[email protected]. The old man sent him every email, tried to lure him back because he’d wanted his money, and guessed Sam Rivers might be able to recover it.
“That 179,000 I’m willing to let go,” Williston said, even again, the calm returning to his voice. “Call it the first installment of plenty more where that came from,” he said.
Twenty years was a long time, Sam thought. He’d struggled, found his way, made a place for himself, and begun to thrive, at least until Maggie. But even Maggie had been a move toward his heart, not away from it. In all that time Williston Winthrop had continued the natural course of being himself. And it was different now, standing in front of him, remembering the towering presence of his youth, the one who badgered, bullied and abused. Now the old man looked like an aging, tired crook, standing at the edge of a clearing in the middle of deep woods. And the wilderness he had so long dominated was taking its toll.
“You want this gun?”
Williston was surprised, nodded. “Well... Yeah. I mean, sure, son. I could set you up real nice... give you plenty, once everything comes in, gets settled.”
Sam flipped open the shotgun’s chambers. He pulled the shells from its double barrel. He gave them a good hard fling into the dark, where they disappeared into the cold.
There was a large granite stone at the edge of the swamp, directly behind him, its surface as smooth as a dinosaur’s egg. Sam turned the shotgun around, picked up the barrel end of the Decimator, bent and put his arms into the swing, driving the gun’s stock onto the rock hard surface. It was an axe blow. The Decimator’s walnut stock splintered.
Behind him the old man gasped. “Wait.”
Sam moved one step forward and swung again, slamming the trigger mechanism onto the stone, swinging in three clear, heavy hammer strikes before pausing long enough to bring the battered barrel up to examine it. The fragile metal trigger had broken and flown off into deep snow. The hollow mechanism was caved in and flattened. The Decimator would never fire again.
Then he flung what was left of the shotgun across the frozen swamp. It landed at the old man’s feet.
He watched the old man step forward, like someone either on the edge of outburst, or nearly broken. Williston slowly retrieved what was left of the heirloom. He brushed off the barrel, looked across the swamp to his son.
Sam thought he might charge. The gun’s destruction was the kind of violation that he once would have answered with some rage-filled destruction of his own. But maybe he finally understood his situation, the new situation with his son.
They were finished. Sam watched the man, who was still breathing hard. Part of Sam hoped he might charge.
Then Williston Winthrop turned and disappeared into the trees.
“Run,” Sam said, in a tone he knew the departed Williston wouldn’t hear. Not that it mattered now. The old man’s tracks would be easy enough to follow, if he survived what was left of the dark and cold.
Chapter Thirty-Four
February 2nd, early morning—Vermilion Falls
Back in Vermilion Falls, Grebs, Gunderson and Moon sat in three separate holding cells, each positioned so they could not hear or speak to one another. Hal Young had been moved to a small basement utility room, a single bare bulb hanging over his head. Large patches of paint peeled over the makeshift interrogation room’s cement walls. The floor was the color of tarnished gray metal. In the spare light the insurance agent looked grim.
Sheriff Dean Goddard sat alone with him, talking matter-of-factly and without abatement.
“I know in time you’re going to tell me what happened, Hal. We’ve known each other a long time. We already have the physical evidence of the alleged wolf kill. We can press that charge and it’ll stick. It’s the other matters you were involved with that should scare you, Hal. Murder isn’t a hanging crime in this state. But people are put away for life. I suspect, Hal, you’ve never seen the inside of a state penitentiary.” He said the word ‘penitentiary’ carefully, like a dull knife blade. It was having an effect.
“Prison is a nasty place,” the Sheriff continued. “If I were you I’d do whatever I could to mitigate my sentence.”
The Sheriff leaned over conspiratorially and softened his tone. “The plain and simple truth, Hal, is that I don’t believe you were the ringleader of this little adventure. And I don’t believe you were a wholly willing participant. I think the Club needed your insurance angle and you were pressured until you went along. Don’t get me wrong. That’s not a ticket to innocence. You’ll have to pay. But if you cooperate you’re likely to receive a lesser punishment than the other members of your Club.” Sheriff Goddard had his attention. “We think they were using you. And I know you, Hal. I just don’t see you surviving very long in a state penitentiary.” The Sheriff’s eyes were calm, concerned.
