by Robin Lamont
But Jude wanted to know.
“Okay, denning. It’s when they kill wolf or coyote pups right in the den. They go after the babies. Sometimes they throw burning cartridges of sodium nitrate and charcoal in the dens. It’s supposed to suffocate the pups, but it’s more likely to burn them alive. Or if it succeeds in flushing them out, the men break their necks or shoot them execution style. I’ve even heard they chop their heads off with a shovel.” Laurel stared belligerently at Jude, as if furious that she’d been made to describe the most heinous of Wildlife Services’ activities.
Her indictment had once again fouled the air inside the cabin, but this time with a shared sense of anger at the brutality toward animals. Jude stared at the floor while the others silently wandered the room, unable to shake the images. Jude finally got to her feet and went outside.
Colin found her on the front porch, her forehead pressed against one of the posts, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her back to lean on him.
“How can human beings be that cruel?” asked Jude softly. “I wonder all the time and never get close to an answer.”
She sounded so lost that Colin couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Jude not only let him, but felt her body melt into his. The way it used to be. They stayed in their gentle embrace listening to the night sounds. But then she had to know. “Did you do it?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Did you kill Craig Eberhardt?”
He turned her around roughly and grasped her shoulders. “How could you even think that?” he demanded, his scowl deepening.
“Just tell me you didn’t do it.”
“Christ, Jude. I didn’t do it.”
“Then why does the FBI think you did?”
“I don’t know,” he said angrily. “I’m an easy target – I’m Animal Liberation Front – I’m everything corporate America hates and fears.”
“But you have been messing with traps?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“It’s illegal, Colin. You’re asking for trouble.”
He moved away from her and put his hands on the porch overhang, leaning out and staring up into the dark sky, flushed with messy, brilliant stars. “Not anymore. I’m done asking,” he said thickly. “We used to ask for a lot of things, didn’t we? Like good boys and girls, we wrote our congressmen, we drafted petitions, we drew signs and marched and protested, and we played by their rules. Shit, we did everything we could, screaming at the top of our lungs about what the world was doing to animals, how human beings were raping the earth and the oceans. No one is fucking listening, Jude.”
Laurel poked her head out the door and they quickly turned. “It’s nearly seven,” said Laurel. “I thought, Jude, you couldn’t stay long because of your dog and all.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
When Laurel retreated inside, they stood without touching, but close enough to hear each other breathe.
“Oliver will take you back,” he finally said.
“Bet he loves being my chauffeur,” responded Jude lightly.
“Don’t mind him. He’s still angry about spending six months in jail on some crap misdemeanor in Wyoming.”
“What happened?”
“He got caught freeing a marten from a snare.”
“Good Lord, don’t prosecutors have anything better to do?”
“The right to hunt and trap is taken very seriously around these parts,” Colin said wearily.
“Was it bad for you?” They both knew she was talking about his two years in federal prison.
“Some day I’ll tell you about it.”
Oliver tromped out of the cabin and went straight to the Taurus to start it.
“But not now,” said Jude sadly.
“Not now.”
“Will I see you–”
He put his finger to her lips to stop her from asking. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do this to me.”
Jude finally saw the hurt in his eyes – the hurt that had been there since he’d opened the cabin door, the hurt that might have been there since she’d walked out on him years ago.
She tugged gently at the collar of his shirt. “Take care of yourself,” she said.
This time it was Jude who fell silent in the car and Oliver who wanted to talk. With the bandana prohibiting sight again, all she could do was listen to his tirade at Wildlife Services and their indiscriminate trapping practices. They didn’t post notices. They didn’t check their traps regularly. “I’ve seen animals that have been dead for days in those things,” he said. “At least the fur trappers have some incentive to check their leg holds and snares – they want the pelt before rot sets in. Not Wildlife Services. They’re getting a goddamn salary. And we’re paying for it.”
“So I guess you weren’t too unhappy to hear about Craig Eberhardt.”
