Resolution: Evan Warner Book 1

by Nick Adams

  This particular copy of Call is a cheap paperback. The first copy of the classic I had owned. The first book that I had ever purposely owned. At age eleven I devoured it, and I haven’t lost my love for it since. The pages are yellow and brittle and full of highlights of various colors. It’s ugly and holds no value to anyone but me. I suppose that’s part of its charm.

  My affinity for wolves and dogs, and also fiction, can be blamed largely on Jack London. A century separates our lives, but even so, he’s the one who really opened my eyes. My subsequent attitude towards people and canines can also be attributed to London, though in all honesty, I can really only blame myself for feeding the fire.

  Somewhere in ancient history, a human and a wolf struck up a partnership. A primal relationship of mutual trust. A friendship that can only be rivaled perhaps between a horse and a rider. Of course there was no official ceremony, but the merging of lives certainly was a solemn undertaking. A vow of devotion unto death. Not terribly unlike marriage. The greatest distinction being not the lack of elaborate ceremonial attire and festivities, but the fact that said devotees actually do remain devoted unto death in the majority of cases. Along the way they argue less. Never use kids as leverage against each other. Divorce is all but unheard of.

  From those early wolves with their unparalleled senses and unsurpassed survival skills came the domestic dog. A human creation, and therefore a human responsibility. Like all things touched by humans, the canines have suffered unduly for their association. The primitive contract has been violated. Not by savage animals, the wolves so often demonized, but by sophisticated modern human beings. The sort of creature that will proudly boast of its great intellect and individual value, its inalienable rights and good sense, and the greatest delusion of all, its humanity.

  Humanity. The single greatest lie ever propagated by humankind. Steeped in conceit. Upheld by the steadfast denial of reality. More fictitious and yet less appealing than the complex world of fantasy constructed by Mr. Tolkien.

  If there is such a thing as genuine humanity at work in the world, it is a virtue practiced more often by canines than by humans.

  I looked over at Frank. He was sleeping quietly. Sure, he lacks table manners and he rarely bathes. But at least he’s honest. In him I find none of the unappealing qualities that I observe in people on a daily basis, myself included. He does not lie or cheat or deceive. Apart from the desires of his stomach, his character is largely selfless, as trustworthy as a Cub Scout. But for his own defense he would never maliciously harm anyone. Even under duress I find it difficult to imagine Frank biting someone. More likely he would just run away. Perhaps he might attack someone in defense of me. But since he hasn’t been put to that test, I can only speculate.

  I’ve argued my case plenty of times over the years. Most notably in my own mind with one of my high school teachers. But rather than just insisting that my opinion is right simply because it’s mine, I usually end up falling back on simple questions.

  Why would an animal capable of easily outrunning its tormentor not run? Why would it allow itself to be dominated by a weaker creature? Beaten? Starved? Set on fire? Thrown from a moving vehicle? Ultimately killed? Most other animals wisely avoid the human species. Why are canines so different?

  Some would answer simply that dogs don’t know any better.

  I disagree.

  In The Call of the Wild, Buck is used and brutalized by multiple men. Even so, he finds it in himself to make friends with John Thornton. When presented with the chance to escape mankind once and for all, he denies his own urges, turning his back on the call from the wilderness so that he might remain at Thornton’s side. Which is exactly like the first wolves must have done when feeling the pull of two worlds.

  No, it was not for any need that wolves first befriended primitive humans. Such people traveled slowly on foot. Had no plush couches to offer. No cupboards stocked with tasty doggy treats. Hardly an adequate traveling and hunting companion for a top carnivore. The disparity is laughable. In all reality, the relationship was likely far more beneficial to the humans than the canines. Many Native Americans revere the wolf as a friend and a hunting instructor.

