Wolves

by Cary J. Griffith

  The wind buffeted the roof and house sides. There was more snow blowing into what had been the backyard, alley and nearby yards. It was enough to obscure even the closest house. Sam huddled against the worst of the blow.

  He felt inside the belly panel of his coat and pulled out the steel handled flashlight. He reached down, extended the butt of the flashlight through the window and the frosted glass shattered.

  He placed one arm through the broken pane, the other against the front. In one heavy effort he pushed and pulled and with a sudden jolt the window broke open. Glass sprinkled onto the basement floor and Sam’s wrist passed over a shard edge. He jerked his hand back. He could feel the laceration, knew it would bleed, but it was a slight wound. He returned to the window, pushed it open and locked it upright.

  He turned around and backed into the wide window well feet first, lowering himself through the tight enclosure. It was plenty wide enough for him to fit, even with his bulky winter wear. He let himself down and dropped to the floor.

  It was quiet in the basement, out of the storm. Quiet and warm. His flashlight pierced the darkness. Against the far wall he saw a lamp, a sofa and a table covered in plastic. He turned the beam on his wrist. Drops of blood beaded along a narrow line, but it was just a scratch. He walked over and opened the preserve room door. His light danced off dozens of stacked jars, everything covered by a heavy patina of dust. Seeing all the jars put up by his mother’s hands was like stepping into a mausoleum. He had not eaten since dinner. He hadn’t thought of food. But when he saw the jars of pickles, jams, beans, corn, and every other kind of vegetable and fruit, his hunger surfaced like a cork.

  He took down a jar of pickles. A piece of masking tape read “DILL” in his mother’s awkward script. Sam set the jar aside and kneeled in front of the bottom shelf. He took a minute to remove the contents from the shelf and set it on the floor beside him. Then he tapped under the front lip and the shelf loosened. He lifted and slid it out from its mooring, setting it aside. He flashed the light into the floor-wall cornice and could barely see the heavy wires. He reached in and teased them out, making them taut. They were steel wires, and though they looked tarnished and dirty from 20 years against a basement wall, they still felt solid. He pulled on them, carefully, and a pair of foundation bricks nudged forward. Once loosened, he brought them all the way out.

  He flashed his beam into the dark opening. Tucked into the cave there was a large bag. He reached into the black space and dragged it out. It was heavy and covered in dust. He kneeled in the basement storage room, lifted the heavy canvas bag and shook it. The air filled with a light cloud and he coughed. He hoisted the bag to his shoulder, picked up the jar of pickles, and stood, stepping out of the storage room and turning to the basement stairs. At the top of the stairs he flicked off his flashlight and let his eyes grow accustomed to the close darkness. A muted back alley light filtered through the kitchen window. It was enough to find his way down the near hallway. He examined the dining room, living room, bathroom, laundry and bedrooms. He entered his old bedroom. He could see the windows were covered over with snow.

  He closed the door and the room went dark. He flicked on his flashlight and set it on the pillow so it faced down his childhood bed, illuminating the room. The bed was still covered in familiar white chenille. Beside the bed stood the old wooden spindle and faux birch bark lampshade, the white bark faded to yellow. His rectangular pine dresser was still in the corner. There was a pair of closet doors that opened into a recessed wall space.

  After his mom moved to town, the old man refused to let Sam stay here more than a few nights every month. But his mother had made it nice for him and they had both endured the old man’s control. All those years and she’d kept his room exactly as it had been when he was a boy.

  He wondered what she felt as she passed it, after he had left for good, maybe waiting for him to return, suspecting and then knowing he would not. He wished things had been different and he’d been able to breach the chasm between them, to let her know that on occasions her remembered kindness reached out of the past. He recalled her hands preparing a meal, washing clothes, cleaning the house, canning preserves. His mother’s heart was simple. She’d loved him without measure, abatement or conditions, done what she could to make him right. She’d lived with a kind of purity, and he wished now that she was here and he could tell her how he felt.

