Wolfwraith

by John Bushore

  “Not a problem, Shadow my man. This thing won’t get stuck, even in one of the ponds. You could power right out.”

  “Yeah, and tear up all the muck and grass around the edge of the pond. The Chief Warden would have a fit. You know how he is about damage to the habitat.”

  “You’re right.” Jonesy grimaced at the mention of the warden’s reaction. “He’d pitch a fit all the way back to Richmond that you’d gone and destroyed some poor snappin’ turtle’s home and family with your reckless abandon.”

  “Won’t matter if you pay attention to your driving.” A hollow echo came from under the Terra-Gator. “This thing is maneuverable as hell. You have to learn what you’re doing, that’s all. They ought to just let me drive her.”

  A tanned, dark-haired mechanic in his late twenties crawled from behind one of the over-sized tires at the rear of the vehicle. He wore jeans and a sleeveless undershirt, grease-stained and torn, showing off his trim, muscular physique. A tattoo of a snarling, salivating wolf’s head decorated his right shoulder.

  “Hello, Jennings,” Shadow said without warmth. He considered Tony Jennings to be a blow-hard, someone who had always, ‘Been there—done that,’ no matter what the subject was. The mechanic had come to the park along with the Terra-Gator, in a way. Alex had been contracting vehicle maintenance out, but the Terra-Gator needed someone familiar with its special features. It made sense to have an in-house mechanic so Jennings had been hired.

  “Fletcher.” Jennings nodded a greeting. “You ready to haul your little troop of tree-huggers into the pristine wilderness?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Shadow answered. “How about the Terra-Gator? It ready to go?” He noticed the mechanic hadn’t greeted Jonesy, but he had expected it; the two of them didn’t get along.

  “She, Ranger, she,” said Jennings. “Don’t call her an ‘it.’ She’s my baby. She’s more than a hunk of nuts and bolts.”

  “If she’s got nuts, doesn’t that make her a he?” Jonesy joked, earning him a venomous look from the mechanic. Jonesy ignored it, his ever-present smile not fading in the least. Jennings often acted tough and claimed to be an ex-Navy Seal, though Shadow tended to doubt it since there was nothing military about his bearing or his slovenly habits. It was obvious Jennings didn’t impress Jonesy, either. Shadow would have put his money on Jonesy in a fight between the two, despite Jennings’s age advantage, knowing the chief volunteer was an ex-marine and a highly-decorated Vietnam vet.

  “Okay, is she ready?” Shadow rephrased his question.

  “Raring to go.” Jennings shifted his attention back to Shadow. “I tuned her up overnight, filled her tank and checked the oil.”

  Shadow was not surprised the mechanic had worked overnight on the Terra-Gator. He set his own hours since he needed to work on the park’s vehicles at times when they weren’t in use.

  “Let’s get the doors up,” Shadow said. He’d had enough of the mechanic. “I don’t want to be late.”

  Jennings hit the button to roll up the hangar door while Shadow and Jonesy climbed up the short ladders to the Terra-Gator’s cab. Since Jennings didn’t trust any of the rangers with his ‘baby,’ there was a plastic-covered check-off sheet attached with a cord to the dash. Shadow quickly compared the instructions with the controls and gauges to see if everything was in the proper position, eased the transmission lever in gear, and then began to move.

  He became aware of someone shouting and looked down to see Jennings gesturing wildly at him. Braking, he opened the window and leaned out.

  “Hold up,” Jennings yelled. “Wait ’til I unhook the exhaust hose.”

  Shadow could feel his face flush. He should have remembered, even though it wasn’t on the check-off sheet. Kindly, Jonesy kept quiet.

  When Jennings had freed the coupling, Shadow eased out of the hangar. He watched carefully to ensure he didn’t scrape the door edges; the big vehicle was a tight fit. Once clear, he accelerated.

  The hard-packed sand road was wide for the short distance to the refuge headquarters’ paved parking lot, where a nature group waited. They had booked the E.E.C. for an ecology seminar.

