by Robin Lamont
Jude glanced at it quickly, half expecting to see a scrawled note from Colin, but saw only a computer-generated handout featuring a photograph of a wild fox juxtaposed with a picture of pelts at an auction. An older couple tried to pass by on the sidewalk unnoticed, drawing Harrington’s attention. Jude took that moment to duck into the Tripp Creek Café. She couldn’t afford to be seen with an anti-cruelty protester, much as she was tempted to offer a gesture of solidarity.
The breakfast crowd had cleared out, giving Jude an opportunity to linger over coffee at a corner table. She missed Finn snoozing at her feet, but the Wi-Fi connection at the guesthouse was decent only on the main floor where Foster Dunne kept showing up at inopportune moments. Jude had resigned herself to keeping her laptop with her at all times, especially knowing Dunne had been in her room. She ordered coffee and a bagel and booted up. Who or what was Wildlife Services?
Right away a red flag went up. Wildlife Services was a program of the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Animal and Plant Health Inspection Services (APHIS).
Jude had some experience with APHIS, an agency charged with establishing standards for the care and treatment of certain animals bred for and used in medical and product research. The standards weren’t high and enforcement was sporadic at best; animal protection groups were forever hammering away at the agency to do its job. She was puzzled. What did the APHIS have to do with Wildlife Services? Wolves weren’t used in laboratory research. The public face of Wildlife Services on the web didn’t offer much of an explanation. They claimed to focus on dispersing bird populations at airports to prevent airplane strikes. Jude had to dig deep into the site to find any information about wolves. Even then, the brief text stated only that they worked with state agencies to investigate livestock depredation and to engage in the “direct removal of depredating wolves to resolve conflicts.” Infuriatingly vague and benign language.
She turned her attention to John Tripp, who owned one of the largest sheep ranches in Idaho with a herd of 20,000 rams and ewes. He was a fourth generation sheep rancher and held leadership positions in several livestock industry groups: Idaho Sheep Ranchers, National Lamb Feeders, U.S. Wool Growers, and Rangeland Resource Commission. Jude had to wonder with all these duties and running a ranch, how he had time to serve in the state senate.
She came upon an interview in an Idaho news magazine that offered some insight into why his private plane might have been used to gun down a gray wolf. He was quoted as saying:
I lost 85 sheep last year to predators. We have to get rid of these wolves. And I mean kill ’em. There should be an open season on wolf hunting, just like we have for coyotes. And we have to be allowed to use any weapon at our disposal, including ATV’s, night scopes, aerial hunting, and live bait. Folks around here understand this. Without active management, these wolves will eat the sheep farmer out of operation. We need simple, common sense laws, not more government constraints and regulations.
Question: The government has removed gray wolves from the endangered species list here in Idaho, haven’t they?
Yes, it’s about time the federal government understood what we’re going through. They made a big mistake in the first place. They didn’t listen to us, they bowed to the liberals and the environmentalists. Now maybe they understand the ramifications of what they’ve done. Wolves are multiplying like vermin and they’re running rampant, killing our livestock.
Question: Aren’t there ways to protect livestock without eradicating all the wolves?
Not unless you want to pay double for your beef, lamb, and wool. But it’s more than that. You’ve got to understand – wolves kill for fun. They slaughter the sheep and don’t even eat them. The people promoting non-lethal options don’t get this business. These environmental activists from Yale or Harvard are clueless about how to run a ranch. What they promote as non-lethal methods cost more than the loss of sheep. And here we let our sheep out on the range. It’s a beautiful thing and lets the animals do what nature intended. My lamb is as organic as you’re going to get.
From the corner of her eye, Jude saw the check appear on the table. But so engrossed in the article, she didn’t look up. A minute later, taking the hint, she closed her laptop, dug for her wallet, and picked up the slip of paper to see how much she owed. Below the circled total, it read: 3pm Albertsons. Jude quickly scanned the cafe, but the waitress was nowhere in sight. Her rational mind told her that it could be some note the waitress jotted to herself, it could be someone else’s check, it could be any kind of accidental notation. But she knew it wasn’t. Her racing heart told her it was a message – Colin would see her.
* * *
Jude pushed her cart down the cereal aisle and tossed in a box of Cheerios, adding it to the few items that would make her look like a legitimate shopper. This was her second trip down the same row and she was beginning to wonder if she’d interpreted the message correctly; it was already 3:20 and she hadn’t seen any sign of Colin or Laurel. It had to be the place, though. This outlet of Albertson’s chain of grocery stores had shoppers going through all day long and would be a good neutral ground to make contact. She turned the corner and nearly ran into Laurel standing on tiptoes reaching for something on the top shelf.
Without making eye contact, Jude steered her cart around her and meandered a few feet down the aisle, intent on finding just the right bag of flour. She was examining one product when she heard Laurel’s hushed voice behind her. “Go outside and look for a brown Taurus wagon with a dent in the rear fender.”
Jude hesitated, a hundred questions playing on her lips, but a woman with two small children in tow was striding toward them, perhaps trying to escape one of her whining toddlers.