  With need ruled out, the only viable explanation for the merging of such opposite beings is the desire for companionship. A mysterious urge for partnership and friendship. Therefore the primal loyalty of a dog to its owner is not merely the actions of an uneducated simpleton hoping for a snack, as some would suggest. To me it is a clear example of the beast honoring its end of the ancient pact of companionship.

  But that’s just me.

  Your opinion may vary.

  On the table beside my TV stands a framed picture of a proud German shepherd. Max, the dog who showed me in practice the lessons that Jack London later made clear with the written word.

  Max was a stud. No two ways about it. A hundred and thirty pounds of no nonsense peacemaker. Or a mild mannered sidekick who could be trusted to play gently with small children. Take your pick. An old-fashioned shepherd with big shoulders and a straight back. No weak hips and sloped back. He had a barrel chest and a trim waist. He once had an awkward moment, just for the hell of it. Aside from his coloring, he looked like a wolf moving through the woods. There’s no telling how many miles we hiked together. My parents got him when I was a kid, partly as a family companion, and partly as a watchdog to help with their expanding campground endeavor. Uncle Danny had highly recommended the breed. And it turned that he wasn’t exaggerating.

  I would never tell Frank this, but no dog will ever truly replace Max. We barely had to train him. Max simply caught onto things and adapted to his surroundings with perfect ease. Because he was always employing his huge ears, before he reached his first birthday we had to resort to spelling certain phrases around the house to keep him from being perpetually on high alert. Go. For. Ride. Walk. Guests. Campground. Store. Supper. Car. Who’s here? And if anyone said help with the slightest hint of emotion in their voice, Max would come charging to their rescue, like Shane in the movie Radio Flyer. On several occasions he almost cleaned Mom right off her feet in his zeal to help her.

  Max typically accompanied my dad on his patrols of the grounds. As years passed, he sometimes went out on solo missions. Many guests recounted his random patrols, ears raised, his nose obviously working as he strode. To the regulars, seeing Max every year became a part of their tradition, and most of them came prepared to greet him with treats. He was not above accepting a handout or making new acquaintances, but mostly he was dedicated to his self-appointed sentinel duty. The shepherd typically insists on order and peace and quiet. They can’t relax unless everything is just right. Max was no different. If he wasn’t given a job to do, he’d find one and get to it.

  By the time I was nineteen, Max was getting older and slowing down. His solo missions had become rare, but even in old age, he never hesitated to accompany either Dad or myself on our patrols. One evening we got multiple complaints about a drunk man making a nuisance of himself. At that age I was still bent on proving myself. I insisted on handling the problem without my father. So that’s what I did.

  Back then, I was still dabbling with my father’s strategy of trying to reason with troublemakers and talk them down. As usual, that night, reason bounced off the drunk guy like a rubber ball. While our argument escalated and the man’s temper flared, I was too focused on him to notice his brother approaching my flank from the darkness. When we inevitably came to blows, the brother charged me. Maybe he didn’t notice Max standing behind me. Maybe he didn’t respect the protective instinct of a watchful dog. Maybe he saw the gray snout and counted him as too old. Or maybe adrenalin had control of him and trumped all fears. Whatever the reason, he discovered his mistake soon enough.

  Max struck hard and fast. Without a sound. Latching onto his right forearm just above the wrist. A few inches from the knife clenched in his hand. The knife he was about to use on me. When the guy reacted by hitting Max with his free hand, Max wi
sely moved his attack to that hand. The guy dropped the knife after the first bite. The second bite brought him to his knees. Then flat on the ground. From then on he could only scream and flail.

  A crowd soon formed, as usual. After I hogtied the first brother it took me all of a minute to convince Max to release his hold on the second brother. Max was a friendly guy and was slow to wrath. But once incensed, he was not lightly brushed aside. Not even by me, his best friend. By the time he let go the guy’s left hand was mangled. His four fingers and adjoining knuckles had spent too long clamped between Max’s molars. They looked like they’d been crushed in a vice.

