Wolves

by Cary J. Griffith

  “An old friend of Diane’s.” He stared at Hank Gunderson.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Gunderson blustered. “This is no concern of yours.”

  Sam doffed his stocking cap, loosened his scarf and unzipped his coat. He took a second to shed the coat and drop it with his scarf over the back of the sofa. Now he was unencumbered. He turned back to close the door. Then he turned back around and ran his fingers through his hair, never taking his eyes off Gunderson. Beat the shit out of him, he told himself. What he deserves. But all he said was, “I think you should let her go, Hank.” Sam’s use of the big man’s name unnerved him.

  If Gunderson ever loosened that steel-clasp grasp, Diane was set to uncoil.

  “This is none of your goddamn business,” Gunderson repeated.

  But Sam could feel a sudden shift in the battle.

  “Rape?”

  “I wouldn’t have raped her. We were just having fun.”

  “Fuck you,” Diane spit.

  Sam held the big man’s gaze long enough to convey reckoning. “Yeah,” he said. “Fuck you.” Then he smiled, but without humor. “Chances are, if we all got into it, you might land a couple of good blows. But to do it you’ll have to let Diane go, and when you come after me something tells me she’s going to be behind you, ready to finish the job she started with that lamp.”

  Sam watched Gunderson working through the problem, recognizing the change in numbers, how it worked against him. “Who the fuck are you?” he repeated.

  “The name is Sam,” he said. “Sam Rivers. Like I said, an old friend of Diane’s. I was in town and decided to say hello...” When he was young, the old man made Sam address everyone as mister. It had been Mr. Gunderson. “Hank,” Sam finished.

  There was another long moment as Gunderson pondered his options. Then recognition. “Clayton?” he asked.

  “Rivers,” he said. “Sam Rivers.”

  Gunderson considered, startled by the realization. One of his overgrown legs moved away from his body and kicked the lamp across the room. His arms relaxed and Diane slipped away. She turned as she left. Her fist came up like a prizefighter’s, cutting across Gunderson’s jaw as she backed away. From the meaty sound of it she landed a pretty good blow. Gunderson’s head shot back and she backed out of reach.

  “You son of a bitch!” She started shaking. “Next time I’ll have a gun,” she managed, her eyes blurred with rage.

  Gunderson stared at her, enraged by her parting shot. His hand rubbed his jaw and his middle finger reached into his mouth, coming out red. His left fist lowered and clenched. He appeared ready to charge.

  “Go ahead,” Sam said. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  Sam’s voice was even, measured, calm. Gradually the blood ebbed out of the big man’s face. The danger passed. He managed to turn and pick up his coat, made a wide arc around Sam Rivers. At the door’s threshold Hank turned.

  Sam could see he’d regained some composure. He looked at Diane. “Maybe I got a little out of hand,” he observed. Then his eyes narrowed. “But next time I won’t be so nice about asking.” He turned to Sam. “My advice to you is get out. There’s nothing for you here.” Then he turned and disappeared into the cold.

  Chapter Fourteen

  January 30th, dusk—Bill Grebs snowshoes into Skinwalker’s Bog

  It was not the first time Bill Grebs considered himself an outlaw. It was nine below, practically mild by Defiance standards but cold enough to make Grebs’s elevated breath rise in columns through the trees. He wore a black ski mask, black mittens, and a midnight-blue snowmobile suit. If you were an owl, perched overhead and watching for movement across the snow, Grebs’s dark shadow was as clear as a passing moose. But if you were anyone else, casting a sidelong glance through the darkening wood, he was an invisible burglar.

  All morning he’d sat in his office, monitoring the Sheriff’s radio chatter, waiting to hear news of the call regarding the wolf kill at Winthrop’s farm. Even if Angus had only contacted the DNR, news would have filtered through the sheriff’s office. Steve Svegman, the local DNR conservation officer, would have relayed the information to Goddard. There would be another investigation, this one by Svegman. And then they could file their claim with the Minnesota Department of Agriculture.

  But word never came.