  He stayed at the wheel as Jonesy climbed down and greeted the visitors, swinging smoothly into an informative lecture about the Terra-Gator. Shadow was amazed at how effortlessly Jonesy, with his smile and southern drawl, put the group at ease. The volunteer led the group around the vehicle, described its features, and then assisted them up into the high passenger compartment.

  A minute later Jonesy banged on the window between the passenger compartment and cab and gave a signal. Shadow eased out the clutch and the Terra-Gator lumbered slowly along toward the dunes. As soon as possible, he left the hard surface and began the climb over the dunes through soft, dry sand. The rutted surface was far from smooth but, at such a slow speed, it was not a problem. He again used his key to raise the access barrier.

  Once on the beach, he sped up and steered the Terra-Gator along the high-water line. He could enjoy this part of the drive. There was no danger of becoming mired in the sand or going off course. In less than a quarter of an hour he eased over the dunes again, this time at the Barbour Hill crossing near the contact station.

  Shadow stopped directly in front of the station, leaving the engine running since the Terra-Gator blocked the entire width of the road. As soon as his passengers had disembarked, he continued along the road to the open area near the dock to turn around. The schedule called for the group to spend two hours touring the surrounding beach, bay and woods before continuing south. He parked and began the half-mile walk back to the park headquarters but hadn’t traveled very far before Mark pulled up beside him in a park truck.

  “Hop in,” he called through the open passenger-side window. “Alex wants to see you in his office.”

  Shadow opened the door and climbed into Mark’s pick-up.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but Commissioner Barnett showed up here an hour ago, acting like his usual up-tight, tight-assed, pissed-off self.”

  Shadow groaned inwardly.

  At the contact station, Betty Riddick, an attractive, mid-thirties brunette who served as the park’s receptionist-slash-secretary-slash-fileclerk-slash-reservationist on a regular forty-hour-a-week schedule, ushered Shadow into Alex’s office. There was no sign of the nature group, so Shadow assumed Jonesy had led them off somewhere.

  Alex sat behind his desk. Barnett was across the room, in the corner. There was only one other chair, which would put the commissioner behind Shadow. He sat, feeling as though he could be ambushed from behind at any moment.

  “Ranger Fletcher,” Alex began, “I understand you’ve been making inquiries into the disappearance of the Sandbridge woman—the runner. Is that correct?”

  Alex stared across the desk at Shadow, who could feel another set of eyes boring holes in the back of his neck.

  “No, sir. Not official inquiries, anyway,” he said. “I was curious about that girl and wondered if perhaps her disappearance could have anything to do with the park. So I asked around a bit.”

  “And why is that your concern? That’s a matter for the police, not the park service.”

  “I think it may have something to do with those other two girls, the ones who were killed last month.”

  There was a grunt behind him and Alex flicked his eyes to the corner, and then back to Shadow. “You were told to stay out of the affair. That unfortunate incident is over and done—”

  The commissioner’s voice interrupted from behind Shadow. “We’ve got enough trouble with the accidental deaths of those two girls, Ranger, and I don’t want you messing around like you were Sherlock Holmes or something and getting the park mixed up in some disappearance that has nothing to do with us. As far as you are concerned, the case is closed, Ranger. Closed. And those first girls weren’t ‘killed.’ Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir, but this new disappearance...the girl is still missing and I ha
ve a feeling...”

  “You’re quite free to have feelings, of course,” Alex said. “However, you are letting those feelings interfere with your duties. You are a park ranger, not a detective. Again, do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That will be all, Fletcher.”

  Betty studiously ignored Shadow as he walked by her desk. She couldn’t have helped hearing.

  He strode quickly back to the Barbour Hill dock and paced angrily up and down at the far end of the pier. The brisk breeze blowing off Back Bay felt good on his flushed skin as he considered what had just occurred.

  Didn’t that pompous ass, Barnett, realize Shadow’s—any ranger’s—first duty was ensuring the safety of park visitors? If there was something dangerous in the area, he certainly needed to know about it. Alex had no choice but to go along with the commissioner, Shadow knew, but it did nothing to calm him.

