HYBRID: A Thriller

by James Marshall Smith

  He hitched up his boots on the log banister and stared out on the trees and fields as the crickets and tree frogs sang out too damn loud. Fumbling with the aspirin in the palm of one hand, he clutched the whiskey bottle with the other. He’d overreacted with Megan. Inexcusable. Why was he so much on edge?

  One thing was for certain—the summer with Amy hadn’t worked out. Even her tribal stories—once filled with harmless moral lessons—were now scaring hell out of his son and causing him nightmares. The fact she was soon leaving turned out to be well-timed. No matter what she thought, Michael was too young to get deep into scouting at his age. What did she know about things like that?

  A spotlight lit up the corner of the yard. It was a good idea to keep it on every night. When he leaned back and closed his eyes, the image arose of the nearly decapitated body in the funeral home. No report had yet come through on what the coroner had found on the autopsy. Why? Meanwhile, everyone kowtowed to Yellowstone’s chief ranger, a jackass who dismissed any claims of wolf attacks with a wave of a hand. End of discussion.

  He stood, uncapped the whiskey bottle and dropped the aspirin into the neck of it one tablet at a time, then twisted the top back on, moved to the far edge of the deck and heaved the bottle into the pine trees. He was tired, angry with himself. Angry with everybody.

  He had put it off too long. It was time to go over Chief Jack Corey’s head.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The sun drifted below the snow-capped mountain tops as Charlene and her friend from the East reached a grove of tall willow trees dangling like green ghosts over a slow-running stream that gurgled over smooth river rocks. She sat on a log to pull off her shoes and socks. Her ragged pair of sneakers didn’t quite fit right—size and a half too big.

  Marilee wouldn’t mind that she had borrowed them, she was certain of that. No doubt at all because they were good to each other and didn’t have many other friends. Actually, didn’t have any other friends, but they had each other.

  Charlene slid down from the log and leaned back against it. In the afterglow of the sunset, steam from a distant geyser climbed high and vanished in spirit-like wisps. While she munched on trail mix excavated from the corners of her pockets, she cogitated on the sight of her companion gathering firewood. How clean and handsome he looked as he squatted there, trying to coax the kindling to burn. He had to be smart, he was going to college, so he’d catch on eventually that it don’t do no good to use green twigs.

  Wasn’t her place to say anything. He’d figure out on his own that the smaller dead limbs that snapped instead of bending would make for proper tinder. She dug up another M&M and two peanuts from a wrinkle deep within one pocket and quickly popped them into her mouth before he caught her.

  Soon, smoke drifted upward and a tiny yellow flame glittered. He finally got the water boiling over his sorry excuse for a fire and he dumped in freeze-dried packages of peas and carrots and some fancy chicken. The meal tasted like cardboard with salt and spice, but she scarfed down what she was offered. He saved a little more for himself.

  By the time the high country’s evening chill arrived, they were snuggling close to the rosy embers, holding hands. They sipped hot tea and waved the stinging smoke away from their eyes. She massaged the back of his hand with the tips of her fingers and gently stroked his knuckles. A man’s hand softer than hers seemed strange. Weird, really. She didn’t know if he liked having her around because she wasn’t smart and would never lie to herself about being pretty either. She thought long and hard about it all, but it didn’t matter.

  He sprung to his feet. “How about dessert, Charlene?”

  Her eyes opened wide with delight. “You gotta Baby Ruth, slugger?”

  She watched as he jogged through the weeds down to a willow tree by the stream and cut off two small branches with a pocketknife while the tree thrashed about him in the wind. He then shaved off the leaves and sharpened both pieces into a fine point. When he returned, she jumped up, wrapped her arms around her shoulders, and slowly backed away. He strolled to his backpack and fumbled around inside it until he found a package of marshmallows that he waved above his head. “Have you ever roasted these?”

  She paid no attention to the question but pointed to the willow branches. “What you plan to do with them switches?”