  It was Thursday. He wasn’t due at the cabin until Friday, to celebrate Williston’s wake. Everything coming in from official channels was business about the storm, power outages and downed lines, a few stranded vehicles. A plow breakdown out of Vermilion Falls. Finally, late afternoon and unable to contact Angus by phone at either his place or the farmhouse, or the cabin by CB, Grebs knew something was wrong. He had to find out what.

  One hundred yards short of the cabin he slowed his approach. There were five overgrown paths leading into the hidden cabin, little more than game trails, all from different angles, as though the cabin was the center of a huge wheel and each of the trails were twisted spokes. The Club members were careful to vary their approach, though at dusk Grebs took the shortest and most traveled path. The drifts were particularly deep in this part of the country, and he occasionally looked behind him to see his snowshoe tracks cut the fine dry powder. He didn’t like leaving such a wide swath, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Ever since they’d built the cabin, Winthrop had involved the men in a game designed to hone their stalking skills. The game’s goal was to approach the cabin without being seen or heard. Grebs knew it worked best after dark, but Angus Moon’s wolf ears always heard his companions’ approach. The walls were nine-inch timbers. The windows were double paned. But Moon had a preternatural ability to sense movement and sound in the wilderness.

  The others thought Moon’s keen observational ability was a trick. Those near him would watch the way Moon’s head cocked to one side. He’d raise a hand for silence. And then they would all hear the snap of a twig or a leaf rustle. If it were dark, they’d douse the lights and grow still. If it were light, they would conceal themselves just outside the cabin, behind the outhouse, or in one or two hidden nooks inside the cabin.

  In the near dark Grebs stepped carefully through the snow. From the overhanging boughs, twenty yards from the cabin’s windows, the place looked deserted. Two pairs of snowshoes were stuck upright in drifts beside the front door. The kitchen table, just the other side of the front window—their primary sitting, drinking and gaming table—was empty. Given the rest of the day, he thought it was a bad sign.

  Grebs shushed to the front door. He removed his snowshoes, deposited them in the snowbank next to the others, and stepped into the cleared-out space in front of the door. Not a sound. The door creaked on its rusty hinges. Still no movement. Then he heard it. A startled grunt, followed by a deep, sonorous snore.

  “For Christ’s sake,” he muttered, entering the cabin, shaking himself off. He hung his coat and stamped his feet. It was enough to make the snoring stop.

  The cabin was warm and smelled of wood smoke, bacon and cigars. It was a simple construction, but large for a hideout carved out of Skinwalker’s Bog. They’d had plenty of timber to work with, and they’d used it. There was a great front room, open across a long plywood floor with a couple of dingy woven rag rugs, faded ovals across the scarred boards. Along one wall was a small bunk and along the back there were three small bedrooms—two with single beds lining each wall, a small dresser, a propane gas lantern, and a narrow walkway to allow a person to walk into the bedrooms with enough space to turn and sit. The third bedroom was furnished with a queen bed, a narrow walkway along one side. There was a large kitchen table in front of a wide pair of windows, frosted over in the cold. There was also a counter with a sink, a gas stove, a gas refrigerator, and along the right front wall some open cupboards with dented pots and dishware. It was a sparsely furnished place, but just fine for gaming, hunting and scheming. All in all it was a comfortable de
n. But Grebs wasn’t feeling comfortable.

  On the kitchen table were two coffee cups and an empty whiskey bottle. Grebs guessed the rest.

  From the room with the queen bed Williston stirred. “What?” he seemed to mumble. There was a long pause before Grebs heard him mutter, “Oh, fuck.”

  Grebs walked over to the room’s entryway and said, “Yeah. I’d say. Oh, fuck.”

  Winthrop lay across the bed face down. He’d been in deep slumber. “Goddammit,” he managed, starting to come awake. He turned and saw Grebs standing in the bedroom’s threshold. “We almost died last night,” he muttered.

  Grebs was in no mood. “You died Sunday.”

  “Gettin‘ out here was a nightmare,” Winthrop said, managing to roll over. “We tried all night and into this morning to raise you on the radio. Couldn’t get a thing.” From the next room they heard Angus resume his snoring. “Guess Angus didn’t hear you.”

