The wilderness swallowed her hopeless shouts. The whole damned venture was a waste. She wanted to kick herself for thinking it might be otherwise. Her thoughts began to overwhelm her when a flash of sunlight bounced off an object in the grass. She climbed off the ATV and walked toward it. A backpack on a metal frame lay on the ground with a small tent rolled up on top. A smaller pack was nearby and she yanked it up and unzipped it. There were panties, packages of snacks, a Bible with a red cover the size of her palm, and a couple of tampons.
A flock of black birds were feeding among the weeds. When she headed in their direction, they scattered away from a mixture of mud and what appeared to be dried blood. The scratched up and furrowed dirt quickly suggested a vicious fight among animals had taken place.
***
Charlene jolted upright when gunshots rang out across the valley. Then came the roar of an engine.
They were coming after her. She knew they would, in time. Joseph Vincent—him and his sister wives. She’d wrapped her legs around the trunk of a fir tree at the junction of two limbs and sat anchored ten feet above ground. She pulled the knife with the scrimshaw handle from her pocket and snapped out the blade. Clinging to the tree with her thighs, she dragged clumps of her wet hair down to her shoulders and grabbed one fistful at a time. She sliced the steel blade across the strands and let them fly into the wind.
The sound of an engine arrived nearby and shut off. A voice shouted her name, a voice she didn’t recognize. She slipped the knife back into her pocket and reached higher into the tree. When she hauled herself up, she suddenly lost her grip and plunged through the branches.
“Help!” she yelled as she slammed into the ground like a bale of hay.
A crazy woman ran for her. She cried out and flailed her legs, holding onto one aching arm. “I’m not going back! Get away from me!”
She sat up, wrenched out her knife, and thrust the blade toward the stranger while her other arm hung limp.
The woman dropped to her knees and spoke softly. “Charlene . . .”
She hissed like a wildcat. “You come any closer and I’ll stick you.”
“Listen to me, dear. I’m Molly. I’ve tried to find you the last two days. Please, let me help you.”
Charlene wrinkled her forehead. She couldn’t tell if the woman was lying. “Did Joseph Vincent send you?”
“No, no. I saw what he did to you.”
“Are you one of Uncle Withrow’s people? He got what he deserved, you know.”
“Please . . . just let me help.”
Charlene brought down her hand and shoved the knife into a hip pocket as a wide smile crossed her face. The woman who she remembered rescuing her from the shed rushed toward her with outstretched arms. She was not going to cry. She was strong, and she would get stronger by the day. There had been plenty of time during the haunting night in the tree to plan her long overdue mission.
THIRTY-THREE
Dieter arrived at the Little Bears’ home, eager to fly out over the Park with Amy’s dad. The day before the two men had met for a beer at the Colter Bar and Grille and discussed in detail the location of each wolf pack. Thanks to his popularity as a guide, Little Bear had the good fortune earlier in the summer to spend time with a Yellowstone wildlife biologist. That experience provided him regular updates on Operation Wolfstock.
Mr. Little Bear lacked a formal education, but he was a man of obvious wisdom who spoke confidently and passionately about wildlife in the region. To his amazement, Dieter learned from their conversation that Mr. Little Bear had been deeply involved in the plans to bring back wolves to Yellowstone. Molly and Josh hadn’t mentioned it before, but Little Bear had played a major role in the government hearings that were held in Colter two years earlier. A crowd of over one hundred had mobbed inside the walls of the town hall, a mix of people like Little Bear had never seen, from farmers and ranchers to politicians and developers. “On the one side were tree-huggers who fought to restore Yellowstone to its prehistoric origins,” Mr. Little Bear said. “On the other were those who made a living with livestock.”
He spoke about homemade signs that some waved about, like Bring back the wolf: I need the Target Practice or Save a Wolf: Shoot a Rancher. “Every soul present had an opinion. And to beat all, Yellowstone’s chief ranger—Jack Corey himself—gave the welcome.”
