The Wolves Within

by David Lucin

  “Negative, Jansen.”

  In frustration, she gripped the radio so tightly the plastic creaked under the pressure.

  “We still haven’t received word that the police are okay with us being here,” he continued, “and if the protesters aren’t doing anything violent or trespassing, there’s nothing we can do to stop them.”

  “He’s got a point,” Bryce said to her. “We’re not cops.”

  Bryce was right. The Beaumonts had no real, binding authority to enforce any sort of laws until Ed and Gary talked the chief into putting a stamp of approval on their endeavor. Asking these protesters to leave—or forcing them to—would be vigilantism. Getting involved might even feed their narrative and encourage them. She imagined someone saying, Look at these refugees! They hired armed thugs to patrol the university! It’s probably the same people who attacked the Go Market! Or something like that.

  As much as she hated to admit it, they had to play this safe and wait for the police.

  “Roger that,” she conceded into the radio.

  Dylan told them to rendezvous in the quad, so they continued toward McKay Village. With fewer trees between her and the protesters now, she counted eleven in total. They hadn’t spotted her yet, and she preferred to keep it that way, so she pointed at a parking lot behind Reilly Hall. “Here. Let’s cut around back so they don’t see us.”

  “Good call,” Bryce said and followed her.

  The shouting and chanting were clear, even from the backside of Reilly Hall. A few refugees peeked out of their windows, searching for the source of the racket. One, when she saw Jenn and Bryce, offered a wave, which he returned. Had Teagan already sent word to Reilly Hall? Allison always said that her mother was a social butterfly and knew people in every building. Evidently, she was the right woman for the job.

  In the quad in McKay Village, next to the large garden, Yannick and Maggy spoke with a half dozen concerned-looking refugees wearing gloves and holding watering cans or shovels.

  “Boss here yet?” Bryce asked him.

  Yannick stepped away from the group. At six-three or six-four, he towered over even Bryce. Like Jenn, he went to NAU, a master’s student in archeology. His home was Seattle, which was most certainly gone, destroyed by the bombs, so he stayed here and found work with the Beaumonts. Apparently he had a hunting license, meaning he could shoot, so he was an asset from the beginning. “He hasn’t come down yet,” he said. “What’s this all about?”

  “Same old,” Bryce murmured. “Idiots. These people act like the refugees stole their first-born children.”

  He and Yannick continued speculating about the protesters—as well as the coincidental timing of their arrival—as Jenn watched them from across the quad. She swore that more had arrived already. Yes, there were fourteen now, not eleven. From this angle, she could also make out the text on the signs. One, a simple piece of cardboard, said GO HOME in sloppy, barely legible block writing. Attached to a long wooden stake was a second with a crude image of a ponderosa pine, the symbol of CFF. The sight made Jenn’s teeth ache. A third read NO MORE VIOLENCE in what she assumed was a reference to the Go Market attack.

  Dylan approached from Allison’s building. “What do we got?”

  “You’re looking at it,” Jenn said. “There’s more of them now. You sure we can’t boot them out of here?”

  “Trust me, I’d really like to, but I think that’ll cause more problems in the long run.”

  She blew her lips. “So much for the refugees feeling safer.”

  “Safer than if we weren’t here at all, and I’ll take this over armed attackers any day.” He began to say more, but the distant squawk of radios drew his attention. Two officers—Liam and Mikey—were marching through the quad. Behind them came Gary, Ed, and three others in Flagstaff PD uniforms. Did their presence mean that Chief Morrison had agreed to help guard the dorms? It must. Hopefully the police would find some way to force these protesters to leave.

  Dylan jogged past her to meet with the men. Bryce said, “Would you look at that? Cavalry’s here.”

  Gary gave Jenn a wave before he, Liam, and Ed greeted Dylan and exchanged a few words. Quickly, he freed himself from the group and came toward Jenn, offering Bryce and the other guards a friendly nod on his way by.

