In the Company of Wolves_Thinning The Herd

by James Michael Larranaga

“I’m counting on your people, Quin. Call me as soon as you have word.”

  Quin grabbed his coat, the newspaper with the article about the sheriff’s deputy suicide, and Ben’s offer. Stray Dog’s eyes followed him across the room. What was up?

  Quin waited until he was outside the building and read the note as he walked to his truck:

  We definitely got competition! A friend of mine who works at Benson & White told me that late yesterday they met with Rebecca and made her an offer. You have to make sure she signs with us and not either of them.

  Quin crushed the note and shoved it back in his pocket. He felt anxious again. Rebecca already had two offers on the table. Safe Haven had him delivering their paperwork, and Lunde must’ve used him to find out how much Safe Haven was offering for the policy.

  Now he had to convince this woman to hold off and go with him and Stray Dog? How was he supposed to close this deal when he knew nothing about sales? Then he thought about Big Ben’s own advice: A good salesperson takes an interest in his client. Spend time with her and get interested in the things she likes, and you’ll close the deal.

  Rebecca organized the house one last time, making sure everything was in its proper place. She pulled back the drapes, allowing the winter sun to cast a warm glow into the great room. The dining room was too formal, and the den was a mess. Mike had never really cleared his belongings out of the den after they’d separated.

  The great room felt right. It was semicasual. And what was she so nervous about, anyway? She’d put on blue jeans and a red sweater and checked her look in the hallway mirror. Her hair was thick again, fully recovered from her treatments.

  She had one of her headaches, but maybe she was just under a lot of stress. There were papers to sign, and this incredibly beautiful man was stopping by.

  Get ahold of yourself! Have the radiation treatments done something to your brain? She hadn’t been with a man since she’d separated from her husband. This is crazy. Quin’s dropping off papers; he’s not coming here to see you. He has no personal interest in you, a dying woman. Who would?

  Rebecca checked herself in the mirror again. She liked the way she looked; her outer shell was healthy; it was the inside that was diseased and falling apart.

  Music might be good right now, but nothing too romantic. She put on Vivaldi and kept it low enough to add ambiance to the room.

  The doorbell rang.

  Quick, look around the room one last time. Is everything in place? She had a carafe of coffee on the table, cups, and some papers. She looked at the dark fireplace. Oh what the heck. She reached for two birch logs next to the fireplace and set them inside. On the mantel was a box of wooden matches. She struck one against the brick and set the match under the logs, and the birch caught the flame.

  She walked across the room to the doorway and saw him standing outside with his hands deep in his pockets, an envelope under his arm. He was looking up into the trees, a light snow falling onto his dark skin and smooth black hair. He stuck his tongue out to catch a few flakes. How playful. Her ex-husband, Mr. Mergers & Acquisitions, would never have done a thing like that.

  When she opened the door, he turned to her with a smile in his green-hazel eyes. Her daughter had had eyes that color; it was like staring into wet emerald stones.

  “Hope I’m not too early,” he said.

  “No, I’ve been expecting you. Come in,” she said, opening the door wider. A cold breeze rushed in, carrying the scent of his musk cologne ahead of him.

  “I’m Quin Lighthorn,” he said with a sheepish smile, pounding the snow off his leather shoes.

  “Yes, we’ve met twice,” she said. How could she forget? She’d thought about him last night. He captivated her imagination with his year-round tan.

  “Let me take your coat,” she said, helping him strip out of his winter layer.

  He handed her a packet. “Here’s the proposal and the contract. Ben asked me to deliver them personally.”

  “Thank you,” she said, accepting the envelope. “Please come in.”

  How old can he be? Is he ten years younger than me or possibly twelve? Mike found a younger partner, so why couldn’t I?

  He stepped out of the foyer into the great room, admiring the view to the lake and the artwork on the walls. He pointed to an oil painting of her daughter above the fireplace.

  “Beautiful girl,” he said, looking up at it with his hands behind his back, as if he were an art critic at a museum.

