In the Company of Wolves: Thinning The Herd

by Larranaga, James Michael

  Quin wondered if they would pull it off the lake, and he was just considering backing up his truck when he noticed the Suburban pulling forward, heading farther onto the ice.

  Quin put his truck in gear and followed the men onto the lake. His old truck needed new shocks, and it bounced and swayed over the snowbanks as he drove. He had rewired his truck last year so that he could turn off the headlights while following wolves along logging trails. This feature came in handy as he followed the men by the glow of the moon’s reflection off the ice.

  Ben and his men dragged the icehouse to the far west side of the lake, driving under bridges and past other ice-fishing villages.

  They stopped in the middle of Halsted Bay. Quin knew this was as far west as the lake went, and very few people fished here.

  He watched the men slide the icehouse off the trailer onto the lake. A couple of photos of this would be good evidence, but it was too dark and they were too far off for his phone to capture anything other than grainy pixels. Somebody went inside briefly, and Quin thought it might be Harold by the way he shuffled.

  He exited the icehouse and climbed into the Suburban, which then continued to the western shore to another lake access. Quin waited ten minutes before driving across the bay to the icehouse. This time he would get better photos and send them to his real contacts at the FBI.

  He set the truck in park, but he kept the engine idling. He grabbed his phone and stepped onto the ice. The wind whipped hard as he jogged to the icehouse. This time the door wasn’t locked from the outside. How come? Did they want somebody to find the bodies?

  He opened the wood door and stepped inside. It was too dark to make out any detail, so he used the ambient glow of his phone and saw Cassy and Martin still frozen together in the same positions. The awful smell came rushing at him. He captured photos with the flash, blinding him each time, burning the images of these bodies deep into his brain.

  He checked his phone to ensure the images were clear enough to ID Cassy and Martin. He pushed the door open and gasped for fresh air.

  Quin ran to his truck as a raven soared overhead, calling to him. He climbed into the warm, idling truck and reviewed the images he’d captured as the raven landed on the truck’s hood. The bird knew what Quin was looking at—death—death and more death. Forget about Lunde, it was time to call the real feds.

  Quin scrolled through his contacts to Kenneth Murray, an FBI agent he had worked with on several cases. He could send Kenneth these photos and the location, and Quin could move on.

  He waited for Kenneth to answer, but instead he heard a voice mail that said, “This is Agent Kenneth Murray. As of December fifteenth, I have been reassigned to a field office in Madison, Wisconsin. If you need immediate assistance, press zero, or this call will be forwarded to Agent Sean Kruse.”

  Kruse recruited informants and bounty hunters for the FBI. Quin had worked with him on one assignment, but Kruse had his favorites. Quin wasn’t one of them.

  The call transferred to voicemail. “This is Agent Sean Kruse. I’m currently on my phone or away from my desk. If you leave your name and number, I will reach you as soon as possible.”

  What would Quin say on the voicemail? That Lunde had fooled him and dragged him into a scandal?

  Quin hung up.

  In front of him was an icehouse with two dead bodies, and he had photos. There was a chance that somebody would find the bodies, and there was a better chance that nobody would care about an icehouse on the lake, at least for a few more weeks. Icehouses didn’t have to be removed until mid-February.

  He decided to leave the evidence there for now. He needed to find an empathetic soul in the bureau—or maybe Stray Dog’s moneymaking scheme was worth considering after all.

  Packs defend territories to protect dens and hunting opportunities.

  Sheriff David Carlson felt anxious following Harold through the hallways of Safe Haven. It was late, and the mansion had an eerie feeling to it—or maybe it was the alcohol. There was no background music, no running water from the Zen fountain. Just the sound of Harold’s shoes squeaking on the marble floor.

  “Ben’s waiting. After you,” Harold said, opening the door to the Tuscany conference room.

  David entered and Harold followed, closing the door with force. He thought Harold might’ve locked it, but he was more concerned about the group of men seated at the long table.