  “You seeing all this?” She gestured in the direction of the protesters. Mikey and the other officers stood a fair distance away, watching but not intervening.

  “I know,” Gary said. “It’s clearly astroturfing.”

  “Astroturfing? Like the stuff I used to play softball on?”

  “No, astroturfing’s when an organization sponsors a movement to push a message and make it seem as though it has more support than it really does. In this case, Grierson probably hired these people to come here and start a protest.”

  “I knew it!” Jenn exclaimed, casting a sharp glare at the protesters across the quad and wishing they could see it. Continuing to shout and chant, they seemed more animated now that the police had arrived. “He was involved with the Go Market, too, when Val died. Refugees or whoever didn’t kill her. It was CFF. It had to be.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She hadn’t expected him to question her theory but wasn’t entirely sure why. Gary was an ex-cop; he might see something that she was missing. “Just look at what’s happening,” she said with an exaggerated wave of her arm. “This is all a little too neat and tidy, don’t you think? Grierson wants the refugees gone, so he stages the Go Market attack to make it seem like they were responsible. Then he hires these protesters to come out here. This all can’t be a coincidence.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She spat the words in frustration, but she wasn’t frustrated with Gary—she was frustrated that she couldn’t prove any of this. So she added, more diplomatically, “You think I’m wrong?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. What I am saying is that we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves, okay?”

  He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze, and it helped relax her. Frustratingly, Gary didn’t see the same connections she did, which made her doubt they existed at all. At the same time, he hadn’t refuted her theory, so maybe he was beginning to have his own suspicions. As before, she needed proof, but how would she find it? Not like she could spend her days sniffing out clues and tracking down leads when she had responsibilities here at the dorms. So she dropped the issue now and focused on what she could control. “So if these protests are BS,” she said, “we can kick them out of here, right?”

  Gary led her toward a nearby bench. “You’re not going to like this, but the police have their hands tied. It’s the protesters’ right to peacefully assemble, hired or not.”

  “What about a lack of a permit? Or blocking the road? There must be some random law they’re breaking.”

  “I’m sure we could find one, but we need to be careful.” With a groan, he eased himself down. He sounded old, but there was an unusual deliberateness to all his movements, almost like he had a buzz from that crappy ersatz coffee her father always used to drink. Was he excited to be back and helping the police? He showed the same vigor on the way out to meet the refugees on I-40. “Remember what I said the other day about CFF being a delicate political situation?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “This is what I meant. Stamping out a peaceful protest would probably also anger Mayor Andrews.” The woman’s name came out laced with acid. “She signed off on the plan to settle refugees here, but when the first group from Las Vegas arrived, she initially opposed them. Since then, she’s been lukewarm on them at best. Add in the issues of freedom of speech and assembly, and one wrong move could make this whole incident explode and work against us.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes, us.” He sat back and laid his hands in his lap. “The police are going to stay here to ensure this protest remains peaceful and that no one’s hurt. Ed’s volunteered to keep a few of you guys here
as well.”

  “Good,” Jenn said and fiddled with Val’s necklace. Then she asked, “What’s the endgame here? We let Grierson carry out his little scheme to intimidate the refugees? Is that it? And after that, he just goes ahead and runs in the election this fall? He’d win, you know. I’m pretty sure a toaster could beat Andrews.”

  “No.” Gary’s grin was lopsided, and there was a gleam in his eye.

  Now she understood why he was so giddy. “You’re going to do it? Run for mayor?”

  “Once this calms down, I’ll make an announcement.” His expression turned dour. “CFF exists because of weak leadership at the top. In that way, they’re a symptom of a deeper problem. Division has been allowed to develop and fester. If Mayor Andrews had acted decisively and stood behind the refugees from the beginning, we wouldn’t have seen this kind of opposition to them. Unless we can unite and work together, we won’t survive.”

