There were two things that could fix a mild hangover.
Hair of the dog that bit ya‘, was a phrase that came to mind.
Sam Rivers had spent twenty years putting the old man behind him. Williston Winthrop’s voice rising like a cork was, like Sam’s drinking, a testament to the pain of recent days. It was becoming increasingly hard to remember any good days.
It had been less than two weeks since Kay Magdalen told him his ex-wife was dating Salazar, a USFW accountant Sam barely knew. And then, almost as though Providence wanted to increase Sam’s suffering, Charlie’s cancer finally took him. Sam Rivers suspected the end of this recent struggling chapter was up on Green Mountain, where in the middle of the night he had taken Charlie’s body and buried it in their special place. It was in clear violation of Green Mountain’s rules and regulations, but Sam Rivers knew it was the right thing to do. Besides, it was a minor transgression, and Charlie—who had always disregarded the Mountain’s leash law, running pell-mell over its slopes—would have liked it.
Sam’s weekend gave him a bad case of whiplash, but he felt pretty certain the worst of his recent past was just about over.
He aimed his jeep toward the Pepper Jack’s truck stop in Erie. It was on the way and he could set his cruise control high enough to make time. The typical eastern Colorado sunshine didn’t do much to ease his headache, but his dark glasses helped.
About the only thing that had changed in his twenty years was his life’s direction. At least he no longer felt rudderless. Becoming a Special Agent for U.S. Fish & Wildlife was, now that he considered recent events, one of the most fortunate turns in a life that had been plagued with bizarre missteps and switchbacks.
After a half hour he pulled into Pepper Jack’s and put his jeep in park. Though he had little taste for it, experience told him that black coffee and eggs smothered in ketchup and hot sauce and choked down with a piece of dry toast was a better antidote than the old man’s whiskey. He walked in, ordered his potion and started to eat.
For a while he had considered his courtship and marriage to Maggie the single most positive event in his life. But she had tried to surface things he didn’t want to think about. In the end, their relationship’s demise left him feeling more alone than ever. Loneliness, when you are young and ignorant, is expected, part of the landscape. But after you have fallen in love and experienced a partner’s companionship and then lost it, that kind of loneliness is on a different plateau altogether.
He ate just enough to assuage the dull throb in his head. Then he paid, walked out to his jeep, got in, and pulled back onto the interstate, setting his cruise control and trying to think about nothing.
Chapter Three
January 27th—the cabin in Skinwalker’s Bog
The dead man walked out of the cabin and paused, listening for Angus Moon’s approach. In his right hand he held a .45 caliber pistol. The first thing he noticed was the cold, probably twenty below in the shadow of these trees. He listened carefully, but heard nothing. Maybe a little wind through the pine tops, but you could never tell, they were bunched so tightly here, the cabin hidden in their midst.
The man knew he would hear Angus Moon’s approach along the swamp edge. Now he hustled down the path, searching for a place to hide.
Almost 24 hours earlier the man snowshoed across Skinwalker’s Bog. It was a three-mile hike and unless you knew where you were going and how to get there, the trip would probably be your last, in this kind of cold. He had reached the cabin after dark, let himself in, shook out the cold and fired up the potbellied stove. Then he switched on the CB radio and scanner, but heard nothing until the call to dispatch around midnight, from the sheriff’s cruiser. There had been two calls; one by the sheriff telling dispatch where he was headed and why, and one on the way back, from Smith Garnes, telling the office they were finished and returning. That was around 2:00 a.m. but the man only half heard it. By then he was dead drunk, celebrating with three-quarters of a fifth of rye.
Damn good thing Angus was bringing more supplies, he thought.
Now he stepped carefully over yesterday’s tracks, weaving through the thick wood for a little more than a hundred feet until he stopped again to listen. Nothing. Just wind, definite at the tree edge. He could see the intense afternoon sunlight through the perimeter’s boughs. He stepped forward, using the pistol’s barrel to part the branches, and peered across the frozen swamp.
