HYBRID: A Thriller

by James Marshall Smith

  Hank Williams wailed louder.

  “The more I think about it,” Montgomery said, “we really should brief the superintendent as soon as we get back. All this, on top of the livestock kills. Same attack scenario every time. Or pretty close anyway.”

  Corey shrugged.

  “You know, Jack, I would hate for Gilmer to get surprised—”

  “You know, Bantz,” Corey mocked, “if you want my goddamn job why don’t you go to the superintendent and ask for it?” He pulled his hat down over his eyes and began bobbing his head again while the godfather of country music begged for solace.

  A light drizzle slowed Montgomery at Kingman Pass. The temperature had dropped enough for sleet to form until the road descended to a lower altitude. He drove with extra caution, recalling the last time a summer snowstorm at that elevation stranded them. After several miles without exchanging words, Corey shifted in his seat to get more comfortable and words crept from under his hat. “One more thing. You can forget about sneaking back to the scene and searching for animal tracks. It was a murder. Period. The sheriff’s handling it.”

  Silence.

  Montgomery’s eyes stayed fixed on the road.

  “Did you hear me, Montgomery?”

  “Loud and clear, Boss. I heard you loud and clear.”

  NINE

  Business was looking up. Two phone messages had come in for Dieter the next morning and he quickly got on the road to make ranch calls. The first was about treating a cow in Grayling suspected of dislocating a hip during delivery. It hadn’t. The cow and calf were going to be fine. A grimmer call took him to a ranch at Cliff Lake where a lamb and ewe received severe burns in a brush fire. Both the farmer and his wife cried when he told them he’d have to put the badly burned ewe to sleep.

  In the afternoon Dieter made his way back to his makeshift clinic, Colter Veterinary Services, at the end of Bridger Avenue. There were two large rooms—the reception area and a room in the rear that he used for treatment. He’d managed to fit in a stainless steel exam table and to stock some basic supplies and a few holding cages in three sizes, all with the help of an eight-thousand dollar loan from the Montana Veterinary Association.

  Molly had warned Dieter that Claire Manning, the managing editor of the Gallatin County Weekly Reporter, would be his first client of distinction. Her upscale style of dress and coiffure matched Molly’s description perfectly. He guessed she was in her fifties, but with the glossy face and tight skin, he couldn’t be sure.

  He carried her cream-white Yorkie into the exam room and closed the door. King Tut stood on the cold steel surface of the table, holding its head low and shaking. The ten-pound dog had an under-bite and was groomed in the face to give a vague resemblance to his namesake.

  “Come on now . . . good doggie.” Dieter stretched out his hand. King Tut lurched forward and nipped his index finger, drawing blood.

  “Jeez!” He poured alcohol over the wound and placed a Band-Aid around it, then dug inside his white coat for a treat. When he gingerly held out the dog-biscuit, King Tut ignored it.

  Mrs. Manning had told him that the dog whined often the last three days with spells where he shook his head uncontrollably. She suspected seizures. An exam with the otoscope confirmed Dieter’s hunch. One ear was bright red with a black fungus spreading in the canal, a common ailment among small dogs with floppy ears. He swabbed and medicated them, then emerged into the waiting room.

  “King Tut should recover quickly with these drops,” Dieter said as he handed the pet back to Mrs. Manning and gave her a sample bottle of eardrops.

  “If this works, I’ll just have to tell your rival down in West Yellowstone that I may have to switch vets,” Mrs. Manning beamed.

  “Who’s my competition?”

  “Dr. Milburn. I’ve been driving down to him for King Tut’s shots since we got him.”

  He walked her to the door and she said to give Molly her regards. He stuffed his hands into his white lab coat pockets, not sure whether to say anything, but she was the editor of the local paper. Maybe a new client. Giving her a heads up might grant him even more credibility. Or maybe he just needed to talk with somebody about it. Whatever the reason, he blurted out, “Have you heard about the body found on the Madison?”

  “Nothing of a kind! When did you hear this?”

  He described how he came across the victim, but didn’t delve into the gruesome details. “I reported it to the sheriff’s office.”