The Sheriff continued in this vein for a while longer. Hal Young’s face remained ashen. Unless the Sheriff was a very bad judge of character, Hal Young would soon chatter like a songbird at dawn.
In the intense light of Rangers Café, Sam, Diane, Svegman and one of the deputies sat at a pre-dawn table drinking coffee and waiting for first light. Diane had her tablet out and was asking questions, trying to nail down the facts for the story she was still hoping to submit to the Star Tribune down in the Cities before the morning copy deadline. Dawn was still an hour away.
The group had long since worked through the details of what they knew. Sam told the others about his father. Everyone who heard the story had the same question: if Williston Winthrop was loose in Skinwalker’s Bog, who was buried in his grave? The Sheriff told them about James T. Beauregard and Sam remembered the Defiance Hotel proprietor mentioning Grebs picking up the vagrant. It had a sickening way of adding up, much as none of them wanted to admit it.
At dawn they were going to pick up Williston Winthrop’s trail. No one expected Winthrop to return to the cabin, but just in case, Smith Garnes and a deputy remained at the hideout. And they had the CB. The reception was terrible but they’d been able to make their words known. Winthrop had not returned.
In another hour it would start getting light. The others finished their coffee and began getting ready.
“Do you think he survived the cold?” Diane asked. She started donning a thick down coat.
“He’s lived in these woods his whole life,” Sam said. “He’s probably alive. I’m more worried he found some way to get out.”
“Not likely,” Svegman said. “We’ve got conservation officers patrolling those rural maintenance roads and we’ve already picked up the other vehicles. If he gets out he’ll have to walk a week to do it.”
Sam knew the old man was tough enough to last until dawn. But he also knew he’d been forced from the cabin so quickly he’d run without getting properly equipped. “We’ll pick up his trail. I suspect we’ll find him before noon.”
The others readied for their return to the woods and cold.
Chapter Thirty-Five
February 2nd, near dawn—deep in Skinwalker’s Bog
The hybrids cornered the deer in a thicket. While the rest of the wolf-dogs faced the wavering antlers, the Arctic came up behind the animal and fastened his widening jaws onto its hindquarters. The lead wolf thought the buck would fall, but one powerful hoof kick sent him through the air with his mouth full of deer hair and a piece of torn hide. Then the buck crashed through the brush and was ahead of them. The Arctic managed to rise and in a few minutes assumed the lead again.
The wolves pounded through thick woods and the leader sensed the deer’s tiredness. The snow was deep and the buck’s hooves, unlike the wolf webbed paws, was unable to skitter across the white surface. Its torn hindquarter was a ragged flesh wound, bleeding as it ran. The predators couldn’t see the blood, which froze as soon as it fell and was covered over by dry powder. But it left a scent trail through the dark night air that intensif
ied the wolves’ yearning.
The Arctic raced at a steady sprint. The hybrids followed close behind. They moved through the trees as one tight pack of hunger and purpose.
In the darkness Williston Winthrop struggled through the snow, trying to keep his balance. His chest felt raspy and it was difficult to catch his breath. In the abject darkness spots floated across his vision and he did not know where to turn. For the last few hours he had been hiking at a good, steady rate, sometimes crawling to get through a wall of black spruce or alder, then stopping long enough to recover, then starting again, until he felt the oncoming need to lie down and sleep.
But not here, he told himself, knowing the desire to sleep was the first sign of hypothermia. He was still cogent enough to know if he lay down he would never rise. He continued through the dark, stumbling, reckoning his direction by the stars, heading north. He didn’t have any matches. He couldn’t return to their cabin. He had to keep moving as far from the cabin and Skinwalker’s Bog as possible. His only hope was to find some remote cabin that he could break into, get himself thawed, maybe find some food and something to drink and figure out a way to get across the border. If he had any hope of reaching the border he would have to keep pushing.