  A few minutes of fast pacing calmed him somewhat, though the anger still simmered beneath the surface. A check of his watch showed he would have to return to pick up the group in twenty minutes to transport them to the environmental center. He sat down on the edge of the dock, dangling his feet above the brown water. Small waves lapped at the pilings beneath him.

  He heard footsteps approaching as someone walked onto the pier. Ignoring the sound, he hoped the newcomer would leave him alone, but someone came right up behind him and stopped.

  “Excuse me,” a feminine voice said. “Ranger Fletcher?”

  He turned his head and his eyes followed long, slender legs up, and he was suddenly looking up the bottom of a woman’s shorts, with a glimpse of her underwear. Red-faced, he scrambled to his feet.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he said. “Shadow Fletcher.”

  “I’m Helen Parsons.” She looked to be in her early thirties, a good-looking woman, though a bit thin for Shadow’s taste. Short, curly, red hair framed a long face, dominated by wide-set hazel eyes. “I’m a reporter for the Virginian Pilot.” She extended her hand, smiling slightly.

  “How do you do,” he said, aware of her firm grip as they shook. He had noticed her earlier, with the other tourists. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I came hoping to talk to you, since you found the body of one of those two girls who died a couple of weeks back. Jonesy pointed you out to me.”

  “Yes, I found the first girl.” Shadow went on guard. “You’re a reporter, you say?”

  “Yes.” She looked carefully at his face, her hazel eyes intent. “Is there a problem?”

  “Well, uh...no, ma’am. There’s not much I can tell you about it. It was a body, that’s all.” For an instant, he wondered if Barnett might have sent this woman to see if he would keep his mouth shut. No, that was ridiculous. Still, he’d better not tell her too much.

  “Look, Shadow—you don’t mind if I call you Shadow, do you? I don’t bite. I saw the coroner’s reports on those girls and they both had unusual throat wounds. If it happened once, I’d probably believe it’s like the report says—probably some animal—but twice? Their kayaks were found empty on the bay, which begs the question—how did they fall out of the kayaks? The bay was calm and now there’s another girl missing. I had a hunch her disappearance might be connected so I hitched a ride on the Terra-Gator with the group and I’ll hike back.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” he said, “but you wasted your time—at least as far as interviewing me. All I saw was a body with her throat torn out. I have no idea how it happened.”

  “But two girls with the same throat wounds? And now another one missing?”

  He’d have liked to talk to her about it, since he pretty much agreed, but no, he’d better not. His anger at the commissioner resurfaced. “Look,” he said, “I only found the girl. You need to talk to the coroner.” He brushed past her and walked away.

  Chapter Six

  What the hell do you think you’re doing, Ranger?

  It happened before the first hint of dawn as Shadow drove up the beach for gas at the maintenance compound. Strong gusts of wind sheared the foamy tops from the waves like the strokes of an invisible scythe, sending small, bubbly clumps of froth skittering along the shoreline in the truck’s headlights like ghostly crabs on prancing legs. Farther up the beach, dry sand blew low along the beach in gritty clouds, making Shadow glad for the protection of the truck’s cab.

  He was a bit short of the northern boundary of the park when, from the corner of his eye, he caught a hint of something moving swiftly down the side of the dunes toward the water. A split second later, a short-legged black pig raced into the beam of his headlights, something dangling from its mouth. It appeared to be a piece of meat but this hunk of flesh had red lacquered fingernails! Shadow blinked in surprise and, unable to believe his eyes, tried for a second look, but the pig turned away.

  There was no time to dwell on it because a second pig ran into the light, in furious pursuit of the first. Shadow looked carefully to see if this animal was carrying anything, but its mouth was empty. Then both animals spun around and rushed back toward the dunes, stumpy legs churning. The entire encounter happened in seconds, a nightmare scene of a barnyard gone mad.

  Shadow cut the steering wheel to the left so he could keep the beam of his headlights on the pigs, slewing from side to side as he followed them into the soft sand. The animals sped up the side of a steep dune, showering sand down the slope, and disappeared over the crest. The ascent was too steep for the truck, so he came to a halt a few feet short of the sand hill. Reaching into the back seat, he frantically searched through piles of junk until he found his flashlight. As he jumped out, a gust of wind shoved the door wide open. Ignoring it, he scrambled up the treacherous face of the dune to the summit. He used the beam of the flashlight to search the area on the other side of the sand dune, but the pigs were long gone. His first thought was to follow on foot, but he knew there was no chance of getting near them again.

