Wolves

by Cary J. Griffith

  The snow along the side of the house was broken. Someone had tracked it since the storm. The wind had blown over the tracks, but Grebs saw they were fresh. He turned the corner and saw tracks leading up the back yard to the door, and then away from it. There was also the shuffle in the snow beside the door. The area was covered over with white powder, as though someone had kicked snow against the house to build a drift.

  He looked around the neighborhood, but the homes appeared empty. It was just after lunch. He knew almost everyone in this neighborhood and knew at this hour they’d be working.

  He took out his key chain and fumbled through the options, finally extracting one and gripping it in his gloved hands. Someone had already loosened the ice around the hinges. He’d have to ask Hank and Hal. He used his key to let himself in.

  The house was dark, stale, tomb-like. He walked across the kitchen floor. He walked down the hallway, but everything was in order. He examined the rooms on the main floor. He opened the basement door, throwing the light switch. He walked down into the old basement and was pleased to smell its dank normalcy. But it was cold. He could see his breath in the basement air. He looked around and saw sparkles beneath the basement window. He walked over and found the broken glass, looked up to see one of the windowpanes broken out. There was a mat of frozen crusted snow over the spot, with some frozen lips of meltwater seeping down the wall.

  “Goddamn it.”

  Grebs examined the rest of the floor, but everything else looked untouched. He walked into the preserve room and flicked on the overhead light. He looked at the shelves full of preserves. He considered taking one, and then noticed the undusted circles where four jars had been removed. He looked for others missing from their two-year hibernation, but there were only the four. He looked around for the missing jars, but didn’t find them.

  “Break into a house for four jars of preserves?” He wondered. Didn’t make much sense, unless you were feeling nostalgic. Clayton. He’d check the boy’s jeep, or his hotel room. It made Grebs smile.

  At the Hotel Defiance Grebs waited while Elwyn Baxter came out of the back room. As Elwyn approached, Grebs nodded cordially. The smile was returned, but the two men had never liked each other.

  “Need a room?” Elwyn asked. He had a strong suspicion why Grebs was here. Sam Rivers hadn’t returned last night. Elwyn hadn’t seen him all day. But last night when Sam was checking in, Elwyn remembered Grebs’s slow cruise in front of the Hotel.

  Grebs laughed at Elwyn’s question. “Not tonight, Elwyn,” he said. “Just some information.”

  “We got plenty of that.”

  “Excellent. Has Clayton Winthrop checked into your hotel?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t I see his jeep out front yesterday?”

  Elwyn and Grebs had known each other most of their lives, and to Elwyn there were plenty of things about Grebs that didn’t measure up, the most prominent his salary, paid for out of waning tax revenues.

  Elwyn looked down at the hotel registry. He flipped it open to the current page and read the name. “Sam Rivers.”

  Grebs smiled. “That’s the name he’s going by now. That’s Williston Winthrop’s boy. Left about 20 years back. Got into some trouble and ran. Now he’s returned with a different name. But it’s the same kid.”

  Elwyn thought about it. There wasn’t much to say. It was an interesting development, and Elwyn didn’t like Rivers’s deception, but he’d kind of liked Sam Rivers, which is a sentiment he’d never felt for Bill Grebs.

  “Is he checked into your hotel?” Grebs repeated.

  “Yep.”

  “Which room?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Grebs sighed. He suspected it might come to this. There was a time he could have forced his way into someone’s room without the proper papers, but he and Elwyn were too old and familiar. “I have reason to believe he broke into someone’s house. I think he’s in possession of stolen goods. I’d like to check his room.”

  Elwyn just looked at him. “Got the paper?”

  Grebs’s eyes darkened.

  Elwyn liked what he saw. It was enough to make him smile, though he didn’t.

  “I don’t have a warrant, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You aren’t talking about doing something illegal, are you?”

  “Look, Elwyn,” Grebs smiled, trying to adopt a conspiratorial tone. “This can just be between you and me. I need to have a quick look. He’s not around. Shouldn’t hurt anyone. We would be in and out in less than a minute. It would help with an investigation.”

