by Robin Lamont
“You’ve been through a lot,” said Jude sympathetically. Feeling as though her time had run out, she prepared to leave and was fastening her seatbelt when Kylie leaned in toward the passenger window.
“You know what the worst part was?” asked Kylie, looking bewildered, as though she didn’t quite know the answer herself. “No one from Wildlife Services ever took responsibility for what they did to Derrick. No one ever apologized about my son or our Shadow. They never do.”
Jude let the car keys drop into her lap. “Are you telling me this has happened before?”
“Oh, yeah,” replied Kylie. “A family dog up in North Salmon was poisoned, and another one a few miles from here.”
“Have you notified the state authorities?”
“Of course. But the IDFG don’t do squat, and besides, they have no control over Wildlife Services.”
“That’s incredible! Three family pets killed and no one is doing anything about it?”
“There’s plenty more than three, I can guarantee that – and not all from the cyanide traps. Quite a few dogs and cats have gone missing. Folks’ll tell you that coyotes got them, and maybe that’s true for some. But this past summer, a farmer over in Saint Claire uncovered a grave where the bodies of different animals were dumped. There were four dogs, three of them purebreds, so you know they were pets, not feral dogs. All of them showed signs that they’d been caught in a snare or a leg hold trap. Whoever put them there had removed their collars, so they couldn’t be identified. They even found a lynx in the pile and they’re a threatened species around here.”
“That’s so sad,” Jude exclaimed. “They don’t get federal protection?”
“Not if your federal protection is Wildlife Services,” said Kylie with a bitter smile.
All the way back to the guesthouse, Jude kept envisioning the helplessness and terror that Kylie must have experienced watching her beloved dog suffer. And she could easily understand Kylie’s rage over the damage done to her child. So wanton. Worse than negligent – even if Wildlife Services had posted warning signs, they would have to know that small children wouldn’t be able to read them. She believed Kylie in any event. What mother would let her child play where there were cyanide traps? It could happen to anyone. For a moment, a vision of Finn swam before her eyes – her dog, wild-eyed, desperately gasping for breath, and nothing she could do but watch his slow and painful death. What would she feel knowing who had set the trap, that he lied to her face about it, that he went out and did it again? How would she respond? As if from a bubbling cauldron, she could feel a dark part of herself rise up through the toxic brew. I would want to kill him.
* * *
“By her own account she knows how to use a gun and she looks strong enough to get him into a coil spring trap,” Jude admitted to CJ.
“The means and the motive,” he concluded.
“All true, except I’m not convinced.”
“Why not?”
“I think she might have connected Craig Eberhardt to his Thrill-to-Kill Facebook page, but it’s less clear that she connected him to the particular cyanide trap that injured her boy and killed her dog,” cautioned Jude.
“I wouldn’t admit to making the connection if I’d killed him.”
“I don’t know, CJ. She’s got a sick child to take care of. As angry as she is – and she has a right to be – I find it hard to believe she’d risk going to jail for the rest of her life.”
“I have news for you … most people aren’t weighing the risks of going to jail at the moment they pull the trigger.”
“Perhaps not,” conceded Jude. “But from what Kylie said, there are other people who have lost family pets because of an M-44. And cyanide is only one of the many poisons they use. Wildlife Services freely admits to using Rozol, Strychnine, and something called Kaput-D, which is a blood-thinning drug they use on prairie dogs and squirrels that causes them to slowly bleed to death through various orifices, including eventually their skin. Four million animals, CJ. And you take what Walt Kincaid told me about non-target animals … it’s nothing more than mass slaughter.”
“Sort of makes you want to kill somebody, eh?” CJ mused. “How could a government agency keep this so hidden?”
“You ever heard of the 3-S’s?”
“Educate me.”
“It stands for Shoot, Shovel and Shut-up – shorthand for poaching wolves, burying them and keeping quiet about it. They think it’s such a catchy phrase, the hunters and trappers put it on bumper stickers around here.”
“So Wildlife Services is regularly disposing of their non-target animals and not reporting them?”
“Walt Kincaid told me as much. And it’s supported by what Kylie said about the mass grave where they found so many dogs … all the identifying collars had been removed. An animal that they think will give them bad publicity, like a family pet? Just dig a hole, get rid of the evidence.”
CJ was silent – a rarity for him.
“Hey, quick question for you,” said Jude, trying to bring her friend back. “What airport uses the identifying code IAH?”
“That’s the George Bush International Airport in Houston,” he answered.
“Very interesting.” Pieces of information were flying around Jude’s brain like atomic particles. “You know, Gordon mentioned to me that this congressman on the Homeland Security subcommittee, Scott Olander, was at a conference in Houston recently. Do you happen to know what that was?” She was picturing John Tripp’s suitcase in the front hall.
“It was the annual ALEC conference.”
“ALEC, hunh?” Jude’s stomach tightened. The American Legislative Exchange Council was a corporate funded group that crafted pro-business bills for state and federal legislators. The council was stacked with agribusiness lobbyists trying to protect their supply chain from oversight and regulation. ALEC was behind the state ag-gag laws under which animal activists were being prosecuted for filming the abuse of farm animals in factory farms and slaughterhouses. “I think John Tripp may have been at that conference. Can you find out if he was there?”
