“Speak freely.” Joseph said. “I welcome any insights.”
Lars cleared his throat. “Well, this flat piece up front doesn’t shine like a typical lens, but still I’m convinced it’s a camera.”
“As am I.”
“The existence of such an advanced drone doesn’t shock me, although it’s amazing to consider. What does trouble me is its deployment here, quite frankly, in the middle of nowhere. I’ve given it almost constant thought all week.”
“Who?” Joseph said.
“Exactly. Technology like this I’d expect to be deployed abroad. Foreign terrorism is without question our government’s highest priority in this day and age.”
“It flies in the face of logic, doesn’t it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Who?” Joseph repeated.
Lars shook his head. “Only a highly successful defense contractor could afford to develop something of this caliber. I doubt even the greediest of them would sell something so complex to just anyone. And by your own account, sir, I find it difficult to believe that your rivals to the south could ever hope to possess something so sophisticated.”
“Nor would they need it,” Joseph added. “I’ve ruled them out completely at this point.”
“My mind then jumps to the next possibility. Forgive me if this sounds a bit strange, but as far as the government goes, I have heard that there is a very small operation that actively monitors the cattle supply. Predominantly in the west, but … in theory, it could take place in the east as well.”
“By actively … are you referring to cattle mutilations?”
“Yes,” Lars nodded. “You know, I never thought my interest in such oddities would turn out to be of any practical use. Those ranchers have little to gain by lying, and I highly doubt they could hoax some of those carcasses. The more I think about it, the more I believe in its plausibility as an ongoing program. Just consider the numbers of animals involved. Consider the complications Mad Cow caused a few years back. Uncle Sam would be wise to keep his thumb over the situation.”
“That’s a good start,” Joseph said. “I’ve read on the mutilation subject. Also I’ve heard first-hand accounts of trusted associates. But … I can tell you with certainty that we’ve never experienced that phenomenon here. If we are in fact being monitored by such an agency, it is by much more subtle means.”
“The numbers are too few in New England.”
“In comparison with the west, absolutely.”
“So I’m back to the beginning again,” Lars said, turning the tiny drone over in his hands. “I doubt the government’s involvement. At least not actively.”
Joseph nodded slowly, his expression unreadable to the mercenary’s watchful eye.
“Right,” Lars said, trying to gather his thoughts into a coherent statement. He scratched his stubbly chin in frustration. “But still … something about this stinks to me. No one without serious backing could send drones or plant listening devices. All of my impulses are telling me that this isn’t just surveillance. It seems … almost personal. More like an obsession.”
At those words Joseph Snow stood and paced to the window looking over the pasture. He pushed his shirt sleeves up and wrung his powerful hands together, rippling the wiry muscles of his forearms. Lars couldn’t tell whether he was frustrated, pleased with his efforts, or a little of both. He couldn’t help but thinking that he pitied the man that was ever on the receiving end of those hands. Just to shake hands with the man could be a potentially uncomfortable interaction.
“Mr. Olsen,” Joseph began slowly. “It comforts me to see that you possess reason in addition to your various practical skills. Given the difficulty of what I’ve asked from you, you’ve jumped to no rash conclusions in an attempt to find an easy answer. I appreciate that greatly. So … I’d say the time has come for me to tell you the truth.”
Lars looked up sharply from the drone in his hands to the old man standing by the window. The truth? You’ve had me playing guessing games, wasting time, to test me?
Joseph turned and looked him square in the eye. “I know who is watching us, and I have my guesses as to why. But until they provide us with a few more clues, I have no idea how to counter them.”
“I’ve told you,” Lars said slowly. “There is no trail to follow back to those who hired me. To try would be an endless goose chase. The banking alone would—”
“I’m not squeezing you,” the old man assured him. “I trust that you don’t have a name and address to point me to. And Swiss banking is not popular for undue value. No, my hope in this endeavor is that you will continue down the path of reason. Along with your experience, let it guide you toward a probability. From there, we can better understand how to proceed.”
“Who, sir?” Lars asked, wondering how the old man could possess such certain knowledge and still be claiming to need help.
“We, as a pack and a species, have older enemies than what I’ve told you.”
Lars scratched firmly at his chin stubble. “So you do know …”
Joseph moved back to his chair and sat down. “Yes,” he said. “And no. That’s the great frustration of it. And that’s why I desperately need your insight.”
***
Once Jess was gone from the room, Amy lay back on the big bed. It was a wonderful bed in its own right, but it felt exceedingly plush compared to the old Civic seat she’d spent far too much time in. She stretched, feeling the tension in her neck and lower back beginning to dissipate.
In no time she felt weightless and warm—almost as if she was floating in a warm swimming pool beneath the hot sun. The feeling seemed to go on and on, intensifying, until at last she became so warm that she began having difficulty breathing. What air she could get was sweet-smelling … almost fruity, but it was overwhelming in a way that pulled her slowly back into consciousness.