  Gary’s words were electric, and Jenn found them inspiring. They made her believe that things would be okay in the end. She always knew that Gary would make a good leader, and she was happy he’d finally recognized that about himself. “You been practicing that speech?” she joked.

  “Maria helped me with it.” His grin returned. “How was it? Too much?”

  “Nope, I thought it was perfect. You’ve got my vote.”

  11

  “They’re late,” Rachel complained about Todd and Sheena, who were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.

  Afternoon sunlight filtered through broken garage-door windows and lit up what used to be Route 66 Beer Company. Before the depression, Flagstaff was renowned for its craft breweries. The best in the country, Dad always bragged. He supported them all, but this was his favorite. Philip had fuzzy memories of this place being packed with college students and tourists. His mother and father would share flights while Philip and Heather sucked down bottles of house-made soda.

  “I say we give them ten more minutes,” Rachel said. “If they’re not here, we take off. Their loss.”

  They each sat on an overturned bucket. At Rachel’s feet was a cardboard box full of fliers. The protests at the dorms had been going strong for two days, and what started out as essentially a handful of actors bought and paid for by CFF had grown organically to include, at their peak yesterday, around a hundred. Dad had decided to take the next step and put together an organized rally for tomorrow. These fliers advertised the time and place. He guessed that close to a thousand might come, showing Mayor Andrews, Sophie Beaumont, the police, and the rest of Flagstaff that CFF and its policies should be taken seriously.

  It was a good plan, and Philip approved. For much of his life—all of it, really—he was more of a doer, less of a planner. When he thought about it, that trait probably put him in prison. The job at the meat-packing plant should have been a wash: surprise the guards, park the truck, load up, and get out. Ten minutes. Fifteen, tops. Easy. But Philip was so eager for his next score that he didn’t do his recon. He’d gotten arrogant. There were twice as many guards as he was expecting, half of them off-duty cops. Worse, the place was up and running when he and his team went in: employees preparing a big shipment. Had he been patient and maybe dug a little deeper with his research, he would have called the whole thing off and possibly not wound up locked in a cell for three years. Dad was being careful and moving slowly. It was smart.

  “They’ll be here,” Philip said and tapped a paper bag with his boot. Inside were fresh eggs from the ranch. “No one’s dumb enough to turn down this haul for such an easy gig.”

  Dad had insisted that Philip and Rachel give out the fliers in secret here, not at the house, because he feared that he was being watched. When Philip asked by whom, Dad’s answer was “them all,” which he assumed meant the cops and the Beaumonts. Philip knew the feeling well: that itch of paranoia just beneath the skin. He had it worse than ever on the night of the meat-packing plant job.

  With a huff, Rachel shot to her feet and made her way toward a towering stainless-steel vat. She placed a hand to it, then pulled it away, leaving the shape of her fingers in a layer of dust. “Wendy doesn’t like beer. You believe that?”

  “In her defense,” Philip started, “it’s all mass-produced garbage now.”

  “No, not even real beer. Back in our twenties, when you could still get it, she hated the stuff.”

  “This sounds like pretty good grounds for a divorce.”

  She twisted her wedding ring. “Nah, she’s all right. You know what they say. Gotta learn to love your partner’s quirks. Speaking of which, when are you going to find a lady?”

  “Me?”

  “No, the other guy in here. Were you always such a bonehead? I can’t recall.”

  Philip couldn’t remember when he last thought about dating. He’d had his fair share of flings, sure, but a career that depended on taking stuff from others and then selling it on the black market was far from conducive to a stable relationship. “Always been a bonehead,” he confirmed. Then, “Why’re you asking? You got a friend you want to introduce me to?”

  “No,” she said, and Philip felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment, “but as much as I complain about Wendy, I can’t imagine life without her. She’s a pretty rad chick. You deserve someone like her.”

  He snickered. “Yeah, the ladies would love me. What should I put as the headline on my dating profile? ‘Ex-con who once made a moderately successful living ripping people off.’ That’ll bring them in droves.”