“Can do. So, what now?”
“I want to dig into these abuses of Wildlife Services. For all we know, there may be a lot more Kylie Harringtons out there. Maybe one of them killed Craig Eberhardt.”
“And just how do you plan to unravel this government conspiracy?”
“I have a date with Cashman in the morning and will use my charms, such as they are, to get him to open up about his activities on the job.”
“What is he planning for this date?”
“I don’t know,” Jude said lightly. “He’s giving me a tour of the area. We’ll probably ride around in his truck or something.”
“Ok,” said CJ, not sounding confident. “But I wish you’d bring Finn. After what you told me about the 3-S’s, wouldn’t want to see you end up a shovelee.”
Chapter 17
Bringing Finn was out of the question. Cash was an experienced hunter and trapper, and Jude had witnessed him examining both hers and Finn’s footprints next to the fallen wolf. He’d surely be able to guess Finn’s size and weight from his paw prints. No, she couldn’t even let on to Cash that she had a dog.
Jude zipped up her jacket and gave Finn a hug before she left the room. “I’ll be back soon, big guy. Man the fort, okay?”
He pricked his ears forward and tilted his head in confused anticipation. Her energy was saying “walk,” but then he heard the dreaded “stay” word. He padded to the foot of the bed and lay down with a sigh.
Jude trotted down the stairs and ran headlong into the two FBI agents she’d seen at the town hall. They were talking to Foster Dunne. She nodded at them and busied herself with the muddy boots she’d left in the coat closet.
“This is Miz Harris, one of our guests,” explained Dunne.
The older of th
e two acknowledged her with a brief “ma’am,” and turned back to the bed and breakfast owner. “We’d like to see your guest registrations for the last three weeks,” he said, a tinge of Michigan or Illinois in his accent.
“Why?” Dunne wanted to know.
The other agent who possessed more swagger answered. “As I’m sure you know, a federal employee was murdered in Stanton several days ago. It’s possible that whoever is responsible was passing through and stayed here.”
“It’s just routine,” reassured the first. “We’re asking all the hotels in this area.”
A prickle of sweat broke out on Jude’s upper lip. Were they going to check out everyone on Dunne’s guest list? EO Travel wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny and they’d be tracking down an elusive Judy Harris. She tried to calm her anxiety by reminding herself that there were a lot of hotels in the area; it would take awhile.
“Don’t you need a warrant?” asked Dunne affably.
Jude couldn’t help but smile as she bent down to tighten her laces. Way to go, Professor. Dunne was a strange guy, but he was growing on her.
“It would be more helpful if you would just let us take a look,” said the senior.
His partner added, “Unless you have something to hide.”
“I have nothing to hide,” said Dunne.
“Good. First, a couple of questions. Have you lived in Stanton long?”
“You could say that. ’Bout thirty years.”
“Do you happen to know Ben McIntyre?”
Jude caught her breath and remained in a crouch, re-doing her boot laces.
“Why?”
“Not at liberty to say, sir.”
“Sure, I know Ben. He lives up Saint Claire way. Retired now, I think.”
“How well do you know him?”
A pause. Dunne trying to see behind the questions? “We’re acquaintances. We say hello in town occasionally.”
“He lives alone?”
“Yes, his wife died a couple of years ago.”
“He has two sons.”
“I believe that’s true.
“Do you know them?”
“Not well. I knew his older boy David. He attended the university where I teach.”
“And what about the younger son Colin?”
“Saw him around sometimes.”
“Seen him recently?”
“Colin? No, not in years. Has he done something wrong?” There was something a little too innocent in the way he asked that made Jude think Dunne knew more than he was letting on.
The senior FBI agent must also have picked up on it because his voice took on an edge when he asked, “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Golly, I don’t know. Probably his last year of high school.”
“Mr. Dunne, we heard that Colin and his father were estranged. Do you know anything about that?”
“Gentlemen, you’re asking questions I have no way of knowing,” he replied. “Why don’t you ask Ben?”
The senior agent didn’t respond except to say, “Let’s have a look at your register.”
Jude tugged on her gloves and went outside to meet Cash.
* * *
“Where we headed?” asked Jude.
“You’ll see,” Cash said. He revved his jeep up a steep hill, a trailer carrying an ATV clattering behind them. “You wanted to see hiking trails, right? That’s where we’re goin’ then.” He waved to a 4x4 racing by from the other direction.
“How did you know who that was?” asked Jude. “All I see in Stanton are pick-up trucks and they all look the same to me.”
“I know everyone in Stanton.”
“Clearly. Have you always lived here?” she asked breezily.
Cash seemed happy to talk about himself. Just an all-around American boy with a lifelong love of the outdoors. “The worst year of my life was when my mom made me go to college,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“Jeez, sittin’ in a classroom all day, thought I’d go crazy.”
“And is Wildlife Services the dream job?”
“Yup.”
“How come?”
“I’ll show you,” he said, pulling the truck over to the side of the road at the head of a steel beam bridge.
