‘N-no, sir.’
‘Well, why the hell can’t you tell your own father?’
Eleanor, infuriatingly, as always, came to the boy’s rescue.
‘He can’t give away classified information, can you Luke? He’s working for the US government, remember? Now who’s going to eat the rest of this cake? Here, Clyde, more coffee.’
Buck hadn’t thought of it that way before. His own son working for the goddamn feds. And for free too. It did little to improve his mood. He suddenly realized he was the only one still wearing the damn fool paper hat. He ripped it off and chucked it on the table. In grim silence, he stood finishing his cake, while the two women twittered on about something.
‘I hope that Ross woman knows you’re going to be needed here full-time once calving starts,’ he said at last.
Everyone heard the chill in his voice. The room went quiet. Luke gave a little frown and started trying to speak. Buck cut him off. He’d had enough. The sight of the boy’s stuttering face enraged him.
‘That’s not a suggestion. It’s an order.’
And he clacked his plate down on the table and left the room.
With the human world beset by mire, the Hope wolves had the forest to themselves. Though much of the snow had melted, the deer and the elk had grown weak contending with it and were easy prey, even for a pack that had only two full-grown adults.
The death of an alpha male and the ensuing rivalry over who should replace him could cause a pack to fragment. But not this one. There was never a doubt over the succession, for there was only one other adult male: the collared disperser who had joined the pack as a yearling, two falls ago.
After the death of the old black killer of dog and calf, it had taken the other wolves awhile to acknowledge him. But in time they had all happily deferred. They had approached him with lowered heads and tails tucked under and rolled in fealty on their backs before him, licking up at his jaws while, haughty and benign, he stood above them.
It was the new leader’s right and duty to mate with the white alpha female. Even if there had been other adult wolves capable of mating, it would not have been permitted. Only the alpha pair of any pack could breed.
But the new king was now a cripple. The month-old wound made by the wolfer’s snare had festered and the wolf had lain for many days among rocks and rotting timber in a cluttered creekside crevice, licking his foot and daily growing thinner and weaker.
Perhaps because the alpha female and the three remaining pups knew that their survival as a pack depended on him, they tended him and stood watching him and brought him food back from their hunts.
And as January drew to a close and the weather grew cold again, the alpha female started to bleed in readiness and would lie with him in the cave and lick his face and, if he let her, his wound as well. And he would lick her too and sometimes struggle to his feet and go with her to the creek to drink and they would stand there and he would nuzzle her and place his swollen, seeping paw across her shoulders.
Had another male disperser passed through, he might well have laid claim to the stricken pack and its alpha female. And she might well have allowed herself to be wooed and won. But none came.
And in the first week of February, with the windless world again freezing hard and the snow falling in feathered flakes upon and about them, the white queen coupled with her maimed king and they stood tied together for a long time, while the three surviving pups watched silently from across the creek.
On that same night, away across the blanketed forest, Luke and Helen lay naked and entwined in the candlelit cabin.
She was sleeping, curled like a fetus upon him. Her head was on his chest and he could feel her breath, warm and soft and slow, on his skin. Her left leg lay across the top of his thighs and he could feel the gentle rise and fall of her belly against his hip. He was aware of every inch of her, of every textured nuance of her flesh. He would never have guessed his body could be so thoroughly and so constantly alive.
His earliest attempts to be her lover had been fumbling and feeble. In those first few days after she came back, after their kiss in the car, it was always over as soon as it had begun. He’d felt infantile and wretched and wondered why she didn’t laugh at him or tell him to go and get lost, which was what he thought women always did to men who couldn’t hack it.
But she’d told him it didn’t matter and helped him to relax and, after awhile, he found he could do it. And it was more wonderful than he’d ever dreamed or dared imagine. And not just because of the vivid, flesh-quaking feel of it, but because it made him see he wasn’t just a useless, stuttering boy anymore and that maybe he was ready, at last, to step into life. And all this, as well as so much more, he owed to Helen.
The candle on the chair beside the bunk had burned low and the flame began its final throes, making their joined shadow leap and bob on the cabin wall beside him. He reached out, carefully, trying not to wake her, and snuffed it out between his fingers. Helen stirred and murmured. She tucked her hand for warmth into the hollow of his arm and moved her leg and then settled again into sleep. He pulled the sleeping bag up over her shoulders and wrapped his arm around her, holding her to him securely and breathing the warm and wondrous smell of her.
He thought of that day in early fall when he’d taken her to where the wolves had denned and how she had gotten him to slither down into the hole as she had done. He remembered lying there alone in total darkness, and thinking it was a perfect place to die.
And now he knew he was wrong. This, here, now, in darkness just as black, but with this other living creature in his arms. This was the perfect place.
30
The trial of Abraham Edgar Harding took place in late February and its third and final day was drawing to a doleful and predictable close. It was too warm to snow and too cold to rain and a compromise of sleet angled unforgivingly on the sorry band of Harding supporters who trudged up and down in the leaden light outside the Helena federal district court building.