  He turned to the duffel, loosened the drawstring and peered inside. Near the top was a thick envelope addressed to him. He set the envelope aside, returning to the bag. He found the ten gauge shotgun, one of his father’s precious Decimators, the one with the fang-scarred stock. The old man once told him it would be his, but Sam had never lived up to the shotgun’s promise. So the old man hadn’t kept his word. Sam felt happy now to see it.

  The bag also contained the army issue camo parka, pants, and boot coverings Sam had used for stalking in snow. And there was a full box of shells, also dusty and old. Sam guessed they were still operational. If powder remained dry it could hold its charge for decades.

  Under it all was a wrapped plastic square, about the size of a shoebox, taped tight so it had the shape and heft of a brick. When he peered through the plastic he saw the blurry face of Benjamin Franklin. There were four of them, set side by side on what appeared to be thick stacks of bills.

  If the entire brick was $100 bills it was a considerable sum. The unexpected treasure made his pulse spike.

  He set it aside, opening his mother’s envelope. There were several handwritten pages and another legal document. The legal document was a copy of her will. It was a long letter, dated just days before she died. He angled it to pick up the flashlight’s beam and skimmed it in the half light.

  She talked about her health. She didn’t know how long she would live. She was starting to feel her age and she didn’t think the end was far off. She had spent the last few months converting her retirement accounts to cash, gradually withdrawing the savings from her account, over $179,000. If she had drawn a cashier’s check and mailed it, and then passed on, she was afraid Williston would have found Sam and figured out a way to recover the money. If she mailed it she would have to insure it, and Williston might find out where it went and why. “Your father knows a lot of people,” she explained. “People who owe him favors.”

  Neither did she trust Williston about the will. She expected he would alter it, since everything had been left to Sam. So she’d taken the money and hid it in the bag believing, knowing, someday Sam must return. And she knew Williston would never find it, not in their secret place. She’d made sure to leave a second copy of the will, this one dated to be her last, “and notarized in Brainerd so if the older copy is altered you’ll have proof.”

  She reminisced about Sam, when he was a boy, their lives together, about everything that happened to them. And she warned about confronting Williston, if he was still alive.

  “Get your things, but be careful about it.”

  She told him to share nothing with Williston Winthrop, advice he didn’t need.

  She ended the letter with an apology: “I am so sorry for everything,” she said. Then, “When you read this I hope everything finds you well. And please remember that I always loved you—more than you can possibly imagine—and always will.”

  As Sam grew older he wondered why his mother never told the old man to fuck off. The first time Williston raised a fist she should have drawn up legal papers and taken him for every dime he was worth. There was no excuse for accepting the years of belittlement and abuse. But it was his mother. He recognized her optimism in the face of despair, how she refused to let the old man’s wickedness tarnish her perspective. And it was true; his father knew people. It would have been difficult to find justice on the Range.

  When he was twelve his mother left the farm and moved into this house, to get away from the old man, not her son. But Sam recognized Williston Winthrop held the
power. Sam was a boy and wasn’t expected to live outside his father’s rule. When he re-read the last lines of her letter, he knew she had lived her life according to her convictions. They weren’t his convictions. Never had been, never would be. In the childhood room she’d prepared for him, he regretted not fighting harder against the old man’s rule. But he had been a boy and the old man was his father and a powerful son of a bitch.

  He picked up the brick of money and felt its heft; $179,000 and change, a considerable sum, particularly by weight. It must have pissed off the old man. Sam smiled to think about it. He knew his mother smiled too.

  Outside, the storm was still howling. He would have to leave soon, or risk getting stuck, maybe even discovered. He carried the jar of pickles into the kitchen. He placed the jar in the bottom of the sink and twisted the lid open. He heard the vacuum seal pop and the fragrance of dill was released. The odor of dill and vinegar and his mother’s special blend was overpowering. He pulled a pickle out of the jar and tasted it, remembering in a sudden rush the pickles he loved as a boy. It had been a long time since he’d had hunger for anything. The pickle tasted salty, pungent and remarkable.