Amy sat up quick, nearly rolling off the bed. Pulling frantically at the obstruction to her breathing, she discovered that the warm sweetness was nothing more than a wet towel that had been thrown over her head. Across the room Jessie’s robed silhouette stood before the mirror.
“The bathroom’s all yours, Ames. It looks like Mrs. Ludlow left us some drinks while you were asleep.”
“Thanks for the towel,” Amy scowled.
“Complain, complain. There’s a big stack of dry ones and nice robes in the bathroom. And don’t drown in that tub either; it’s deeper than you are tall.”
Drinks. Amy spotted what she took to be a tray on the bedside table. She reached for it, letting her finger tips just touch the nearest glass. It was still cold. With both hands she lifted the glass. Its contents smelled sweet. She took a sip—then a longer one. She didn’t stop until the glass was empty.
“It smells like apple juice,” Jessie remarked.
“It’s cider,” Amy said. “And it’s amazing.”
“You’re not allergic to apples, too, are you?”
“No.”
Jessie lunged across the room and snatched up the second glass before Amy could steal it—as if Amy was anywhere near as selfish as she was. “Pretty good,” she said, then set the glass on the dresser and resumed her Marcia Brady hair routine. “Hey, you don’t suppose Evie’s grandma will actually put us to work, do you?”
“I don’t know,” Amy said, remembering Matthew’s comment.
“She looked sort of serious to me, even though Matthew said she was just teasing.”
“Yeah,” Amy said as an evil plan took root in her mind. Her friend might have been taller and healthier and more popular than she was, but she had little going for her as far as wits were concerned. “But I don’t know that I’d risk going down there till Evie gets home,” she said with the just the right amount of question in her tone. “Just smell this house. Clearly Mrs. Ludlow is baking a lot.”
“Ugh. There were a lot of blueberries stacked around that kitchen. You know how I hate cooking.”
“I’d keep your voice down,” Amy
advised. “If she hears you say that, you’ll be her kitchen slave in no time.”
“Please. You don’t really think she can hear us way up here do you? She’s old. Like at least fifty.”
“I should call her,” Amy said.
Jessie stopped brushing her hair and stared through the mirror. “Why?”
“To thank her for the drinks. But really we could test how well her hearing is.”
“That’s lame,” Jessie said.
“Is it?” Amy stood up from the bed and started for the door. She cleared her throat.
“No-no-no-no,” Jessie whispered as she ran over on tiptoes to bar Amy from the door. “Don’t make trouble for me. I’ve already had my bath; she’ll expect me to come down and work. God only knows when Evie will be back.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you hogged the bathroom.”
Jessie’s face went stern and slightly red. In her own mind, people like her didn’t do physical labor … unless it was a specific exercise to shape and tone a particular area. Even so, being so near to perfect to begin with, she rarely exercised anyway.
“Fine,” Amy said. “Right now I need a shower. We’ll worry about this after.”
“Yes, you sure do need a shower,” Jessie agreed. She stepped out of her friend’s way. “After all you’ve been through, I’d say you’re overdue to relax. Take all the time you need in there, and don’t worry about me. I’ll be right here, getting organized and settled in. I’ll barely make a peep.”
“Whatever,” Amy said, forcing back a smile. The best part was that Jessie truly had no clue how transparent she was. Even though she couldn’t see her face clearly, just knowing that Jess was uncomfortable filled her with a wonderful sense of satisfaction.
~5~
Lars listened closely while Joseph began summarizing several centuries of family struggle. He wasn’t exactly shocked to hear of the religious aspect of the persecution, but he was surprised at points at the level of brutality involved.
“Granted,” Joseph said, “there was some due cause for the hatred. Not all of our kind are interested in living peacefully beside humans.”
“This reminds me of the French story,” Lars remarked.
“Gévaudan?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Joseph hesitated. “I suppose there is often some truth, misguided or not, mingled with many fearful tales. Obviously I can’t comment on stories I have no personal knowledge of or involvement with, but I can say with certainty that some changers as ourselves are guilty of murders. That said,” he proclaimed with more authority, “the pack I descend from was certainly not terrorizing peasants and eating children. More often than not, my ancestors used their might in defense of the helpless. Wanderers and loners living outside of packs would be more prone to such activities. The very idea of lone wolves suggests that the individual is in some way bent or abnormal.”
Lars opened his mouth to speak, then quickly checked himself. Both men were silent for several seconds.
“If you’re wondering,” Joseph broke the silence. “The answer is yes. My brother is a sore subject.”
The mercenary searched for words. He knew that his expression—his slight but certain feeling of fear—gave him away to the old man. He had solved the mystery of his old stocker from his younger days, but he had far from rid himself of that old fear.
“I assure you, Mr. Olsen … my brother has dealt death to no man that wasn’t looking for it. As long as you’re not in his territory, he is of no concern to you. And as for the old days, I can say with confidence that no such lone individuals carried out successful attacks on humans under our supervision. We were very good at our work. The best, I’d like to think.”
“So this group,” Lars began, forcing his mind to proceed from that topic. “How did they come to focus so intently on your pack?”