When they got out, he led her to the middle of the bridge. Below them rushed a frothy river, water tumbling over ice-crusted stones as if trying to get somewhere in a hurry. Hills rose on either side, one bright in the sun with young pine trees bending toward the light, the other dark blue in the shade. Further down the river on a sandy bank, a small herd of whitetail deer were drinking, occasionally lifting their heads to scan for danger.
Cash spoke quietly, even though the deer were upwind. “I could never give this up.”
“It’s beautiful,” agreed Jude.
“More than that, it’s … the wildness of this place. It feeds something in me.”
Jude could see it. The change in his body language was noticeable. At the café that first day, at the town hall, and even driving his truck, he was restless and jittery. Now, surrounded by trees, river, and clouds, he seemed to relax; his hands were steady, his speech slower. But embarrassed at having opened up to her, he tried to conceal his vulnerability by playfully pushing his shoulder into hers. “I mean, look at those deer, the does are so perfect with their long legs and deep brown eyes. Kinda like you.”
“My eyes are hazel,” replied Jude.
“Whatever. Come on, we’re ditching the truck.”
He pulled down a ramp at the back of his truck and unloaded the ATV. It was packed with all kinds of gear, including a rifle, storage boxes, and an extra can of gas. The oversized tires gave it a high clearance for snow, Cash explained. This is how you get around in the back country.
Jude looked at everything and asked, “So where do I sit?”
“Right behind me, cowgirl,” he grinned, handing her a helmet. “Hop on.”
She climbed aboard, adjusting the helmet over her hair which she had plaited in a single braid, and grabbed onto the hand holds, grateful that she didn’t have to strap her arms motorcycle-style around Cash’s waist. He drove across the bridge and then veered onto a dirt road. For the next hour they traveled narrow tracks and trails, rumbling the ATV through shallow streams and up hills, each one leading to a higher elevation. He pointed out the places where elk had bedded in the protection of downed trees, where once he had seen two male black bears fighting, where he’d kicked over a log and startled a rattlesnake. It lunged, but luckily the snake’s fangs only hit his boot. After awhile, getting accustomed to the diesel smell of the vehicle, Jude began to pick out others: the earthiness of damp leaves and the astringent aroma of pine bark. When they’d dip into a hollow or traverse the darkened side of a hill, the air was sharp and cold. But then they’d come up into the sun which felt blissfully warm on her shoulders and cheeks.
Finally, they reached the pinnacle of a wide ridge. Cash stopped the ATV and walked to the edge. Removing her helmet, Jude followed. The sight from the bridge had been lovely, but this was breathtaking. A mile below lay an indigo blue lake, nestled at the base of several peaks, as if they held the water in cupped palms. Beyond the lake was another row of peaks dusted with snow and hardy evergreens, and beyond them more mountains – and more and more. Each range grew lighter in color, from a dark teal to robin’s egg blue, finally fading so that there was no difference between mountain and sky.
Cash said, “Would you give this up if you didn’t have to?”
“This is one of the most amazing sights I’ve ever seen,” said Jude, quite in awe.
“That over there,” said Cash, pointing to the tallest mountain, “borders the Payette National Forest, from here about twenty miles. But you can see at least a hundred miles.”
Jude hungrily scanned the horizon, tr
ying to capture the vista in mental snapshots. She felt a kind of spiritual vertigo, as though she were standing above the earth and yet entirely within it. So big. So damned magnificently immense. Like looking into the beating heart of the universe.
Cash took her reverence as an opportunity to seize a kiss. After all, he’d given her this incredible gift, she owed him that much. He leaned in for his reward.
Jude recoiled, affronted as much by his advances as by the very contradiction of this man who’d used a high-powered rifle and an airplane to kill a wolf minding her own business. “Hey, tell me something,” she blurted out. “If you love the wildness so much, how can you do what you do?” As soon as the words popped out of her mouth, she winced. Stupid, stupid mistake – to let her outrage get in the way.
“You mean, control predators? Where you from, girl? If you don’t control them, nobody could live here,” said Cash, leaning in again.”
But she twisted away, wagging her finger. “You don’t control me, cowboy.”
He found this quite amusing, and at once Jude understood that part of what he liked about hunting was the chase. Animals, girls, it was all the same. Okay, Mr. Wilderness Lover, she thought, but you’re not going to catch this one.
They moved on, but now Jude adopted a new strategy. First she would draw him in, divulging details of a fictional childhood, just enough to let him believe she was warming to him. Then she pushed him away, becoming aloof, more interested in the panorama than in the man. And all the while, she tried to get him to talk about his job.
“Tell me again about this elk ranch of Mr. Tripp’s,” she said. They were sitting sideways on the ATV, sharing a thermos of coffee. “I might put something like that in our program for the hunters, especially for those that don’t have a lot of hunting experience.”
Cash shrugged. “Whatever.”
“I know you don’t approve,” Jude noted.
“Each to his own. The hunting ranches serve a purpose, I suppose. But real hunters don’t go in for that stuff.”
Jude smiled. “Not honest enough for you, is it?”