  Not that he cared much about the pigs, anyway. He was interested in what the first animal had been carrying in its mouth. Could it really have been a severed human hand, or had it been something else, maybe a crab?

  He considered what he knew of pigs, which was little. He’d never known anyone who raised pigs. The only times he had been on farms, he had been hunting in the woods and fields, far from barns and domesticated animals.

  The feral pigs he had seen this morning were the descendents of swine escaped from, or left behind by, the settlers years ago. Generations in the woods had changed them from the artificially fattened boars and sows kept by man. These wild animals were short and solid. They had evolved into creatures that ate damn near anything and so had no trouble finding forage in the park, or seafood tossed up by the waves.

  Since they would over-run the cape if left unchecked, the park held an annual lottery for hunters to participate in a fall pig season. Many sportsmen enjoyed stalking the elusive creatures, which were extremely wary of man.

  He considered calling Alex at home, to give an account of his sighting, but the chief ranger might still be asleep and without any evidence, Shadow’s report would leave him open to ridicule. What he had seen was too important to ignore, but he needed something solid to back up his story before making any report.

  He looked back down along the face of the dune and saw the gusting wind rapidly filling in both his own footprints and the pig tracks with drifting sand. He had seen the same thing when tracking animals through powdery snow as a youth. In half an hour, the tracks would be only shallow depressions in the sand. In an hour, they would be gone. He decided to go back along their track in hopes of discovering where the hand had come from.

  He half-ran, half-slid back down the loose, steep slope to the truck. Getting in, he drove south along the beach until he saw the original footprints, the trail where the pigs had come down off the dune toward him in the beginning. Turning off the lights and ignition, he got out again.

  Standing at the base of the dune, he confirmed his fears. Her
e, in the soft sands of the dunes, the prints wouldn’t last long. He began a slow steady climb away from the shoreline, occasionally grabbing the stalks of sea oats to pull himself up.

  When he reached the crest of the dune, the wind was gusting more strongly. He protected his eyes from the driven sand with the claw as the tracks led him deeper into the dunes, away from the beach.

  He followed the tracks into the dunes, past sparse grass and sea oats and into bushy, thorny plants that tended to grow in thickets. The pigs had gone in and out of the brush as they ran. Shadow walked around the thicker copses and picked up the trail on the other side but sometimes went straight through to save time. Even though the wind wasn’t as strong as on the beach, there were still zephyrs whirling around the edges of the dunes and particles of airborne sand often got in his eyes, causing tears and blurring his vision. It got brighter as the sun came up behind him and he turned his flashlight off, sticking it in a rear pocket.

  Suddenly, something large came straight at him from a thicket. His insides turned over for a moment, until he realized it was a horse. Another feral animal left behind by the settlers, the creature halted and looked calmly at Shadow. After a couple of seconds, it began to walk again, angling away from the man. Four more horses appeared and followed the first, which he recognized as a stallion when the horse showed its rear to him. Each horse regarded him without fear as it went by, three mares, one with a colt walking beside her. Shadow waited for them to pass, despite his feeling of urgency about the pig tracks. Although they were friendly enough normally, the stallion would quickly attack if he felt his herd to be threatened. When it seemed safe, Shadow continued on.

  Arriving at a place where the trail split into two diverging sets of prints, he became baffled. How would he figure out which pig had been carrying the hand? He looked carefully and found where one of the animals had stepped in the tracks of the other, and knew this was the chasing pig. Carefully, one footprint at a time, he backtracked the trail and determined which had been the leader, the one with the hand. He continued backtracking the lone set of prints north by west, moving further away from the coast. Then the trail turned due north and ran straight, which put the wind in his face. He was having trouble seeing and the tracks were filling in fast. He crossed a section of gravel road, nearly running now, afraid the footprints would be gone with the wind before he found anything.