  Elwyn returned Grebs’s smile with a grin of his own. “But that would be breaking the law. I don’t think I could live with myself. You better get some paper.”

  Out in the cold Grebs contemplated ways to get even. He’d get back at Elwyn Baxter, when the proper moment presented itself. Any questioning of Grebs authority pissed him off, especially when it was a little bug like Elwyn Baxter. Grebs would have to teach him a lesson. But for now there was enough money in the balance to buy out the hotel proprietor and several other Defiance storefronts. For now it would be better to keep his cards to himself.

  Grebs decided to cruise, keeping an eye out for Sam’s jeep. It wouldn’t be difficult to find some pretense for pulling him over. Not much had changed in 20 years. In the meantime it might be useful to head back to the office and start in on the paperwork for a search warrant, though he still wasn’t certain it was the best approach, or that he would be able to convince a judge. That might be something best decided by Williston, later tonight, when they convened at the Club Cabin for the dead man’s wake.

  Grebs turned the patrol car toward the other side of town. He’d need to change vehicles. It was a hike to the cabin. Tonight he’d make it easier and use the Cat. He was already starting to feel thirsty.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  January 31st, early afternoon—on the road near Defiance

  After their meeting with Jeff Dunlap, Sam Rivers was driving Diane back to her place when his cell phone rang. Kay Magdalen, he suspected. As he reached for his phone he wondered about it. It was Friday and until recently Kay didn’t work Friday afternoons. She claimed they were a dead zone, work-wise, and a waste of her time. For her to be calling now must mean fresh news about the position. But he hadn’t thought about the position since learning Carmine Salazar had applied for it. Truth is, in the last 24 hours he hadn’t thought much about Salazar, Maggie, Yellow Rock or the new job.

  With one hand on the wheel of his jeep, he finally managed to reach into an inside pocket and pull out his phone, still ringing. He glanced at the display. A 218 area code. It was a local call.

  He flipped it open. “Rivers.”

  “Sam Rivers?”

  The only person who had his cell number was Jeff Dunlap, whose office they had recently left. But it didn’t sound like Dunlap. “Yeah?”

  “This is Sheriff Dean Goddard.”

  “Sheriff,” Sam answered. He glanced over at Diane with a question in his eyes, but she shook her head.

  In the last 24 hours Sam was guilty of breaking and entering, burglary, and had come as close to assault and battery as that altercation in the Florida Keys. And technically he was driving away from fraud: he and Diane Talbott had lied about how they’d come across his mother’s will. Dunlap must have given his number to the Sheriff, which meant Dunlap called the Sheriff moments after they’d left his office. Interesting. Sam Rivers wanted to know why.

  “Jeff Dunlap gave me your number,” the Sheriff confirmed. “He says you were old classmates.”

  “That’s right. Truth is, Jeff was behind me in school. A couple years. But I knew him.”

  “I believe Jeff also mentioned you were a special agent with the USFW?”

  “That’s right. Currently stationed out of the Denver office.”

 
“Nice city.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “I’ll come right to the point. Seems there was a wolf kill out at Williston Winthrop’s farm. Jeff mentioned you know something about wolves and wolf kills?”

  “I’ve seen a few,” Sam said. Judy Rutgers came to mind. “What kind of kill?”

  “Your dad had three feeder calves. Sounds like wolves got into the barn and killed them. Last night. Were you in town?”

  “Came in yesterday morning,” Sam said, surprised by the question, which had nothing to do with wolves. “I was down in Brainerd when it finally blew itself out, but I’ve seen enough to know you got hit pretty hard.”

  “We did. Especially out at your dad’s place.”

  Sam Rivers had never called the old man ‘dad.’ Son of a bitch, when he was trying to be accurate. But something else the Sheriff said was much more interesting. “Wolves got into the barn?”

  “That’s what I heard. Got in, killed and fed.”