“Are you kidding? I am beyond gratified that he suffered the same pain that he put countless animals through. I heard he was alive when he got put in his own trap. And just like the animals, he tried to claw his way out. His fingers were all torn up. That’s what I call justice.”
She turned her head in Oliver’s direction, and in her mind’s eye she saw again the bruise on his left cheekbone. It looked to be about a week old, and she wondered what kind of accident or fight caused it. And now he was saying that he heard Eberhardt had been alive in the trap? Jude had read a few newspaper articles about the homicide, but that detail had never been mentioned. How the hell did Oliver know that?
Chapter 12
The town hall was a tinderbox. At least it felt that way to Jude, who had come to the much-anticipated debate on the Coyote and Wolf Derby. The parking lot was full a good half hour before it was to start, so she left her car down the street and joined the stream of people heading to the hall. A sign posted on the front door announced “no firearms,” but there seemed to be no police presence to enforce the mandate. She found a spot against one wall with the others who were too late to get a seat. And now, crammed into the claustrophobic, ochre-painted room fitted with industrial carpeting and vinyl ceiling panels, Jude took stock of the crowd. She and CJ had figured this might be a good place to put faces on one or two of the voices expressing rage at the Thrill-to-Kill Facebook posts. Moreover, she wanted to see John Tripp in person.
At the front of the room, two tables were set up on either side of a lectern. Tripp hadn’t yet arrived, but Margaret Cunningham was seated at the far table. She had a stoic, determined look about her as she reviewed her notes. Much to Jude’s surprise, next to her sat Lisbet Hammond. Their eyes met, and Lisbet’s face lit up. Jude quickly looked away, hoping the Yellowstone biologist knew better than to initiate contact with someone working undercover.
The room was clearly divided along party lines. On the side nearest Jude, if camouflage caps and work dungarees were indicators, sat the anti-government, gun-enthusiast, pro-Derby contingent – hunters, trappers, and ranchers. Across the center aisle congregated anther group wearing t-shirts that read “Guns DO Kill People” and “Protect Our Wildlife.”
Jude was not surprised to see Cash and Roland Pike standing in the back. Cash appeared uncomfortable in the crowded room, shifting his feet and looking this way and that. Trying to stay out of sight, she tucked herself behind a burly man to her right. As she searched the sea of faces, she landed on two men that she immediately made as FBI. Short hair, one in his early forties, the other about ten years younger, neither one had taken pains to hide his affiliation. Only missing were their Ray-Bans and flak jackets. Like Jude, they were casually scanning the crowd.
A murmur from the back announced John Tripp’s entrance. He stopped to shake hands and exchange a few words with friends as he made his way toward the lectern. Tripp looked every inch the celebrity statesman, Jude
thought. He was square-jawed and clean-shaven with just enough gray around his temples to engender confidence in his experience. Although he was just over six feet, his cowboy boots and Stetson added a couple of inches; a bolo tie with a silver and turquoise slide completed the western look. Tripp went over to Cunningham and took her hand in both of his, greeting his female opponent in true politician style.
She had won the toss and elected to speak first. Cunningham stepped up to the lectern as the pro-derby posse settled back in their folding chairs and crossed their arms defiantly. “We have a proud tradition in Idaho,” she said. So far, so good. “In 1893, the historian Frederick Jackson Turner wrote that the expansion of the western frontier shaped our history, infusing practicality, energy and individualism into the American character. And with the new century came a growing appreciation of the beauty in our wilderness and the need to protect it. As Idahoans, we must carry that tradition forward. It is incumbent upon all of us to protect that which makes our state so magnificent – including our wildlife, and particularly the iconic wolf.”
Her opening remarks had been received quietly, but now the mention of “wolf” drew some hisses and boos. Cunningham smoothly launched into the economics of wildlife watching, arguing that wolf recovery was predicted to bring in seven to ten million dollars annually.
“Wolves are good for our state. Of course I understand the ranching community’s concern about loss of livestock,” she continued. “But there are some forward thinking ranch owners who are willing to consider non-lethal methods of predator control, such as increasing guard dogs and herders, lighting, and electrified fences.”