From the Saharan warmth of inside, Dan stood surveying them through a corridor window, while he waited for Helen to come back from the restroom. The jury had been out for half an hour and he wondered what on earth could be taking them so long.
Outside, there were only eight demonstrators left and even as he counted, one more broke away and headed forlornly for his car. Spurred by his defection, the others boosted the volume of their chant, though from inside, it was like the dying drone of a bee in a bell jar.
What do we want?
No wolves!
How do we want them?
Dead!
On the first morning there had been fifty or sixty of them there, corralled by almost as many police at a safe distance from a smaller but equally voluble band of ‘pro-wolfers’. To the evident satisfaction of the assembled pack of photographers, press and TV reporters, the two sides heckled, chanted and brandished placards of varying degrees of wit and literacy.
Some of the slogans had a pleasing symmetry: NO WOLVES, NO WAY! was mirrored merrily across the street by WOLVES, WAY! Some were more sinister, such as the one being touted by a dourly bearded young man whom Dan thought he remembered from the night of the meeting. He wore a camouflaged hunting cap and jacket and boots laced up to his knees. His placard said, FIRST WACO, NOW WOLVES.
Many of the pro-Harding placards seemed to have been penned by the same hand or at least by hands similarly tutored, for the word federal was consistently spelled fedral, except on one where the d was missing too. WOLVES = FERAL TERRORISM, it proclaimed. Dan couldn’t decide if it was a mistake or represented some new, esoteric line of thought.
Abe had arrived that first morning like a celebrity who’d left his charisma at home. Still valiantly lawyerless, he had been chauffered to court - and no doubt coached all the way - by star defense witness, Buck Calder. Abe stood on the court steps, flanked by his grinning sons, and grimly repeated over and over again through tobacco-stained teeth to every question that he wa
s an American citizen (which no one had doubted) and that he was here this day to defend his ‘alienable rights’ to Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Wolves.
Perhaps to indicate that the second of these rights might indeed prove alienable, federal judge Willis Watkins had urged Abe to reconsider both his plea of not guilty and his decision not to be represented by an attorney. But Abe would have none of it. It was a matter of principle, he insisted. As a result, twelve patient Montanans had sat through three days of tedium and testimony, waiting to reach a conclusion that only Abe’s most diehard fans could fail to deem foregone.
Dan and Helen had given evidence the previous morning and were then cross-examined by Abe in a style that was staccato and surreal. He gave Dan the easier ride, shuffling through several high stacks of notes and leaving such epic pauses that twice Willis Watkins intervened to ask if he’d finished. His first question to Helen was whether, like he, she had fought for her country in Vietnam. When she pointed out that she had only just been born when the war ended, he gave a loud Aha! of triumph, as if the point were proven.
He seemed to be under the impression that Helen had personally released the Hope wolves as part of a secret government program, whose purpose was to breed and train wolves to eat cattle so that ranchers went out of business and the government could grab their land. He tried to get her to admit that he’d caught her snooping on his property, carrying out a clandestine survey with that intent. He suggested to her that she was an ‘interfering bitch’ and got himself a stern rebuke from the bench. Helen handled it all with polite restraint and a face as straight as a marine on parade.
Buck Calder did his best to put a shine on Abe’s breastplate, testifying to the man’s ranching prowess, neighborliness and generally fine character. But Abe was beyond help. Declining to take the stand himself, he proudly declared in his final speech to the jury that he had deliberately killed the wolf, knowing it to be one. Which was pretty well all the prosecution had to show. He wound up by saying his only regret was that he hadn’t killed the other wolf he’d seen and maybe a few bunny-huggers too. If it was a joke, it didn’t go down too well with Judge Watkins.
The streetlights were coming on outside now and Dan saw two more demonstrators had lowered their placards, long illegible with sleet. They were calling it a day.
‘Dan!’
He looked around and saw Helen hurrying down the corridor toward him.
‘The jury’s coming back in,’ she said.
It didn’t take long.
Abe Harding was found guilty on all counts. No one gasped or shouted or sobbed. A few supporters muttered and shook their heads. Abe stared steadily at the ceiling while Willis Watkins berated him in measured tones for wasting many thousands of dollars of taxpayers’ money. Sentencing would come later, said the judge, pending reports. He left the court in no doubt however that Abe faced several months in jail and probably a substantial fine as well.
Wes and Ethan Harding turned and glared venomously at Helen but either she didn’t notice or pretended not to.
‘Let’s go get a drink,’ she quietly said to Dan.
They got out of the building fast but not quite fast enough to avoid the media gang that had miraculously rallied in the short time since the verdict. TV crews were busy canvassing reaction from the sleet-sodden demonstrators and their drier, less devoted brethren who had materialized from their cars to join them.
‘Mr Prior? Mr Prior?’ a woman’s voice called out.
It was Buck Calder’s favorite TV reporter.
‘Just ignore her,’ Helen said.
But the woman caught up, only steps ahead of her cameraman. Dan could see from the little red light on the camera that he was already being taped. To be seen ducking and running on the local news never looked good. He stopped and smiled warmly, hoping but doubting that Helen was doing the same.
