Wolves

by Cary J. Griffith

  “Winnipeg?” Angus wondered. He reached into his side pocket, extracted a round tin of Timber Wolf chewing tobacco, carefully opened it and placed a pinch inside his lower lip.

  “Apparently a cousin has a Cajun Café up there. It’s where Jimbo was headed to work.”

  “I remember a sister, but not Winnipeg,” Hal Young added.

  “He never said,” Williston remarked. “Canada, was all.”

  They thought about the sister. “Call Grebs?” Angus asked.

  “The Defiance police,” Williston nodded. “Said James T. Beauregard was staying on some farm outside Defiance. Didn’t know where.”

  “And didn’t mention any names,” Grebs added. “She didn’t have any, except Defiance.”

  “What’re we gonna do?” Angus asked.

  Williston considered. “Nothing. Grebs will sit on it. Hope she doesn’t call anywhere else. Grebs can call her back tomorrow or the next day, and let her know the Defiance Police have come up empty. Maybe it’ll end there.”

  “Unless she calls the Sheriff,” Grebs said.

  “Not even sure that’s bad. Nobody else knows. Just call her sometime Sunday or Monday. Tell her you put out a BOLO, but no one reported anything.”

  “I told her I was going to.”

  BOLO was a ‘Be on the Lookout for’ report. If he completed one, it’d have to go through the Sheriff’s office, which worried Grebs, but he nodded. He liked the idea for the same reason; might throw her off the scent.

  They were silent for a few minutes, ruminating. Gunderson and Grebs poured themselves more remedy. Hal Young finished sweeping up the glass.

  Angus positioned the chew, tucked it back in his mouth, took another long sip of whiskey. “I seen Clayton,” he said.

  They turned to him.

  “Sam Rivers,” Angus said. “And Hank’s right. He ain’t no kid anymore. Asked a damn lot of questions about the kill. Seems to know somethin‘ ’bout wolves.”

  “He was at the house?” Winthrop asked, appearing unperturbed but surprised. This surprise he knew he could handle, might even be a good thing, if it surfaced his missing $179,000.

  “At the house and lookin‘,” Angus answered. “Some kind of expert on wolf kills.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Williston smiled. “I knew he worked for the USFW. He always liked the animals.” Williston wondered about it. They’d have to keep an eye on the boy. “Anything in particular we need to worry about?”

  Angus thought on it, poured himself more whiskey. “He said it was damn strange, never seen anything like it, wolves gettin‘ into a barn and killin‘ everything.”

  “What about Svegman? The DNR weigh-in?”

  “Svegman was there. But he followed Clayton’s lead.” Angus picked up a second plastic cup and spit.

  “What about the forms?” Williston asked.

  Angus nodded. “Svegman agreed. Clayton didn’t stop ’im. We’ll be gettin‘ paid.”

  The favorable news rippled through the room. They needed some. Gunderson, over by the potbellied stove, raised a plastic glass and clicked it against Hal Young’s drink, winking and nodding.

  “Now that’s what I was hoping to hear,” Williston said, pleased. “Let ’em ask questions. If they’re fillin‘ out the forms we’re gettin‘ paid.” Then he thought of something, a corroborating issue. “They wouldn’t dare not pay. Every rancher in the region would make a stink that’d smell all the way down to the Cities.” He’d done work for the local cattleman’s association. He knew them.

  “Must have accepted it,” Gunderson agreed.

  “Hell,” Winthrop added, “anything would kill in this kind of weather. And the wolves are getting more plentiful every year. It was only a matter of time before some of them got into a barn.”

  “That’s what has the DNR worried,” Angus agreed. “That it’s genuine. Reporter from the local paper was there. That bright-eyed bitch. She wanted to run with it, but Goddard kept her from it. And Clayton agreed with the Sheriff, far as I could figure.”

  “The Sheriff was there, too?”

  “And the reporter,” Angus added, with a glance in Hank’s direction.

  “What about the remains?” Williston asked.

  “What about ’em?”

  “Clean it up?”