  David recognized each of them: Bob, Richard, and James, all sitting on one side like a jury. Harold joined them. Ben was seated in the middle of the men, Bob and Richard to his left, and James and Harold to the right. Ben’s hands were folded up by his mouth, concealing his mood.

  “Sit,” Ben said.

  David pulled out the leather chair, his hands trembling, and sat across from Ben and his men. “What’s up?”

  “You had tough day,” Ben said.

  That was minimizing David’s grief, but he nodded. “Yeah, not a good day at the office,” he said with forced sarcasm.

  “How was the cleanup at Monica’s?” Ben asked.

  “After the medical examiner left, I went for a long drive. I had a few drinks,” David said, feeling his liquor and regaining his courage. “You crossed the line. You shouldn’t have killed her.”

  “That’s why I invited you here,” Ben said. “To assure you that Monica killed herself. Isn’t that right, Harold?”

  “Correct. When she didn’t answer her door, I turned the knob, and it opened,” Harold said. “I found her in the bedroom, dead.”

  “Why did you take her phone?” David asked.

  “It was on her nightstand. I was curious if she had called anybody or sent any text messages prior to committing suicide. I took the phone just to make sure there was nothing on there that would link her to Safe Haven.”

  Harold reached into his jacket, and David clicked into survival mode, reaching into his own jacket and pulling his Beretta 9 mm.

  Bob, Richard, and James also drew guns out of their jackets, identical Glocks. David knew his Beretta was equally matched against a Glock. Both guns carried fifteen rounds in a stock magazine and both were reliable, but David was simply outnumbered.

  “Don’t move,” David said, as if Harold could make a difference drawing a fifth weapon.

  Harold stopped. “Easy, I’m just reaching for Monica’s phone.”

  Ben lowered his hands. “David, don’t do anything you’d regret.”

  David slowly moved his arm to the left, pointing his weapon at Ben. “I regret many things, but killing you wouldn’t be one of them.”

  “I understand why you’re upset,” Ben said.

  “Upset? I found my partner with a bullet through her head! I’m beyond upset!”

  “Forgive me,” Ben said. “I don’t mean to make light of it. I want to make sure you’re OK–“

  “Was Monica left-handed or right-handed?” David asked.

  Ben looked perplexed. “Huh?”

  “Just guess,” David said.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Guess! Take a goddamned guess!”

  “Right-handed?” Ben said.

  “What do you think, Harold?” David asked. “Was Monica right-handed or left-handed?”

  Harold still had his hand frozen to his pocket. “What difference does it make?”

  “After you shot her on the bed, did you stage the scene with the gun near her right hand or left hand?” David asked.

  “She was dead when I got there,” Harold said. “Besides, when people shoot themselves, they sometimes use both hands. You can’t say she was murdered because the gun wasn’t near her dominant hand. Once the gun goes off, it can end up anywhere.”

  “Shut up, Harold,” David said, but he knew Harold could be right. David felt the scene was staged, but he could never prove it.

  Ben lowered his voice. “David, I know it looks bad, but you have to admit, it’s possible that she killed herself. And if you don’t put your gun away, these four men will kill you. I’d muc
h rather see you go home to your wife and kids tonight.”

  David snapped back to reality. He had a wife he loved and children who adored him. The affair he’d had with Monica was now over. The only person who knew about it was sitting across from him.

  “Harold has Monica’s phone,” Ben said. “If you let him reach into his pocket, he’ll give it to you. Do whatever you want with it. If you want to erase text messages that might show you two had more than a professional relationship, go right ahead. Your secret is safe with us.”

  David’s alcohol-induced buzz faded. He lowered his gun and set it on the table. Harold slid the phone over to him, and David held it with both hands. It smelled of Monica’s vanilla moisturizing cream.

  “Lower your guns,” Ben said.

  James, Richard, and Bob put their Glocks into their suit coats.

  “I have to get out, Ben,” David said. “I can’t live this way anymore.”

  “I warned you,” Ben said. “This is not the kind of investment you can exit quickly.”

  “Please, I just want to go back to my normal life,” David said, thinking about his family again.