  “That would be,” Sam said, surprised as hell but trying to be measured, “unusual.” What he was thinking was extraordinary. Wolves didn’t enter barns. Wolves didn’t usually take down calves. Cattle were large enough to fend off a wolf attack. Not that wolves didn’t occasionally try. Sam had seen flesh wounds, gashes and tears along bovine flanks that looked like the work of wolves, but he’d never seen them take down an adult animal. He’d heard of newborn calves being taken, but they were small and on the edge of a herd and unprotected, at least long enough for an opportunistic wolf or a pack to take advantage. And they were always outside, usually on remote grazing land.

  “Angus Moon called it in. You know Moon?”

  “I remember him,” Sam said. “One of Williston’s hunting friends.”

  “That’s it. Apparently he’s watching the place. Came out after the storm to feed them and found them all,” he paused, searching for the right word. “Dead.”

  “And they were in the barn?”

  “That’s what they’re saying. I’m getting this secondhand. Moon called the DNR about it. A DNR conservation officer needs to investigate. Once it’s verified our Minnesota Department of Agriculture reimburses ranchers for confirmed wolf kills.”

  “Same out west.”

  “This CO, Steve Svegman, knows one of my deputies and knows about the accident at your father’s place and thought we’d be interested.”

  When Sam met Jeff Dunlap he liked him. But he’d never met the Sheriff and for all he knew Dunlap had called the Sheriff out of suspicion. Considering his activities over the last 24 hours, the suspicion was warranted. Sam would have to be careful.

  “Given what happened at your dad’s place. I mean... his accident. I guess I better go have a look. That farm is in my jurisdiction.”

  There was another pause. “Makes sense,” Sam said.

  “And given your experience with wolf kills I was wondering if you’d like to come along?”

  The offer surprised him. Sam’s experience with local law enforcement wasn’t often positive. During official investigations he’d rankled local sheriffs. It was a matter of turf. “Sure, Sheriff.”

  “Just one thing. Jeff mentioned you had no interest in contesting your father’s will. To make trouble. That accurate?”

  “I have no interest in Williston Winthrop’s will or the dispensation of his property. But I assume he told you about my Mother’s will?”

  “He did. That’s your business. I was more concerned about any issues you might have with Angus Moon, who’s meeting us at the farm.”

  Sam thought about it. “In terms of trouble you never know what might set some people off. I’ve come back to visit. It’s been 20 years and I was curious to see how the place has changed.”

  “Fair enough,” the Sheriff smiled. “I can swing by and pick you up, say, in an hour?” the Sheriff suggested. “Where are you staying?”

  Sam had always known he would visit the farm. But he would have preferred visiting alone. “I’ve got a few errands to run,” he lied. “How about if I meet you there? I remember the way.”

  I suspect you do, Dean Goddard thought. “That’ll work. Why don’t we make it...” he paused. “Come to think of it I think my deputy said Svegman was going to be out there around 2:00? That give you enough time?”

  “Plenty,” Sam said.

  “See you at the farm around 2:00.”

  Sam couldn’t have hoped for a more legitimate excuse to have a second look at his boyhood compound, though he would have to step carefully. If what the Sheriff said was true, wolves had done something extraordinary. Puzzling. Interesting. And that’s when he thought a little diversion might help.

  “What was that about?” Diane asked.

  “You know the Sheriff,” Sam said. “What’s he like?”

  “A good guy.”

  “Think you might like to visit the old man’s farm, see a wolf kill?”

  “Wolves killed livestock at Williston Winthrop’s farm?”

  Sam explained what happened at the old man’s place.

  Diane was surprised.

  “Wolf predation of livestock is normal enough. But I’ve never heard of wolves entering a barn to kill cattle.”

  “Sounds awful, but in a morbid kind of way, I’d like to see it. And the paper should damn well cover it. But I’m not sure the Sheriff would appreciate it.”

  “I’d like to look around out there. If we both went it might be,” he paused, “easier.” With Diane out there asking questions he might have an opportunity to at least look into corners he wouldn’t otherwise see.

  “I’d love to,” she said, managing a small grin.