  “See, Philly, there’s your problem. You’re looking at it the wrong way. Don’t think of yourself as a criminal. Frame it as you being a reformed tough guy who’s turning his life around and starting fresh.”

  Valeria Flores might disagree with the idea of Philip being reformed, but part of him agreed with Rachel’s assessment. That was the man he was trying to be, anyway, despite what he’d done. “With you in my corner, I’m sure I’ll find Mrs. Right in no time.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Dust sparkled in a beam of light streaming through the windows. After a short moment of silence, Rachel said, “The Beaumonts have people over at the dorms. You hear about that?”

  “It’s only a few of them. Nothing to worry about.”

  “But your pops is chapped, I assume.”

  “Chapped” was somewhat of an understatement. When Dad first heard that Sophie Beaumont had sent some of her guards to McKay Village, he flew into a rage, smashing a glass and railing against the woman using adjectives like “pathetic,” “self-serving,” and “dangerous.” Philip wouldn’t disagree, yet he was worried Dad’s heart might explode in his chest. Fortunately, he calmed down before it did, but Philip felt powerless to help. No matter what he said, his father shrugged him off. He wished Mom were here; she kept Dad level and in control.

  “He wasn’t happy about it,” Philip decided to say. “But he’s focused on tomorrow now.”

  She sneezed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and said, “Let me ask you something, and don’t take it the wrong way. I realize you and your old man are still working things out since you came home, and it’s great to see you guys getting along, but is he . . . all right?”

  The question took him aback. He had only been home for eight months, and really, he didn’t know his father that well anymore, so he wasn’t sure how to answer. The fit of rage came to mind, but who could blame Dad for being angry when events were coming to a head so quickly? “What do you mean by ‘all right’?”

  With her index finger and thumb, she tugged at the hoop in her nostril. “Look, I’m on board for what we’re doing and would feel a lot safer if he was in charge instead of Andrews. But I’ve never seen him like this. Even since your mom passed, he seems different. He’s always been a focused guy, but this is borderline obsession. If anyone found out that he sent you to shoot up the Go Market, that’d be the end of him. Same with paying those people to start protests. All that to drum up support? He has more than enough already. Can’t he just wait unti
l November and run against Andrews normally?”

  “No half-measures,” Philip said, grinding his teeth as he thought about Mom lying dead in that hospital bed when she should have been at home, working in her gardens or painting out on the porch. “This isn’t the time for throwing crap at a wall and hoping it sticks.”

  She inflated her cheeks and exhaled with a pop. “Man, I hear you. I do. But I get the sense that this is about more than just becoming mayor, you know? I’m thinking that maybe he’s not handling your mom’s death so well.”

  Heat rushed to Philip’s face. Was he nervous? Nervous that Rachel was catching on? As far as she knew, or so Philip thought, Dad’s goal was to dethrone Andrews and save Flagstaff from oblivion. Dad was passionate about doing exactly that, but for both him and Philip, everything else took a back seat to avenging Mom. Rachel would understand, of course—she was essentially family—but Philip didn’t want to burden her; punishing those who allowed Mom to die was his responsibility.

  He asked, “When has he ever let you down?”

  “Let me down? What do you mean? Like at work?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He scratched at his temple. “How long have you been at the ranch now?”

  She threw her head back in thought. “Oh, man. Since ’52, I think.”

  “So peak depression, he gave you a job. He miss paying you even once?”

  “No. You know that.”

  “Then when the war rolled around and business got good for him again, he took care of you, right? For being loyal.” With demand for the ranch’s products skyrocketing after war erupted between China and NATO in the spring of ’57, Mom and Dad could have bathed in money. They kept a little extra for themselves, sure, but the bulk went to the people who made the business possible, first and foremost Rachel. He didn’t like using that fact against her, but the truth was, she had a house and a car and a family because of his parents’ generosity.

  She sneezed again and sniffled. “Point taken. You’re right. I’m overthinking this.”