Wolves

by Cary J. Griffith

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe it was just something the Club decided to do for its members? The more I think about it, the more I think it was just a gamble. From what I hear they were all players. Maybe Winthrop and the other Club members were figuring one of them would knock off before the end of the life insurance term. Didn’t Percy tell you he’d seen Winthrop down at the Black Bear Casino on more than one occasion?”

  Dunlap nodded.

  “Well I guess his old buddies hit pay dirt.”

  “Two point five mil,” Dunlap mused.

  “Damn. That’s a lotta jack.”

  After a few moments of silence, during which both of them briefly wondered what they would do with that kind of money, Jeff Dunlap said, “I’m not sure there’s a whole lot we can do about that insurance payment. But we might be able to pry recompense out of Winthrop’s estate, providing we can find paperwork that details his legal maneuvers with those pensioners. Tell you the truth, I’m not even sure we can do that. Our best bet is to prove fraud, which might be possible considering I never saw any high-tech wheelchairs. And some of those drug regimens are suspect, according to Doc Wallace. We could also try to turn that district court judge into a state’s witness. Since he’s in line for some overdue justice, we’d at least have a bargaining chip.”

  The Sheriff waited before he spoke, long enough so he didn’t betray his eagerness to assist. He didn’t like hiding it from his old friend, but he had no other choice. “Maybe I should poke around a little,” he suggested.

  “I was thinking the same thing. Maybe take a look at his office and that Defiance house, for starters. Then his farmhouse. It’d be within your purview to enter the place and nose around. I suspect we’ll have to wait for a search warrant, but I can work those details, if one becomes necessary.”

  “What about Grebs?”

  “What about him? There’s no reason to bring Grebs into this. I don’t give a shit if he’s the town cop. Since he’s a beneficiary, there’s a clear conflict of interest. If Grebs catches you at Winthrop’s office or his Defiance home, just tell him the county attorney wanted to make sure an old colleague’s property was safe.”

  “Old colleague?”

  “Percy’s a lawyer. Winthrop was a lawyer. Colleagues. Call it professional courtesy.”

  “Percy’s office investigated that prick three times in the last ten years.”

  “Then call it attorney collegiality,” Dunlap quipped, vaguely.

  Dean grinned. Finally, he stood up.

  “We’re going to follow that crooked bastard into his grave, dig around a little and see if he can throw us a bone.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Dean said, turning and starting out of Dunlap’s office.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  The Sheriff laughed, nodded and said goodbye. He was already contemplating a schedule that would allow for an early evening visit to the vacant Defiance home, definitely after dark.

  Chapter Thirteen

  January 30th, late afternoon—the Defiance Hotel

  The alarm awakened him. Sam’s mouth tasted bitter and dry. He grabbed his Dopp kit and made his way down the hall to the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth, showered and washed away two days on the road. He decided to leave his three-day beard growth. Maggie had never liked his beard. It gave him a rough look. Maybe it was time to grow one. He wrapped a towel around him, carrying his dirty clothes back to his room. He changed into a fresh multicolored Western shirt and a pair of jeans and tried to make himself presentable.

  When he looked out the window he could see the abandoned depot, the railroad tracks and the woods beginning to darken. He checked his watch and it was almost 5:00. He remembered how darkness came on quickly in northern Minnesota. Frozen woods at midnight could be a sanctuary, when entered at the right time, with the right equipment and the proper frame of mind. When he was young he liked hiking in pale moonlight, particularly in extreme cold, when he knew he would be alone. If he could walk into the woods after a heavy snowfall, so much the better. When the snow was fine and powdery you could walk through the forest with little more than the hush of your snowshoes. But his midnight excursions taught him to be careful about darkness, that sometimes it was better left alone.

  Eventually Grebs would discover the break-in at his mother’s house. And it was only a matter of time before Sam would be recognized. The burial was the day after tomorrow, when he would witness the old man’s final interment. Then they’d know him. Once they discovered the break-in and knew he was in town, the obvious step would be some kind of search. That’s what Sam would do. He considered seeing Grebs’s cruising in his patrol car in front of the Hotel a warning. It was time to hide the duffel.