  “Mysterious deaths just don’t occur around here,” she said, shaking her head back and forth. “Do you have any idea what happened?”

  “None.”

  They both stood quietly for a moment while King Tut panted and kicked, eager to leave. She shifted the dog to her other arm. “Must have something to do with drugs,” she said. “So much of that is going around the West.”

  Dieter agreed with a nod.

  “Or, my Lord,” she continued, “it could’ve been an animal attack of some sort? A Grizzly maybe?”

  “Difficult to tell. The body was on the bank across the stream from me.”

  “You never know what could happen out there in the God Almighty wilderness. You don’t think it could have something to do with the wolves? It is possible, isn’t it?”

  “I really don’t think so. I mean, I’ve never heard of wolves attacking people.”

  “I fought the Park Service bringing in wolves to Yellowstone from the start. You just never know about creatures like that. And I’ll share with you something else, Dr. Harmon. The rangers running Yellowstone live and breathe those damnable wolves. Won’t listen to the ranchers who’ve been losing livestock since they arrived. Maybe they’re now going after people in the backwoods, too. I should pay the chief another visit.”

  “The chief?”

  “Jack Corey. Yellowstone’s chief ranger.”

  “You know him?”

  She hesitated. “We’re acquainted.” She grabbed King Tut again to keep him from escaping her arms. On her way out, she stopped and dug into her purse. “Here’s my card. If you get any more info, please give me a call?”

  After waving goodbye Dieter slid the card into his trouser pocket and lingered by the door, then walked to his desk and picked up the phone. The woman at the Gallatin County sheriff’s office had no information. He said who he was and why he was calling. She placed him on hold.

  When she returned, she spoke fast. “I really don’t have anything that I can release at this time, Dr. Harmon.”

  “When can I call back to—”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I have an emergency on another line.”

  Click.

  Familiar territory. Cops. Bureaucracy.

  Fran’s murderer was never found. His trips to the station, his calls. None of it mattered in the end. He reflected on the first time they’d met—a wedding reception at Christ’s Methodist Church in Allentown. 1983. Her long, cascading hair framed a stunning face. Her carriage revealed a subtle sexiness as she pretended to ignore him, aside from one furtive smile. Her cockiness was enticing.

  He was more confident in himself then, a sophomore at Penn State. But he felt guilty living off his mother’s income, earned by working in the meat department at Kroger’s during the day and odd jobs at night or on weekends. He was going to drop out and make it on his own, but his mother would hear nothing of a kind. “Do you want to end up like your father?” she would often ask.

  He sank into one of the hard plastic chairs that had cost six dollars each at the Goodwill Store. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees. He’d come to Colter to escape, to leave all of the torment in his wake. Throughout the day, he’d thought off and on about Josh Pendleton. He had come to admire the old man, his earthy wisdom. He stood and paced, then stopped at the front door again and opened it wide. In the distance the snow-capped peaks of the Gallatin Range vaulted into the deep blue backdrop. Maybe the world hadn’t been especially kind to him, but as he stared out on the scene he knew he was a l
ucky man. Montana wasn’t so much a place to make a living as it was a place to dream. A place where you don’t go chasing the outdoors, it comes running after you and caresses you like a loving uncle.

  Was it a murder victim he had discovered on the banks of the Madison? Or had it been a wild animal attack? In any case, there was no doubt that a big problem had the local ranchers whipped into a fury and all of them were potential clients. He didn’t know if there was a connection between the wolves and the body he’d discovered, that was too outlandish of a stretch. It certainly made no sense from everything he knew about wolves, although he had to admit he didn’t know much. And what were the real reasons for the chief park ranger’s inaction in the face of the obvious problem? There had to be more to the story. Maybe the ol’ trapper had some answers.

  He placed an “Out to Lunch” sign in the front window, quickly locked up and sped away.

  TEN

  Josh Pendleton stood in the middle of Teepee Creek wearing rubber waders tied to his waist with a frayed rope. Dieter guessed he could find him there when he wasn’t in his trailer.

