A Solitude of Wolverines

by ALICE HENDERSON

  She wanted to ask him who might have cut the belt, if it had been cut, but didn’t know quite how to word the question without sounding paranoid. Finally, as she shut the hood, she settled on saying, “I guess I’m not too popular here.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Just looks and attitudes and things like that.”

  “It’s not you. Don’t take it personally. It’s the land trust. A lot of people here wanted to use that land for other purposes.”

  “Do you think they’d stoop to messing with me?”

  “Messing with you?” He looked down at the hood. “Oh, man. You think this wasn’t just wear and tear?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I hope it wasn’t done on purpose. But I’ll keep my ears out.”

  “Thanks, Joe. I’m glad you came along when you did.”

  “My pleasure, Dr. Carter,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. “You be safe now.”

  “I will.”

  He waited while she turned around and headed off toward the resort. Then she saw him wheel his patrol car back to town.

  She hoped it had just been wear and tear, though it certainly didn’t look like it. She wondered what someone’s motive had been. Just to make life harder for her? If she hadn’t known how to fix the wagon, it would have been a hassle. She’d have had to wait for a local garage to fix it, and maybe even stayed in town if there was a line of cars waiting to be fixed. Which would have left the resort unoccupied.

  She paused at the turnoff to the resort and hopped out to get her mail. Not really expecting any yet, she was surprised to see a few letters in the box. Most of what she usually got were letters from various wildlife nonprofits she donated to. So she was delighted, then, to also find a postcard among the mail from the Natural Resources Defense Council and the Center for Biological Diversity. The postcard depicted the famous clock tower at UC Berkeley. On the back was a simple message: Hope you enjoy your new post. It was unsigned, but she figured it must be from Professor Brightwell. The postmark was from Berkeley, dated just a few days ago. They’d almost always communicated solely in person or by email, so she didn’t really know what his handwriting looked like. It was a nice thought, and she smiled as she carried the mail back to the car. She made a mental note to call him and let him know how everything was going.

  She climbed back into the wagon and headed up the hill to the Snowline, thinking back on the car’s belt. She hoped she was wrong about the sabotage. If someone intended to keep her in town longer, part of her was worried she’d encounter someone at the lodge, up to no good. But she also wanted to make sure all was well there.

  As she passed through the resort’s old gate and approached the building, she saw a beat-up red pickup truck parked in front. She slowed and pulled off into the trees, out of sight. Quietly she crept through the woods, flanking the lodge, wondering who was there. It could be a visitor, someone innocuous, but the bad feeling in her gut was growing.

  A figure came around the side of the lodge, peering in through the windows. It was Gary, the hardware store owner. He tried the lodge door, finding it locked. Then he went around to the first-floor windows, systematically checking each one. She knew when he reached the broken kitchen window, he’d be able to get in.

  What was he doing up here?

  Gary. He’d gone out to load her truck alone. He would have had time to lift the hood and clip the belt. But why?

  She decided to take the direct approach. Gathering her courage, she marched out of the trees. “Gary?”

  He spun, eyes wide, hand going to his chest. “I didn’t hear your car pull up,” he stammered.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He paused, glancing around nervously, his ears going bright red. He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small bag of alligator clips. “After you left, I noticed you’d forgotten these. Didn’t want you to hike all the way up the mountain and then realize you couldn’t build the trap. Just wanted to bring them up to you, but you weren’t here yet. So I’ve been waiting.”

  “Why not just leave them on the doorstep?”

  He paused, his mouth open slightly. “Pack rats,” he said at last.

  “Excuse me?”

  “They love anything shiny. They might have made off with these.” He held them out to her.

  She came forward, taking them. She knew he was lying. Could feel it in her bones. He was up here for an entirely different reason. “Thank you,” she said, feeling uncomfortable.

  He crammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “No problem.” He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something else. But then he shut it and said, “I’ll be going now.”

  “Okay.”

  As he reached his truck, he looked around and said, “Where’s your car, anyway?”

  Was he asking because he expected it to be broken down? “It’s down the hill a bit.”

  His brow furrowed and he frowned, then climbed wordlessly into the cab of his truck and started up the engine. Giving a small wave, he turned around, driving away.

  Pocketing the alligator clips, Alex walked a circuit of the building, trying the windows. They were all locked, except the kitchen window with the broken latch. She hiked back to the wagon and drove it to the front door. Reaching down to the bag of hardware on the bench seat, she dug through it. The smaller sack of alligator clips was there. She’d had no bag of additional clips.

  Gary was lying.

  Seventeen

  Inside the lodge, Alex sat down on the bottom step of the main stairs and laid out all the supplies she’d need to build the replacement trap. Everything was there. She leaned back, rubbing a stiff muscle in her neck.

  She’d gone over more remote photographs, and so far, her efforts had captured images of two wolverines, one male and one female, both adults. Plus she had seen the two juveniles with an adult, which could be one she hadn’t photographed. Often a male would father two sets of kits by two different females in adjacent territories. She hoped that a second family of wolverines might be using the preserve, that future photographs would turn up even more individuals.