  Diane Talbott was one of his mother’s more unlikely companions. For starters she was over a decade younger than his mom. Sam had heard stories about Diane Talbott’s wild youth, when she was in college and through her 20s. Truth is, during their day-long canoe expeditions into the BWCA or hiking some of the trails around Defiance, Sam recalled his mother’s friend as a square-shouldered Amazon. Back then he guessed she was around 30. She was an up-north outdoorsy kind of woman. Long dark hair, strong legs that curved up to rounded, perfect glutes, and she had well-defined muscles on her arms, probably from all that time she spent paddling. And her chest was proportioned well enough to kindle a 15-year-old’s imagination (though at 15 it didn’t take much).

  Before he left, he reached into his bag and pulled out his cell phone. It wasn’t unusual for him to be out of contact for more than 24 hours. He was often in places cell phone signals didn’t reach. But it had been an unusual two days, particularly since he’d turned off his official phone. He thought he’d better check his messages.

  He wondered about service in Defiance, but when the phone finally came up, needing juice, it connected. Almost as soon as it connected, his message light came on. He dialed in and listened. Two messages.

  First he heard his supervisor. Forensics in Ashland had finally finished running the tests on that fur. Judy Rutgers’s sheep killer was a hybrid—part Mexican Gray Wolf and part coyote. They would have loved to have caught the animal just to see it. It had everyone stumped, since it implied there was part of at least one Mexican wolf in Colorado, or at least one within 500 miles. Unfortunately, it never returned. The traps were going back to storage. “Just thought you’d like to know,” he said.

  A hybrid, Sam thought, deleting the message and waiting for the next. That was a surprise.

  Kay Magdalen’s voice came onto the line. “The plot thickens, Rivers. You apparently decided to take my advice and cash in some vacation time? Good thing, since you’d be losing it at the end of the year. You aren’t in Las Vegas, are you?” she asked, chuckling behind the comment. “Here’s the deal,” she continued. “You’ll never guess who applied for your job.”

  Kay was already referring to it as Sam’s job. Typical of Kay Magdalen, who usually got what she wanted.

  “I’ll save you the suspense. Carmine Salazar,” she said. And then she let the news soak in a little. “That’s right. Can you believe it? His name is Carmine. Like the color. Like a bruise.” She snickered at her own wit.

  Sam just listened.

  “No wonder he goes by Sal,” she added. “When you get a chance, give me a call. Let me know what you’re thinking. The spot is yours. National Field Agent on the Interagency Task Force. I want you to have it, Rivers. It’s perfect for you. We both know it. But I can only hold off Salazar so long.” She paused, and then said. “So I hope you’re having fun in Las Vegas,” and then hung up.

  Salazar. Sam was surprised to hear he’d applied for the job. The new head of USFW was the kind of inside administrator, a USFW blueblood, that might appreciate Salazar’s business and accounting acumen. But a field agent? Salazar? From what Sam remembered, Salazar was a pretty boy, someone he couldn’t imag
ine wading through mud, both the real and metaphorical.

  For a minute it pissed him off. Then he remembered the last 48 hours. He couldn’t recall more than a couple seconds of thought devoted to Carmine Salazar or Maggie. Charlie had come to him a few times on the long drive to the Iron Range. Charlie would have liked crossing the South Dakota prairie. And Sam would have appreciated his friend’s companionship. But beyond Charlie, Sam hadn’t thought about his ex-wife, her lover, or anything else about the USFW or his Yellow Rock home. And that’s because he still had work to do.

  Kay Magdalen would have to wait. And he knew she would.

  A few miles west of Defiance, Diane Talbott’s mailbox marked a driveway that disappeared into the trees. ‘D. TALBOTT’ was written on its side. The lane curved up into a thick stand of black spruce. There was a pair of fresh tracks in the newly plowed driveway. He wondered if she had company.

