HYBRID: A Thriller

by James Marshall Smith

  Dieter rose from his chair.

  “What would you propose to do with this army of volunteers?” Corey asked.

  “Look for tracks . . . search the Park perimeter.”

  “Were you aware, Dr. Harmon, that hunting down one of our wolves is a federal offense? You could get six months in the pen.”

  “I know it’s illegal inside the Park, but if we can take care of the problem outside park boundaries.”

  “You mean, shoot the wolf?” Corey asked.

  “If it’s threatening our livestock and families, yes.”

  “Shoot an endangered species? Let me ask you a question. Let’s suppose for a moment you and Joshua are correct. A renegade wolf has drifted off from one of the packs. Gone on a killing rampage and is on the loose right now. You would propose we track it down? Destroy it?”

  “It could be captured,” Dieter said, “and moved to another wilderness area.”

  “Captured? Because the animal is killing some domestic livestock that ranchers are making no small profit from?” A sudden calm came over Corey. “You know, Dr. Harmon, in nature there’s no such thing as right or wrong. Agreed?”

  “I don’t see where you’re going.”

  “You’ve made a career of treating pets and farm animals. Does a wild animal have rights in this world?”

  “To some degree . . . of course.”

  “I’m not talking about dogs and cats in comfy homes. What about creatures without a highfalutin lobby to protect their rights.” He rose out of his chair and walked to the corner of his desk where he sat and pressed his hands against one knee. “Do you think, Dr. Harmon, that an animal has a soul?”

  “I certainly believe animals have feelings and emotions.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking. Does a wolf have a soul? A soul like you and me. An immortal spirit? An afterlife?”

  “I’m just a vet, Mr. Corey, not a theologian.”

  “I take it you’re not a philosopher either. Aristotle believed animals have souls. Have you studied Aristotle by chance? Or do you just read the sports pages?”

  Dieter turned for the door. “I’m sorry, but we’re just not getting anywhere on this. Have a good day.”

  Corey banged a fist on his desktop. “Another thing before you go.” His chest heaved rapidly as he spoke. “If a ranger of mine catches anyone within the boundaries of the goddamn park, even looking like he’s hunting wolves, you understand how the full force of the law will come slamming down on him like a sledge hammer?”

  The door creaked open and the secretary stuck her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Corey. The gentleman from the Oregon Lab is on the line for you.”

  Corey nodded and with a flip of his hand motioned Dieter toward the door. “Remember, Dr. Harmon, this is wild country. You need to be careful out there.”

  THIRTY

  A wolf has a soul? As he drove to Molly and the Judge’s place, Dieter thought about the conversation with Jack Corey—more a sermon to a congregation of one. And the more he thought about it, the less sense it made. The threat bounced around inside his head like a verse from an old song that wouldn’t go away.

  If a ranger of mine catches anyone even looking like he’s hunting wolves . . . .

  It wasn’t just what Corey said that grated on him, it was the determined rage in his eyes while he preached. Dieter wasn’t up to threats, especially when coming from the likes of an asinine bureaucrat on a mission.

  He made his way to Molly and the Judge’s while the idea was still hot on his mind. The notion had come to him twice: first, when Molly told him about the towering antenna on their roof and the Judge’s hobby. The next time was the day before, as he stared out the office picture window in Jack Corey’s office.

  Dieter had called ahead of time to see if the Judge would give him a tour of his amateur radio setup and talk about his idea. He followed the Judge as he wheeled into a small back corner room, explaining over his shoulder that Molly had gone out on one of her excursions. A rack of electronics surrounded a cluttered desk. Wires dangled from the back of the hardware that displayed dials like on an aircraft console.

  The Judge beamed as he explained his ham radio hobby. He handed Dieter a stack of post cards. “These are from all over the world. They acknowledge contact with Station WUZ8.” He pointed to the one Dieter was examining. “That’s one from Bishkek. Did you know that’s the capital of K-Kyrgyzstan?”

  Dieter shook his head, smiling.