No sign of him... yet. He leaned back, concealing himself, and waited. It was a full minute before he remembered to cock his weapon. If he waited until Angus passed through the tree edge, the wary woodsman would hear it and be warned. He pulled back the trigger until it clicked and held. Then he listened again, but it was still quiet. Now he just tried to remain still.
The discovery of the vagrant James T. “Jimbo” Beauregard happened less than a week ago. Jimbo’s entrance triggered a series of events that happened so quickly the dead man’s head still spun. Since then, he’d been looking forward to spending some time alone at the Club’s cabin.
The cabin was in the heart of a remote tract of wilderness the Ojibway had always avoided, probably because it was so covered over by swamp, bush and mosquitoes that it was no place to hunt. Even deer had trouble navigating the place. The Iron County Gun Club managed to build a secret, remote cabin in the center of it. And to keep it secret the Club members promoted the name Skinwalker’s Bog, reporting that the natives stayed out of it because within its ten-mile-square tract of swamp, strange things occurred. Never mind that Skinwalker was actually a Navajo myth from the American Southwest. The Club thought ‘Skinwalker’ sounded a whole lot better than Wendigo, the Ojibway boogieman. So they appropriated the name for their own purposes, and it stuck.
In the summer it was impassable. In the winter, not much better.
But by the early afternoon the man started feeling stir-crazy. The morning hadn’t been a complete waste. He’d spent some serious time contemplating future moves, and he’d come up with something so compelling and perfect it was an inspiration, in keeping with their latest spate of good fortune. No one had seen Jimbo coming. He’d stumbled into Defiance, broke, freezing and ready to do anything for a meal and a warm bed. Bill Grebs took one look at him and recognized the opportunity.
But no one would see this opportunity. It would take some work getting the others to recognize it. What he needed was to make one of them believe it was their idea. And he thought he had figured out how.
Now he stood hidden at the tree edge, his pistol raised and ready, waiting for Angus Moon. Finally he heard movement across the snow.
Angus Moon snowshoed through the brittle sunlight, skirting a rare stretch of open swamp, searching among the ancient stumps for the dark entrance where the path turned off into tree-covered shadows. Angus didn’t like hiking into the Bog in the middle of daylight. He preferred coming late in the day, or under cover of darkness.
The Club members were careful about approaching the cabin in Skinwalker’s Bog. Starting in the full light of a clear afternoon, even though the temperature had only climbed to a -15, was risky. Someone might see where Angus had turned off the highway onto an old logging road. If they followed the tracks they’d find his truck more than a quarter mile up the path, concealed in a stand of black spruce. But they’d have to hike it, Angus thought, since he was always careful about relocking the heavy gauge chain that stretched across the logging road entrance, padlocked at one end. Someone’d need a bolt cutter to take it down, Angus knew, which is why he wasn’t too worried about it.
He was more irritated about Williston’s goddamn calves. Now that Williston was gone, the chore of tending his livestock fell on Angus Moon. He had to check on them twice a day. This morning he’d fed them and made sure the propane tank heater was still on and operational. The arctic wind sometimes blew it out and froze the tank solid. He would have to check on it later, on his way back, and Ang
us Moon didn’t much care for the extra labor. Tending to his own dogs was about as much work as the old woodsman wanted.
Few people knew it, but Angus Moon’s most ambitious venture involved hybridized wolf-dogs. He’d brought a powerful Arctic wolf down from Canada. The wolf killed two malamute bitches before he took one for a mate.
In some states, breeding wolf-dog hybrids was illegal. But in Minnesota breeding and selling them was a legitimate business, though there were few who pursued it, because wolf-dog hybrids could be problematic pets, if not outright dangerous. Angus didn’t care. He charged the out-of-state breeders $1,500 a mutt but made sure the transaction was confidential. He was careful about his work and happy for the supplement to his meager income. But he chafed against even the minimal work his breeding operation required. Now, for instance, he would have to drop off supplies, have a drink, and then gather himself for the hike out. Calves and dogs, they were pissing him off.