  Fifty yards beyond Diane’s driveway, Sam turned onto a freshly plowed gravel road. He followed it until it bent around a copse of trees. Then he pulled to the shoulder, cut the engine and stepped into the frosty dusk.

  His jeep was out of view of the highway. He’d just as soon check out Diane’s place (and Diane) before assuming it was the best place to hide his duffel. He trusted not much had changed, but given the contents of his bag and what he was going to ask of her, it was wise to be cautious.

  He peered into the back and made sure the bag was concealed and his jeep secure. The western horizon still held a distant faint glow of dull orange. In a few more minutes it would bleed into night. Occasional remnants of last night’s storm blew out of the northwest, ticking the branches of leafless trees. It was cold, and getting colder.

  He walked back along the road’s shoulder, turned at the Old Road and walked another fifty yards to Diane’s drive. It twisted up a slight rise through a thick stand of black spruce. You couldn’t see the cabin through the trees. Sam bent to examine the tire tracks. Thick new treads, probably a pickup. There was only one set of them. She had either left and not returned, or she had company. If she had company he would just slide out the way he’d come, no one the wiser.

  He climbed farther up the drive and saw the edge of the cabin through the trees, then the tail section of a new blue pickup protruding from the corner of the house. He couldn’t be certain, but it looked like the same truck he’d seen on the highway last night, before entering Defiance. The truck was a polished powder blue. When he came closer he saw dealer plates.

  Hank Gunderson’s truck in Diane’s drive? Maybe Mrs. Gunderson, if she was still around. Maybe Hank’s wife borrowed his truck and was visiting? But from the times Sam had met Hank’s wife he remembered her as a quiet, submissive, slightly rotund woman whose lips only opened to acquiesce to her husband.

  He stepped quietly up the drive, closing the distance to the cabin’s back corner. His breath clouded in the early dark. He stepped along the drive’s shoulder, where the fresh, powdery snow muffled his footfalls. He walked up along the pickup and peered through the frosted passenger side window. On the pickup’s front seat there was a half-finished pint of whiskey. Parked on the other side of the truck was an old Datsun pickup, its northwest side banked high with snow. Diane’s car, Sam guessed. If he was right about the new truck, he was surprised Hank Gunderson was paying Diane a visit. But it had been a very long time and things change. He thought about turning around and leaving. And then he heard a woman’s voice. Unless he was mistaken, it was a few decibels louder than pleasant conversation. He edged to the outside cabin wall. He moved within five feet of the front door, listening. When Diane’s voice broke off, he thought he heard Gunderson’s deep bass answer, low and measured, vibrating across the porch. He was pretty sure it was the same voice he’d heard last night. When Gunderson was done speaking, Diane’s voice retorted: sharp, focused, angry. But he couldn’t make out the words.

  Sam edged further along the front porch, peering through the kitchen window. Wooden cupboards. Some dishes in the sink. A steak knife lay on the countertop, surrounded by a quartered lime. Sam ducked below the kitchen window and edged toward the door. Their voices grew louder. He stopped and pressed his back against the wall. From this angle he could peer around the corner and see a closet inside the front door.

  He was contemplating his departure when their voices sharpened. Sam flattened, turning his ear against the outside wall, listening.

  “. . . arrange a Ford Escape?” the man asked.

  “Hank,” Diane said, loud enough to make her point. “You need to leave.”

  “A new Escape could get you around a whole lot better than that Datsun socked in by the storm.”

  There was a long pause before Diane seemed to turn and face the door. “Get out of my house,” she finally managed, cold and direct, louder than any of her previous words.

  “What is it with you?” Gunderson blurted, ignoring her.

  Sam heard him rise. His voice moved as he walked across the room.

  “I know people in Eveleth. They told me you were a party girl. That you lived for a good time. And that’s all I’m saying now. I’ll show you an excellent time.”

  “I haven’t been to Eveleth in 20 years. And what I did when I lived there is none of your goddamn business. Now get the hell out of my house, or I’ll call the Sheriff!”