  “Too bad, David. You’re one of us,” Ben said. “And we need you now more than ever.”

  Quin’s phone vibrated on the coffee table, and he reached for it from the couch. Who would call at this hour? Big Ben Moretti. How did he know Quin’s mobile number? He hadn’t given it to his boss, but of course Harold probably captured it when he installed e-mail on the phone.

  Quin cleared his throat and looked at Zoe curled up in a blanket at the end of the couch while she stared into the glow of her laptop. “Hey Ben,” he whispered.

  “Were you sleeping?” Big Ben shouted over the grinding guitar of George Thorogood’s ”Bad to the Bone.”

  “I dozed off on the couch,” Quin said. “It’s late.”

  “It’s early, only one a.m. Let’s hang out.”

  Was Big Ben serious? Didn’t they have to work in the morning? Quin sat up gently so he wouldn’t disturb Zoe, but he knew she was already staring at him. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in my car outside your apartment. Let’s go!”

  How did Big Ben learn of this location? Quin’s resume had a campus address, not this one. He held out his phone. Could it have a tracking device on it?

  Zoe sat up, closing her laptop. “Baby, who are you talking to?”

  “Ben, my boss. He wants to meet up.”

  “Tell him no,” she whispered, rolling her eyes. “It’s after midnight.”

  “I’ll be right down,” Quin said before hanging up on Big Ben. “He’s already parked out front waiting for me,” Quin said to Zoe, grabbing his coat off the chair.

  “You’re seriously hanging out with him at this hour? What about the photos of the bodies in your phone? That should be your reminder how dangerous Ben is.”

  “The photos aren’t good enough evidence,” he said. “For a person who studies Bigfoot photos, you of all people should know that blurry images aren’t reliable evidence.”

  “Very funny,” Zoe said. “I think you like hanging around Ben. He strokes your ego and makes you feel important.”

  “That’s not it at all,” Quin said, growing annoyed with Zoe’s attitude.

  “Or maybe you like playing detective?”

  “For God’s sake, why are you riding me so much about this?”

  “Because I care about you,” she said.

  A car honked outside the window, and Quin felt anxious and torn about what to do.

  “I don’t have any choice. We don’t want him in the apartment, do we?” Quin asked.

  Zoe rolled back on the couch. “No, don’t let him in here, just be careful. Call or text me if you need a ride.”

  “I will,” he said, slipping into a pair of snakeskin boots.

  He blew her a kiss, and she pretended to catch it before snuggling into her blanket. Quin ran down the building’s staircase, catching glimpses of Ben’s vehicle from the windows. Ben wasn’t driving the company Suburban but something far sportier.

  Quin burst through the front door into the frigid night air. He could hear the heavy bass thumping from Ben’s car. He could also hear laughter. Big Ben wasn’t alone.

  “Good morning, Quin,” Big Ben said as the driver’s window lowered. “Carpe diem.”

  “Are you sure you want to hang out right now?” Quin asked. “I present our offer to Rebecca Baron early tomorrow morning,” he said, pointing at his watch.

  “I know. I want to help you prepare for the meeting,” Ben said. “Hop in back.”

  Quin reached for the door, pulled it open, and climbed into the warmth and pounding music. He noticed a young woman in the seat next to him smiling.

  “Quin, this is Candace,” Big Ben said. “Candace, meet Quin.”

  “Hi there,” she said, patting his knee. “Call me Candy.”

  She was a platinum blonde with a heaving chest barely contained by her black leather jacket.

  “It’s a pleasure,” Quin said. He adjusted his knee so her hand would slip away.

  “And this is my girl, Macy,” Big Ben said.

  Macy rolled her brown hair over her left ear as she turned. She had purple eye shadow and thick lashes.

  “Hi, Quin.”

  Quin nodded. “Hey.”

  “OK, now that we got that out of the way, I have a question for you, Quin. Do you know what kind of car this is?”

  “Fisker Karma,” Quin said.

  Big Ben lowered the music. “That’s correct. Jealous?”