  “Sam Rivers wanted to leave it.” The woodsman said Sam’s name with derision. “Said he wanted to ‘mull’ on it,” Angus took another sip of the whiskey, starting to feel the burn. “Said it’d be good bait, case they returned.”

  “He’s right.”

  “Yeah,” Angus agreed, reluctantly.

  “Don’t let Clayton get under your skin, Angus. We can deal with the boy.”

  Angus looked up from his glass. “He ain’t actin‘ like your boy, Williston.”

  “Why did he want to mull over the kill?” Grebs asked.

  Angus looked at him. “I guess it don’t smell right.”

  Williston could feel their concern. Hal Young and Hank Gunderson stood beside the pot-bellied stove, warming themselves, listening. “Fuck ’em,” Williston blurted. “We’re gettin‘ paid and that’s all that matters. What about the insurance check?” he growled, turning to Hal Young.

  “No questions,” Young said, shaking his head. “At least not yet. I don’t expect we’ll get any. They’re getting the Coroner’s report, which will clearly state it was a hunting accident.”

  “Damn right,” Winthrop smiled. He walked across the room to where several liquor bottles were stacked on a shelf. He took down a bottle of Crown Royal. “Time I had a proper drink. Don’t forget, boys,” he said, turning around the room, raising the bottle. “It’s my wake!”

  Grebs smiled. Gunderson came over to the table with an empty glass. Hal Young grinned. Angus Moon seemed to require more convincing.

  “The DNR thought it was unusual,” Williston said, talking to him. “So what? If they were that suspicious why are they completing the forms?” It was rhetorical, and Williston didn’t wait for anyone to respond. He dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand, pouring whiskey over large square cubes. The liquid sputtered and cracked. “Take them off our trail,” he added. “They just don’t want it to get out. That’s all. Let’s have another drink.”

  As he poured, a distant howl sounded through the cabin wall.

  “Quiet,” Angus said. The others hadn’t heard it.

  They paused, listening. Angus had a keen ear and was behind them on the libation count. Winthrop was about to continue pouring when they all heard the howl, faint and far off.

  “Wolf,” Angus said.

  “Christ,” Winthrop started laughing. “Forgot to tell you,” he said to the others. “We heard them yesterday. They’ve finally made it to the Bog. What’d I tell ya‘?” he said, pouring. “They’re breeding like rats. Pretty soon they’ll be settling on the outskirts of Defiance.”

  There was another howl, this time from a different set of jaws.

  “There’s two,” Angus observed. The sound of wolves, particularly in this kind of cold, conveyed an absolute wildness Angus Moon had always appreciated.

  “There can be a whole pack for all I care,” Winthrop said.

  “Any chance they’ll check us out?” Hal Young asked.

  “Fuck no,” Angus spit.

  “Wolves?” Winthrop laughed. “Goddamn fools if they do. We’ll bag ’em and tag ’em and they know it. Besides, you heard the DNR boys. Wolves don’t like the smell of man. Let’s cut a deck and deal.”

  Angus paused long enough to hear three more howls. There was something familiar about them, but they couldn’t be his dogs. For starters, his dogs rarely howled. He’d wondered about it when they were growing up. He’d tried to get them to howl, but they seldom opened their mouths, except to whine. Too much dog, he’d guessed.

  And Skinwalker�
��s Bog was fifteen miles from Winthrop’s farm, as the raven flew. Probably much farther, if the wolves came cross country. His dogs wouldn’t travel that far, not away from all that food. They could handle the cold, but they weren’t used to starvation. He’d catch them in his traps. Hell, he thought, he bet he’d have trapped some in the morning.

  He turned to join the others.

  As they sat down to play there was one last long chorus of hungry howls, this time more than three and a little closer. But the men were no longer listening.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  January 31st, late evening — Williston Winthrop’s farm

  Sam tried to sleep through the early evening, with limited success. He was preoccupied with the long day, the wolf kill, seeing Angus Moon, meeting the Sheriff, and all the rest of the last couple of days.

  Then his cell phone went off.