He was familiar enough with the cabin path to snowshoe without thinking. His short, bandy legs knew the way. Besides, he was damn close and getting thirsty. Whiskey’d take the edge off. Now he pushed through a swale of pine boughs, pausing just beyond its edge to let his eyes grow accustomed to the shadows.
When the waiting man heard Angus approaching, he positioned himself carefully amid the tree boughs. He raised the gun in both hands, holding it straight out in front of him, waiting and ready. Angus came through the tree edge and stopped.
The man adjusted the pistol’s aim so that it focused on the center of Angus Moon’s hood-covered head, less than three feet away. Then he pulled the trigger.
The hollow metal ping made Angus Moon jump like a snowshoe hare startled by a lynx. He jerked, grunting, and then turned so see Williston Winthrop aiming the pistol at his head.
“You’re a dead man, Angus Moon,” Williston said, and then laughed.
“You could get killed, pullin‘ a stunt like that!”
The pistol dropped to Williston’s side. “I’m already dead,” he said.
For half a second Angus Moon’s eyes flashed.
Williston saw it, and added, “Take it easy, Angus. A dead man can’t be too careful. Besides, I was getting bored and needed a little fun.”
Moon looked away, still pissed.
“Let’s go get a drink,” Williston said.
Once inside the cabin Williston poured them both a full tumbler of cheap rye. They drank it off in one long swallow and Williston refilled their glasses.
“So how’d it go?” Williston asked. He could see the whiskey was working.
“The paper’s out,” Angus finally said. “Already got a story.”
“The paper’s already covered it?”
“That Talbott bitch was at the farmhouse last night, askin‘ questions.”
“With the sheriff?”
“Came after, when the sheriff was out lookin‘ at the body.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Talbott must’ve seen the patrol car,” Angus guessed.
“Maybe. But that’s good. We’re ahead of schedule.”
Angus pulled the Vermilion Falls Gazette out of his bedraggled pack, followed by three cans of chili and two more bottles of whiskey. Angus got settled and had another good long drink, feeling the pleasant burn.
“Who all checked on the body?”
“The sheriff, Grebs, Smith Garnes and Doc Wallace.”
“Sounds like a goddamn convention.”
“Grebs said everything went off like clockwork.”
“Did they take the Decimator?”
“Took the shotgun back to the morgue with Jimbo’s body.”
Less than a week earlier Bill Grebs found Jimbo holed up in the abandoned rail station on the outskirts of Defiance. He was a bum, on his way north to work in his sister’s café, somewhere up in Canada. Grebs liked rolling bums, but the first thing he noticed about Jimbo was his look; except for the face, he could have passed as Williston Winthrop’s twin. The face was definitely different, but the Club finally figured out how to fix it, and they did. Angus Moon’d pulled the Decimator’s trigger, removing the front of Jimbo’s skull.
“You make sure and get the Decimator back,” Williston said.
“Course,” Angus said.
“Did they check the pockets?”
“Grebs said so. Took your wallet and some business cards from a back pocket.”
“Perfect. I won’t be needing that license anymore. Or the cards,” Williston laughed. Then he picked up the paper. It was column 1, front-page news on the Gazette.
Local Attorney Dies in Hunting Accident
Diane Talbott
The Vermilion Falls Gazette, Jan. 27
Vermilion Falls - Williston Francis Winthrop, 62, of Rural Route 3, died Monday evening of a single gunshot wound to the head, the victim of an apparent hunting accident. Winthrop was hunting alone on his rural acreage when he leaned his shotgun against a fallen tree. Straddling the tree to step over it, the shotgun slid down the log and discharged.
The shooting was reported to the Sheriff’s office at approximately 11:00 p.m. Sunday by friends of the deceased. The friends, all members of Williston Winthrop’s Gun Club, went searching for the late attorney when he failed to appear for their weekly card game.