  The old farmhouse had ghosts. Sam wanted to greet each and every one of them. It was the place where the late Williston Winthrop tried to tutor him, though Sam had never been a very apt pupil. Long after he left the Range, Sam’s inability to measure up was the subject of hours of introspection, up to a point. He’d reached that point years ago, the one in which he finally understood the old man had been an unusually brutal father, an angry man and a son of a bitch. And those were the descriptions that easily came to mind. He was cruel, and in retrospect Sam was glad he had never accepted the old man’s perspective on the world, or his way of living in it. Most of all he was glad he had run. But now it was time. He felt ready to meet those ghosts and send them back from whence they’d come.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  January 31st, afternoon—the Winthrop Family Farm

  At 2:00 p.m. sharp Sam turned into the farmhouse drive. To either side of the pair of narrow ruts, high drifts reached the center of Sam’s jeep. Tire tracks were grooved into several inches of crusted white powder. He was glad for the jeep.

  The clapboard house looked older, more dilapidated. Its sides were weathered, paint peeling like flaking skin. A thin trail of smoke wafted out of a stovepipe into a cold blue sky. The tarpaper roof looked more tattered and worn. Sam felt a whirl in the center of his chest, as though some remote spark was starting to burn. The farmhouse was rundown and beat up. If this is what 20 years had done to the homestead, or what the old man had let happen to it, he wondered what the years had done to Williston Winthrop.

  “You OK?” Diane asked.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “You look... tense.”

  Sam could feel Diane’s attention. “It’s been a while,” he said. “There’s a lot of...” he paused, thinking about it. “There’s a lot here. Plenty I’d rather not remember.”

  Diane reached over and placed her hand on his shoulder, an unexpected gesture. He was surprised by how it felt. It’d been a while since he’d been touched.

  “I’ll be OK,” he said.

  “I figured.”

  At the bottom of the drive there was a dark green DNR Conservation truck. The Sheriff’s cruiser was parked behind it.

  The Sh
eriff and Steve Svegman were on the front landing. Sam watched the door open and Angus Moon step onto the cement block, threading a wiry arm into his down coat. Sam saw Angus shake hands and then peer toward the jeep coming down the drive, wondering who else had arrived, unhappy about it.

  Sam guessed Hank Gunderson had already alerted the others to his return. But Angus would be surprised to see him now, with Diane.

  “Showtime.”

  “That guy creeps me out.”

  “Me, too. Always has,” Sam said. “Or did. This time I’m looking forward to our reunion.”

  Sam parked and they stepped out of the jeep, zipping up their coats as they walked to the front steps where the three men were gathered in the cold, watching their approach. The Sheriff turned and said, “Sam Rivers?” extending his hand.

  Sam nodded and took it. “Sheriff,” Sam said. If the Sheriff was pissed about Diane he didn’t show it.

  The Sheriff was the same height as Sam, with a little pudginess beneath his down coat and ear-flap cap. He looked a little country-ish, Sam thought. But he thought he noticed something intense in the Sheriff’s eyes.

  “Diane,” the Sheriff nodded.

  “Sheriff,” she greeted in return.

  “This is Steve Svegman,” the Sheriff introduced. “One of our local conservation officers.”

  Svegman shook hands, greeting them, and then said, “U.S. Fish & Wildlife?”

  “Out of Denver,” Sam answered.

  Steve Svegman was a rookie. Sam guessed he had a military style buzz cut beneath his DNR hat. He was a little awkward on the front step.

  “You’re a special agent?” Svegman asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “A wolf specialist?”

  Sam nodded. “I grew up with them,” he said, glancing toward Angus Moon.

  “And you remember Angus Moon,” the Sheriff said.

  Sam peered at the aging woodsman and offered him a hand, for appearances. He was glad Angus didn’t take it.

  The Sheriff sensed Moon’s uneasiness. “Turns out we’re fortunate to have Sam Rivers around, Angus,” he started. “Sam’s a wildlife biologist who happens to know quite a bit about wolves and wolf kills.” He smiled, but Moon wasn’t reflecting his good humor. And apparently he hadn’t been told there would be another guest to their party.