  Sam heard her move as she spoke. Their voices were louder, tense. He edged to the side of the front door and stepped back so he could see through the front door window. His face was obscured in the dusk light.

  “This here is Bill Grebs’s turf,” Gunderson said. “You’re still in Defiance.”

  A tattered sofa and easy chair were positioned in front of a fireplace. Some logs were smoldering in the grate, nearly ash. There was a throw rug in the center of the room. Gunderson stood in front of the chair. Diane was behind the sofa. Sam saw the back of her head, a thick salt and pepper braid trailing down its center. Her square shoulders were tense and alert. She looked stronger than he remembered, more formidable. A little wider in the hips and up through her torso, but he recognized the same backside he’d hiked and paddled behind.

  “Go home to your wife, Hank,” she said, trying to reason with him.

  Gunderson stared. “I told you about the money,” he said, continuing to bargain. “A fair piece of change.” There was a pause. “How much would you want?”

  Gunderson wasn’t begging. It was a business proposal: an exchange of commerce. He wanted to know her price.

  Diane didn’t answer.

  “What would you do with five hundred bucks?” Gunderson asked. He started to smile. “How about a grand?”

  She ignored him.

  Emboldened by her silence, Hank stepped forward.

  And then she exploded. “Get the fuck out of my house!” she growled, pointing to the door.

  The color of Gunderson’s face had been a healthy pink (which Sam guessed was the whiskey). Now it was crimson. In the yellow cabin light he looked old. He’d made his final offer. Diane was steadfast, shocked by the proposal. There was a little fear in her fury. And with good reason. Unless he was mistaken, it looked like rage building behind the big man’s eyes.

  Suddenly Gunderson turned, head down, starting around the couch toward the door. Sam jerked away from the wall. He hustled out of sight, then broke into a dead run, leaping over a snowdrift, trying to conceal himself before Gunderson stepped through that door. But in mid-air he heard the door’s bolt lock snap shut. Gunderson never intended to leave.

  Halfway back to his observation point he heard Diane scream. As Sam came up to the door he heard another scream and then Diane’s “Get the hell out of my house!” accompanied by a heavy crash.

  Gunderson crouched low to the ground, his big arms outstretched, moving like an upright bear. Diane was in a corner, wielding a pine-based lamp like a baseball bat.

  “Come on, Diane.” He was
smiling.

  The big man must be a whole lot drunker than he appeared.

  “Get out!” she repeated.

  “It’s been a while.” He took a cautious step forward.

  Diane blurted something unintelligible and swung. Gunderson leaped back and the arc of the lamp brushed his shirt.

  He started laughing, ignited by the gesture, as though it was some kind of perverted foreplay. He moved closer and Diane stepped back, boxing herself further into the corner.

  “You son of a bitch!” She swung and Gunderson leaped back, then quickly reestablished his ground. Diane cocked to swing again.

  “I’ll pay,” Gunderson offered. “You wouldn’t have called me tonight unless some part of you wanted to consider my offer.”

  “Get the fuck away!” She swung again and he lurched back, stepping forward as the arc of her swing passed. For a drunk past 60 he was quick enough.

  “If you touch me it’ll be assault.”

  “Your word against mine,” Gunderson said. Diane swung, again enraged. Gunderson pivoted, stepped in behind her. His huge arms closed around her and the lamp fell to the floor. “And Bill Grebs is a friend of mine,” he said, tense, through gritted teeth.

  Sam stepped back, made a solid kick and there was a loud thwack as the wood splintered and the door swung open.

  The bunched pair turned to face him, Gunderson holding Diane tight in front of him like a shield. Sam stared, trying to measure the big man’s resolve. And then something in the agent shifted. He could feel it build. He’d felt it before, in similar tight quarters. An adrenaline rush that if left unchecked made him feel as though he was capable of beating the aging car salesman until he was unconscious. Or dead. Only this time it was personal. This time he would have to be extra careful.

  “Who the hell are you?” Gunderson finally coughed.

  Sam glanced at Diane, thought he saw recognition, then disbelief.