  Alex knew that one reason the wolverine was declining in numbers was its low reproduction rate. Females didn’t give birth until they were three years old, and typically had two kits every other year, generally half being male and half being female. That meant by the time a female died at the age of ten, she had likely borne only six kits. The survival rate for wolverine young was only 50 percent. That typically left three kits: one female to eventually replace the mother in the population, one male to replace the father, and one wolverine to venture into new territory.

  Given that crossing into that new territory meant facing the dangers of highways, resort development, housing and retail projects, oil and gas extraction, human recreation like snowmobiling and heli-skiing, and the ever-present danger of trappers and hunters, the chances of that one wolverine making it to a new territory were slim.

  Alex stood up and stretched. Glancing at her watch, she decided that, given the time difference, it was still early enough to catch Dr. Brightwell in his office. He preferred evening classes and was probably just winding down grading for the night. Moving to her perch on the stool next to the phone, she dialed his office.

  “Brightwell,” came his familiar voice.

  “Hi, Philip,” she said, smiling, happy to hear him. “This is Alex Carter.”

  “Well, Dr. Carter. How are you faring out there in the wilds of Montana?”

  “Captured two wolverines on camera and even saw an adult with two juveniles!”

  “Did you now? That’s wonderful.”

  “This whole assignment has really been amazing. You should see the mountains up here. Just stunning.”

  “You sound better. Happier.”

  She smiled, a bittersweet feeling settling in her stomach. She regretted how things had gone with Brad, but knew she was on the right track now. She needed wilderness. “You were right. I think m
y spirit was slowly withering away in the city.”

  “How do you like the land trust folks?”

  “They’ve been great. I met their regional coordinator, Ben Hathaway. He flew out and got me set up. How are things with you?”

  She heard his office chair squeak as he leaned back. “Oh, good. Good. But I admit I’m already looking forward to winter break. Then I am taking a sabbatical.”

  “That’s great! How are you going to spend it?”

  “Research, mainly. But I also plan on reading some books for fun and going on a trip.” He chuckled. “I might even take a landscape painting class.”

  She grinned. “Adventurous!”

  “My wife certainly thinks so. She says I can’t even draw a stick figure.”

  Alex chuckled. “Hey, thanks for the postcard, by the way.”

  “Postcard?”

  “Yeah. The one you sent me, with the clock tower?”

  He was silent for a few seconds, then said, “I don’t recall sending you a postcard.”

  “It said, ‘Hope you enjoy your new post’?”

  “Gosh. I hope I’m not getting senile. I certainly don’t remember sending you anything.”

  Alex frowned. “Oh. Well, it was unsigned. Maybe it was from someone else.” But she couldn’t think of whom it would be from. It certainly wasn’t from her dad, and Brightwell was the only other person she still talked to in Berkeley. Her grad school friends she’d been so close to had all moved on to other areas of the country to pursue postdoc research or teaching.

  “So are you going to stick it out there for the winter?” he asked.

  “Definitely. Thanks again for thinking of me when this opportunity came up.”

  “My pleasure, Alex. You take care of yourself, and let me know how you’re coming along.”

  “Will do.”

  They hung up and Alex moved to the table where she’d placed her mail. She found the postcard in the pile. Flipping it to the back, she studied the handwriting. It definitely didn’t seem familiar. A yellow mail-forwarding sticker covered the addressee part. Carefully she peeled it away to see the original address beneath. It was for the apartment in Boston that she’d shared with Brad. That meant whoever had sent it didn’t have her address out here, yet knew she’d taken a new post.

  The phone rang, and she picked it up distractedly. “Hello?”

  “This is Makepeace.”

  “Hello, Sheriff.”

  “Wanted to let you know that search and rescue is still looking, but the bulk of searchers has been called away to another case. You should brace yourself that you may never know what happened to that guy. People vanish. You’ve heard of Everett Ruess, right?”

  She had. His story had both inspired and scared her when she was a kid. In the 1930s, at the age of sixteen, Ruess had set out to explore the Southwest, writing fascinating and descriptive letters home to his family about his adventures. Then the letters had stopped. Searches turned up nothing. Seventy-five years later, a woman came forward with a story about how her grandfather had buried a man who’d been killed by mule thieves. But when the body was found and DNA analysis conducted, the remains proved not to be Ruess, and the mystery continued. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen in this case.”

  “We may never know. Hell, the guy might have been found by hikers and be in a hospital right now.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “You take care now,” he told her and hung up.

  As she stood by the phone, she flipped the postcard over in her hand again. Could her father have had someone else write a postcard? That would be weird. But she decided to find out.

  Dialing her dad’s number, she couldn’t help smiling when his comforting voice answered. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, pumpkin.”

  “This an okay time?”

  “Oh, sure. Just sitting here reading an Ellery Queen novel.”

  “Have you figured it out yet?”

  He chuckled. “I’m close.” She could hear him placing the book down. “So how do you like it out there?”

  “It’s gorgeous,” she told him. “Some of the locals delighted in telling me grisly tales about murders that have happened in the lodge.”

  “What a welcoming bunch.”

  “I thought so.”

  “So have any grisly murders happened since you’ve been there?” he asked.