Finally, he stopped long enough to listen in the dark. There was nothing behind him. He found a large fir tree and managed to crawl in beneath the lower boughs to where the falling snow had not penetrated. There was a small cave and he sat for a while catching his breath, listening. He set the shotgun’s barrel beside him in the dark, careful to keep his full attention focused on the sound. It was then he began noticing the cold and his considerable weariness.
But I cannot stop, he suddenly thought, in an increasingly rare lucid moment. It was the only coherent thought he could manage as he gasped to take in more air.
He clawed at his chest. Under the considerable layers of clothes he thought he felt warm enough to perspire. He had never traveled through woods like this, hell-bent on escape, with fear driving him like a wild animal. He had been blind, walking in the dark. His face was raw where branches had cut it. But there was no other option, run into the woods, north to Canada. A long ways, a Herculean marathon, but not impossible, providing he could find some remote cabin, break in, warm himself, rest and get together the necessary supplies. Was it even possible?
He laughed, but the exhalation of air made him bend over in a fit of coughing. After it subsided he reached up and again tried to take in more air. He was exhausted but knew he had to move.
He crawled out from under the tree boughs and was immediately struck by a sense of warming air. It was getting warmer, wasn’t it? He thought maybe it was a southern warm front coming in. Unseasonable, but lucky. He’d been lucky.
He stomped forward not more than fifty paces before realizing he’d forgotten the shotgun, what was left of it, now only the gnarled steel barrel. But what was left of it could still be a formidable weapon in the hands of someone who knew how to use it.
He retraced his steps, stumbling back over them. But they didn’t return him to the place he had just been. Was he disoriented? It was still dark in the woods. In places he had trouble following the tracks. Twice he came to trees he thought might be the one, but both times their understory cave was empty. He started laughing. The laughing brought on another fit of coughing and he doubled over in the cold.
He bent over, coughing into the snow, tasting blood and wondering if the stream of spittle hanging from his mouth was red.
He stepped forward, wearily entering the dark. He guessed the posse would not follow in the night. Few were man enough to follow Williston Winthrop through Skinwalker’s Bog. Angus Moon could do it. Bill Grebs, maybe. But Winthrop hadn’t known many men his caliber. He stumbled ahead in the dark and knew the abominable cold and deep snow and complete darkness were his friends. They were trying to set him free and he was going to let them.
A sharp pain cut across his chest and he reached up to claw at it. He paused long enough for the pain to subside. He tried to listen in the dark but heard nothing. He hit the side of his head wondering if he were losing his sense of hearing along with his sight, because he heard a vague high-pitched whine.
After a moment he felt strong enough to continue and took a few more steps through the deep snow.
The Arctic was the first to reach the deer. The large buck was cornered in another thicket, no place to turn. The wolves crept up slowly, watching the deer’s breath cloud the frozen air. Its antlered head was bent forward, ready to fend off a frontal assault. Instinctively the hybrids moved around the animal. They kept it corralled but were careful to keep out of the reach of its horns. Twice the animal bucked forward looking for a way to break through the menacing gray line. Twice the hybrids came together like a wall.
Finally, the big Arctic worked in behind the animal’s kicking hindquarters. He saw his opportunity and leaped forward with purpose, jaws open. He fastened himself near the place where he’d earlier torn flesh. He could smell the bloody wound, taste the small measure of it. He clamped down hard and let his full body weight hang heavy on the deer’s backside.
This time, coincident with the leader’s leap, two pack members crouched forward on either side of the wavering horns. The deer hunched down with the big wolf on its hindquarters, too tired to kick. It shifted its horns to the left and right, heaving in the snow.
Then the fourth hybrid lunged unexpectedly and fastened itself on the back of the deer’s heavily muscled neck. The deer arched, hoping to catch the hybrid with a thrust of horns. The wolf-dog felt the horns cut into the gray fur and it was forced off the animal, but the action of arching left the underside of the deer’s throat exposed and another wolf-dog moved in.