  “I took up this pastime soon after my accident,” the Judge continued. “I’ve learned more about the world than I ever learned in school. Easy to do, if you have the right equipment. You can catch good sky waves at night and get reception for thousands of m-miles. Are you planning to get into ham radio?”

  “No, not really. But I was told that many of the Yellowstone wolves have been radio-collared. I assume those are signals that can be picked up somehow.”

  “Those s-s-signals almost always transmit near the amateur radio frequency band. But the type of transmitter a wolf would have around its neck has a range of only a couple of miles at most.”

  “Where could I get my hands on a receiver for that?”

  “You mean to pick up the wolf transmissions? Locate their whereabouts?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  The Judge nodded with a smile and thought for a moment. “You just need something thrown together from a few parts. It’s close enough to the upper TV frequencies that you could hook up a small antenna to an S meter.”

  “You’re getting over my head, Judge.”

  “My point is that I’ve got enough junk between here and the garage to jerry-rig you up a system you could c-carry around like a lunch box.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I don’t need help. With Molly out and about, I’ve got some time on my hands. Just give me a few hours and stop back.”

  ***

  Molly latched the trailer carrying her all-terrain vehicle onto the hitch of her truck. She’d worked past midnight tuning up the three-wheeled Honda that could take her anywhere. She had been up and at it before the Judge awoke to get ahead of traffic and the chance of suspicious onlookers. Although the Park banned ATVs, there had to be a way to finagle it. Unlike the Judge, she wasn’t into analyzing the hell out of situations. The only way to find out was to try.

  She’d searched a Yellowstone map the day before for what Sam Phillips at the General Store thought was the Deer Pass trail. He was close. The Fawn Pass trailhead was only eleven miles up Highway 191. As she drove she kept watch on the overcast sky and trees fluttering in the gusting winds. The temperature had dropped ten degrees from the morning before. When she arrived at the parking lot for the trail, one lone vehicle sat in a far corner. Frost covered its windshield. A yellow and black folder in the console between the front seats looked a lot like a rental car agreement.

  She unchained the ATV from the open trailer and coasted it down the ramp. After unhitching the trailer, she pushed it into a cluster of trees to hide it from passing motorists. She then hopped onto the ATV and prayed her tune-up would do the trick.

  On the second crank, the engine purred.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Charlene woke up to the aroma of bacon sputtering over a fire. She unzipped her sleeping bag and scuttled out of the tent to stretch in the brisk morning air. He was hunched over a campfire with his back to the tent.

  After she squatted behind a pair of birch trees to pee, she hurried to the stream for the can of Mountain Dew that she’d wedged between rocks while he was struggling the night before to build the fire. She sauntered back to the campsite, waving the cold beverage high and smiling. When she got close enough, she leaned down and kissed him on the lips, but he didn’t put any real desire into it.

  “No longer interested in some nooky, slugger?”

  He let her comment pass.

  She sat on a boulder and yanked at the tab on the Mountain Dew. While he cooked there wasn’t much in the way of co
nversation. She took big swallows and belched. She’d thought about it most of the night and had decided that she might’ve overreacted last night. As soon as he made his next move, she’d be more accommodating, that was for sure.

  When they got back on the trail she strolled at an easy pace, free of the worry and tension. She wondered what Duncan and little Sara were up to. Katherine Belle and Marilee would take good care of them, no doubt about that. Taking good care of them like they did for all the others. She would go back for her precious ones in due time.

  The morning sun peeked through the dark, racing clouds as they hiked. The air smelled nice. The leaves on the silver maples flapped about in the wind and turned over so you could see their undersides. Rain was coming. Thousands of spider webs clung to the meadow grass and sparkled in the heavy dew.

  “Don’t those webs look like giant snowflakes?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She didn’t ask any more questions. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk, but small talk was what she knew the most about. When he stopped to rest and take the load off his back, she sprawled on the ground beside him. She wasn’t tired by a long shot. A flock of ravens burst from the trees. Shading her eyes, she followed them when something moved about in the bushes on the other side of the stream. Wasn’t the wind, because it had died down.

