by Robin Lamont
Gordon let it rest for a moment before asking, “But he and his crew are dismantling traps, yes?”
“Probably, but I didn’t push and Colin wouldn’t admit to it. Does it matter?”
“You’d think a couple of years in prison would have changed his ways,” noted Gordon disapprovingly.
“I can’t speak for him,” Jude responded, studying her hands.
“And what about Oliver Neeland? He has a criminal record, you know.”
“I know. But it was only a misdemeanor for freeing an animal from a trap.”
Gordon lifted an eyebrow. “Is that what they told you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Before becoming an activist, Oliver Neeland did four years for assault with a deadly weapon. He nearly killed a guy. Maybe he didn’t mention that.”
Jude flushed. “Colin told me about the lesser charge. I don’t think he knows about the other.”
“He knows,” Gordon assured her.
Perhaps because it rankled that Gordon seemed so sure he had Colin’s number or her belief that he was jumping to conclusions, but Jude didn’t say anything about Oliver’s verbal rampage against Wildlife Services. Or the bruise under his eye. Or the fact that he knew Eberhardt was alive when he was put in the trap. She told herself that there could be any number of explanations. Nonetheless, this new information about Oliver gnawed at her, as did her omissions to Gordon. He was her boss, he was her friend, he was The Kinship – she ought to be telling him everything. But she didn’t.
“We’d better get you out of there,” said Gordon. “The cops will find out about Oliver on their own and the chips will fall where they will. But we can’t afford to have you in the mix.”
“But–”
Gordon held up his hand. “The subcommittee has already gotten wind of the Eberhardt killing. I have no doubt they’re going to bring it up at the hearing, whether or not there’s been an arrest. What am I supposed to say if one of my people is found to have engaged with an ALF cell in Stanton?”
“Gordon, hear me out, please. There is something much bigger going on – Wildlife Services, the agency that Eberhardt worked with.”
“Ah, Jude, I’ve got enough on my plate without taking on another government agency,” he objected.
“Aren’t we supposed to be helping animals?” she wanted to know, her sense of justice wounded. “As far as I can see, Wildlife Services is just another form of industrialized animal cruelty. They’re a renegade operation, killing at least four million animals every year – probably far more than that – and no one knows about it.”
Gordon frowned and leaned back in his chair. “I’m listening.”
“I guess CJ has filled you in on John Tripp and his connection to Wildlife Services.” At Gordon’s nod, Jude continued. “Yesterday, just as I was coming up to the Tripp ranch, a whole bunch of other ranchers were leaving. I think there had been some kind of meeting. That wasn’t so surprising. As an Idaho legislator, Tripp is a spokesman for the local agricultural interests. But ranchers weren’t the only ones there. So was Bud Grimes, who’s the regional director of Wildlife Services. I know because CJ backed out his license plate.”
Gordon narrowed his eyes, intrigued.
“Okay. John Tripp has a relationship with Wildlife Services. He’s leasing his plane to them at probably a thousand bucks a pop and they serve as his personal paramilitary extermination service, paid for courtesy of the U.S. taxpayer. But why would the state director of the federal agency be making a personal appearance at his ranch?” Jude got up and began to pace the room. “On the way here, I spoke to a guy named Walt Kincaid, who used to work for Wildlife Services. In addition to telling me how careless their trapping practices are and the fact that the agency basically lies about it to the public and to Congress, he told me something else. Wildlife Services can’t account for its spending. They work with what they call “cooperators,” which are ranchers like Tripp and various state and city boards, who pay for some of their services. But the agency doesn’t keep track of exactly where the money goes and where it comes from. It all just gets broken down into broad categories like livestock and crops. That’s it. And last year, they lost twelve million dollars. Not lost as in gambled away, lost as in they can’t account for it. You should have seen John Tripp’s spread! Huge house, pool, airplane, servants, you name it. I’m just saying…”
“I didn‘t know it was that bad,” sighed Gordon.