  “Guess not.”

  “He almost lost it in that goddamn storm.”

  “Why in the hell didn’t anybody check on the stock?”

  Williston thought for a minute, trying to come awake. “What time is it?”

  “After five.”

  “Christ,” he managed, turning on an elbow. “When Angus and I couldn’t reach anyone we decided to have a little something to raise our spirits.” He could see Grebs wasn’t mollified. “Don’t worry,” Williston added, waving an arm to ward off the lawman’s concern.

  Grebs backed up and let him come into the front room. There was a large potbellied stove near the center back wall. Williston limped over, still waking up, and threw another log into the stove. A wisp of smoke curled out the iron door. Then he turned to a shelf over the sink, took down some aspirin, shook some pills into his palm and downed them with a cup of water.

  “Those calves’ll keep,” Williston finally said. “At least what’s left of ’em.”

  “I know the calves’ll keep. It’s the DNR and Agriculture I’m worried about. We need to file that claim.”

  Williston paused for a minute, stretching in front of the stove. He stopped, then said, “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Half of what?”

  “We had to leave them.”

  “You had to leave who?”

  “Those dogs.”

  “You left them in the barn?”

  “Yup.”

  “For Christ’s sake!” Grebs exhaled. “Suppose someone goes out there and finds them?”

  “Who?”

  Grebs considered it. “How in the fuck should I know? Maybe somebody who thinks they can steal something out of a dead man’s farmhouse.”

  “So how would they explain they were there, providing they went out to the barn, found the wolves, and decided to report it?”

  Williston had a point. “Did you consider the Sheriff? Goddard’s been poking around. Maybe he’d go back out to have another look at the scene.”

  “Goddard’s the least of our worries. And if anyone pokes around, they’ll find wolves. So what?”

  “Did people get a lot more stupid in the last 24 hours? Why would wolves be corralled in a closed up barn?”

  Williston paused, turning. “We left the door open. Couldn’t get it shut.”

  “What?”

  “The door froze open. The storm clogged the runner with snow and ice while those hybrids were killing and feeding. We couldn’t shut it. But now that I think of it, that’s the way they’d enter. Wolves. When Angus has to explain it.”

  “What if they ran?”

  “Could have. I doubt it, given that storm. And the barn’s full of food. And they were damn hungry. We couldn’t cage them because they were still eating. And we had to get the hell out of there, or get stranded. Did you want them to find me?” He scratched his head and yawned. “But think about it. Say they run and someone shoots them. They’re wolves, aren’t they?”

  Grebs thought for a minute, not happy about it. But the hybrids definitely looked more wolf than whatever else Angus had bred into them. “More or less.” But Grebs could tell Winthrop was talking himself into this new perspective, given the turn of events. “So what now?”

  “We rouse Angus.”

  As if in answer, Moon snored from the middle bedroom.

  “He needs to get back to town. There’s something I need him to do at the office.”

  “What?”

  “Loose ends,” was all Winthrop said. “I don’t want anyone to find any incriminating files. Goddard or Dunlap. I might have forgotten something.” He paused for effect. “I want Angus to burn it,” he said, knowing Grebs wouldn’t appreciate a major Defiance blaze.

  “A fire?”

  Williston nodded. “A big fire.”

  “How big?”

  “The Winthrop Building.”

  “A goddamn building fire?! It’ll draw too much attention,” he said, shaking his head.

  “You think I wouldn’t do it unless it was absolutely necessary?”

  Grebs turned away. “I don’t like it,” he said.

  “Neither do I. That’s why Angus is going to be extra careful about how it’s set, and when.”

  “Williston,” Grebs exhaled. “Goddamn it. How’s it going to look with your office going up in flames less than a week after your death?”

  “Shit happens,” Williston shrugged. “It’s an old building. Old buildings burn every day. There’s a bad socket with a bad fixture plugged into it, directly behind my desk. That and a little dust should make the place go up like a tinderbox. Besides, it’s insured,” he smiled.

  “When’s the last time we had a fire in Defiance?”

