Wolves

by Cary J. Griffith

  “Pine Grove Estates?” Sam asked.

  Dean looked at him. He glanced at the folder in front of him, thick enough to contain plenty of information. Probably the whole file on Pine Grove. “That’s right,” Dean said. “It took Jeff Dunlap six months to get to the bottom of it. And by the time he did, guess what he found?”

  “The old man,” Sam said.

  “That’s right. Williston Winthrop was behind everything. He’d been bilking spinsters out of their fortunes for more than a decade.”

  Sam only nodded, still waiting for the reason Williston had the disk.

  “Couple Sundays back Williston Winthrop called me over to his office. That afternoon he showed me the video. He told me all he wanted to know was what a person could find out overhearing a conversation in Opel’s Café. He wanted to know what Jeff Dunlap knew.”

  “About Pine Grove?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah, though he didn’t mention it by name.”

  “So you told him?”

  “Nope. I almost reached across the desk and throttled him. I was too angry to talk. If I’d had a match and some gas I would have set the place on fire. Burned down the Winthrop building with Williston in it.”

  “Maybe someone beat you to it?” Sam asked.

  “Maybe. And I wondered. God knows your father had plenty of enemies. But Walt Gibbons says it was an electrical fire.”

  It was damn convenient, Sam thought.

  “I didn’t set it, but I was happy to see it burn,” Dean said.

  “That much coincidence is hard to let go.”

  Dean shrugged. “But you can imagine how fortunate I felt, at the time. I was hoping that was the end of it.”

  “So did you tell him anything?”

  “He threatened to give copies of the disk to Diane, and the bishop of my wife’s church. Maybe pass some others around.” It was an excuse, but it sounded as lame to the Sheriff as it had every time he’d repeated it to himself. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “I called Williston that night. Called him from a friend’s cabin. I gave him five names, including Miriam Samuelson and Iron County Care.”

  Those were names in the folder. Iron County Care was one of the umbrella corporations of Pine Grove Estates. It would have been enough.

  “Then you told him what he needed to know.”

  “Williston was a crook, a thief, and a son of a bitch. But he was smart. I told him enough so he knew Jeff Dunlap was onto him.”

  The Sheriff knew his career in law enforcement was over. He was already trying to think how he could break the news to his friend, Jeff Dunlap. He wondered how far Jeff would pursue the prosecution. Probably hand it over to someone else in the office. Dean Goddard felt relieved, ready to face it. He was glad Belinda had the church; she’d need it.

  “That’s it?” Sam asked.

  “It’s enough.”

  Sam nodded. Then looked away.

  “Who knows?” the Sheriff wondered.

  “Me and Diane,” Sam said.

  Dean Goddard looked away.

  “Sheriff, from what Diane tells me and what I know of your situation and your perspective about law enforcement I’m a little surprised. But that’s not to say I wouldn’t have done the same thing, given a similar situation. Far as I know this is the only record of it,” he said, glancing down at the disk. “And from our perspectives,” he looked at Diane, “this conversation is as far as it goes.”

  “I divulged information that compromised an investigation by the county attorney’s office.”

  “You did. And you committed adultery, if you want to put a fine point on it. But the old man is dead and as far as I can tell there’s not a goddamn thing to be gained by releasing what he had on you. The old man was a son of a bitch and you weren’t the first or only person he tried to swindle or ruin.”

  The Sheriff stared at him. Then he looked at Diane.

  “I agree,” she said.

  “What about the Gazette? What about a story?”

  Diane looked away. “I have to admit it’s one of the juicier stories to come my way. But if I shared it with anyone Williston Winthrop would smile from his grave. And I couldn’t abide by that.” She paused. “The paper’s not gonna find out about it from me.”

  “Or me,” Sam affirmed.

  Dean Goddard paused and looked away. “Then that’s it?” he asked, turning back to both of them.

  “This is dead,” Sam affirmed. “It’s not the kind of news that helps anyone with anything.”

  For the first time the Sheriff looked a little wistful. “What I’ve got to do is set things right with my wife,” he said. “Belinda and I don’t belong married anymore, regardless how the public will take it.”

  “She deserves to know,” Diane agreed.

  “This is the twenty-first century,” Sam offered. “About as many people get divorced as stay married.”

  “You don’t know the Range,” the Sheriff offered. “But there’s no other way.”

  “That’s right, Sheriff,” Diane said. “I may not agree with your wife’s religious perspective, but she needs to know.”

  “Yes,” Dean said, resigned.

  “There is something you could help me with,” Sam added.

  “Name it.”

  “I think this folder contains everything Jeff Dunlap needs to prosecute his case against the old man.”

  “That’d be good.”

  Sam picked up the folder. “But in order for the records to be admissible, it’s probably best they come from the investigating officer.” He slid the folder over to Dean.

  Dean reached over and picked it up. “I’ll drop it off with Jeff after I get back from the farm.”

  Sam told him where to find the secret floor cubby. The Sheriff could check it out and tell Jeff Dunlap about its location.