  A ragged fishing vest draped around Josh’s broad chest and a wide brim hat flaunted a dazzling array of trout flies. He cast the line out over the stream, waving it back with a tug of the rod and forward again without apparent effort. At the end of the line the artificial fly flew high, a little farther with each cast forward until it reached the precise spot. Then he would stop the fly in midair with a subtle wrist action. It fluttered down into the current and drifted downstream.

  After a few casts, Josh gave the rod a jerk and straightened up. A twisting flash burst from the surface. The rod tip quivered while Josh held it high with his right hand and hauled line with his left. The battle lasted only a minute. He scooped the thrashing trout into his net as Dieter strolled in behind him.

  “Ah, a beautiful Rainbow,” Josh beamed. “Must be a good eighteen inches, hey?” He held the fish up and twisted the hook out of its lower lip. “A sprinkle of salt and pepper, some cornmeal, and butter in a hot skillet. Now that will make a fine supper.”

  He pulled a fillet knife out of the leather sheath on his belt and dressed the trout in the shallow water before dumping it into his creel along with a fistful of wet moss. He stooped into the grass along the bank. “Tell me, Doc, do you have any good medicine for a bum knee?”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Don’t do doctors.”

  “An annual checkup is a good idea.”

  “Closest I ever came to a doctor was a vet down in West Yellowstone.”

  “A veterinarian?” Dieter asked.

  “Yep.”

  “You went to a veterinarian for your knee?”

  “Nope, he came here. Had a sick llama. I just took advantage of the opportunity.”

  Dieter couldn’t think of a reply.

  Josh said, “I mean a bum knee is a bum knee, right?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Does it matter which kind of warm-blooded mammal we’re talking about?”

  “You have a point, Josh, but actually—”

  “Don’t try to talk me into visiting a doctor. I haven’t needed one for sixty-two years and I don’t plan to start now.” He reached inside his vest and brought out a small flask, tossing back his head while he swallowed. He smacked his lips and offered the flask to Dieter, who waved it off.

  “Looks like you’ve got something heavier on your mind than my troubles, Doc.”

  “You read me well. Yesterday I discovered a body on the Madison.”

  “Waddaya mean a body?”

  “I mean a corpse. I called the sheriff’s office and they sent out a deputy. I led him to it.”

  Josh adjusted his waders and settled onto the weeds.

  Dieter told him what he’d shared with Mrs. Manning.

  “Land O’ Goshen!” Josh said. “I was told they just got strange body in over at Winslow Memorial. It’s in cold storage waiting on autopsy.”

  “Quite a network you have there.”

  Josh took a bigger swig from his flask. “But I had no earthly idea you was involved.”

  “I’ve shaken it off,” Dieter lied. “I called the sheriff’s office back but wasn’t able to get any info.”

  Josh sat staring at the ground, then looked up. “After you’ve lived here a while, there’s one thing you’ll learn. Nothing’s getting in the papers what the local law don’t want us to know.”

  “Here’s what I’ve come out to ask you—do you think that maybe there’s some connection with the attack on your llama?”

  “Good question. I don’t really know. Haven’t seen the dead body you’re talking about.”

  “I only saw it from a distance.”

  “Why didn’t you get closer?”

  “I . . . couldn’t.” He reached for the flask. When Josh handed it over, he drank the last of the liquor in a quick gulp. “Tell me something. What’s really known about those lone wolves you mentioned yesterday?”

  Josh gave a grunted laugh but quickly turned serious. “Plenty of stories out there, covering decades. Hardly know where to start.” He paused and studied the field grass about him, seeming to collect his thoughts as he fondled his beard. “First to come to mind is the one about the Custer wolf of the Black Hills. He held a ten-year reign along the border of Wyoming and South Dakota. Just appeared, started killing livestock, then disappeared for weeks at a time. Ranchers spent six months trapping for him before they kilt him.

  “Then there’s Ol’ Lefty of Burns Hole in Colorado. The story has it that he took out hundreds of sheep and cattle in his time. Clever scoundrel. One day he was caught in a trap. Dislocated a shoulder and lost a few teeth on the steel trying to get free. But he managed to yank his left forepaw out, a kind of self-amputation. ‘Course, the paw healed in time and formed a stub. Together with his bum shoulder, it gave him a weird way of moving about. Never put that stub on the ground when he loped.”