  She felt embarrassed. “I painted that six months after my daughter died. I worked from a photograph,” she said sadly. She had always wished she had used her daughter as a live model.

  She could see the sympathy in Quin’s eyes when he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize–“

  “That’s OK. I put the painting there for a reason. I don’t ever want to forget her. Coffee?”

  “Yes, black is fine,” he said. “You’re an excellent artist.”

  “Thank you, Quin,” she said, handing him a hot mug. Should I sit down and review the proposal while he waits?

  “Do you have other paintings?”

  “Upstairs I have an art studio,” she said. The upstairs hadn’t been cleaned. Her bedroom was a mess—unfolded laundry on the dresser, dirty clothes hanging over her chair. “But you don’t want to–“

  “Sure I do,” he said, sipping slowly.

  Sure he does. He wants to go up to your art studio and see your work. “It’s really kind of a mess.”

  “Can’t be any messier than my apartment,” Quin joked. “I’d like to see your other work. I’ve got time.”

  She swallowed the hazelnut coffee and led him to the staircase and the upper level of her home. In the hallway she scooped up a bra and shoved it into her pocket as they walked. She then closed her bedroom door. She should’ve straightened up the whole house.

  At the doorway to the studio, he walked by her, entering gracefully with one hand in his pocket, the other holding the coffee. She watched him for three or four minutes as he admired each of her paintings before smiling and moving to the next one. His shoulders were so broad.

  He wasn’t offering the standard polite comments she’d heard from friends and family. He studied the paintings, as if he were at an art gallery. She had dabbled in landscapes, but the paintings that held his attention were the ones of animals.

  She’d painted loons on the water, deer curled up in grass beds, wolves stranded on an ice floe. He stared longest at the wolves.

  “I sometimes work for the Department of Natural Resources,” he said.

  “I hope my animal paintings are accurate.”

  “They are,” Quin said, rolling a loose strand of dark hair back over his ear. “You have quite an eye for detail.”

  “What is it that you do with the DNR?”

  “Track wolves, mostly.”

  She felt a little hypocritical. She’d never seen a real wolf, and yet she had the audacity to paint them in wildlife scenes. Here was an authentic expert on wolves, studying the detail.

  “Could you teach me how to paint like this?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said abruptly, catching him off guard. “I mean if you’re interested, and if you’ve got the time, I could show you some drawing techniques.”

  He took off his suit coat, draped it over the back of a chair and rolled up his sleeves. “Where do we begin?”

  “Uh, why don’t we start with charcoal?” she said, catching her breath.

  Walking over to the art table along the far wall, she opened a box of long charcoal sticks. She clipped a large sheet of paper to a standing easel board. The light was good here—not too bright but more diffused.

  “Are you sure you have time for this?” she asked.

  “Definitely. At Safe Haven, we believe in spending time with our clients,” he said. “I’m in no hurry.”

  “OK, I’d like you to stand over here,” she said, reaching out her hand. His hand embraced hers, and a warm surge of energy radiated up
her arm. She looked into his green eyes. “Uh, let’s work on your stance.”

  “My stance?”

  She stepped behind him and for a moment lost herself admiring his shoulders, his long, black silky hair.

  “Well, you want to stand square in front of the easel,” she said, adjusting his hips.

  Quin shifted his weight. “Like this?”

  “Yes, that’s very good,” she said, accidentally touching his leg.

  She picked up a stick of charcoal from the easel and handed it to Quin. She was surprised when he held the stick in his left hand. He was a lefty.

  “What I do when I draw a wolf is I focus first on the eyes and nose of the animal,” she said, pointing at the blank sheet of paper. “Begin by making almond shapes for the eyes.”

  “When I was a boy, I remember spending hours sitting at the kitchen table drawing, especially on rainy days,” Quin said, before he scratched the paper with his black stick.

  His technique was stiff and rigid, as if his left hand had rusted through years of artistic neglect. He pressed so hard the charcoal tip snapped.