  He recapped the jar and returned to the basement. He extracted three more jars from the preserve room and slid them with the pickles into his bag. He replaced the bottom shelf and moved the contents on the floor back onto it. Then he crawled out the window, leaving the basement as he’d found it. He carried the bag on his shoulder, struggling back over the Defiance streets, returning to his jeep. He started the cold engine and in the early morning darkness managed to back out and plow past the dead end of the street. Then he spun the jeep’s heavy treads through the thickening snow and returned the way he’d arrived, with stealth through the widening winter storm.

  Eventually the town cop would discover his break-in. But by then the snow would cover his tracks. Weather reports indicated the heavy blow would drop a few more inches before it was done. That would mean it might be awhile before Grebs discovered the broken cellar pane.

  He thought about his mother’s letter and the money. Her hope and heart strength were her best epitaphs. And his mother’s will had been altered. The proof rested in his breast pocket, where at the right time he would enjoy making it known. He wondered what the statute of limitations was on probating an estate? He’d have to find some legal counsel. But he would have to be careful about it. How he had acquired the will and when to make it known would require some planning. For the moment it was enough to have the old man’s precious Decimator in the back of his jeep, nestled beside his mother’s pickles, her $179,000 and three jars of her excellent preserves.

  Part II

  Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.

  Matthew 10:16

  Chapter Nine

  January 30th—the cabin in Skinwalker’s Bog

  “Are you getting anything?”

  “Nothing,” Angus answered. “Not a goddamned thing.”

  Angus sat in front of the cabin’s citizens’ band radio console, trying to call out. “This is Woods Weasel calling the Defiance Star. Are you reading? Over.”

  Around them the dawn was just starting to break, bright and frozen. The snow banked to their windows, covering the front door. It lay in piles in the woods, along the few hidden trails leading to the cabin and the remote, abandoned logging roads leading to the trails. The pathways were impassable and both of them feared it would be more than a day before Angus could snowshoe the three miles back to the truck, and then dig himself out and return to the farm. Which meant the dogs would be alone in the barn for another day. With the goddamn door open.

  “Just keep trying,” Winthrop said. “We need to get word to Grebs.”

  Angus peered out of bloodshot eyes. “I know.” He was growing weary of Williston’s repeated demand.

  “He has to go over and tend them,” Williston continued, ignoring Angus. “Grebs has to find the kill and report it. And get your dogs,” he added.

  “I know,” Angus agreed. When Williston was edgy, it was best to go along.

  Williston hadn’t stopped mulling plans since they’d been forced to leave the farm. Now he was trying to work through all the alternatives, tracking consequences, considering steps. He didn’t like where his options led, but he didn’t have much choice. The dogs unsettled him. Before anyone could be notified they’d have to be caged. And what if someone else found them? What if they ran? The goddamn wolf-dogs were a nasty loose end, difficult to explain and threatening to unravel his plan. He reminded himself that it was unlikely anyone would visit the farm, particularly after a storm like this one, especially given the roads. But he’d feel a whole lot better if they got word to Grebs.

  “There’s only one answer to this,” Williston finally blurted.

  Angus looked at him, waiting for the next directive.

  “Remedy,” he smiled. “A little remedy in our morning coffee.”

  It was an unexpected remark. “Now you’re talkin‘,” Angus agreed. “Hair of the dog that bit ya‘,” he grinned.

  As Williston walked across the room he heard Angus place another call into the ether: “Woods Weasel to the Defiance Star. Come in, Star. Is anyone out there? Anyone listening? Come in. Over?”

  Winthrop was still stunned by the night’s random misfortunes. They had been forced to leave the dogs. They had driven at a crawl through howling winds and blinding snow and were damn lucky to find the entrance to the abandoned logging road. When Angus went to unlock the heavy chain, he’d disappeared in a slantwise fury of snow. It reminded Williston of farmers getting lost in blizzards only yards from their front door.

  In the dark, the truck’s headlights illuminated a sideways howl of white, obliterating his view. At the point where Winthrop was certain Angus had been gone too long, was possibly lost, he saw fingers reach out of the blizzard. Angus’s gnarled, weathered hand, accustomed to storms, groped and pulled himself through the blow. He struggled forward in a stumbling lurch. He fought his way into the cab.

  “Did you find it?” Williston asked, inquiring about the lock and chain.