  Could be a foraging bear.

  If one of those took off across the stream, it’d be on them in no time. She stood and ambled toward the water, placing each foot softly down so not to make any more noise than necessary as she studied the bushes across the way. She couldn’t make anything out. Then flashed a frightening thought—Joseph Vincent. But it wouldn’t be him over there hiding, because he’d already be on them like a wildcat if he’d spotted her. He was probably out searching for her though, driving up and down the highway, not stopping to ask nobody questions of course, just making plans to teach her a God-fearing lesson. Him and his cave.

  Joseph Vincent would be rubbernecking at everybody out there on the highway, gawking with those eyes, those sickening eyes, those magical eyes that could see into her soul. They were the eyes of the Devil, that’s what they were.

  The ravens flew in, low and circling, cawing at each other, squawking at her for nosing around in their territory.

  She despised her Uncle Withrow, too. He used to tease her real bad and tell her how ugly she was, but that didn’t stop him. He wasn’t going to hurt nobody no more. She made damned sure of that seventeen times. Her mother used to tell people that he likely upped and walked away, but she would just smile every time his name was brought up.

  The bushes across the stream quivered again and she froze. An enormous wolf crept into the open, a wilderness beast that looked like a wolf anyway, but it was actually too big. Her companion rushed to her side and tossed an arm around her shoulders. Too shocked to speak, she clutched him around the waist. The wolf darted toward the shallow stream where boulders jutted above the surface.

  “Looks like it’s trying to come across,” he whispered. “I think it’s rabid.” When he let go of her shoulder, she ran for her backpack.

  “No!” he shouted. “Leave it. That might be what it’s after.”

  “My backpack?”

  “The food. It smells the food.”

  He grabbed her hand and they took off as a dark cloud of ravens joined in the chase. When she glanced over her shoulder, the wolf was climbing up the bank on their side of the stream.

  “Come on, Charlene.” He tugged on her arm. “Run, for God’s sake!”

  The path led them out of the open field and into a grove of pines. In the thicker cover they ran straight for a pile of fallen trees blocking the path. Panting, he boosted her over the logs and she flopped to the other side and slammed hard onto the ground. She screamed as pain shot through her ankle.

  He dropped down beside her and pressed a finger to her lips. “Shut up!”

  She tried to stand but couldn’t put weight on the injured foot. She scanned the trees. A pair of golden eyes buried in wet, black fur hid in the tall grass and stared back. She yanked on his arm and pointed. He reached for a dead branch on a log and wrenched it off, then jabbed the air above his head with his weapon and shouted.

  The wolf exploded from the weeds.

  Like some kind of fool, he stood and heaved the limb at the charging animal and struck it in the head with a blow that toppled the beast into the dirt. It quickly recovered and stood with an arched back, bracing for another attack.

  Then her dream was shattered in a blink. Her boyfriend from back East, so handsome and caring, raced away like that bat from hell she had always heard about. She curled into a ball and covered her face while she prayed to God Almighty and sobbed. The cawing ravens gathered on the ground about her. Through the fingers covering her eyes she watched as the wolf jumped high over her head and chased after her friend. She could’ve told him you can’t outrun a creature from the wild. Running away was nothing more than a tease. He probably didn’t learn things like that in college.

  The wolf broke into a gallop, tail curled above its backbone, snout held high as it sniffed fear in its prey. It circled about him while he ran, nipping at his heels as if taking down a frightened lamb. The wolf leaped high and slammed its paws against his victim’s back, smashing him into the weeds. He kicked wildly as his screams pierced the air.

  As the wolf buried its open jaws into his neck, both of his fists hammered away at the attacker. The wolf chomped deeper into his throat. Twisting and wrenching, it battered his head into the stone-hard ground causing his pretty hair to flap about like a flag in a storm.

  Finally, his body lay still. Then it twitched. Madly at first, but soon only in clumsy jerks.