  Dieter was mesmerized by the stories and Josh’s recall of details. “Are renegades always loners?”

  “Not necessarily. My daddy’s favorite was the legend of Lobo from down in New Mexico, the King of the Currumpaw. Lobo was not exactly a loner. Had a mate, the Great White Wolf they called Blanca. One year, the story goes, the pair attacked over three hundred head of cattle. Just for the killing, you understand. Never fed on any of them.”

  “Were they taken out?”

  “They never got to Lobo, but they finally caught up with Blanca. Shot her clean in the head. Lobo grieved for weeks. The local ranchers used to say his desperate howls were heard for ten miles on a clear night.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “They found nary a trace of him. Everyone guessed he just crawled down into a hole somewhere and died.”

  Dieter considered for a moment the similarities between people and wolves. “What made these legendary loners so tough to trap?”

  “They learned from watching their companions die in agony from strychnine planted in chunks of meat. That taught ‘em anything smelling of man was a threat. Then they became smart as tacks. Used to detect the old number fourteen traps buried in the dirt from the human scent left on them. They’d sneak up on one and scratch all around it, exposing the trap and the chain. Then they’d take their hind feet and scatter twigs and stones onto the trap to set it off. Now that’s a fact.”

  Josh leaned toward him. “I been thinking, Doc. How much can you learn from a autopsy anyway?”

  Dieter shrugged. “Cause of death is often apparent.”

  “So if we could get a good look at the corpse you found out on the Madison, it might just tell us something?”

  Dieter jerked his head back.

  “Got a ‘quaintance over at Winslow Memorial who’ll likely let us sneak a view of the body if you want.”

  Dieter hesitated. That needed careful thought. How deeply did he really want to go? On the other hand, he’d made the trip to see Josh and find out more. Why hol
d back now? “I’d like to do that. How about tomorrow?”

  “What’s wrong with tonight?” Josh replied.

  ELEVEN

  Chief Park Ranger Jack Corey ordered a third drink—Glenffidich with a splash—while he waited alone and out of uniform at a corner table at Minicozzi’s.

  The upscale restaurant in the center of Gardiner was complete with white tablecloths and olive-skinned waiters with slicked-back hair. Good place to meet—far enough away from Colter to be a little more discreet. At least that’s what he thought. A well-dressed couple two tables away had glanced at him more than once. But that happened a lot.

  The reason for the third scotch was Anne. After twenty-two years, she was leaving him for another man, an asshole of an insurance agent older than he was by ten years. Anne put the blame square on Corey’s shoulders.

  Maybe it belonged there. He had always put his career ahead of family. A crisis somewhere ahead of anniversary or birthday celebrations. Late for dinner. Exhaustion taking the place of romance.

  He caught a guy at another table staring his way. He—Jack Corey himself—had made it to the enviable position of Yellowstone’s Chief Ranger. Everyone paid him respect. Whenever the annual meeting of park rangers from around the country took place, he was The Man. “Look, over there,” they would whisper. “He’s in charge of Yellowstone.”

  How about lunch, Jack? Any plans for dinner?

  After she entered the restaurant, he quickly caught her eye as she drifted across the room, dressed in a sleeveless silk blouse and slim-legged jeans stuffed into leather boots.

  “You look stunning as always,” he said, as editor-in-chief Claire Manning approached the table with a put-on smile inside a serious expression. He called the waiter over and asked for a bottle of Torciano Merlot—her favorite.

  She held up her palm. “Not for me. I’ll just have a glass of iced tea.”

  “I’ll take the bottle, please,” he added.

  Their chitchat began with the latest from the offices of the Gallatin County Weekly Reporter. She’d hired a recent graduate of Rexburg Technological College to run the refurbished printing press. After a few minutes the small talk shifted as usual to her husband. George’s latest sporting trip—hunting on a Kenyan game farm—sounded like shooting fish in a barrel. George was the co-owner of the Manning and Weisner trucking firm that had done well and provided George all the resources he needed to travel the globe for exploration, fascinating recreation and murdering wildlife.