  “Watch me!” He tore open the package, plunged a stick into the center of a marshmallow, and held it out over the fire. A sweet caramel smell soon drifted her way. He slipped the brown melting lump from the stick and blew on it. Instead of puckering his lips out like you would when you blow out candles on a birthday cake, he stretched his lips back and pulled the upper one down over his big front teeth. They formed a slit instead of an “O.” Ever so gently he blew through the slot like a girl.

  She wrapped her thumb and forefinger around his wrist and chomped down on the gooey treat. Squishing it with her tongue, she swallowed hard, and then mumbled through puffed cheeks. “My word, slugger, you sure know how to cook.” She licked each finger, pausing to suck on a sticky thumb and grin.

  He quickly placed more kindling on the fire and flames flared inside the circle of stones. They roasted marshmallows until the bag was half-empty, all the while giggling and feeding each other like real lovers. Staring into the night sky, he said that he’d never seen so many stars. It didn’t make sense. Why would there be more stars in Montana than back East?

  “Look,” she shouted and pointed her stick at a brilliant light streaking low across the sky. “A shooting star.”

  “Did you know that it’s not really a shooting star, Charlene?”

  “Is too. I seen lots of them on dark nights.”

  “It’s actually a meteor.”

  “I read that once,” she replied. “But have you noticed when you say ‘me-te-or’ you sound hard and serious-like. You have to keep your mouth wound up all tight. But when you say ‘shooting star,’ you have to speak softer and pucker up your lips.” She slowly repeated the phrase. He seized on her invite and lowered his head to her face. She cuddled closer to him and burrowed into his bulky sweater that felt like the belly of a lamb against her face, but reeked of burned pine. They lay holding onto each other and staring down into the smoldering logs when the howl of a solitary wolf rolled in on a gust of wind.

  She caught his startled eyes darting about. Playfully, she dug the tips of her fingers into his sweater and began making tiny circles. He bent his head lower and nibbled on her earlobe. Gently exploring her face with his soft lips, he allowed one hand to slip under her jersey and sneak to the top button of her woolen shirt. Then he slid the hand across her warm chest until he reached what all men go for first. Caressing her small breast, he gently freed it and brought his lips down to it.

  She tossed back her head and held her breath. His fingers crept to her jeans, but stopped when the cold steel rammed against his stomach. The tip of a four-inch blade had snapped out of a brown and ivory scrimshaw handle. “Caught you, didn’t I, slugger?”

  He suddenly straightened up. “I . . . I’m sorry, Charlene. Please . . . put that away.”

  “You can kiss me all you want, but I’ll decide when it’s time to fuck. I’m not particularly ready right now.”

  He nodded more than necessary. She flicked the blade back into the handle and shoved the knife into her pocket. She wished she could find better ways to express herself. “Besides,” she said, “I’m having my period.”

  Son-of-a-bitch, he mumbled.

  She heard him anyway. Why was he so befuddled? Nice girls aren’t easy. She buttoned up and gathered herself.

  For the umpteenth time, he fixed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose with his index finger. “Do you want to—”

  “Beg your pardon?” She couldn’t tell if he was talking to himself like he was before or to her.

  “Do . . . do you want to use the sleeping bag?”

  “Well now, that is so kind of you! I don’t mind if I do.”

  She crawled into the tent and too
k off Marilee’s shoes. He followed her inside and crouched against the canvas wall, facing her. She thought better of taking off any clothes and slipped into the nylon bag, then zipped it up to her chin. “You gonna be warm enough, slugger?”

  “I’m fine, just fine.”

  Light from the campfire’s dwindling flames cast a tangerine glow on the canvas walls as they fluttered with the wind. He yanked the collar up around his skinny throat and wedged his knees together against his chest. Occasionally she opened one eye. Each time she caught both of his fixed on her. He probably didn’t trust her anymore. Men were like that.

  The howl of that lone wolf arose again. She shuddered and buried her head deep into the sleeping bag.