“Let me go back to Stanton and find out more about them,” she pleaded. “I think it’s connected to the Eberhardt murder. And if I can find out who did kill him, you can cross another problem off your list.”
Gordon rubbed his temples. “The hearing is next week. I don’t have time to gear up for another investigation that, as far as I can see, is shooting in the dark. Nor do I have the personnel to back you up. You’d be on your own.”
“That’s fine. Just give me a few days,” she pleaded.
“Do you have a plan in mind?”
“Semi-plan. Believe it or not, I have a date tomorrow with Orin Cashman, the Wildlife Services agent who killed the wolf.”
He thought for a moment before asking, “Is this about Colin? First you didn’t want to go to Stanton, and now you don’t want to stay away.”
“No, it’s not about Colin,” she insisted, trying to convince herself.
“Because if you go back, I don’t want you within ten miles of him, or Laurel or Oliver Neeland. I’ve got a bad feeling about Neeland, and our association with any of them at this point could hurt us badly. The House Republican Scott Olander on the Homeland Security panel just got back from a conference in Houston where I have no doubt that the power brokers lit an even bigger fire under him on this AETA thing.” He looked at her sternly. “There are a lot of really good people working their butts off for animals. Don’t make their job harder. Don’t let them down.”
On the drive back to Stanton, Gordon’s words weighed heavily, as well as her guilt about not being honest with him. She had to wonder if she was even being honest with herself. This urgency she felt to expose the callous killing of animals by Wildlife Services … was that reason she was heading back into “enemy” territory? Or was it really about Colin? She couldn’t deny the pull she felt toward the tangible simplicity of what he was doing. Yes, they all shared an intense desire to help animals – all were devoting their lives to the cause. But Gordon’s way was to work within the system, in the belief that his most effective tool was public pressure; if people knew what was really happening to animals across the spectrum they would demand change. Colin’s way was to renounce the system entirely; compromise was a sell-out. The Kinship often embraced the smallest of improvements that impacted millions of animals. For Colin, the remedy had to be immediate, but it wasn’t possible for more than a few. As the miles rushed by under her wheels, Jude was sure of only one thing: both sides carried a cost. Her thoughts turned to what was in front of her and she began once again to take on the role of Judy Harris. She could almost picture herself climbing the ladder to the high wire, the air getting thinner and thinner, her body feeling lighter and lighter, when all she wanted was to be connected to the earth.
Chapter 16
She stopped at the Tripp Creek Café where the lunchtime crowd had cleared out. Abby was working and Jude greeted her warmly. “I’ll have a double salad and a bowl of the lentil soup,” she said with some faint hope that it wasn’t made with meat.
When the friendly waitress came back with her order, Jude noted, “For being slow, it sounds pretty busy back there in the kitchen.”
“We’re catering a Christmas party at the Tripp ranch in a couple of days. I’m only serving, but I can’t wait to go. I heard they’re having a band and everything.”
“When is it?”
“Sunday night.”
“Sounds like fun,” said Jude.
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“You should get Cash to invite you. He was in here a couple of times asking if you’d been in.”
“Oh yeah, when?” asked Jude casually.
“This morning, for one.”
“Well, I’m sure I’ll run into him.”
Left alone to finish her lunch, she fretted over why he’d go looking for her. She hoped it wasn’t to cancel their date; right now he was her ticket to the inside workings of Wildlife Services. But neither did she like the idea that he was keeping tabs on her.
Kylie Harrington was back at it across the street, handing out leaflets. She thrust flyers at everyone walking by, and her appeals to reject fur could be heard through the paned window of the café. The woman was an enigma. Here she was, persistent in her open and earnest leafleting campaign, quite possibly convincing a few people to re-think the fur trim on a new jacket. Yet she kept her Facebook persona on Eberhardt’s page obscure and often threatening. One particular comment hinted that she knew the identity of Thrill to Kill. Eberhardt had joked about a coyote caught in a snare, cracking, “Love to see coyotes hanging around!” Kylie had gone after him in a blistering harangue, writing, “You have to ridicule your kill? Haven’t you done enough evil? You and your team.”