Little Bear represented the Blackfeet because he was the former chieftain from the reservation. He arrived in full Indian headdress and when he was invited to speak, he said a prayer to the Creator and gave thanks to the Earth Person for the beauty of all creation. “It gave a near supernatural mood to the evening,” he said.
“I voiced how the we natives from the beginning of time lived and hunted the area now called Yellowstone. The wolf is our elder brother, I told them. The Blackfeet learned to live in peace with the wolf before the White Man arrived. Then I delivered my punch line. We support the return of the wolf to Yellowstone.”
He then shook his head and smiled, as if it had just happened yesterday.
Dieter asked, “So, why did you change your mind?”
“Simple. My neighbors,” Little Bear replied. “I’ve heard enough stories from ranchers about livestock that have been mauled. The wolves aren’t worth that kind of price.”
Dieter had told Mr. Little Bear about the electronic rig that the Judge was putting together for him, how it would pick up signals from those that were radio-collared. The plan was that the two of them would do the recon under the ploy of a guide service flying over the Park—a risky game to play behind the Park Service’s back.
In spite of all the planning, what Mr. Little Bear hadn’t expected was the visit from Eliot Culpepper. The California land developer was on his way back home from signing a deal in Boston for a new shopping mall. Culpepper thought he might stop in Montana, maybe spend a couple of days fly-fishing for some monster trout on the upper reaches of the Snake. Mr. Little Bear had guided him on occasional fishing and hunting trips over the past eight years. Eliot Culpepper was not the kind of guy you dismissed. He had more money than Little Bear had time to explain how booked-up he was.
Little Bear pointed out over the lake at a single-engine plane flying much too low. When it buzzed over, the pilot waved.
“I didn’t want to disappoint you today,” Little Bear said. “So, I talked to my backup.”
“Do I know him?”
Little Bear smiled. “Oh, you’ve met her indeed. Remember, I told you Amy has her license. Excellent pilot. Knows the Cessna inside and out.”
“But—”
“You couldn’t have someone more qualified to fly you. The only thing she knows better than that Cessna is Yellowstone. That’s a promise. I’ve got to get moving now. Can’t keep my client waiting.” As he rushed away, he motioned toward the strip on the backside of the property where Amy was landing.
The whole idea began to look stupid. Flying a small plane around ten thousand-foot peaks and at treetop levels while he held a make-shift antenna looking for wolves. And Corey had made no bones about the outcome if they got caught.
Amy hopped down from the plane and strolled toward him. “Dad told me you were looking for a bird’s eye view of the Park. If only you’d told me you were interested.”
“But we just planned it out over a beer yesterday. He knows everything. I mean, everything there is to know about the wolf restoration and Operation Wolfstock, Amy. I was totally taken aback about how much—”
“You’re afraid of flying with me, aren’t you?”
“Of course not!” His reply may have been a little too energetic, he thought. “That’s the furthest thing from my mind, Amy.”
“No it isn’t. You think I can’t handle a plane.” She shook out her long black hair and pulled it back over her shoulders.
“It’s not that at all. It’s just that—”
“Let’s face it,” she said. “I’ve brought this up before. It seems nothing I’ve tried meets with your approval, does it?�
��
“That’s unfair and you know it.”
“I’ve taken care of your kids the best way I know how this summer, Dieter. But you’ve complained all along about the food I’ve cooked for them, how I let them play in the woods, telling them the legends of my people. I could go on.”
“Did you know Michael had nightmares after you told him about your people running buffalo over cliffs? Smashing them to smithereens on the prairie floor?”
“What? I shouldn’t tell your son about Native American history? I suppose you want me to give him the bastardized version you grew up with in your pasty white Pennsylvania classrooms?”
“I’m only saying,” he spoke slowly, softly “that your tales can sometimes be too much.”