  TWENTY-NINE

  It was early morning when Dieter drove into the Park to Madison Junction and joined the Grand Loop Highway toward the Roosevelt Gate at the northwest entrance. Getting an appointment with Superintendent George Gilmer at his headquarters office was easier than he thought. He assumed his DVM credentials helped make it happen.

  When he arrived, the secretary he’d talked with on the phone asked him to wait in the reception area, then excused herself and entered the superintendent’s office. Dieter picked up a copy of National Parks Magazine from a side table and rifled through it as he rehearsed his spiel. Discussing the delicate matter of the chief park ranger’s idiotic behavior required political savvy, a trait he’d never even come close to mastering.

  It didn’t take long before the secretary returned. “I’m sorry, Dr. Harmon. The superintendent is on an unscheduled conference call with Washington.”

  “That’s not a problem at all. I can—”

  “I’m afraid the call will take him into his next appointment, but he doesn’t want you to have made a wasted trip.

  “Oh, no—I have no problem waiting until—”

  “Now you just follow me, and I’ll take you to the chief ranger’s office.”

  Dieter froze, trying to think of a quick reply.

  The secretary headed for the hallway and Dieter followed. “Mr. Gilmer is very apologetic. You know how—”

  “Pardon me, Miss, but what I’m trying to say is that I expected to see the superintendent himself.”

  She stopped and looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Now, don’t you be at all concerned. Chief Corey has many years of experience here in the Park.”

  “I came to speak with Mr. Gilmer. It’s frankly about a private matter.”

  “Thank you, Barbara,” a voice from behind blurted out. When he turned around, Jack Corey approached. The sharp creases in the trousers of his immaculate uniform could cut down a small sapling. The chief ranger held out his hand to shake. He was all smiles.

  “I would be more than happy to see you, Dr. Harmon. Please, come on down to my office.”

  Corey led him into his lair and closed the door behind them. He motioned for him to take a seat. “We really regret that Mr. Gilmer’s too busy for you today. How can I help you?”

  “As I told the receptionist, I came here to see the superintendent.”

  “I’m sure you can appreciate that a National Park superintendent has a lot on his plate every day of the week?” He wouldn’t wipe the fake smile off his face. “These sudden calls from Washington happen often.”

  “I understand, but I’m here to file a complaint.”

  The smile finally dissolved. Dieter leaned forward. “There’ve been too many wolf kills reported outside the Park. Some kind of action needs to be taken.”

  “But I explained all this to you at Joshua Pendleton’s ranch.”

  “That explanation didn’t fly,” Dieter replied. “Pendleton knows what he’s talking about. He’s been around the Western wilderness more than anybody. When he speaks about wolves—”

  “He’s speaking for the ranchers who live around here? Is that what you want to say?”

  Dieter struggled to avoid raising his voice. “Don’t you think the Park Service should at the very least be more willing to hear them out?”

  “Both of us need to calm down.” Corey turned toward the large picture window across the room. Lush green ferns, trimmed by a meticulous hand, decorated the window sill. Dieter stared out the window and began to recover normal breathing. Outside was a grand view of the open meadows of Mammoth Springs and distant mountain peaks, but what immediately caught his eye was a large vertical antenna on an adjacent building in the headquarters complex. An idea popped into his head, the same thought he’d had during his last visit to Molly’s home.

  Corey walked to a file cabinet and opened a drawer. After pulling out a bulging folder, he spread a stack of photos on the desktop. “Let me give you a history lesson,” he said. “At the beginning of the century, wolves were the equivalent of rats, so they were eradicated from the Park. So, Operation Wolfstock’s been underway for two years now.” The new goal of the National Park Service, he explained, was to establish wolves in Yellowstone permanently and allow them to breed in numbers large enough to be removed from the endangered species list. He slid a black and white photo across his desk. It showed a motorcade of park rangers and politicians passing through the Roosevelt Gate on a cold January day two years before. Another photo showed a pickup truck hauling a steel cage and carrying eight wolves.