  He picked it up from the end table next to Diane’s couch. Kay Magdalen. It rang a second time and he hesitated. It was Friday night. He guessed it was important, but he didn’t want to hear about Salazar and he had no new feelings about the job. His Colorado life was more than 1,000 miles away. But maybe there was something she could do for him?

  “Rivers,” he answered.

  “Sam,” Kay’s voice smiled. “So glad you picked up.”

  “Isn’t it Friday night?”

  “Clarence and I are sitting here watching the Gladiator,” she ignored his comment. “Ever seen it?”

  She also sounded... different. Maybe a little drunk. “Yeah, I saw it. Good movie.”

  “Russell Crowe kind of reminds me of you.”

  “Too bulky,” Sam said, ignoring her unusual attempt at flattery. “What’s going on, Kay? You’ve never called me on a Friday night. Someone die?”

  “Not exactly. You’ll never guess who called me this afternoon.”

  “The Governor?”

  “Bigger. The Commissioner,” she said.

  He waited. He guessed Kay’s hunch about forwarding her office phone on weekends to field one of the Commissioner’s calls had paid off.

  “Seems he’s got a burr on his butt about this Interagency Task Force. He was asking about progress. He thinks we need to move on it sooner, rather than later.”

  She paused, but Sam didn’t take the bait.

  “Wanted to know the candidates,” she finally added.

  “So what did you tell him?”

  “You and Salazar, for Special Agent.”

  “Did you tell him Salazar’s sleeping with my wife?”

  “Ex-wife. I left that part out because it’s nobody’s business. That’s what ex means.”

  She was right, but he didn’t have to like it or admit it.

  “He doesn’t know anything about Salazar,” she continued. “Except that he has an accounting background, which made him snort. You know what it means when the Commissioner snorts?”

  “No idea.”

  “He doesn’t like something. Thinks it smells.”

  There was another pause, before she finally continued. “He thought the position called for a field agent, not a bean counter. And here’s the good part. He remembers that article about you in the Denver Post. The one about the Key deer. He thought you were probably the better candidate. So you’ve got a leg up.”

  If he wanted the job, Sam thought. He still hadn’t decided. “Is that it?” he finally asked.

  She hesitated. “He thinks there could be a little extra money in it for you. Some kind of promotion. Only thing is, he wants us to decide sooner, rather than later. Like Monday. Tuesday, the latest.”

  “Did you tell him I was out of town?”

  “I did. Know what he said?”

  “What?”

  “Find him. Tell him. Light a fire under his ass. We need to move on this thing while the funding’s still there.”

  Sam waited. It was dark outside. Even in the comfort of Diane’s small living room he could feel the intense cold, like a low-pressure ridge. “OK,” he finally said.

  “OK what?” Kay pushed.

  “OK I’ll let you know. Tuesday, the latest.”

  There was a long pause during which he could hear her heavy exhale. “Just don’t push your luck, Rivers,” she said, gravelly.

  “I appreciate all you’re doing, Kay.” He thought that sounded a little better, though he knew her efforts wouldn’t have much to do with his final decision. “Maybe you can do me a favor?”

  “Quid pro quo?” she asked, looking for an angle.

  “It’s not that big a favor. I’m wondering, since you seem to be working late on a Friday, if you could call Ashland? The Minnesota DNR FedExed a wolf hair sample to forensics with my name on it, and I need them to look at it as soon as they get it.”

  Sam could call, but he thought they might be more responsive to Kay. And besides, he might need another favor from Forensics and he didn’t want to waste the one he had, if he could help it.

  “I thought you were on vacation?”

  “I am.”

  “So what are you doing FedExing hair samples on your vacation? Can’t it wait?”

  “Professional curiosity,” he said. “I’ve got a hunch a wolf kill isn’t a wolf kill, but I need Forensics to weigh-in.”

  “This personal?”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  “That’s why you belong on the team,” she said.

  Sam didn’t respond.

  “So let me get this straight,” she said. “You’re using Service resources for your own investigation?”

  “I’m helping out the Minnesota DNR on an unusual wolf kill,” he clarified. “It’s a goodwill thing. If you need a personal angle, consider it an Interagency thing.”