Under the weight of three wolves the exhausted animal toppled in the snow. The hybrid on the front clamped down on the deer’s windpipe until the animal ceased to breathe and lay still.
The big wolf licked the blood from the hindquarter wound. He whined. The others whined and worried over the dead animal. They had felled deer before, knowing how to quarry and kill. But until Angus gave the OK they had never been allowed to feed. Now they worried and their tails wagged over their kill. The Arctic moved in and began to feed.
Williston Winthrop stumbled forward. Ahead, he thought he heard whining. He was exhausted, his breathing short and ragged. His tongue was parched, scratchy. Each breath rasped at his chest, the frozen air taken with difficulty, but he continued stumbling forward.
He thought he heard whining. Or was it the sound of small children? He heard them in the dark. The woods were thick and he moved toward the sound. Where there were children there would be shelter. And with shelter, warmth. The prospect compelled him and he pushed through tree branches, lurching ahead.
The lead wolf was the first to hear something breaking through the thicket. There was almost no wind, so they didn’t smell or notice the approach. Now the Arctic could sense the familiar, complete stink of him.
The man moved forward as though he were blind. The Arctic watched him through intense yellow eyes. The man stumbled five paces until he was almost upon them. The lead wolf sensed weakness but the other wolf-dogs skirted around to the opposite side of the deer, moving away from where they’d begun to feed. They were hungry and had their first independent taste of blood, but the man frightened them. The Arctic did not move. He lowered his head, watched and waited.
“Dogs,” the man managed, without authority, barely audible.
The leader cowered before the word. But it was a weak sound uttered from a weakened animal. And now the big Arctic leaned into the sound, creeping forward in the dark.
The man wavered, practically walking into the deer. In one easy motion the Arctic struck the man full force, knocking him back in the snow. The man fell over and lay on his back struggling for breath, clearly exhausted, his arms thrashing. The wolf recognized opportunity and with instinctual pr
ecision moved in and took it.
Epilogue
February 3rd, mid-morning—Vermilion County Sheriff’s Office and Angus Moon’s cabin
By late Monday morning three deputies, led by Smith Garnes, stumbled onto Williston Winthrop’s body. They found the nearby remnants of the deer carcass and plenty of blood and tracks. But the wolves were gone. All except Williston Winthrop, who was a frozen, bloodless hump in the arctic cold.
Smith Garnes climbed to a copse of rock rising out of Skinwalker’s Bog, not far from Williston Winthrop’s body. Garnes was able to send out a crackling message. They’d found the man. He’d been killed by wolves. Word spread quickly. Sam was with Dean Goddard when the call came in. Sam wanted to know about it, and Smith told him everything he could. Sam Rivers felt certain it was the hybrids. It would be extraordinary behavior for wild wolves. But given that Williston Winthrop may have stumbled onto a fresh kill and he was in the middle of deep wilderness, it was possible, Sam guessed. He asked Smith Garnes to obtain whatever hair samples he could find.
The Sheriff’s prediction with regard to Hal Young had been spot on. Around dawn the quiet insurance agent began telling them everything. At least everything he knew. Grebs discovered James Beauregard trying to warm himself in the abandoned Iron Rail depot near the edge of Defiance. He mistook him for Williston, thinking it was some kind of prank. When he realized the man was a vagrant, Bill Grebs saw what could be done. Hal Young confessed about the plan to kill Jimbo. He told them about Angus and Williston’s evening walk toward the tracks, and the insurance angle. Hal Young didn’t know anything about Pine Grove Estates or that Williston had been swindling Range spinsters for more than a decade.
The insurance man also explained about the hybrids. Angus Moon had a breeding area behind his cabin, back in the woods. Before unleashing them on the calves he’d nailed each of them into their dilapidated quarters and gave them nothing but water for two days. The Club believed the controversy would cover their tracks and provide actual evidence wolves were getting more plentiful and dangerous. Williston Winthrop wanted a return to the days of wolf bounties, or at the very least to have the vermin removed from the Endangered Species List.
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