire to–” She stopped midsentence when she saw Jude.
Recovering quickly, she turned her back, busying herself with housekeeping behind the counter. But she’d recognized Jude and vice versa. The same petite frame and straight back, the same forward thrust of her jaw. Her light brown hair was now cropped and she was a good deal older, but it was Laurel, of that Jude had no doubt. Was she the connection?
Jude pretended to browse for books until Oliver went into the back. She brought her now empty cup to the counter where Laurel was still tidying up and decided to test the waters rather than confront her directly.
“Great coffee,” said Jude, “Hard to get good de-caf.”
Laurel had recovered and looked Jude square in the eye. “Glad you liked it,” she said with a quick, wary smile.
“I was just talking to Oliver about Margaret Cunningham.”
“Yeah, should be interesting. Excuse me, I have to check something in the back.” She disappeared through the beaded curtain.
Ten years sat well on Laurel Altman, thought Jude. Her teenage cheeks had filled out and she’d lost that hungry, count-me-in-whatever-you’re-doing look. Of course, when they’d been activists together, Laurel was only seventeen. The last Jude had seen of her, she was being physically removed from the lobby of a university lab by two officers. Jude later heard that the teenager had become active in the ALF. She couldn’t know for certain where Laurel’s sympathies now lay, but she guessed from the girl’s unwillingness to speak openly that she might still be involved.
Jude gave it a minute then poked her head through the curtain. Laurel was gone and there was no sign of Oliver. Dammit. There was only way she could have left. Jude trotted out to the sidewalk and down a narrow alley behind the bookstore.
Calling out Laurel’s name softly, she walked tentatively to the back door of the neighboring shop, thinking Laurel might have gone in there. Jude had her hand on the doorknob when out of nowhere, she was shoved against the brick wall and her arm wrenched behind her back. Jude resisted, but her assailant increased the pressure.
“What are you doing here?” hissed Laurel in her ear.
“Christ, that hurts,” gasped Jude.
“What are you doing here?” Laurel repeated.
“Would you … Laurel, just let me go so we can talk, okay?”
Slowly, Laurel released her and stepped away. Jude wheeled around. “What the hell was that about?” she asked.
The girl’s mouth was set in an unforgiving line and she breathed heavily through her nose, waiting for an explanation.
“I’d like to help if I can,” said Jude.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?” Jude rubbed her strained shoulder. “Pretty funny way of showing it.”
Laurel glowered back.
“Look, I know about the traps,” said Jude. “Everybody knows what you’ve been doing, including the FBI. I want to meet with whoever is running the operation.” After a pause, she took a chance and asked, “It’s Colin, isn’t it?”
“Get the fuck out of here,” said Laurel, lashing out.
Bingo.
“Listen to me, you folks are in trouble,” Jude retorted impatiently. “You’ve been destroying government property and now they suspect you of murdering a government agent.”
“We had nothing to do with that,” Laurel blurted out, immediately regretting that she’d done so.
“Personally, I don’t think you did, either. But I’ve got news for you – the FBI does, and two of them are already here in Stanton looking for Colin.”
“Go away, we don’t need you.”
But Jude had seen a flash of alarm in Laurel’s eyes, and she pressed, “I want to meet him face to face. I think we can help.”
Laurel scoffed, “You and Gordon Silverman? Help us? That’ll be the fucking day.”
But Jude had made the contact. “I’m staying at the Aspen Guesthouse, but don’t send word there. I’ll come back to the bookstore.” She brushed past Laurel and retreated up the alleyway, certain that despite Laurel’s parting shot, she would go to Colin and he would make the decision. Jude hurried along the street, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder. A seed of doubt had begun to sprout, and it grew quickly, its vines choking her self-confidence. Oh Jesus, she thought, what am I doing? I have just warned Laurel and Colin and whoever else about the FBI. I just crossed a line. Her mouth went dry. Could that make me an accessory? I don’t think they killed Eberhardt, but … but what if one of them did? What if it was Colin? Maybe he’d changed. Prison can do things to people. The next thought came crashing through her jitters, even more unnerving. What if he doesn’t want to see me?
Chapter 10
Silky layers of gold and orange streaked the horizon, as if an unseen hand had rolled out cosmic bolts of shimmering fabric. Oddly, its light gave the snow a lavender tinge. But as the sun fell, the colors faded. A young coyote trotted along a post and barbed wire fence, his nose to the ground tracking a mouse. His ears were almost too big for his head, like an awkward teenaged boy, and one of them was nicked from a rowdy play-fight with his brother. At eight months old, he was just shy of leaving his mother’s side to make a life of his own, but his surging independence took him farther and farther from the safety of the pack every day. Too far today. The scent of the mouse and the vibration of his tiny mouse feet scurrying under the snow were tantalizing.
Then another smell stopped the coyote in his tracks. This one even more appealing. Sweet with decay, it promised a satisfying meal. His hunger drove him forward and he hopped over a black cottonwood tree that had fallen and taken the fence with it. He opened his nostrils to drink in the robust new scent in the prairie grass. The prey was not running – it was there for the taking.
Suddenly, his paw touched a hard object and heavy jaws slammed into his leg like the vicious bite of a larger predator. The coyote yelped in pain and he tried to flee. But he was jerked back by a chain affixed to the trap. The motion dug the steel teeth into his lower l
eg even deeper, but he tried again, and again was tripped up and yanked backwards. He had never encountered this. What was this thing that kept him from running, that kept him from escaping the pain? It hurt so much. Fear rose up in his throat; he made a sound that started as a bark, then careened into a screeching howl. My pack, my pack! Come find me. I want to come to you, but I cannot.
He howled again, throwing his head back and erupting with the cry that was to sail over the tree tops and across the streams to the far away place where his pack gathered. He waited for the return call, but none came. Only the sound of the wind whispering across ice ponds.
The young one panicked. He bucked. He lurched from side to side, trying to shake the bad thing from his leg. He bit down on the metal, but it wouldn’t let go. As the darkness descended, he fought the trap and the pain until he had no more fight left.
Chapter 11
“Stop the killing!” cried the woman. “Real people wear fake fur!” She was camped out in front of a clothing store across from the Tripp Creek Café, handing out flyers to anyone who would take them. Most would not. A man burst angrily from the store, and Jude could hear them from where she stood.
“Move on, Harrington,” he told her. They obviously knew each other. “Nobody gives a rat’s ass about you and your fur.”
Clutching the stack of leaflets to her chest, she turned her back dismissively and held one out to a woman passing by. “Don’t buy fur. Cruelty is not a fashion statement,” she urged. The woman took the piece of paper, but shoved it unread into her pocketbook as she walked on.
“Not in front of my store,” insisted the owner, taking Harrington by the elbow. “Come on, get outta here.”
She wrenched her arm from his grasp and marched across the street in Jude’s direction. She was a large-boned woman with long braided hair and high Slavic cheekbones; immediately she spotted Jude as a potential target. “Please don’t buy fur. Animals need their skin,” she announced, thrusting out a flyer.