“Too expensive,” someone called out.
“Expensive as well are the paychecks our counties hand over to Wildlife Services, as is the national perception that here in Idaho we want to kill all the wolves – a perception that negatively affects our tourism. There is a vast expanse of publicly owned land here in the west, and almost three-quarters of it is currently grazed by privately owned livestock. But it doesn’t belong to the ranchers – it belongs to all the taxpayers of the United States and it belongs to all Idahoans.” Cunningham directed her next remarks to her supporters. “Most of us do not benefit from the subsidies that go to just a wealthy few. Shopkeepers, plumbers, waitresses, all rely on tourist dollars. You often hear ranchers and hunters say that they are the stewards of the land. But I say, we are all stewards of the land. What do we tell people visiting Idaho when they see us slaughtering coyotes and wolves in a so-called sporting event? What will we tell our children when there are no wolves left? It’s time to find an economically stable and environmentally sound balance that that will accommodate the ranching and hunting industries along with our precious wildlife.”
Cunningham’s supporters erupted in applause and cries of “That’s right!”
One man yelled out, “Well, I pay taxes and the wolves are killin’ off all the deer and elk in the whole damn state. How am I gonna eat?”
A woman on Cunningham’s side rose from her seat. Jude recognized her as the anti-fur leafleter named Harrington. “Hey, Winston,” she hollered. “I see you at Albertson’s every week buying a case of beer. Why don’t ya use that money to buy groceries instead.”
“Meat is too expensive. I have to feed my family,” he retorted.
“Give me a break,” scoffed someone. “By the time you pay for bullets, gas, license and hunting fees, your venison costs like $22 a pound.”
“And don’t forget to add in the value of Winston’s time,” added Harrington, rolling her eyes, “which makes the whole thing add up to … $22 a pound.”
Winston shot her the finger and she launched a mirthless laugh in his direction. As she sat back down, a couple behind her patted her on the back, “Nice, Kylie.”
Something pinged inside Jude’s head, feeling like the vibration her cell phone made to notify her of incoming email. But she brushed it aside; John Tripp was getting ready to speak.
Idaho’s biggest sheep rancher had no interest in trying to counter Cunningham’s arguments. He had no need to. Not when he could capitalize on the fear and resentment that so many residents already harbored. Big government wanted to take away their guns. Hunting and teaching your kids to hunt was the great American tradition – just another fundamental right that the environmentalists wanted to strip away. The reintroduction of the “most deadly predator on the planet” represented Washington’s treason against civilization itself. He finished with as phony an emotional plea as Jude had ever witnessed. “Just two days ago, one of my ewes was attacked and killed by wolves,” he said. “I care deeply about each and every one of my animals. Do you know what it’s like to see one of them tore up like that?”
His false sentimentality made Jude sick. Tripp was in the lambing business – every year he sent thousands of baby sheep to the slaughterhouse. Nonetheless, he seemed to be winning over many in the crowd who nodded in sympathetic agreement.
“Damn right!” shouted a man. “They kill for the fun of it.”
Another called out, “I say gut-shoot the sons-of-bitches. Make ’em suffer!”
Margaret Cunningham held up her hands to try and stave off the disorder that Tripp seemed happy to instigate. “We must look at wolves in a reasonable way,” she said. “Let’s hear from someone who knows more about them than anyone.” She introduced Lisbet as a wolf biologist from Yellowstone and posed the question, “Is it true that wolves kill for fun?”
“Not at all,” replied Lisbet. “Like many carnivores, wolves are opportunistic hunters. Their attacks actually have a very low yield in the wild, only between four and eight percent of their attempts are successful. And when they do attack, they’re often themselves wounded by the hooves of an elk or moose. So if wolves come across unprotected sheep, they will take more than they can immediately consume. But they’re not wasteful. They’ll come back and eat everything they’ve killed.”
Tripp twisted his mouth into a smile. “Then why is it last month I found three of my sheep ripped up and lying around on the hillside?”
“What did you do when you found them?”
“I brought my men in to move the rest of the herd and I called the authorities to come take a look.”