  After Sam and Diane left the Café they went into town. They parked along the street, walking the sidewalk to the grocery. They passed Bill Grebs’s truck and Sam peered into the cab. In the narrow back seat he saw two sacks and five bottles. Judging from the looks of it the Defiance town cop had just broken Minnesota’s liquor laws. He paused to be sure. There were three bottles in a far sack and up close, two dark blue boxes—Crown Royal. “The good stuff,” the old man was fond of saying.

  They kept walking down the block. When they crossed in front of Webster’s Tobacco they caught a glimpse of Bill Grebs. He was turned away from them. In front of him, on the countertop, rested a carton of Old Golds, and three boxes of Cohibas.

  Sam didn’t want to run into Grebs, at least not until the cemetery, later today. He’d say hello to the officer over the old man’s grave.

  They were well down the street when Sam remembered the Cohibas. They were the old man’s smokes. Williston had always liked the Cuban knock-offs. Especially with a glass of Canadian whiskey.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  February 1st, afternoon—Williston Winthrop’s burial

  On their return to Diane’s cabin, Sam’s cell phone went off. He pulled it out and glanced at the display. Kay Magdalen.

  He flipped open his phone. “Kay?”

  “Yeah. Me again. This is getting to be a bad habit.”

  “What?”

  “Working on the weekends, making business calls. I need a life.”

  “Clarence must be an understanding guy.”

  She ignored the comment. “McCollum didn’t have your cell phone number. And now he’s off. Want to know what he found out?”

  “What?”

  “They’re hybrids. All but one. An Arctic wolf.”

  Sam’s jeep veered a little. “No shit?”

  “Do I stutter?”

  He paused, trying to absorb what that meant. “That’s interesting.”

  “I thought so. The hybrids were part Arctic, part Malamute.�
��

  “A breeder,” Sam said.

  “Probably.”

  “Someone’s breeding Arctics?”

  “An Arctic,” she said, reminding him there was only one.

  Sam knew they’d been big. Where in the hell did they find an Arctic wolf? In the Lower 48 it was an uncommon subspecies. But in Alaska and northern Canada they were abundant and, in many jurisdictions, fair game. Anyone could have obtained one and bred it.

  “No Arctic wolf could get into the Lower 48 without a customs declaration,” Sam remembered.

  “If they brought it in legally.”

  “Breeding hybrids is legal in Minnesota. The state doesn’t even maintain a registry for hybrid breeders. But there would have to be something in customs, at least a destination address.”

  “If they brought it in legally,” Kay repeated.

  “Can you have someone in audit check the declarations? Say, over the last five years?”

  “It’s Saturday, Rivers. I can check on Monday.”

  “Call Gibson. Call him at home. He owes me a favor. And this is important.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Could you? Please.” A plea from Sam Rivers came off stilted.

  “Rivers, when was the last time I called anyone about work on a weekend?”

  “Friday night counts as the start of the weekend.”

  “Before that.”

  She was irritated.

  “It will put you in my good graces.” That was going to piss her off.

  “Maybe I should call Salazar. He’s kind of anxious to please, these days.”

  Sam figured he deserved that. He let the comment pass.

  “Call Gibson. I’d call him but I don’t have the directory. He owes me. Gibson’ll do it right away. And if I know him he’s home in front of ESPN, nursing a beer.”

  “I’ll call him,” she finally said, short. “I’ll give him your cell and you can talk with him.”

  “Thanks, Kay.”

  “You made any decisions?”

  “Monday,” he said. “Tuesday, latest. We’ll talk then.”

  “Hybrids?” Diane asked, after he’d hung up. She’d heard that much and was curious.

  “The animals in the barn. They were half Malamute, half Arctic wolf. Except for one full Arctic wolf.”

  “What’s that mean? Were they wild?”

  “Probably bred.”

  “So someone raised them?”

  “There’s a good market for wolf-dog hybrids, mostly by people who think the animal will make a kick-ass pet. But hybrids aren’t like regular dogs. And they’re not the greatest pets.”

  “People want to buy them?”

  “Some people do. People who usually don’t know any better. And unscrupulous breeders will give them what they want. As long as they get paid.”

  By the time they reached Diane’s, the afternoon was squeezing out of the day. He had an hour until the funeral. They rested on Diane’s couch.

  “Do you think a lot of people will attend the funeral?” Diane asked.

  “Probably not. The Club,” Sam answered. “The old man wasn’t popular. He had enemies, not friends. He had clients, but from what I’ve heard his rates were about as high as you can legally charge. Whatever legal judgments he won for clients, much of it was taken up in attorney’s fees and expenses. Even his winning clients were disappointed, according to Jeff Dunlap.”

  “I didn’t really know him. I saw him around town, but not often. Miriam shared plenty that was,” she paused, “pretty awful. What makes someone into a man like Williston Winthrop?”