Team? Jude had thought it an unusual word choice. But perhaps Wildlife Services trappers worked in teams. She would have liked to ask Kylie directly, but knew that approaching her in broad daylight would be a mistake. As Jude looked on, the clothing store owner once again stormed out to chase the unwanted protester away. Kylie stuffed the flyers into her coat, marched staunchly to the corner, and got in her car.
Jude didn’t hesitate.
Kylie’s pickup truck looked much like the other vehicles on Route 72, but the bright red “Save the Wolves” bumper sticker made it easy to keep her in sight. Jude stayed several car lengths behind as Kylie headed in the direction of Saint Claire. Soon after, she turned onto a side road, then another, and pulled into the driveway of a small, cedar-shingled house with a toy-littered lawn. Jude drove by without glancing her way.
When the road curved, she made a u-turn and drove to within a decent visual of Kylie’s house. She eased over to the side and pretended to read a map. A few cars went by, but the road was not well traveled and no one stopped to offer assistance, which was just fine. Jude waited.
Twenty minutes later, a yellow school bus stopped in front of Kylie’s house. A boy, probably eight or nine, shambled down the bus steps, dragging his backpack behind him. The bus gave a short honk, pulled in its stop sign, and continued along. Figuring the driver had honked to let mom know her son was home, Jude drove slowly down the street. She was rewarded when Kylie stepped out of the house to greet her boy, two brown terriers yapping at her feet.
Jude rolled down her window as she drew next to the mailbox. “Excuse me,” she called out. “I am so lost!”
Wrapped in a thick cardigan, Kylie came down the driveway to give her directions. Her son mumbled a greeting and dropped his backpack in favor of a half-deflated soccer ball in the yard. The two terriers took turns barking at Finn and at the soccer ball.
“I think I’m driving in circles,” said Jude.
“Where you headed?” asked Kylie.
“Stanton.”
“Oh, that’s easy.” In the yard, her son was kicking the soccer ball, letting out his pent up school energy. He coughed once or twice.
“Hey, didn’t I see you at the town hall meeting the other night?” exclaimed Jude, feigning recognition. “Boy, you sure took a few of them on!” When Kylie bent down uncertainly to peer through the window, Jude knew that she had to tread a fine line between keeping her cover intact and trying to draw Kylie out. “I’m just in town for a few days and dropped by that meeting. It’s totally nuts the division over wolves around here. But I gotta say, I really admire your passion.”
“Yeah.” Kylie still didn’t sound comfortable, and after what Jude had seen at the town hall, she couldn’t blame her.
“Oh, sorry. My name’s Judy Harris. I work for a company that’s putting together tourist-type visits in this area. I think I might have seen you outside the Tripp Creek Café. That’s where I’ve been eating most of the time.”
Kylie’s leeriness seemed to fall away. “Right, right. Now I recognize you.”
“Like I said,” Jude prattled on, “I’m not from around here, and to be honest with you, some of our clients like to hunt. But I couldn’t believe my ears at what some of those folks said about wolves. I mean, that one guy talked about wanting them to suffer. I don’t get it.”
“They’re ignorant a-holes,” Kylie spat out. “But they’re not the worst of them.”
“What could be worse than that?”
Kylie hesitated. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Judy Harris.” She rummaged in her bag for an EO Travel business card and passed it through the passenger window. While Kylie studied it, Jude asked, “Would it be okay if I let my dog out to pee? He’s been cooped in here for the last hour while I’ve been getting myself lost. He’s really good with other dogs.”
When Kylie nodded, Jude got out and opened the door for Finn. The terriers yapped at his heels in excitement. Secure in his size, Finn stood still, politely letting them sniff every part of him until they had taken his measure, then he strolled off into their yard.
Jude leaned against the car. “I really like wolves,” she said truthfully. “Maybe because I love dogs so much.”