“There’s your answer,” said Lisbet evenly. “With people combing the hill, the wolves likely left the area. I would also add that many times hunting and killing wolves actually increases attacks on livestock. When a pack is disrupted with the death of one or two, the juveniles without a family are much more likely to go after livestock because the pack can no longer teach them how to hunt other prey, such as elk or deer.”
A heavy-set man in the third row stood up, his face beet red with anger. “You enviros are all the same,” he burst out. “You’re not even from around here. You love the cute little puppy pictures of wolves and you want to keep ’em out there, by golly, so you can take a picture with yer expensive camera. Woohoo, you saw a freakin’ wolf!”
Lisbet pressed her lips together. “Every one you kill makes it that much more unlikely that anyone will see a wolf.”
“That’s the way we want it,” insisted the man. “We ought to make the derby twice as long.”
This brought the anti-derby folks into the mix and sparks flew as each side slung accusations at the other. The woman named Kylie stood and railed against involving children in the derby. “You’re gonna teach these kids to kill? You’re gonna give them cash prizes for destroying a life? What is wrong with you people?”
On the other side, a woman took a step forward to get in her face. “Listen here, Harrington, hunting is the American way of life! I want my kid to hunt, and I’ll be damned if a bunch of big city know-it-alls are going to tell me how to run my family.”
“So you put a gun in your kid’s hand at age ten?” sneered Kylie. “Then wonder what the fuck happened when he mows down a bunch of shoppers in a Boise mall?”
“Wanna bet?” challenged Kylie. “Step foot on my property with your traps and your goddamn bow and arrows and I’ll show you what I know about guns!”
A lone police officer finally appeared and hurried to the front of the room. In the commotion, Jude made eye contact with Lisbet, then began to push her way to the double doors in the back. Outside in the chilly night air, she trotted toward the parking lot, hoping that Lisbet had taken the cue. She had, because she appeared a few minutes later and joined Jude, who steered her away from the glare of a streetlamp.
“You begin to see what we’re up against,” said Lisbet after a quick embrace.
“I do. Listen, where are you parked?” she asked.
“Just over there.”
“I can’t talk long,” said Jude in a hushed voice, as they walked to Lisbet’s car. “Is there someplace we could meet tomorrow?”
“Did you find out anything about Eberhardt?”
“Not yet. I need to find out more about Wildlife Services first.”
Footsteps drummed on the pavement and Jude felt an object whizz close to her ear. Then the explosion of a brick rocketing through Lisbet’s windshield. Both women leapt back as the car alarm sounded, and over the noise a man shouted, “Hey, Wolf Lady, you’re next!” A side door in the town hall swung open and light streamed into the parking lot framing the police officer in the doorway.
“Where can we meet tomorrow morning?” asked Jude hurriedly. “Not in Stanton.”
“There’s a coffee shop in Saint Claire, just past the fire station. Can you get there by 9:00?”
“Okay.” Jude squeezed her arm then slipped into the darkness, leaving Lisbet, pale and strained, shaking broken glass from her coat. She’d have to file a report and deal with the curious onlookers by herself.
When Jude got back to her car, she sat with the keys in her hand, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Someone had finally managed to turn off Lisbet’s car alarm. But it wasn’t the only warning that had gone off for Jude. She was shaken by the level of hostility toward wolves. In her investigations, she’d seen many animals treated badly, but it was usually out of ignorance or apathy, born of a belief that animals were things to be used, then discarded. But there were people here who loathed wolves, who wanted to see them suffer. It was an ugliness that she had rarely encountered. And the verbal attacks from the animal defenders were scary as well. Jude thought particularly about the woman named Kylie, red-faced and belligerent, the same anti-fur protester that the shop owner had addressed as Harrington. Or Kylie H … the person who’d posted threatening messages on Thrill-to-Kill’s Facebook page. Jude was certain when she heard her name that they were one and the same. Had Kylie figured out that Craig Eberhardt ran the Thrill-to-Kill page? If so, what might he have done to push Kylie too far?