  “Loosen up on your hand. Let your arm flow across the paper,” she said, holding his elbow and biceps in her hands. His muscles were heavy and toned.

  He rolled his shoulders and sketched over the almond shapes again. “Like this?”

  “Yes, much better,” she said. “Keep your hand moving in a sweeping pattern. Now work from the eyes. Draw a rectangle out to form a nose.”

  He looked at her with a playful, quizzical glance. “Do wolves have rectangular noses?”

  “Begin with the rectangle,” she said, laughing. “And we’ll smooth out the edges as we go.”

  She watched him from the side sketching the rectangle connected to the two almond eyes. In the background, Vivaldi played a waltz rhythm. His mocha skin glided over the paper, sweeping now with charcoal shavings raining down like bits of dirty snow onto his shoes. Her annoying headache, the one that wouldn’t let her forget she had a brain tumor, was fading.

  Quin stepped back. “Hardly looks like a wolf.”

  “Oh, but don’t you see it?” she asked. He had really made a good start. He was just self-conscious.

  “No, I hardly see a wolf,” he admitted. “Maybe I’d be better with crayons.”

  “The trick is to visualize the wolf in your mind,” she said, stepping in front of Quin to the easel. “Don’t try to see the wolf here on the paper, see the wolf in your mind, and let your mind send that image down your arm to the paper. I’ll show you.”

  She stood with the charcoal in her hand. Quin stepped closely behind her, his front nestled close to her back. She cupped his left hand around hers.

  “Let’s begin this way. I’ll start drawing, and you’ll follow along,” she said, moving their hands to the paper. “This is all about muscle memory. I want your arm to learn from my arm how it feels to move across the paper. OK?”

  “All I have to do is stay loose?” he asked, whispering into her ear, his warm breath cascading down her neck. She noticed his left arm had scars, but she said nothing about them. “Keep your arm loose and follow along,” she said as she began sketching.

  Her injured brain took over, and her arm came to life, smearing black charcoal across the paper quickly and effortlessly. At first, Quin’s arm was heavy on hers, but soon his muscles had caught the feeling, the angle, and the glide.

  He pressed closer to her backside, his chest to her shoulders. Did he feel the energy between them? Was she seducing him, or was he seducing her?

  “I see it now,” he said into her ear.

  She kept drawing, slower, not wanting this moment to end. How long had it been since she was this close to anyone? She had the wolf’s pointed ears, the nose, the eyes sketched.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Use my arm to guide the stick,” she said. “You finish the drawing by controlling my arm. My arm will be there if you get stuck.”

  He leaned in tighter with his right hand holding her hips. “I’m sorry, I’m losing my balance.”

  “That’s all right,” she said, reaching back, grabbing his thigh with her right hand. “Get closer if you need to.”

  Lightly, he wrapped his right arm around her waist and rested his fingers in her belt loop. His left arm took the lead as if they were two lovers in a dance. He would move and glide, and she would follow. As he sketched, she closed her eyes, leaning back into him, becoming part of him.

  The music, the three-quarter time, seemed to grow louder as Quin pulled her arm across the paper. She was weightless, lighter than air, and he was there to catch her if she were to suddenly fall.

  When the song had ended, Quin’s arm slowed to a stop. “I must be a pretty boring student. You’re not falling asleep, are you?”

  She opened her eyes. Looking back at her was the most humble, elegant wolf she had ever seen. The animal was on a rock ledge, peering around a tree. The shading was good, dark black in some areas, gray in others. The fur was thick and matted and so real she reached out to touch the artwork. Did he draw this? Did she draw this? Or did they draw this?

  She didn’t turn to look at him. She remained in his arms, admiring the work of art they’d created together, as if she were admiring a child they had given birth to. He knew how to draw. He had the gift.

  “When you said you would draw on rainy days, I didn’t realize—“

  “It rained a lot when I was a boy,” he said sarcastically, resting his head on her shoulder, adding final changes to the drawing.