  A shepherd’s bite force is claimed to be only half that of its wild brethren. But I doubt that fact was any comfort to the guy as he awaited the arrival of Saulsbury rescue. He had entered the fight confidently enough. By the time he was taken away in the ambulance he was begging the EMTs for painkillers.

  In the end there were no consequences for Max or my family. Uncle Danny dealt with everything. The knife justified Max’s attack, and my version of the story was backed up by multiple witnesses, including a few of the guy’s own camping companions. A lawsuit was later threatened by a lawyer from another state, but after a conversation with Uncle Danny, we never heard from them again.

  That was the only time Max ever harmed anyone. In my mind he saved me from a nasty wound and a frustrating recovery. Possibly saved my life. Yet true to his noble character, he expected nothing in return after throwing himself into harm’s way. No thanks. No recognition. Like his forefathers of old, he only sought our continued friendship.

  Max might not have expected any thanks, but I certainly did thank him. Later that night, I presented him with a steak so large that even he seemed astonished.

  18

  A few hours later I woke up on the couch. I was slouched over to one side. My neck was stiff. Frank lifted his head when he heard me stirring. I got up and shut off the kitchen light and the two of us staggered to our bedroom in the dark. Our nightly routine. Frank did a few slow spins and settled onto his bed while I was changing into PJ shorts and a tee.

  I slid in between my cool sheets and said, “Night, buddy.”

  Frank gave his tail a single firm thump against the floor. His form of Morse code. Night.

  Then I rolled onto my other side, facing the wall where my .500 Magnum lay beside me on the spare pillow.

  “Night, beautiful,” I said, and slipped smoothly into a restful sleep.

  In the morning we were up with the sun. Frank rested his chin on my bed and stared at me, barely touching me with his cold nose. I got up and got us some breakfast. Frank enjoyed two raw eggs on some kibble. I ate two hardboiled eggs with a big mug of coffee and finished the coffee with a cigarette on the porch.

  I checked my phone. No messages. No word from Kendra. No message from my uncle warning that I was wanted for vandalizing a house in Franklin.

  No news is good news.

  We went out for our early morning patrol. Frank trotted happily, occasionally stopping to sniff interesting smells, while I strolled along with a more subdued sort of satisfaction. It was a beautiful clear morning. The air was crisp and the sky blue. And my new sword felt great slung across my back.

  We walked the whole length of the access road. All the way up to the motorhome section at the front of the grounds. Along the way we stopped now and then to shoot the breeze with a few chatty guests. Aside from a few questions about my claymore, no one had any serious issues to discuss. It was a quiet morning. Dull. Just the way I liked it. I was grateful to have such a mild group of guests on such a busy holiday weekend. It was the exception, not the rule.

  The kidnapping attempt could hardly be considered a positive occurrence. But inevitably such dramas usually tend to be followed by days of peace and quiet. People are compelled by drama and action. But like fireworks, most people understand that fiery shows are best viewed from a safe distance. Once they’ve witnessed someone being burned, all but the dumbest tend to take a few steps back. Exercise a little caution.

  We stopped in to say hello to Linda Milton on our way back through the stretch of tent sites. She was glad to see us. Bob was up and around. Functioning like a human being again. He didn’t know me or Frank from a hole in the ground. He shook my hand like we’d never met. Introduced himself to Frank as if he’d never laid eyes on him. Linda smiled and laughed when I made eye contact with her.

  “Everything’s good?” I said.

  “We’re having a great time,” she replied. “Thank you.”

  “Everything’s great,” Bob said. “Only trouble is, the weekend is flying by way too fast.”

  “Enjoy the rest of it,” I said. “I’ve got a busy day.”

  “Thanks again,” Linda called.

  We walked on, enjoying the morning. We were almost back to the cabin when the sound of the birds singing and the rustling of trees was cut by a sharp shriek. It stopped me cold. I took it to be the scream of a little girl. It didn’t strike me as a desperate cry for help. More of an angry complaint. It came from the direction of the pond. Which somewhat worried me. It was too early and too cool for kids to be playing in the water.