“There’s no quick answer,” Joseph said. “To trace the worldview of our persecutors we’d have to go back to the humble beginnings of Rome.”
Lars nodded, remembering the story of Romulus and Remus, the supposed founders of Rome. “I am aware of the wolf connection,” he said. “At least in theory.”
“Good. In matters of history we must never lose sight of the times in question. Take into consideration all those centuries of strange paganism, and then ponder the effect of Constantine’s decision to adopt Christianity. Then move through the emerging Roman church, through the First Reich in the nine hundreds, all the way up until the Protestant Reformation. Do this without losing all of the pre Christian folklore—particularly among the lower classes. Then consider the many, many factions of Christianity spreading across Europe after the reformations. It was bound to happen that at least a few—especially the wealthy—would fancy themselves hunters of God’s supposed enemies.”
“I could see that happening.”
“Primarily our greatest struggles began after the failure of the Holy Land conquests. Likeminded men with time on their hands needed a new crusade to devote themselves to. We fit the bill.”
“So you were likened to demons?” Lars said.
“Among other things, yes.”
“Am I to envision your enemies as the lesser known, less successful cousins of the Templars?”
Joseph smiled. “You could say that.”
“Are they protestant or Catholic?”
“They are nothing now. Back then, as best as I understood them, they straddled the line dividing both, taking and leaving what they wished from each side. The Casts we nicknamed them, because on the rare occasions when they succeeded in catching one of our kind alive, they made grand attempts to cast demons from their prisoners. Brothers at Arms they were referred to by others. Or, just The Brothers. As time passed and exorcisms failed, they leaned more toward practicality rather than mysticism. The sword—and later the gun—proved most effective in ridding them of the problems altogether.”
“Witch trials,” Lars muttered.
“Oh, I’d say the witches got it far worse than we did. They received more public scrutiny anyway. With our speed, at least we had a chance to escape. Those women were quite often sitting ducks.”
“It makes you wonder,” Lars said. “How have any of us survived and advanced to this point in the world?”
“I’ve often wondered the same,” the old man agreed. “But then, on the other hand, even when men do find some unity and common ground, look how often they set themselves to destructive goals.”
Lars shook his head. “So, this brotherhood … You said they are nothing now.”
“Nothing compared to what they once were. We killed every one that set foot in the new world; mind you, only after years of struggling to evade them. All indications were that support from Europe had sharply dwindled. World War 1 was brewing, and chasing monsters seemed a more foolish waste of resources than ever before. The Grand Master, I suspect, foresaw the end of their age. He set himself to preparing for his own future, and in so doing, let the fight get away from him. One century ago we caught and killed him in a little coastal village. For a long time after, we lived in relative peace with very few intrusions.”
“Until now.”
Joseph nodded.
“But if you killed the last of them a hundred years ago …”
“Here, Mr. Olsen, is where we venture into speculation. We did kill every man that came to New England in search of us …”
Lars looked over as Joseph paused, seemingly gathering his thoughts or wrestling with some memory. The old man stood again and peered through the window overlooking the pasture. Lars watched him, waiting, wondering. He swallowed dryly in the thick silence.
“These are secrets even among a secretive race,” he finally said. “After all these years of holding them, forgive me if I part with them with difficulty. This is information reserved for a very small circle. Say nothing to Mr. Harken, or any of the young of the pack.” He faced Lars again, his face stern, his eyes deeply green, his tone stronger than usual. “Not a
word.”
“Not a word, sir,” the mercenary answered as Joseph gazed silently, sternly back at him.
Again a long silence hung in the room. It was Lars that ventured to break it.
“I’ve already accounted for the fact that you will be my final employer,” he finally said. “It may sound strange, but I find a certain contentment in being a part of something far deeper than myself. It’s … for lack of a better word … meaningful to me. Apart from killing cartel men and suspected terrorists, I haven’t had a purpose in my life for many years.”
Joseph began pacing slowly. “Regarding killing,” he said thoughtfully. “If it comes down to that—which I certainly hope it does not—are you absolutely positive you can pull the trigger when the time comes?”
“Can I kill another mercenary such as myself?”
Joseph nodded.
“I doubt I’ll enjoy it much, to be perfectly honest. But I’ve never hesitated in my career. Once things start, training takes over and I seem to be able to perform. That’s the only reason I’ve made it this far.
The old man took a long breath. “Before I go on to my theory,” he exhaled, “I will tell you that by the time our little war reached the new world, these strange missionaries had more than religious zeal fueling their aggression. My father accepted a very lucrative job that made possible the journey to America, and our new lives here. Our enemies knew not the details, but suspected—or perhaps concocted the idea—that we had been paid by a different, wealthier branch of Christians. The very idea infuriated them.”
“Were you?”
“Possibly,” the old man answered. “But we don’t know for sure.” From a desk drawer Joseph produced a photo and handed it to the mercenary.
Lars took it and looked it over. It was an aerial overview of an island, seeming to have been printed from a webpage.
Seasons of Wither (The Great North Woods Pack Book 3) Page 6