Laurel said with hushed urgency, “Go now. Leave everything here.” And without a hitch, she took over Jude’s shopping cart and walked away.
As instructed, Jude left through the automatic doors and looked over the parking lot. A puff of exhaust came from one of the cars in the last lane to her right – a mud brown Taurus with a badly dented bumper. She went up to the passenger side and knocked on the lightly tinted window. The door opened and she got in.
The first thing she noticed was the paw print tattoo on the driver’s arm. “Hullo, Oliver,” she said.
This, however, was an entirely different young man than the one she’d met at the bookstore. That one seemed distant, but at least cordial – this one barely looked at her. His wore a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and a sulky expression.
“I appreciate this,” said Jude, trying to break the ice.
He said nothing and gave away nothing with either a look or gesture until they had driven about a mile and turned onto a side road. Then he reached into his pocket and tossed her a black bandana.
“Tie this over your eyes,” he said flatly.
“Aw, come on, Oliver,” Jude pleaded. “We’re on the same side.”
“Put it on.”
She thought he was overplaying the security, but understood where he was coming from. The Animal Liberation Front was perceived as an extremist group, trademarked by a black-hooded figure and scrawled graffiti. And although it had no centrally coordinated operation, federal officials labeled groups of activists as “cells” to bolster the perception that they were organized terrorists on the scale of Al Qaida. Indeed, despite the fact that no one had ever been killed or even hurt in any ALF operation, the FBI called them the “top domestic terrorist threat,” leaving white supremacists and anti-government reactionaries with their arsenal of weapons and portfolio of deadly crimes further down the list. Whether or not law enforcement really believed the ALF to be a threat was irrelevant. The business sector lobbies were powerful – particularly in agriculture and pharmaceuticals. They had pushed through the Animal Enterprise Terrorism Act, which was driving law enforcement’s heavy-handed response to proponents of animal rights.
Jude saw that there was no ne
gotiating with Oliver, and she started to wonder if his paranoia was justified. If he needed to keep Colin’s location secret, even to her, then maybe Colin had a lot to lose should the wrong people find out where he was. Doubt about his innocence clenched her stomach as she tied the bandana over her eyes.
“Laurel told you who I am, right?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
“How far is it?”
Oliver didn’t answer that either, leaving Jude to ride the rest of the way in silence. After a few miles, she gave up trying to remember the turns. The farther they went, the rougher the road, and by the end it was all she could do to hang on and keep from hitting her head on the roof when they hit big potholes.
Some time later, the car came to a halt. Oliver got out, and Jude heard his footsteps retreat, crunching over dried leaves. She waited a moment, then removed her blindfold. They were deep in the woods at the end of a poorly maintained dirt road. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the wan light of dusk, but she made out a plain log cabin about a hundred feet away. She got out of the car and walked tentatively closer. As she neared, the door opened and Colin stood framed in the doorway.
She willed her feet to keep moving, her mouth to say something, but they refused to obey. She stood frozen while an unseen hawk’s screech pierced the immeasurable space between them.
Colin made the first move, casually trotting down the two step landing and giving her a cursory embrace. “Your hair got so long,” he said, pulling away and looking at her. “I like it.”
She had prepared herself for how awkward this moment would be, how nervous she might feel at seeing him, how remorseful, how lonely. But now, matching his crooked smile and meeting his gaze under the furrowed brow she knew so well came as naturally to her as breathing. She reached out and touched his stubbled cheek. “You look good,” she said.
They grinned at one another like shy teenagers.
“You still with Gordon?” he asked.
“With The Kinship, yeah. But not like with … Gordon. No, not that way.”
He gave her a look that she couldn’t decipher, then asked, “How is that old fart?”
Jude laughed. “He’s fine. He sends his regards.”
“Bullshit,” guffawed Colin. They both knew it wasn’t true. “Come on in. We’ll talk. Uh … sorry, though. Mind if we check for a recording device?”
All at once the good feeling Jude had at seeing him vanished. But she lifted her arms and let him respectfully pat her down, looking for a telltale wire or microphone. She reminded herself that this was a business meeting.
* * *
Logs sizzled and popped in the fireplace as Jude poked at them from her cross-legged seat on the floor. Colin was heating some black bean soup on a Coleman stove. There was an undercurrent of strain in the room, not the least of which came from Oliver. He lounged indifferently on the sofa, one leg thrown over the armrest and a beer in hand, but resentment radiated like heat from his body.
Jude had had enough of his silent temper tantrum. “I’m not your enemy, Oliver,” she said.
“You’re not my friend, either,” he retorted.
“You think I’m going to rat you out to the FBI?”
“If I thought that, I wouldn’t have brought you here.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“I don’t trust you.”
Colin ambled between them and handed Jude a beer. “Oliver doesn’t trust anybody,” he said, taking a swig from his own.
“Well, what the fuck is she doing here the exact same time as the feds?” asked Oliver petulantly.
“Bro, chill,” said Colin. He took a seat on the other side of the fireplace, leaning his back against the wall and stretching out his legs. He smiled at Jude, but his eyes bored into hers. “So what gives? The timing is a little odd, yeah?”