  Then a second scream cut the silence. Followed by frantic words that I couldn’t decipher. Through the trees I could see the rough outline of the pond. But from that distance I couldn’t distinguish any people by the water.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love cool mornings. But I don’t like cold water first thing in the morning. A water rescue was about the last thing I wanted to deal with.

  I jogged down the road a little and then cut into the woods to my right, following the wide path to the beach and docks. Multiple signs along the way remind campers that we have no life guards on duty. Children playing in or near the water must be supervised by adults at all times. The majority of parents have the good sense to heed that advice.

  A few don’t.

  Frank made it to the shore well ahead of me. He had the culprit identified and engaged by the time I caught up. She was a little peanut of a girl. Beside her stood a slightly older boy. Both stood at attention, apparently in awe of Frank’s size as he circled them. The girl was wearing a teal sweatshirt that was noticeably wet up the front. The boy appeared to be dry except for his feet. Next to his feet I noticed a red plastic beach pail. Didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened.

  “Good boy,” I told Frank.

  Both kids looked me up and down. Neither said a thing.

  In a stern voice I asked, “Who was screaming?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Me,” the girl answered, pointing to herself for clarity’s sake. Her expression was intense. She pointed to the boy beside her as she added, “Because Ted keeps splashing me with cold water. I hate being splashed! I told him to stop.”

  “You’re Ted?” I asked the boy.

  He nodded without making eye contact.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the girl.

  “Melanie.”

  “And Ted is your brother?”

  She nodded sharply.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m five years old. I’ll be six on July seventeenth. That’s my birthday.”

  I looked at Ted. Asked him his age.

  “Eight,” he muttered.

  “Did you splash your sister?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Why’d you splash her?”

  “Because,” Melanie started to answer, but I held out my hand to hush her.

  “Let Ted answer.”

  She nodded and looked at her brother. He had three pairs of eyes fixed on him.

  “She was annoying me,” Ted said, at last looking me in the eye.

  “How so?” I asked.

  He gestured toward the plastic pail, said, “I was trying to catch minnows, and she kept following me.”

  “I just wanted to see them,” Melanie said.

  “You splashed her to chase her away?”

  “Yeah,” he exhaled.r />
  “Did it work?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Apologize to her, not me.”

  He apologized quietly.

  Melanie nodded, still looking at me.

  “Where are your parents?” I asked.

  “At camp,” Melanie answered.

  “I mean, why aren’t they with you right now?”

  Both children shrugged after exchanging looks.

  The situation was pretty straightforward. Judging by what I saw and what they had told me, it seemed they were telling me the truth. They were good kids. The girl was annoying the boy and the boy got sick of it. No big deal.

  But they weren’t entirely off the hook. Neither were their parents.

  What would Clint do?

  I went forward and picked up the plastic pail. Stepped over and dipped it into the pond. Moved back and dumped about half a gallon of cold water over Ted’s head. To his credit, he stood there and took it like a man. Didn’t protest or try to run away. Just wiped the water from his eyes and kept his composure. I had to respect him for that much.

  Melanie watched with wide eyes and an open mouth. Then she giggled.

  “Go get your father,” I told Ted.

  He shot off running without a word. We could hear his wet shoes sloshing all the way up the path.

  “It’s not a good idea to scream like that,” I told Melanie. “Not unless it’s an emergency.”

  “But I wanted to see the minnows.”

  “I’m sure you did. But screaming didn’t help you. All you managed to do was attract my attention. Now neither of you are having any fun.”

  “I’m having fun,” she said.

  “How so?”

  “Because Ted’s in trouble.”

  “He might not be the only one, after I speak with your father.”

  She dodged that idea like a ninja and said, “Do you have a sword?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “For bad guys.”

  “Real bad guys?”

  “Very bad guys.”