  She told him about the close call with the cougar, then about the man she’d found, and how search and rescue hadn’t turned up anything.

  He was aghast about the cougar. Then about the missing man, he said, “Very strange. Doesn’t sound like the guy could have gone far in his condition.”

  “I know. Speaking of strange, did you send me a postcard?”

  “No. I’m putting together a little box of goodies for you, but I haven’t mailed it yet.”

  “This is weird. I got an unsigned postcard from Berkeley. Something about it is a little odd. I thought it might be from Brightwell, but it isn’t.”

  “Huh. You got a package here with no return address on it. The label was typed on an old typewriter. I was going to forward it to you. Thought maybe you’d ordered something off eBay and had it sent here.”

  “I didn’t. Can you open it, Dad?”

  “Okay. Hold on a minute.” He put the phone down and came back a minute later. She could hear him cutting the box open. “It’s stuffed with newspapers. Okay. Here we go.” He grunted as he pulled something out. “It’s a GPS unit.”

  “What? Like a new one?”

  “No, it’s used. It’s a Garmin eTrex. Wait . . . your name’s on the back.”

  “Written on a piece of yellow tape?”

  “Yes.”

  Alex’s mouth fell open. She’d lost her Garmin when she’d been out in the forest in New Mexico. She thought she must have dropped it. Luckily she’d had a backup unit her employers had provided, but she greatly preferred her own personal one. She’d had it for years and saved waypoints from many study sites and enjoyable forays into the wilderness. She missed it. “Does it say who sent it?”

  He rummaged around a little more. “There’s a note in here. It says, ‘This came in handy.’ It’s unsigned.”

  “What in the world?”

  “Beats me. This is odd. Did you lend it to someone?”

  “No, I was alone on that field assignment. What does the postmark say?”

  She could hear him turning the box over. “It’s from Cheyenne, Wyoming. Mailed the super-cheap rate about two weeks ago.”

  That was strange—she’d lost the GPS in New Mexico, but it had been mailed from Wyoming? Then she realized that she’d gone to Cheyenne right after New Mexico to do a black-footed ferret study. “This is too weird. Where are the newspapers from?”

  He shuffled them around. “Let’s see. They’re from the Boston Herald. An edition from last month.”

  She frowned. “Do you think someone is trying to be cute and instead is ending up seeming creepy?”

  “Could it be from Brad?” he suggested. “Maybe he found your GPS in his things?”

  “I didn’t lose it in Boston. I lost it in New Mexico. Besides, he was just out here, so he has my current address. He could have just brought it. Why send it to your place?”

  “It’s a conundrum. Do you want me to forward it to you?”

  “Yes, thanks. It’s got all the bells and whistles and I’ve missed it.”

  “Okay, will do.” She could hear him setting aside the package. “So how are you faring? You had quite a traumatic experience before you left. You having nightmares?”

  Sometimes her father read her mind. “Yes, I have, actually. I’ve never been in a situation like that. To have a gun pointed at me . . . someone I don’t even know ready to kill me . . .”

  “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

  “Have you heard anything? About the second gunman?”

  “He seems to have disappeared in the wind.”

  “Strange.”

&
nbsp; “You getting enough sleep?” he asked, his tone concerned.

  “I’m trying. Place is a little creepy. Keep startling awake.”

  “Have you seen any wolverines?”

  “Yes! A parent and two juveniles. It was thrilling, Dad! And my camera traps have photographed a couple, too.”

  “That’s wonderful!” He hesitated. “And Brad?”

  “We broke up. Permanently this time, I think.”

  Her dad sighed. “Well, I can’t say that I didn’t see that coming. For what it’s worth, I think it’s the right move. You two just weren’t suited for each other anymore.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “I waited a long time before I met your mom. It’ll happen. And with the right person.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  They talked more about what he’d been up to, his gardening club and a couple of movies he’d seen. His neighbor had started up a barbershop quartet, and her dad had been performing with them in People’s Park once a week. Alex lit up at the news. She’d always loved it when he sang to her as a kid. He had a deep, melodious voice.

  “I think that’s fantastic, Dad!”

  “Thanks, puddin’. I’m a little rusty, but it’s been fun.”

  She told him about less-than-friendly Cooper and her lunch with Kathleen.

  “Sounds like an interesting mix of folks.”

  They talked a little longer, exchanging book recommendations. Both of them loved thrillers, mysteries, and horror, and usually liked the same books. Then they hung up.

  Alex stretched, her muscles aching. She had a long climb ahead of her tomorrow with a full pack, and she decided to turn in a little early.

  As she lay in bed, though, she struggled to drift off. Thoughts of the postcard and the strange return of her GPS unit kept her awake. Someone out there was either attempting to be mysterious or trying to spook her.

  And as much as she was loath to admit it, the spook factor was winning.

  Eighteen

  New Mexico

  The previous year

  In the deepest part of the night, as the Milky Way spanned the black above, he crept over the rise. He didn’t have to pause to remember where he’d buried them. He’d always had a mind for details and never felt the need to draw a map. He crept along the crest of the hill and descended the other side, the landscape before him aglow in the green wash of his night-vision goggles.