“Okay, forget the stories. How about when I try to teach them water survival? How to swim? This is the God Almighty West, Dieter. Not some concrete suburbia with make-believe playgrounds made up of plastic slides and padded jungle gyms with cedar chips covering the ground so that, God forbid, the little ones don’t scrape their knees when they fall.”
“Fran and I had plans on how we’d raise them.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Are you listening to yourself?” she asked.
“No, I can’t hear anything. My blood’s pumping too loudly.” All she was saying was crap. Why was she unloading on him?
“Fran’s gone, Dieter.”
“Excuse me?”
“Fran’s gone,” she repeated gently.
“You think I don’t know? That a day doesn’t go by without my seeing her face?”
“What I’m trying to say —”
“A day that I don’t see her smile, the scent of her hair after a shower? The trail of her powdered feet across the red carpet of the bedroom?”
“Okay, stop! Look, I’m sorry. I know how you’ve gotta feel.”
No, she didn’t. She was too young. She was too damned new to the game called life to understand the loss of someone whom you loved more than any treasure on earth. To feel the loss of someone you held and kissed every night before you slept and now you wake up every morning and forget for a second or two that she’s not there. Then the pain returns.
No more sharing of your dreams and knowing that no one else will ever love you as she had loved you. One night you ram your fist into a pillow, the next night you cry. Everyday you are torn among your worst emotions competing for your attention. Amy had pricked a sensitive nerve and he wasn’t about to forget it.
“I’m only asking,” she said, tearing, “if you’ve ever thought that . . . maybe it’s time to let go?”
“Let go?”
“To let go of Fran. Let go of trying to guess what you believe she would want or do for Michael and Megan. It’s all up to you now, Dieter. You, alone.”
If there was anything or anyone he needed to let go, it was Amy. It was time to tell her straight to her face. A barbed hook yanking at his gut, the timing was perfect.
She grabbed for his arm before he could speak. “We shouldn’t be talking like this. We come from two different worlds. But the fact is we both love Megan and Michael and we want the best for them.” She clutched his arm and tugged. “Come on, let’s take off. You won’t believe what the Park looks like from ten thousand feet above!”
THIRTY-FOUR
The ER staff at the one-story West Yellowstone Hospital had performed a host of x-rays and physical exams on Charlene while Molly sat in the waiting area flipping through magazines without reading a word. She prayed that she didn’t cause any more injury when she struggled with Charlene to help her onto the back of the ATV or in driving her over the rugged terrain.
Molly stood to greet the young doctor on duty when he approached. With a somber look he spoke in a cold, matter-of-fact manner, saying that Charlene had hit the ground on her right side, tearing her rotator cuff and sustaining a hairline fracture in her wrist.
“Is she going to be okay?” Molly asked.
He placed his hands into the pockets of his green garb. “Do you mind coming with me, Mrs. Schoonover? I’d like to ask you a few questions in private.”
Bewildered, she followed him into a small room off the ER, bare except for a table of sparse supplies against one wall and the two chairs where they sat.
Another wonderful example of the myriad of topics you weave into your story line, educating without preaching .
“How are you related to Miss Loudermilk?” he asked. He appeared detached as he spoke. Maybe that’s the way it had to be at an ER. Maybe he’d been without sleep for too long. Or maybe he was too damned young to have learned beside manners yet.
“Not at all,” Molly said.
“A neighbor?”
“No, just a friend of the family.”
The doctor listened while leaning back with his legs crossed, holding a notepad and intensely focused on her face. His words were slow in climbing out. “How long have you known her?”
“Less than a week.”
“But you said you’re a friend of the family.”
She looked away and back again. “I lied, Doc.” She confessed her interest in having draperies made by the Loudermilk women and what she’d learned about the family and their oddball ways in the one surprise meeting at her home. She avoided the incident at the shed because it was none of his business. His job was to treat Charlene’s injuries. The traumatized girl needed medical attention. As far as everything else about her despicable family, Molly and the Judge would deal with them down the road. That was a case for downhome justice, not for the medical profession.