  Her heart pounded. She was at that leaping-off point where you either go for it or forever wonder What if? The music had softened to the rising and falling notes of a single flute. She pressed her hips back slightly, and he responded, without speaking, by pressing his hips forward.

  They rocked together in their embrace before the charcoal slipped out of his hand onto the floor. How had they gotten to this point so quickly? She’d noticed him in a hallway on Monday. They met for the first time in a business meeting yesterday. They exchanged one or two glances, met again today, and now they were embracing each other. She was about to turn and kiss him when she heard a noise downstairs.

  “Rebecca! Are you up there?”

  Mike. He had mentioned he might stop by today to review the settlement proposals with her. Why did he have to show up now?

  Quin’s hand dropped from her sweater. He stepped back quickly, as if they’d been caught doing something wrong. “Who is that?”

  “My husband.”

  “Your husband?” Quin said. He seemed to be looking for somewhere to hide.

  “No, I meant Mike is my former husband,” she said, correcting herself. “We’re divorced. He’s here to help me review the settlement offers.”

  “Maybe we should go downstairs,” Quin said.

  God, how she wanted to fall into this man’s arms and kiss his lips.

  “Rebecca?” Mike called out. He was already upstairs in the hallway.

  “I’m in the studio,” she replied, watching Quin, not taking her eyes off him.

  “I was worried there for a minute,” Mike said, entering the studio. He still had his coat on and a briefcase in his hand. His business attire looked out of place in the art studio.

  “I was showing Quin Lighthorn my artwork.”

  Quin walked across the studio, stepping around a large canvas, to shake Mike’s hand. The two began exchanging small talk about the weather, business, and life on the lake. It was hard to believe she’d once felt as passionate about Mike as she now did about Quin.

  This was probably the seductive feeling Mike had experienced when he fell in love with his young bride. No matter how foolish her sensations were, they made her feel alive again, and Rebecca desperately wanted to live.

  Ben leaned against the door in Harold’s office at the south end of the mansion. Harold was sitting across from him reading a file, the phone cradled against his ear, while the wind bl
ew against the row of pine trees outside the window. His office was austere: two wingback chairs, a single plant, one picture on the wall, a flat-screen monitor that had not a single fleck of dust on it.

  Along one of the walls was a row of color monitors displaying video from security cameras hidden around the office.

  Ben’s mind was preoccupied with wondering how Quin was doing with Rebecca, but he knew Harold wanted to see him.

  Harold hung up and shuffled papers into a single pile on his desk. “I found something on Quin.”

  Ben sighed. “Is that why you called me down here, because you’re still researching him?”

  “Yes, I–”

  “No, wait a minute,” Ben said. He walked over to Harold’s desk and stood over him. “I told you to stop checking up on him. Didn’t I?”

  “I’m head of security,” he said. “If I notice something unusual, I will look into it. That’s what you pay me to do.”

  Ben folded his arms. He liked Quin; the intern was important to them. He wasn’t sure he wanted any bad news at this point because they were too committed to him. “What did you find?”

  Harold sat back, as if he were more comfortable now that he had Ben’s full attention.

  “This morning I saw him out front, by the carriage house, talking to ravens before he came inside,” he said. “But the strange thing was, there were no ravens in the trees.”

  Ben looked out the window, up at the television monitors, and then back up at Harold. This was the big news? “He’s Indian. Maybe he likes talking to trees.”

  “That’s what I thought at first,” Harold said, nodding. “But he insisted he saw two ravens.”

  “So?”

  “So the other day, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Quin swallowing pills. I went through his desk after he left this morning,” Harold said, dropping two blue pills on the desk. “And look what I found.”

  “So he takes medication,” he said. “Who doesn’t?”

  “This isn’t your run-of-the-mill medication,” Harold said. “This is an antihallucinogen. I asked one of our doctors about it, and he said the dosage is low, but they sometimes give this stuff to paranoids, psychotic people.”