  The wolf unlocked its jaws and turned in her direction. She tried again to stand but grimaced and dropped back down. Her injured ankle had begun to swell. She snaked on her belly through the weeds toward the dead branch he’d used as a weapon. Gripping it firmly, she used it as a crutch to heave herself up to her feet.

  The wolf loped toward her. She hobbled with all of the speed she could muster to a fir tree and lifted her good foot up onto a lower limb. After dropping the crutch, she reached up to a branch with both hands, yanked upward, and stepped onto the limb. It snapped. She fell to the ground with a jolt and tumbled backwards. Her ankle throbbed while she crawled to the tree trunk again and stretched high for a larger branch. Squeezing her thigh muscles, she grunted up the tree, hand over hand, one limb at a time as the scorched bark scraped like sandpaper against her face. She shimmied higher until she could cram her body into the thick green branches. Comforted by the sweet smell of pinesap, she spread apart the limbs to peek through the fog bank that was now closing in.

  His body and her fantasy of what might have been, lay in a pool of blood. A swarm of cackling ravens battled over pieces of his shredded flesh. If only she could remember his name.

  She wrapped her arms around the tree and hugged it passionately as if there was no one else to hold. Mashing her cheek tightly against the bark, she could sense the feeble tremor of claws grating on the trunk below.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Molly’s ATV skidded over the rocks as a chilling rain fell. According to the odometer she’d gone four miles over the narrow trail blazed only for hiking. She was forced to steer around fallen trees and over the tops of smaller ones lying charred and scattered like pickup sticks. Stopping often, she called out for Charlene.

  When the wind died, the rain settled into a drizzle through a hazy curtain of fog. She picked up speed until the mist grew heavier and reduced visibility to only a few yards. The vague image of a boulder appeared on her path. Maneuvering closer, she braked too hard and killed the engine.

  Mother of Mary!

  Blinded by the blowing rain and fog, she had driven into the middle of a herd of bison. If she’d glanced away from the trail for even a split-second, she would’ve rammed one of them anchored on the path. Shivering, she sat motionless and than
ked the Lord that her blustering arrival hadn’t invited a stampede. She zipped up her jacket to the neckline and pulled the hood over her head.

  As she sat and patiently waited for the herd to move on, she thought about the Judge’s advice. The night before he’d argued that, for once, Deputy Harlan Ward might be right. What can you do, Molly? How often did abuse go on in families around America? The way to approach the problem, the Judge had said, was to call the Loudermilks. “Tell ‘em we’d both like to stop over. Begin by offering our friendship and trust.”

  “Bullshit,” she’d responded. Not quite a retort to persuade a judge or jury, but she wouldn’t stand for a young woman—just a girl, really—being treated as if she was a piece of meat. Beaten and raped within the sacred shrine of her own family. How were you supposed to begin by “offering your hand in friendship”? In no way would she tolerate that kind of violence going on anywhere near the place she called home. If the Judge chose to stay out of it, fine. Let him try to sleep on it. She’d read once—and long remembered how the passage struck her—that the only thing needed for evil to win out was for good people to do nothing.

  When the fog finally began to lift, the herd meandered. Among the last to budge, one young bull lay in a patch of dirt thirty yards away. When she started the engine, the frightened animal jerked around and stared at the intruder that had come to life. Streams of vapor gushed from his mammoth nostrils in pulses. He lumbered toward the ATV and gradually gathered speed.

  With no desire to discover what he had in mind, Molly reached behind and opened a storage compartment where she kept a twelve-gauge Remington loaded for action. She held the weapon high and fired one barrel followed by the other. Startled, the confused creature turned and jogged back to the herd. Molly sped away and didn’t slow down until the last bison was out of sight.

  The rain stopped and the skies cleared. The late afternoon sun drifted in and out through the low clouds. Arriving in a field by a stream, she cut the engine and repeated the calls for Charlene while opening and closing her fists to relieve her aching hands.