  Kay snorted. She must have learned that from the Commissioner, Sam thought.

  “I’ll call,” she finally said. “Saturday morning, first thing. You’ll get your results in record time. But consider it a big goddamn favor,” she said, and then hung up.

  Sam chuckled in the dark. Just like her, he thought. She’d help him, but was pissed about it because she knew it wouldn’t affect his decision one way or another. He liked Kay Magdalen.

  He went into Diane’s bathroom and washed up. Her toothbrush, hair brush and a few other items were spread across the narrow tiled counter top. Women’s things. It’d been a while. He felt a flash of domesticity and thought he missed it. Then he put it out of his mind. It was after 10:00, time to roll. On his way back to her kitchen he knocked on her door.

  “Come on in,” she answered.

  Sam hesitated, then opened the door. She was sitting in bed next to a desk lamp, propped up on pillows, a book opened in front of her. She wore a black sweatshirt with, Sam guessed, nothing underneath, judging from the way it moved when she leaned to set down her book on the table next to her bed. The bed looked comfortable and so did she.

  “You ready?”

  “Of course.” She stared at him, her long hair mane-like over her shoulders. “Any chance we’ll see those wolves?”

  “They could return. But it would probably be later. Probably the middle of the night, given what I saw of that barn and the natural distaste they have for anything civilized.”

  “I’d better put on something more appropriate.”

  Her tone left no room for interpretation, but it was an interesting choice of words.

  Before he could think what to say she added, “How’s your car battery? It’s going to be pretty damn cold. I don’t want to get stuck out there.”

  “Practically brand new.”

  “I’ll be ready in 5 minutes,” she said.

  He turned out of her room and shut the door.

  They drove to the farmhouse, talking about Williston Winthrop, the wolves, County politics, Denver and wherever else the conversation led them. It was a com
fortable ride. It was around twenty below and they were dressed in enough layers to make them a little stiff and moving awkward. But it kept the cold at bay. They passed one or two cars on the highway outside of town, and then nothing for the next eleven miles. Sam drove until he reached a place almost parallel with the old man’s farmhouse. They were about a quarter mile south of the house. Between them and the farm a large spread of black spruce and poplar topped a brief rise. A rutted, snow-covered logging road climbed into the trees. Its surface was pristine.

  “Nobody’s been here,” Sam observed, pulling the jeep to the side of its snow-choked entrance.

  “Where the hell is here?” Diane asked.

  “Close to the farm. Up over that rise through the trees you can come to a place, if I remember right, where you can look down the path and glimpse the farmhouse through the woods. We should be able to see most of the farm, at least enough to see if Angus is still there.”

  “Or those wolves,” Diane added. “I’d rather not run into either.”

  “Might be a little fun,” Sam disagreed. “But we’ll have to be careful. Angus is definitely the type to shoot first and ask questions after the smoke clears. If he’s still around, we’ll head back the way we came. But this afternoon I got the sense he was leaving as soon as we did.”

  “Me too,” she agreed. “Would the wolves bother us?”

  “No. If we were lucky enough to sneak up on them they’d turn the minute they saw us. Or should.”

  They got out of the jeep, fitted their snowshoes, and started up the trail into the trees. The snow was heavy but the evening was still and cold and it felt good to be hiking on the old road, generating a little warmth against the sub-zero weather. Their breath rose in clouds that mingled over the path. They reached the point in the woods Sam remembered. From the seclusion of an abandoned logging trail they could barely make out the farmhouse, less than a quarter mile distant. They watched for any sign of movement, of light, or anyone awake or stirring, but it was quiet in the dark. And Angus Moon’s truck was gone.

  “Let’s go,” Sam whispered.

  “Wait a minute. What if he parked in the garage?”

  “Probably did, if he’s still around. It’d be stupid to leave your truck in this kind of cold, unless you had a plug-in.” Sam kept staring at the farmhouse. Nothing. “But there’s only one way to know for sure.” He started moving again along the overgrown trail, descending through the trees to the road and farm.