  “Jesus Christ,” Angus heaved. “Almost got lost out there.”

  “Where are your gloves?”

  “I had to find the chain by feel, then the lock. Then the wind tore the gloves from under my arm. Had to let ’em go.” He was heaving, clearly shaken by the storm.

  “Did you get it open?”

  Angus nodded. When he caught his breath he said, “but I’m not sure we want to drive into it.”

  After Angus dropped the chain they had no other choice but to inch forward. Normally Angus would have gone back and re-affixed the chain and lock, but after almost getting lost he refused to try.

  They’d spent well over an hour edging toward the trail point. Fortunately, the abandoned logging trail was narrow and overgrown. In most places a healthy canopy overgrew it and afforded some protection against the storm. It provided them with enough visibility to find the trailhead. And once into the bog the trees helped lessen the blow. Still, they took an extra hour struggling along the narrow trail to make it to the cabin. Almost immediately they’d started calling out on the CB.

  Now the radio crackled and sparked.

  “It’s the atmosphere,” Williston observed, returning with the whiskey. “That goddamn storm choked the roads, the country, the whole fuckin‘ Range. Now it’s whipping around the air waves, sucking every particle into a black hole.”

  “Must be right over us,” Angus agreed. “I can’t get a goddamn thing.”

  Winthrop topped Angus’s coffee with whiskey. After Angus picked up his cup Winthrop raised his own. “Here’s to making mayhem pay.”

  Angus raised his cup and sipped, still peering at the knobs and dials. He flipped a receiver switch and started moving the volume dial. As he did, a
crackle faded into someone’s voice. Words. They were barely discernible articulations, vowel sounds and consonants. They couldn’t pickup anything clear, but it was a man’s voice.

  “There’s something,” Williston observed.

  Angus tweaked the dials. He edged it left and the voice disappeared. He tried the microphone. “Hello,” he said. “This is the Woods Weasel,” he began, giving his call sign. “Just trying to find somebody. Anybody there? Over.”

  The voice came back, still muffled.

  “Things are starting to clear,” Williston said.

  Angus barely touched the dial and out jumped a man’s voice.

  “This storm is not the work of Satan, but the Hand of God! If anyone believes for one moment that God is unaware of the devil’s pernicious habits, his unyielding effort to turn men’s minds to evil, then it is he who does not know God. For God knows all things. He is all-powerful, able to see into your heart, and mine. And yes, He can even peer into the black depths of Satan’s puny muscle.”

  It was some religious nut, Williston guessed. Using the airwaves to preach his own personal sermon. And judging from the reference to the storm it had to be somewhere on the Range, someplace near. “Turn that asshole off,” Winthrop snapped, which was just fine by Angus Moon.

  Chapter Ten

  January 30th, dawn—Diane Talbott’s cabin

  Somewhere far out in the woods, the dawn’s orange patina began to glow. Last night’s storm left a high bank of snow against Diane Talbott’s northwest walls. Snow covered her driveway in alternating drifts. Snow buried her old Datsun pickup so only the hood and wheels on one side were visible. Snow banked high on her front porch all the way to her bedroom window that was only now beginning to show the morning’s first crimson light.

  Diane had just fallen back into a deep slumber.

  She had gone to bed early because there was nothing to be done about the storm. She was 47 and her sleep patterns had begun to alter with the first glimpses of menopause. In addition to temperature modulation and mood swings that swept across her like siroccos, she sometimes awoke in the middle of the night. She had friends who had been through it, so she knew what to expect. She’d had two checkups with Dr. Susan Wallace, who told her she could soften the effects with hormone therapy. Diane Talbott hated the idea of using a drug to ease what was a natural aging process. But she was tired of a poor night’s rest, histrionic mood swings and hot flashes. She decided to give it a try. And it had worked. At least for sleep and temperature modifications. But a side effect had been slightly swelled breasts and an uptick in libido, neither of which did Diane, who except for an occasional fling had been single and unattached for more than five years, much good. It made her smile and was further proof of one of her core beliefs; we were little more than dullards when tinkering with Mother Nature.