  “Greed,” Sam answered. He thought for a minute and added, “I think the seven deadly sins sum it up pretty well. And being raised with the belief that you own the wild and everything in it, that it is part of your rightful claim and heritage, and in the case of Winthrops, duty.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t remember much about my grandfather. I know he killed more wolves than any other man on the Range. He was an über-hunter. An alpha, just like the old man. They both reveled in exacting Winthrop family revenge. At least until passage of the Endangered Species Act.”

  “What about you? Why didn’t you grow up wanting to ‘exact Winthrop family revenge’?”

  Sam thought about it. He’d spent plenty of time wondering why he hadn’t become more like the old man. But unlike his grandfather or Williston he’d never felt the need to conquer the wild, to own it. Wild places were his sanctuary, though he had no illusions about wilderness and the animals inhabiting it.

  He guessed the old man had Sam figured out. He had ‘his mother in his blood.’

  “Miriam Samuelson,” Sam finally said, remembering how much his mother enjoyed a clear glass lake at sunset with loons crooning in the distance.

  “She was a wonderful woman.”

  They were quiet for a while, sitting together on the couch, remembering Sam’s mother, their thoughts drifting. And then Diane closed the space between them and kissed Sam’s cheek, which caused him to recollect her swollen lips and the previous night.

  “You’re a sweet man, Sam Rivers.”

  Diane started to pick up their coffee cups from the morning. Sam Rivers grabbed her back pocket and pulled her down. She was startled, but her eyes reflected his own sudden interest. They came together quickly, hurriedly. It took only moments for the breathing to pick up, their pulses hammering. Sam slid his hand inside her sweatshirt, cupped her right breast, found the top of her bra and pulled it down when suddenly the phone rang.

  Saved by the goddamn bell, he thought.

  “Could be Goddard.”

  She looked at him, her dark eyes narrow, focused and glazed. Her eyes confirmed it; ‘screw the phone.’

  But it rang again.

  “And I’ve got to go. But I’ll be back.”

  Diane got up to answer. It was Steve Svegman, looking for Sam.

  “They got away,” Svegman said. He sounded irritated.

  “What?” Sam Rivers was looking forward to examining those hybrids.

  “Angus was there and he wasn’t happy. He wanted to know who in the hell trespassed?”

  “The Sheriff with you?”

  “He came later. Told Angus he’d been there last night, just to checkup on the place.”

  “What happened to the animals?”

  “We could see their tracks come down out of the woods. But we could also see them return, from around back.”

  “Around back of the barn?”

  “Yeah. A grain chute door. Must have been unlatched. When they ate their fill they took off.”

  “Shit,” Sam said. He remembered the chute. Also remembered they hadn’t checked it.

  “Yeah,” Svegman said. “I was out there for almost three hours. The Sheriff and I helped Moon clean up what was left. Not a pleasant task.”

  “You didn’t want to leave it? Those animals might return.”

  “Angus wanted it cleaned up. Said the animals were too damn smart, missing his traps like they did. Said he couldn’t abide the mess for another night.”

  “At least it was frozen,” Sam said.

  “It stunk.”

  Sam knew it did. “One thing about those animals. They’re not wolves. Not exactly.”

  “What are they?”

  Sam Rivers explained about the results from Ashland Forensics.

  “What’s it mean?”

  “I suspect they were bred. But until I have more information we’d better keep it to ourselves. For now, anyway.”

  “Sheriff know?”

  “I just found out myself. I’ll call him.”

  He thanked the conservation officer and hung up.

  Diane had taken their coffee cups to the kitchen. When she returned the smolder was out o
f her eyes.

  “I don’t have to go just yet.”

  “We need some time,” she said.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “Later.”

  He reached up and gave her long thick hair a playful tug. Then he left, while he still had the will.

  In his jeep, on the way over, his cell phone went off. It was a 303 number. Gibson. He flipped it open.

  “Rivers.”

  “Sam?”

  “Gibbs. What are you watching?”

  “Nothing, now. I was watching Tiger Woods make a late round charge on day three of the U.S. Open. Then I got a call from Kay Magdalen. It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”

  “She’s giving me a hand.”

  “I guess that means I’m giving you a hand.”

  “It’s my lucky day.”

  “It is your lucky day. Because I found it on the first search.”

  “What?”

  “I could only find one Arctic wolf delivered to Northern Minnesota, to Snow Bank kennels, four years ago. Came in from Manitoba.”

  “Got an address?”

  “That’s all I got. The customs declaration and license were all legit. It’s a rural route. But I can’t read the signature. Got a pen?”

  Sam pulled to the highway’s icy shoulder and rummaged through his console. He found a black felt-tipped pen and a square of white post-it notes. He took down the address: Snow Bank Kennels, Rural Route 8, Defiance, MN 55054. He also jotted down the license number.

  “What in the hell you doing in Northern Minnesota on February 1? Cold enough for you?”

  “About 20 below.”

  “It’s Minnesota. What did you expect?”

  “Did I ever tell you I was born and raised here?”

  “Never. But it figures. Know what Kay Magdalen told me?”

  “What?”

  “She told me to tell you, ‘Don’t be an idiot. Take the job.’”

  “Glad to know she’s minding my privacy rights.”