“I’m sorry to probe so much,” the doctor said, “but I have to tell you that Miss Loudermilk has—” he interrupted himself and paused to contemplate his words. “She has serious issues. We’re quite concerned about her right now.”
Does she have some kind of fatal disease?
“There’s more than her injuries from her fall,” he added. “Have you noticed the older bruises on her arms and neck?”
“I’ve seen a small bruise or two.”
“I was shocked when I examined her, Mrs. Schoonover. She has old scars. Signs of welts and contusions all over her body. Even evidence of an instrument or object used forcefully in places I won’t mention.”
Molly could believe it, every word he was saying. In time she would see to it that Joseph Vincent Loudermilk would get everything that was coming to him. If there was any redeeming justice on earth, he would arrive in Hell with a pitchfork up his ass and signed by Molly Schoonover. She brushed her eyes with the back of her hand.
The doctor shoved a box of tissues toward her and continued. “She also appears anorexic. That condition is common among women who’ve been chronically abused.”
It was time to tell him everything, beginning with her unplanned visit to the Loudermilk farm. She described her creepy walk down the graveled road, the strange sounds coming from the shed and the horrible scene in the window.
“Are you certain Charlene was the victim?”
She wiped her nose and sniffled. “As sure as I sit here.”
He moved closer to her. “I’m required, Mrs. Schoonover, to report this incident to the police.”
“I know,” she said, relieved Charlene would finally get some protection. “My husband’s a former judge. You’re just beating us to the punch, Doc.”
Molly stayed by Charlene’s bed, holding her hand and keeping close watch on her pale swollen face covered with bruises and tincture of iodine. As she brushed Charlene’s hair back from the scrapes on her forehead Molly realized that her fondness for animals—from the horses and sheep on their ranch to those barking dachshunds—was nothing more than a substitute love for the child she never had. Her one regret in life was her inability to provide the Judge with a child they both always wanted. She promised herself that she and the Judge would confront the Loudermilk clan after the ordeal was over. He would take care of the legal work to regain Charlene’s children. She’d take care of the rest.
; When Charlene awoke, Molly wet her chapped lips with the corner of a washcloth dipped in ice water. Charlene murmured and Molly lowered her head. “I can’t hear you, honey.”
“Don’t tell Joseph Vincent I’m here. Okay?”
Charlene spoke about her adventure as if still struggling to understand it. When the wolf came for her, it scraped at the base of the tree, growling and waiting below on its haunches for her to grow weak and fall.
“In your dreams, pooch!” she kept screaming at it.
She told how the wolf dashed away like a bolt of lightning when a humongous brown bear trudged out of the woods. Might have been a Grizzly; she was too frightened to tell if it had a hump. The bear crunched and chewed on her friend’s body before dragging him away like a sack of feed.
“I was scared that his head was gonna come off on a snag.”
Molly wiped tears from Charlene’s cheeks and stroked her hair, assuring her that she wouldn’t let Joseph Vincent or anyone else take her away.
A young nurse at the door motioned for Molly. She hurried into the hallway and stopped. Staring back at her with a grim look plastered on his face was Deputy Harlan Ward. “I’m sorry, Molly.”
She gave him a warm hug and they walked down the hall to a seating area. Harlan wanted to get involved. After Molly repeated to him everything she’d told the doctor, Harlan promised the Loudermilk family would be investigated straight away. But the first priority was Charlene. “I’m going to try to talk her into staying with the Judge and me for a while, Harlan.”
“You’d better be careful on this one. Could be getting into something too big to deal with.”
“She’s a sweetheart. An absolute darling of a woman. Would you like to meet her?”
They stood and he followed Molly down the hall and into the room. Charlene wasn’t in the bed. Molly tapped on the bathroom door. “Are you okay, dear?”
When she didn’t answer, Molly twisted the knob and cracked open the door. No one was there.
She peeked into the small closet and discovered Charlene’s bag of clothing gone.
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