“They don’t deserve the treatment they get,” agreed Kylie. She turned to call to her son who was coughing more persistently. “Derrick, go inside. Your inhaler’s on the kitchen table.” Her attention back on Jude, she said, “Sorry, what was your question?”
“Why does John Tripp hate wolves so much?” asked Jude.
“For John Tripp? It’s politics,” announced Kylie, color coming up into her cheeks. “Wolves aren’t really a huge problem for him. What he wants are votes, and he gets them by taking on the big bad wolf. You gotta understand, most folks around here honestly believe that God created all wildlife for the taking. And when the federal government reintroduced wolves … well, that just makes it worse. You’d have better luck if the government started building affordable housing for Muslims in Stanton … at least they wouldn’t be killing the elk.”
Jude chuckled. “Ok, that’s John Tripp. What about the others?”
“Some of them have been brainwashed into thinking that the wolves will decimate all the ungulates – deer, elk and the like. And some of them…”
After a moment, Jude encouraged her to go on. “Some of them?”
“Well, some of them just like to kill. Period.” Kylie’s face turned hard.
“And you have a few in Stanton, I gather?”
“Yup.” Kylie glanced back at the house to make sure Derrick had gone inside. “Ever heard of Wildlife Services?”
“Think I have,” said Jude vaguely, although she felt a sudden burst of adrenaline quickening her pulse.
“There’s a lot of them that make a business out of killing, racking up the numbers, and they don’t care who gets in the way.”
The pain and distress in her face was so clear, Jude guessed at something personal. “What happened to you?” she asked softly.
“Not to me, my son. A few months ago, our oldest dog Shadow bit into one of their M-44’s. Derrick was with him. He tried to help, but he breathed in some of the cyanide. He was real sick for a while, and he still has breathing problems and headaches. Monster headaches.”
All pretense gone, Jude wasn’t sure she’d hear Kylie right. “Cyanide? I don’t understand.”
“You don’t know about the M-44’s? Wildlife Services uses them, mostly for coyotes.” To Jude’s horror, Kylie described the traps: small tubes loaded with a sodium cyanide capsule. Driven part way into the ground, the exposed top was baited to at
tract canids. When a wolf or coyote bit down on it, a spring ejected sodium cyanide into the animal’s mouth and face. The force of the ejector could spray cyanide granules up to five feet. Wildlife Services claimed the cyanide kills within forty-five seconds, but Kylie and her son knew better.
“Shadow started to go into convulsions. I could hear Derrick screaming and I came running. Shadow was gasping and foaming at the mouth, struggling for air. I sent Derrick back to the house to call 911 while I stayed with my poor Shadow. My God,” said Kylie, the memory dulling her eyes, “he was in such agony. It seemed to go on forever, but I guess it was only ten or fifteen minutes. Every once in a while he would thrash his legs and moan. There was nothing I could do but stroke him and talk to him. I saw the trap and knew what it was.”
“But Derrick didn’t?”
“No, he thought Shadow was choking on something and he tried to get whatever it was out of his mouth. That’s when he inhaled the cyanide. By the time I got back to the house, Derrick was vomiting and could barely stand up. He nearly didn’t make it.”
Jude was aghast. “How are these traps legal?”
“They’re not. Not for regular hunters or trappers. But Wildlife Services doesn’t have to follow any state rules. Shit, they don’t even follow their own rules. They’re supposed to post warning signs, but they don’t. No one ever notified me that the M-44’s were there.”
“Did you confront them?”
“Damn right. I knew there was a team working the area, but not a single one of them admitted to having placed that trap. And they claimed that in places where they do set the M-44’s, they put up warning signs. But we’re down in that hollow all the time – there were no signs. Besides, no one could have seen the trap, not in the high grass. Basically it was their word against mine.”
“I am so sorry,” said Jude. “Will your son be okay?”
“We hope so. Sometimes he gets all wobbly for no reason, but the headaches don’t come on as much they used to, and the doctors are optimistic.” She tightened her sweater around her shoulders. “Look at me, here I’ve been chewing your ear off when all you wanted was directions.”