by John O'Brien
Lynn smiles again, sending waves of warmth through my heart. I lean in again for another kiss.
“Don’t let that go to your head, flyboy,” she says when we part again.
I laugh and reluctantly close the door as Lynn starts the car. She’s flying out to coordinate aspects of our specialized gear, and the rest of us have an early meeting. I watch her drive away and then turn back to my room.
The next day, we pull into the Clearwater regional office of the Idaho Fish and Game. We’re to meet with four people who were involved in the wolf reintroduction into Idaho, part of a larger program for Montana and Wyoming. The monitoring and management of the wolf packs are shared with the Nez Perce tribe, the designated agency for the wolf management in Idaho. That’s neither here nor there for us, we just need to talk with the experts tracking the wild packs.
We agree going in that it’s best not to mention our experiences or the beasts roaming the woods. We’d be labeled as lunatics and the answers we’re seeking wouldn’t be forthcoming. Our cover is that we’re special agents called in to look at cold or closed cases of missing persons and fatalities in the region to see if they warrant further investigation. Our interest here is to get some expertise and clarification.
We’re shown into a conference room where we meet four people: Jim from Idaho Fish and Game, Curt who works for the tribe, Carter with the US Fish and Wildlife service, and Levi who is involved with the wolf center.
After introductions and giving our reasons for the meeting, a map is laid out on the table. On the map are marked the known or surmised locations of the missing people in question. Before diving in, I let them know that we’re not attempting to eradicate the wolf packs. Our only involvement is to try and determine cause and whether the cases warrant increased attention. But with the latest killing being associated with wolves, I want to gain more expertise.
We learn that there are approximately 120 packs in Idaho, 700 wolves. Reports are produced that show pack movement and their boundaries. Working with the experts, we draw these boundary lines on the map we brought. As it comes together, the pack boundaries butting against each other, something else emerges.
“What about this area here?” I ask, pointing to a clear area.
“That’s a big mystery. We’ve conducted overflights, covered it on the ground, and haven’t found any packs or even lone wolves there. There’s ample food. We’ve tried to introduce two packs into that region and for some reason, they always migrate out. They were either slain by the other packs or absorbed once the Alpha was killed. We stopped trying,” Carter says.
“Any idea why?” I inquire.
“Like I said, it’s a mystery. We know a lot about wolves and the packs’ traits, hunting habits, how many pups are born, even the idiosyncrasies of each wolf we’ve collared. But that area, who knows.”
I pull out the femur we located, pointing out the gouge marks. “Any chance a wolf did that?”
Each man takes the evidence and studies it.
“It could be, but it would have to be a large one…like, really large. That’s more likely from a bear if you ask me,” Jim states.
“And the broken ends?”
“No wolf has the jaw strength to snap a bone like that. You can see here where there aren’t any gnaw marks on the end, so I think your culprit is, again, a bear.”
Withdrawing one of the casts we managed to save, the one of the hind paw, I lay it on the table. I see the confused looks on all of the men with the exception of Levi, a Nez Perce tribal member. His is one of concentration, the gears in his head obviously cranking.
“You made a mistake in this casting, possibly overlapping one print with another. There’s no way this was made by a single wolf,” Jim says, the others agreeing. “See here. That rear pad is too elongated. I think you accidentally captured part of another print when casting this one.”
“That’s probably the case,” I say, replacing the cast.
We talk more, the men adamantly attesting that wolf packs couldn’t account for the missing people. That’s just not how they behave. If they were in starvation mode and game scarce, perhaps one or two lost hikers, but not the number we’re suggesting. If the disappearances and killings were to be attributed to any wildlife, we should be looking at bears.
I thank them for their time, mentioning that there isn’t enough interest to warrant a closer investigation. However, I know that we’ve found what we came for. No mere wolf could have done what we’d observed or made the tracks we found. It was a verification of sorts that we are in fact dealing with Lycans—not that we really needed any more after our experience in the mountains. But we did manage to narrow our search area to the clear zone.
“Wait up!” a voice shouts when we’re in the parking lot and about ready to load up.
Turning, I see Levi at the front door. He strolls across the lot after seeing us pause.
“I’d like a word with you guys if you don’t mind,” he says upon reaching us.
I shrug, wondering what this man might want to add that couldn’t have been said inside. Politics are always involved when you have multiple agencies in the same room. There could be pressure on the reintroduction program from ranchers or a myriad of other problems that the native man may be concerned about. Perhaps he wants additional confirmation that we’re not going after the wolves, that we’re not going to concoct reasons to do away with the packs.
“Sure. Levi, right? What’s on your mind?”
“I’m curious as to why you’re interested in that area,” Levi says.
That’s not even close to what I was thinking he’d say.
“We’re interested in all of the areas where the disappearances took place,” I reply.
“That may be, but you’re more interested in the empty area. I couldn’t help but notice your reaction, however brief it was and how much you tried to hide it.”
“I was just curious. All of the other places had packs, so I was just interested, that’s all,” I respond.
“Look, you can say that to the others if you want, but I get the feeling that you’re not here to talk about the wolves. There’s something else you’re after,” Levi states.