‘I was wondering,’ the woman panted. ‘How do you feel about the verdict?’
‘Well, justice, I believe, was done. But it’s not a happy day for anyone, humans or wolves.’
‘Do you think Abe Harding should go to jail?’
‘Fortunately, that’s not for me to decide.’
The woman shoved her microphone in front of Helen now.
‘What about you Miss Ross? Don’t you think a man’s got the right to defend his own cattle?’
‘I’d rather not comment,’ Helen said.
‘Should he go to jail?’
‘I’d really rather not comment.’
‘How did you feel when he called you an “interfering bitch”?’
‘How do you feel when people call you one?’
Dan intervened. ‘We’ve got to go now. Thank you very much.’
He steered Helen off through the crowd.
‘Why don’t you get yourself a proper job?’ someone yelled. Dan recognized the camouflage cap of the Waco poster man.
‘Hey, buddy, if you’re hiring, I’m available.’
‘Wouldn’t hire you to wipe my ass.’
‘Lucky you only use it for talking then,’ Helen said quietly, without looking at him. But Dan could see the guy heard.
They got clear of the crowd before either of them spoke again.
‘Who the hell is that?’ Dan said.
‘One of my logger buddies. Works for the post and pole company. We share reflective moments together in the forest.’
They both had cars and drove separately to a bar Dan thought none of the Harding supporters would be likely to choose for drowning their collective sorrows. Everything the place served was organically grown, from the corn chips to the beer, and the clientele were mainly students, vegetarians or both. The music was strictly New Age and there wasn’t an antlered head to be seen anywhere on the walls.
They found a booth and ordered two wheat-beers on tap, from which Dan had to fish a large chunk of lemon. He could never understand why they put it in.
‘Has Luke heard back from the university?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. He sent them this great paper about the GIS work he’s been doing.’
‘They’ll take him okay.’
‘Yeah. All he has to do is tell his father.’
‘You’re kidding. He hasn’t told him yet?’
‘Nope.’
Helen took a drink.
‘You know, I can almost have a drink now without wanting a cigarette.’
‘How long since you quit?’
‘Four months.’
‘That’s pretty good.’
They were silent for a moment or two. Dan was wondering how best to broach a tricky subject that he’d been putting off mentioning for several weeks now. He took a long draught of beer and put down his glass.
‘Helen, there’s something I have to tell you.’
‘Going to fire me? It’s okay, I quit.’
He smiled. ‘No.’ He paused. ‘It’s just that we’ve been getting these calls at the office.’
She frowned.
‘It sounds like a different person each time and they never give their names and I’m sure it’s just somebody trying to stir some shit on account of this Abe Harding business, and frankly, I—’
‘Dan, for Godsake, will you stop blathering and tell me?’
‘It’s not easy, okay? It’s about Luke.’
He saw her stiffen slightly.
‘What about him?’
‘Well, I know he has to spend a lot of time up at the cabin, what with all the night-tracking and stuff you have to do. And that sometimes he has to stay over. But some folks are clearly getting, well, you know, the wrong idea.’
‘Oh. And what might that wrong idea be?’
‘Come on, Helen. You know what I’m saying.’
‘I’m sorry, I really don’t.’
Dan was starting to lose patience.
‘Okay, I’ll spell it out. They’re saying you and Luke are having . . . some kind of affair or something.’
‘Or something?’
Dan looked away a
nd cursed under his breath.
‘And you want me to tell you if it’s true or not?’
‘No,’ he lied. ‘You know damn well that’s not what I’m saying.’
His cell phone started to ring.
‘Shit.’
He rummaged for it and tugged it out of his coat pocket. The call was from Bill Rimmer. Some wolves had killed three calves near Boulder, he said. The rancher, who Dan knew well, was spitting blood. Bill said it was important that Dan come at once to try and calm things down.
‘Helen, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.’
‘Fine.’
She watched him put on his coat and finish his beer. He felt mean and guilty over what he’d said.
‘I’ll call you in the morning.’
‘Fine. I’m going to have another beer.’
‘I’m sorry. I got that all wrong.’
‘Hey, no problem.’
He turned to go and as he stepped away she called his name. He stopped and looked back at her. She looked hurt; and beautiful.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ she said. ‘It is.’
‘What?’
‘True.’
He drove to Boulder with his head whirring and his heart sinking slowly to his stomach.
Helen was at the bottom of her second beer and thinking about a third when she heard the voice behind her.
‘Sure is a sorry thing when a pretty woman has to celebrate on her own.’
That’s all I need, she thought. She turned and saw Buck Calder standing by the booth, leering down at her. There was snow on his hat and the shoulders of his jacket.
‘Why should I be celebrating?’
‘You got the verdict. Old Abe looks like he’s going down for awhile. I figure that’s what you wanted.’
Helen shook her head and looked away.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Mind if I ask what you’re doing in here?’
‘Well, I was heading home and I saw your pickup parked out there and thought I’d stop and say hi.’
‘Oh. Well. Hi.’
The Loop Page 36