Jude had to tread carefully. She explained about being at Yellowstone and Gordon’s sudden arrival upon hearing about Craig Eberhardt. “A contact in Boise told him that because of the trap interference, the FBI was getting on board.”
Colin looked bemused. “The FBI thinks we killed that lunatic?”
“Apparently.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Wow, they are some radical ideologues. What happened to a regular homicide investigation? By real cops?”
“Why do that when you can pin it on the ALF?” added Oliver, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Eberhardt was a major a-hole. There’s probably a dozen people who would’ve liked to take him out.”
“Like who?” Jude pressed.
Oliver backed off. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask around?”
“I can’t. Not directly, anyway. I’m here as a travel representative named Judy Harris.”
“So Gordon sent you … to do what?” asked Colin.
“Find out who’s interfering with the traps and if there’s a connection to the murder.”
“And what is Gordon’s interest?”
Jude looked down, scratching at the label on the beer bottle. “He’s testifying at a hearing on the AETA and wants to be proactive about any bad publicity for the animal movement.”
“Screw Gordon Silverman and his friggin’ publicity,” exclaimed Oliver.
Affronted, Jude looked up. “And what’s wrong with publicity?” she challenged. “Maybe you guys ought to think about your image a little more.”
Oliver waved her off derisively. “Double fuck image! We’re trying to save animals, not get ourselves on Oprah.”
The sounds of a motorcycle outside halted the confrontation. Jude glanced at Colin, but he appeared unruffled by the cycle’s arrival. A moment later, Laurel came through the door, holding a sack of groceries. She looked at Colin and then at Jude, her body language speaking volumes about her feelings for the trio’s leader. The tension in the cabin immediately ratcheted up a few degrees and Colin stepped in.
“Can I have a word outside with you two?” he asked, nodding to Oliver and Laurel. Peeling himself from the sofa, Oliver complied. Laurel did as well, but not before setting down the grocery bag with more force than seemed necessary.
It felt a very long two minutes to wait out the hushed argument that took place in the driveway, but Jude knew they were being careful. Oliver didn’t know her at all, and Laurel was just a youngster when they’d been activists together. Only Colin knew her – she hoped well enough to know that despite their differences she would never betray him. And he must have said something along those lines because when they returned, Laurel and Oliver seemed somewhat chastened.
Colin got everyone up and working on putting dinner together, and soon after, the four sat around the hand-hewn coffee table, savoring black bean soup and fresh bread, and drinking red wine out of chipped mugs. Full stomachs and wine seemed to lighten the mood, and for awhile Jude was lulled into the comfortable fellowship of old times.
“How long have you been here?” Jude asked Colin.
“Few weeks, maybe.”
“Here, in this cabin?”
“No, I was hanging with Oliver for a while, but decided to get my own place for a bit. This is my dad’s hunting cabin. Ironic, right?”
Laurel got up from the sofa to pour herself more wine, and Oliver took the opportunity to point out that she had dog hair on the seat of her pants. She calmly brushed some of it off, saying, “Black pants, white dog, what can you do?”
“What white dog?” asked Colin.
“Your father’s dog,” Laurel replied, surprised that he didn’t know. “Her name’s Oona. She goes everywhere with him.”
“Hunh, I saw him the other day, but I didn’t see any dog.” Colin looked into the smoldering fire. “We always had one, as far back as I remember. Sometimes more than one. My father used to hunt with them, which I hated. But he was very attached to them…”
The conversation w
ent from dogs to wolves, and Jude described the aerial gunning she had witnessed. “I keep thinking I should have done something,” she finished. “Scared her off or run out in the field and kept them from shooting her.”
“And you’re sure it was Tripp’s plane?” Colin wanted to know.
“According to the registration. I was reading about him this morning. He claims that he lost 85 sheep to wolves, so I guess he’d want Wildlife Services to come in and help manage that situation. But the hypocrisy is stunning. In the interview I read, he goes all conservative and complains bitterly about government regulations and interference in peoples’ lives, but he’s sure happy about a U.S. agency killing wolves to protect his business interests.”
“That doesn’t begin to cover the hypocrisy,” said Colin. “First of all, the ranchers get reimbursed by the federal government for confirmed wolf attacks that result in the death of a sheep or cow. And guess who’s charged with confirming whether or not a predator is responsible? Wildlife Services. Second, John Tripp and all the other ranchers are grazing their livestock on public lands for less than one-tenth of what it would cost to put them out on their own property. Then, the money the government does collect in grazing fees goes right back into a fund that pays for shit like fencing and water development to support more livestock grazing.”
“So, the ranchers use public land essentially for free,” offered Jude.
“While the rest of us pay the environmental cost,” Oliver added.
“I hate them,” Laurel asserted. “The public trust doctrine says that all wildlife, including wolves, belongs to all Americans. And behind our backs, the government is decimating wildlife in the most horrible ways to appease the ranchers. They do whatever they want,” she added bitterly. “They shoot wolves and coyotes from the air, they trap them, and they do something called ‘denning,’ which I can’t even talk about without wanting to go out and whack somebody.”