  This Fisker Karma was no ordinary sports car. It was an eco-friendly, 260-horsepower electric hybrid. The car was a silver rocket four-door coupe that seated four people comfortably. The base price was $110,000. Yes, Quin was jealous.

  “Not many of these on Minnesota roads,“ Quin said, admiring the blue lights on the dashboard.

  Big Ben revved the engine. “Do you know who drives a Fisker Karma in the dead of winter?”

  “Somebody who doesn’t give a shit anymore?” Quin asked.

  “Actually, a guy who can afford to not give a shit anymore,” Big Ben said, laughing hysterically.

  Big Ben accelerated, and Quin sank deep into the leather seat as they drove toward Hennepin Avenue. Ben turned right, driving past Spyhouse Coffee, and Quin looked toward the window as two college students pointed at the car. He knew they weren’t pointing at Candy; they were admiring the car.

  “Where we headed?” Quin asked.

  “Stella’s,” Big Ben said.

  They drove four blocks, gliding through green lights. Big Ben switched the song to Ozzie Osbourne’s ”Crazy Train”—All aboard, ha ha ha ha—and the girls screamed with laughter. This really was crazy. Why would Big Ben wake Quin up to prepare him for an important meeting? Couldn’t he cover this information at the office? And why was he bringing an extra girl with him?

  They arrived at Stella’s Fish House, and Big Ben slowed the Fisker to the curb.

  “Ladies first,” he said.

  Candy and Macy climbed out, carrying their jackets, and Quin noticed Candy’s low-rise jeans hung low enough that he could see her leopard thong.

  “See you inside,” Candy said as she chased Macy to the door.

  Quin followed her out of the backseat and joined Big Ben up front. He closed the door, still watching the girls.

  “They’re hot, right?” Big Ben asked.

  “Very hot,” Quin said. “You have great taste in women and cars.”

  “If you can’t spend money on your passions, then why have passions at all?” Big Ben said. He accelerated the Fisker down the street and circled the block for a parking spot.

  Quin wasn’t sure where to take the conversation, so he focused on business.

  “Big day tomorrow. We’ll present Rebecca Baron an offer, right?”

  “You will present the offer,” Big Ben said.

  He parked the Fisker, and they both stepped out into the cold air. They walked quickly acro
ss the parking lot.

  “How about you or Christopher presenting with me?” Quin asked.

  “Rebecca likes you. We don’t need two bulls in the pen,” he said. “And I’m not sure I trust Christopher.”

  Big Ben opened the door to Stella’s, and Quin stepped inside, now nervous about that comment.

  “Why don’t you trust him?”

  Big Ben stomped the snow off his shoes. This was the first time Quin had seen his boss without an Armani suit. He was wearing jeans and a blue blazer under his brown leather barn coat.

  “He’s a former competitor,” Big Ben said. “I don’t mind him hunting for leads, but he makes me uneasy when he stays with a prospect this long. He’ll always have that temptation to steal something.”

  Big Ben was right. Once a dog gets a taste of blood, it always craves more.

  How much did Big Ben know? Had he already figured out Stray Dog’s plan to steal the policy?

  “What makes you think Christopher would do that?” Quin asked.

  Big Ben scanned the bar for Macy and Candy. “I’m probably overreacting. It’s just a concern, that’s all. So you’re the guy who will get in close with the client.”

  They walked into the bar where their female companions were sitting, already chatting with two older men in suits. Candy had her hand on one man’s shoulder as he whispered something she must’ve thought was hilarious.

  Big Ben pushed his way into the party. “Gentlemen, can I buy you a drink?”

  The taller of the two sized up Big Ben. Quin knew his boss could take this guy down with his Harvard left hook.

  “If you’re buying, I’ll take a refill on this Manhattan.”

  “Make that two,” the other man said.

  Big Ben ordered their drinks and walked over to a high-top table. Quin watched as the men followed.

  “You drink over here at the little boys’ table,” Big Ben said.

  The taller man moved forward, but Big Ben opened his coat and flashed his Glock hanging from a shoulder holster. It was the same style of gun that he’d given to Pilson.