  “These wolves,” Corey said, “along with six more two weeks later, made up the three original packs—Rose Creek, Crystal Bench, and Soda Butte. They were named after the landmarks where we released them. All of them were captured in Alberta and transported here. Their survival and breeding have passed all our predictions. Restoring that good ol’ balance of nature, just the way God and Bruce Babbitt intended.”

  Dieter knew the lore of Bruce Babbitt—the Secretary of the Interior and the champion of environmental activists everywhere.

  Corey squinted. “Did anyone ever tell you what happened to the wolves released up in the Park’s northeast corner?”

  “I really came here to—”

  “Unfortunately, those wolves didn’t know about Yellowstone boundaries, so they denned on a ranch just outside the Park. Everybody around got all worked up. Mad as hell. Their cattle were going to become feedstock for the wolves and their pups. Can you guess what happened?”

  Dieter didn’t answer.

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Cattle and sheep even grazed within sight of the den. We monitored the situation every week. Not a single livestock death was ever linked to a wolf. But of course, we eventually had to come in and capture and move the entire pack.”

  “Because?”

  “Too damn many complaints, Dr. Harmon. You see, we do care about those who live here, despite the propaganda you hear. Like the eloquent tales I heard from your friend Joshua Pendleton.”

  “People in Colter aren’t the ones who asked for the wolves,” Dieter replied. “That was a political decision. Made two thousand miles away in Washington.”

  Corey clasped his hands behind his back and looked out the window again. “How long have you been a veterinarian, Dr. Harmon?”

  “I really don’t think we have anything more to discuss.” He gripped the arms of his chair to stand.

  “I would think,” Corey said, “that a professional who takes care of animals would have a better understanding of wildlife and the issues we face in the Park.” He strolled over to a credenza beside the window and mechanically poured a mug of coffee without offering anything to his guest.

  Dieter scooted to the edge of his chair. “So, why are you so opposed to even considering the idea of wolves killing livestock outside the Park?”

  “There’s no reason to get upset.”

  “Who’s upset? I came here to ask the superintendent why there’s been no action.”

  “Do you have any idea,” Corey asked, “how many bear attacks we have each year in the Park?” He took a sip of coffee. “The average number the last two decades has been nine a year. We had thirteen last year alone. And I’ve just been talking about attacks on people. Would y
ou like to take a guess at the number of bear kills on sheep and cattle and horses on farms and ranches near the Park?”

  Corey paused as if to give Dieter time to digest his point. “Okay, look. We’ve called in a team of experts. They’re investigating all the attacks we know about. Give us a little time. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I can promise you that.”

  “Time is what we don’t have.”

  Corey shrugged. “So, what would you like me to do, Dr. Harmon?”

  “Josh Pendleton and I are working together on this. We’ve done some probing on our own. We think a renegade wolf is responsible for most of these kills. Maybe all of them.”

  Corey cocked his head to one side, as if listening to nothing but balderdash. “One lone wolf?”

  “A solitary wolf. One far bigger than any of the others.”

  “So, tell me . . . what kind of probing have the two of you done?”

  “We’ve looked at tracks and examined corpses,” Dieter replied.

  “What types of corpses?”

  “Just hear me out. We’re willing to help search. I can get ten or more volunteers with a few phone calls right now. I could ask Claire Manning from the Weekly to put out the word.”

  “You can ask who?”

  “Claire Manning. The editor-in-chief at—”

  “I know who she is. How do you know her?”

  Corey’s face shouted that Manning was the wrong name to bring up. “She stopped by the cabin to ask me about the body on the Madison.”

  “A reporter for a newspaper just happened to stop by and ask you about a murder? You ushered her right in, offered her a glass of wine, and gave her all the gory details, I suppose. Did you smile for her camera or just give a somber look, maybe one more befitting a professional in the community?”