“If you’re worried about our working against the reintroduction program, then–”
“No, that’s not it at all,” Levi interrupts.
“Then what is this all about? Why are you standing here talking to us away from the others? What’s your angle here?”
“That whole meeting was about you searching around the edges for something else. That empty area interests you. And, you didn’t make a mistake with that casting. I can tell folks like you don’t make mistakes like that. As a veteran myself, there’s no hiding the military aura surrounding the lot of you. So, I put two and two together. You folks are after something else, and I think I might be able to help.”
I thought I had been careful to hide our true purpose and am a little disturbed that this man has seen something of our true mission. I look at my watch.
“It’s about lunch time. Are you hungry?”
“I could use a bite,” Levi replies.
* * * * * *
The food we ordered arrives, the waitress working around the tables that have been shoved together to make room for all of us. After she leaves, the small talk we were engaged in changes to the real reason Levi wanted to talk with us. He begins to tell stories of his ancestors following the long chase and battle from Oregon through Idaho, Wyoming, and Montana, and the subsequent relocation to their current reservation.
“There have always been stories from our past when our tribe was in the Blue Mountains of Oregon. But there came more when we passed through the mountains just east of here. You see, not all of the casualties were caused by cold, starvation, or soldiers. These tales grew when we were placed on this land and the hunters ventured high into the mountains,” Levi starts.
“What do those stories say?” I inquire.
“Creatures, shape shifters, wolv
es. The stories rarely vary much. The legends tell of shapeshifters living deep in the mountains, people who turn into wolves—and these stories aren’t always about the past. You won’t find many native hunters venturing into that clear space for any reason, especially when the moon is full.”
“Not that I’m calling out your ancestral legends, but stories abound everywhere. Aliens in New Mexico and tales of all manner of creatures elsewhere. I’m curious as to why you think this might help us?” I question.
“Because you’re planning on heading up there, and when you do, I just wanted to give you some warning as to what you may find,” Levi answers.
“So, let’s hypothesize. What preparations would you make if you were to head up there?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go there during the full moon. Avoidance is the best policy. In all of the stories, there aren’t any that speak of an effective way of dealing with them.” Levi pauses. “Let me ask you this, did you find any tracks that were bigger than the others…and I mean much larger?”
I stare at Levi, wanting to glance toward McCafferty but holding myself back.
“I thought as much,” Levi says. “All of the firepower in the world won’t do you much good when you face something like that.”
Levi goes on to detail some of the stories, legends, and tales of the few survivors who returned to the villages. In all, they describe what we faced on the logging roads, along with some variations blurred by time and fear. As Levi speaks, all I can do is visualize having to deal with what we encountered with nothing more than the weapons of the past. We barely escaped with our automatic fire and grenades. My kudos to those who managed to survive and tell their tales.
“These aren’t just stories of the past. I lost my uncle up that way several years ago. It could have been an accident, but I seriously doubt it. If there was anyone who knew those woods and could get out of a situation, it was him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You think one of these shapeshifters did that?”
“I can’t think of anything else. I suppose if we were talking of a single shapeshifter, then there might be more survivors, but they run in large packs, much like normal wolves. Wolf pack numbers are only as large as their territory will support. You saw the area a pack of nine or twelve will hold. Now, compare that to the size of the empty area, and that might give you an idea of the number involved.”
“You keep mentioning the full moon in all of this, so I’m pretty sure you’re talking about werewolves, or something like them. So, I have several questions. Is it only during the full moon? What happens to them outside of that period? Do they revert back to human? If so, where do they go? Are they tribal members who just come home afterwards?”
“They’re coupled with the full moon, but none tell if that’s the only time—if it’s only that day or night. Shapeshifters mostly always revert back to human, although some get lost in their minds and get stuck in their animal form. I can’t speak to where they reside at other times, but some stories tell of a community deep in the mountains. I have not spoken with anyone who has personally seen something like that, but the legends insist on it.”
“I appreciate your wanting to help, Levi. But, as I mentioned, we’re only investigating the disappearances,” I reply, our plates empty.
“Yep, I understand, you can’t allude to anything else. But, you invited me to lunch for a reason. I can only hope that what I’ve told you helps—and if you want my advice, I say avoid the place. Drop it altogether and let it be.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“So, before I go, answer me this if you can. Did you find the Alpha tracks in the same area as the one you cast?”
I again stare at Levi. There was a moment during our conversation where I thought that Levi might be one of them, especially with his telling us to leave well enough alone several times. His return gaze is steady and I can see no evasion. Nor can I discern anything that might hint at interference.
I nod.
“I thought as much. You folks be careful up there, and let me know if you have any other questions,” Levi says, rising.
Levi didn’t add much to what we already knew, with the exception of a possible community up in the mountains. Overflights haven’t found anything, neither ours nor the various agencies associated with the reintroduction of the wolf packs. Thermal imaging from the flights or satellites should have picked up something if they were up there. I’ll have to have Lynn conduct more overpasses. Now, the imaging systems we have aren’t perfect, but they should be able to pick up heat sources from any large gathering, especially at night. If there are people up there, they’re hiding fairly well, and I wonder if they aren’t in cave systems.