Vermilion County Sheriff Dean Goddard and coroner Dr. Susan Wallace said the full coroner’s report would be released pending further investigation and consultation with the County Attorney’s office.
Winthrop was a well-known Iron Range attorney and hunting rights advocate. One of his recent high-profile efforts was ardent opposition to Minnesota’s Wolf Management Plan. In several public comment hearings Winthrop argued that wolves had returned to the state in sufficient numbers to have them de-listed from the Endangered Species Act. He noted that wolf depredation of livestock and pets was on the rise, and he believed it was only a matter of time before wolves attacked a human. His most controversial recommendation was to re-instate wolf bounties, a population control method not used in the state since 1965. His suggestion was never seriously considered.
Williston Winthrop was preceded in death by his wife, Miriam Winthrop, also of Defiance. He is survived by a son. Funeral services 3:00 p.m., February 1, Defiance Lutheran Church. Interment 4:00 p.m., Defiance Cemetery.
He smiled when he reached the end. “Goddamn,” Williston said. “I’d say she just about nailed it. Except for the part about my suggestion to return to wolf bounties.”
Angus had read the article, but quickly, just to make sure there was nothing worrisome. “What?” he asked.
“She got the stuff about being opposed to that goddamn Wolf Management Plan about right. But she says here my ‘suggestion to reinstate wolf bounties was never seriously considered.’” Williston scoffed, smacking the paper with his hand. “There are plenty who think it’s a good idea. And if I’d lived long enough I would have seen it through.”
“Damn straight,” Angus agreed.
“I forgot Talbott knew the boy,” Williston said.
“We wondered about it.”
“Nothing to wonder about. The kid doesn’t matter. He won’t do anything. It’s been 20 years. Even if he found out about it and returned, there wouldn’t be a goddamn thing he could do. Grebs’d take care of it.”
The two men sat for a while, sipping whiskey, talking about plans.
“We still have scores to settle,” Williston finally said.
Angus Moon grunted, already thinking about his hike out. The afternoon light was starting to settle, and those goddamn calves would be waiting for more feed.
“You tend the calves?” Williston enquired, knowing the woodsman hated the job.
“Course,” Moon said, displeased.
“They still fat ’n happy?”
“Big,” Moon said. “Eat too much. Soon
er we sell ’em the better.”
“They’re not quite ready.”
In years past Williston sold off the animals and used the butchering proceeds to keep the Club in beef. But this year was going to be different. “It’ll be a while,” he answered, reminding the woodsman his labors would not end soon. “Meanwhile you’ll need to check on ’em. Twice a day.”
“I know it,” Angus snapped.
“Morning and night,” Williston said. “This wind could blow out that propane tank heater. And now that they’re just about ready, I don’t want wolves coming in to take them.”
“Wolves?” Angus didn’t like the idea of two daily trips to Winthrop’s farm. Given the drive and the added chores it was too damn much. But Angus Moon knew wolves, and they’d never enter a barn.
“Wolves,” Williston mused. “Now that no one’s around those vermin might take advantage. Might see opportunity.”
“No wolves gettin‘ into a barn.”
“Just because they haven’t done it yet doesn’t mean they won’t. You sound like the DNR. Wolves don’t give a rat’s ass where their meal comes from. If it’s easy and available and there’s nothing to stop them, they’ll take it. They’re vile opportunists.”
“You know damn well I’m no friend of the DNR. But Williston, wolves don’t go into barns and take cows. Just don’t happen.”
“Yet,” Winthrop returned. “If wolves came in and took ’em, one thing’s for damn sure. It’d shake up the DNR. And U.S. Fish & Wildlife. Teach ’em these vermin are getting out of control.”
“Like to see that.”
Winthrop paused. “What if there was a way to lure some in and set ’em loose? We’d teach every tree-hugger in the state these wolves are hell-bent on one thing: destruction.” He waited for the woodsman to catch on.
Wolves Page 3