  “It’ll happen after midnight. You’ll be home in bed, along with everyone else. There’ll be an electrical spark from a faulty socket. And you know the place is full of paper. Dry paper, just waiting to burn. And the Fire Marshall practically condemned the place the last time he went through.”

  Grebs exhaled again, looking away. “I need a goddamn drink,” he said.

  “Hair of the dog that bit ya‘,” Williston smiled. He turned toward the other bedroom. “Angus!” he yelled. “Wake up! Angus!”

  Angus stopped snoring.

  “What about those dogs?” Grebs asked.

  “You and Angus can get them in the morning. Angus! Goddamn it. Get the fuck out of bed!”

  Angus moaned.

  “What if the dogs aren’t around?” Grebs asked.

  “Would you leave in the middle of a storm when there was food and shelter right under your nose? They aren’t going anywhere. Even if they do, they’re wolves. It would appear to be a wolf pack returning to the woods. That might be better,” he said, winking one sleepy eye.

  “They’ll want to trap them.”

  “Good.”

  “They’re not exactly wolves.”

  “They look like it, more or less. Angus!”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Angus moaned.

  Grebs continued warming himself by the stove, not exactly calmed by his first heavy draught of amber liquid. He felt unsettled by the development, and the ease with which Winthrop discounted it. Whiskey, he thought. While he contemplated the next morning’s efforts, trying to work out the timing, a lone howl pierced the nine-inch walls. It was far off, not loud, but they all heard it. The wail from the deep woods raised hairs on the back of Grebs’s neck, even though he was used to wolf howls. “That’s the first time I’ve heard them in Skinwalker’s Bog.”

  Angus creaked across the bed, managed to sit upright. “Maybe it’s my dogs,” he mumbled.

  “Just what we fuckin‘ need,” Grebs said.

  “Maybe they decided to run.” Angus wasn’t serious, but he could feel Grebs’s worry.

  “You don’t think they’ll stay?” Grebs called into the bedroom.


  “You just never know about wolves,” Angus said, slowly, getting the words out one at a time. “You saw them take after those feeders,” he added, bending over and starting to rise, stepping out of the room. “I didn’t know they had it in ’em.”

  “They were starving,” Williston observed.

  “I know,” Angus said. “Smart to keep them hungry so long. They remembered they were wolves.”

  “Part wolves,” Grebs corrected. “They still have some dog in ’em.”

  “Last night they tore into that stock like full wolves,” Angus said. “Maybe even something better,” he mused, coming out of the room, heading to where the whiskey sat on the kitchen table. “But I know my dogs.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Grebs said. “Because if you’re not, we’re going to have one hell of a time catching them.”

  “Don’t worry,” Williston reassured. “Angus’ll get ’em.”

  “Yeah,” he said, agreeing with Williston. “I’ll get ’em in the morning.” Then he considered. “It’s good a pack’s come into the Bog. Just shows how much the vermin are spreading. Helps explain our kill.”

  As if on cue a chorus of low howls sounded through the cabin’s timbers, far off but distinct. The men listened to their eerie wails.

  Angus didn’t expect his dogs to run. If they did he had no idea how he might lure and then cage five dogs that had finally recollected their ancestry.

  “Angus,” Williston said, after the woodsmen had a chance to drink. “I’ve got a little job for you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  January 30th, early evening—Miriam Winthrop’s house, Defiance

  After dusk Sheriff Goddard nosed his cruiser into the alley behind Miriam Winthrop’s vacant Defiance home. The temperature began dropping with the sun. It was already twelve below, heading deeper.

  Good and cold, thought the Sheriff, happy about the arctic air mass. It would keep most folks indoors.

  He pulled the cruiser to the side of the plowed alley directly in front of Winthrop’s garage. Lights were on in the neighborhood homes. The sky was clear, but the moonrise was still a couple hours off. If anyone looked out their windows they might see the shadowy outline of his patrol car. Might, over the plowed drifts. Then again, this kind of cold frosted over glass. And it was dinnertime. Most families were gathered around their kitchen tables, taking in the warmth and a little chow.