With Levi gone, we sit at the table for a while longer.
“Well, what did you think of that?” I ask the team.
“The stories were interesting, but it wasn’t really anything we didn’t know,” Greg responds.
We leave, notifying Lynn of what we found out and asking for additional flybys. The new moon is near, but our equipment won’t be ready in time. So, in lieu of anything else to do, we’ll head back into the hills to take a better look at the tracks, assist with the cleanup from our last foray, and do some preliminary work to prepare the trap location.
Chapter Eight
With two new vehicles, we leave in the early hours of morning to make the long trip back to the scene. The logging road before we reach the scene of our encounter is blocked by a barricade and a couple of men dressed as forestry agents, complete with light green shirts and dark green pants. A sign indicates that the road is closed due to slides. Passing through the blockade, we hear the heavy beating of rotors before we actually reach the area.
In the middle of the road are the charred remains of the Jeep on its side, blackened from the intense heat. Rims dangle at angles, the tires having been burned away, and the scorched rear hatch hangs open, precariously holding to its hinges. Not a single shard of glass remains in the windows. The whole vehicle looks brittle, as if it will fall to ashes from a single touch.
Thick nylon straps surround the burned vehicle, attached to a cable hanging from a Chinook hovering overhead. The tops of the trees sway violently in the downwash. With a screech of twisted metal, the Jeep lifts from the roadway, charred debris falling out of the groundside windows and open hatch. Clearing the trees, the vehicle is pulled out of sight, and soon the thump of the rotors fades.
Some folks begin combing the area, sifting through the debris and bending over occasionally to pick up spent shell casings. Others begin an operation to minimize the footprint of the burned ground around where the Jeep had lain.
Further up the road, the trees along the side bear the scars from where the 25mm rounds slammed into them, the splintered gouges showing tan against the darker bark. The logging road for some distance is torn up and pockmarked with small craters. In among the trees is a carpet of downed limbs, some needle-lined branches lying in the road. Slanted rays of sunlight stream through the trees, touching ground that probably hasn’t seen any sunlight in years.
Images of that evening surface: having to fight through the numerous wolves between us and the vehicles, the dark gray shape loping after us in the deep gloom of the evening, the Jeep slamming to its side and skidding along the roadway, the frenzied scramble out of the vehicle, the eyes of the werewolf meeting my gaze.
Another team of people scour the surroundings, doing their best to dig up the deeply embedded rounds and smooth over the area. Some are out in the woods, hauling larger limbs and tossing them into a trailer. The ends of the branches that remain are scrubbed with dirt to make the breaks appear older, the same with the scarred trunks after the splinters are cut away. It’s not perfect, but it will pass a cursory inspection from the few who pass along these roads.
The cleanup crews completely ignore us, as if we aren’t there. I wonder what secrets they must hold—perhaps not so different than ours. Coming to the fork, we take the lower road,
passing by another group cleaning up the firefight from our dash to the vehicles. I feel a little anxious as we pass by the rocky ledge, my eyes constantly surveying the edge. I hope to hell that the full and new moon cycles are correct, or the Lycans may have a field day with all of these people in the woods. There’s some security hanging on the fringes and the Spooky is circling overhead, but to any Lycans about, it must look like an all-you-can-eat buffet. Regardless, the woods will be empty of our people once the sun lowers to the western horizon.
Exiting near the camper, which has yet to be extricated, we gather around our parked vehicles. Keys are left in the drivers’ seats. If we run into trouble and some don’t make it back, those who do won’t be stranded because the keys are sitting in the pockets of someone downed. It’s not a pretty thought, but it is a necessary measure.
Staring at the woods rising up the slope and the dense brush toward the nearby river, I can’t help but imagine the pack we encountered rushing through the trees. Lynn seemed fairly adamant on the data supporting the phases of the moon, but I can’t rely completely on that information. I haven’t witnessed it for myself or read any study that has been peer-reviewed multiple times. Nor have we talked with the head of the Lycans like we were able to with the Strigoi. The only thing that feels concrete was our fight—and gazing into the golden eyes of a creature four times my size as we lay nearly side by side.
However, despite all of my worries, we need to track this beast. If we can find their den, providing they have one, then we can come up with a plan to take them down on our terms rather than waiting for them to ambush us. The trap is but one measure, finding their lair another.
Our plan was to assist in whatever way we could with the cleanup crews, but they seem to have matters well in hand. There’s nothing for us to do along those lines, so we’re going with our secondary reason for being here—to track the Alpha in the hopes of locating the pack.
“Okay, we’re setting out. McCafferty, find us the Alpha tracks leading away from here. Keep it slow. If we see any physical sign of the pack, we’re exfiling in place. Lynn is circling overhead and there’s a Blackhawk five minutes out,” I brief. “It’s ten o’clock, sun sets around nineteen-thirty. I want us out of here before then. So, that gives us eight hours with our bingo being fourteen hundred, no matter what we find.”