Wolfhunter River

by Caine, Rachel

  “What?”

  “Show me some ID. I don’t know you, and I’m armed.” I’ve set my feet in a solid fighting stance, centered my weight, and loosened my knees. I don’t know if he recognizes that, but he eyes me warily. I wonder if he’s thinking I’m paranoid.

  Well, he’d be right.

  “Okay.” He holds up both hands. “Sure. Reaching for ID, okay?”

  “Slowly.”

  He does, never taking his eyes off me. He reaches back behind him, and I’m bluffing about the gun because I’ve left it in the goddamn truck’s locked glove compartment, and right now I’m kicking myself for that, but when his hand reappears—slowly—it’s holding a wallet. He opens it and pulls out a thick white business card.

  “On the ground,” I tell him. He crouches and puts it down halfway between us, as far as he can reach.

  I step over and pick it up in one quick, fluid dip, then raise it so I can read it while still watching him.

  It’s a nice one, pure white with official black lettering and raised ink. Professor Greg Maynard. He works for the University of Tennessee. Goes to show, you can’t judge a woodsy hermit by his looks. He’s a full tenured professor of biology. How odd.

  “Snake?” he asks again.

  I point to the mailbox. “Sorry about that,” I tell him. “I just—I don’t know who did this. You understand?”

  “Maybe it was just meant as a joke?”

  “Open it.”

  He gets a cotton sack and a stick with a hook on the end and flips the box open. The snake strikes. The professor doesn’t even flinch, but then, he’s standing at the exact safe distance. “Timber rattler,” he says. “Wow. Cool. You were lucky, that is definitely not a joke. Not a good one, anyway.” I watch, fascinated, as he coaxes the snake out of the mailbox, and it winds down the metal pole of the box to the dirt. From there, he efficiently pins the snake down just behind the head, and picks it up barehanded with an amount of calm I find amazing. The snake rattles and thrashes a bit, but it goes into the bag, and he cinches it shut and ties it securely.

  I almost let my guard down until it runs through my mind that it would take someone with these exact skills to put a timber rattler in the mailbox.

  “Are those local around here?” I ask him.

  He nods. “Sure, out in the woods. Sometimes I find one of them down this far, but it’s not too normal. We see more cottonmouths and copperheads around the water.” Maynard’s thorough. He examines the inside of the mailbox with the light of his cell phone before saying, “Okay, you’re clear. I’ll get this little beauty back to my lab.”

  “Lab,” I repeat.

  “I’m a herpetologist. I milk snakes. That’s how we make the antivenin,” he says. “There’s always a demand for it out here in the country. You see any more of them, or any other kind of viper for that matter, you give me a call. I’ll find him a good home back in the woods where he won’t bother anyone once we’re done with him.”

  I nod, still not taking my eyes off him. Professor or not, he’s now my primary suspect. Though what the hell he’d get out of scaring the shit out of me, or seeing me bitten, I have no idea. He doesn’t seem to have any personal grudge. I’m not getting any vibe like that from him at all.

  He’s loading the snake into his truck when the forensics team—well, one middle-aged guy in a baggy windbreaker—rolls up in an old Jeep. The forensics guy shows me ID without me asking for it, in a move so natural he probably does it in his sleep. Speaking of that, he looks dog-tired, but he asks me intelligent questions and writes things down, and he’s dusting the mailbox for fingerprints, when Kezia Claremont pulls up just a couple of minutes after. She’s driving her personal car without the lights and sirens, and I’m glad about that; our neighbors are surely already gawking at the parade of activity. I’d rather not give them more to gossip about if possible.

  “Hey, Beto,” Kez says to the forensics guy, and he waves without looking up. She’s still wearing what I think of as her work clothes: a plain navy pantsuit and a white blouse, with her detective shield clipped to her waistband. Gun concealed under her jacket. If she’d been home already, she’d have swapped out for jeans and a comfortable T-shirt. “Snake’s gone, I guess.”

  “Off to a happy home, according to—” I check the business card. “Professor Maynard. What do you know about him?”

  “Why?” she asks, then answers her own question. “Skill sets. Right.” She shakes her head. “Take him off your list. There are at least two dozen hillbillies around here who handle snakes just fine, and they’re more likely to be mad at you.”

  There’s no point in asking why, but I do anyway. “Any particular reason?”

  She shrugs. “Well, let’s start with you being from out of town and go from there.”

  “I’ve been living at the lake for—”

  “I’m an outsider, and me and Dad moved to this place upward of twenty years back,” she says. “If you weren’t born in these parts, you’re not from here. For some that’s enough. Then add on the rumors, the internet bullshit . . . I’ll be honest, it could be anybody.”

  “Great.” I’d been hoping to end this day less paranoid, not more.

  Kez moves forward to study the mailbox. “It fastens securely, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “No way that thing got in there accidentally.”

  “Nope. And it could have bitten Sam, or the kids. It was just good luck I was the one who opened it. If it had been Connor or Lanny . . .”

  “It wasn’t,” she says. “So let’s focus on what did happen, not what didn’t. At worst, someone just tried to kill you, though I expect the county DA would plead that right down to criminal mischief. He isn’t your biggest fan.”

  “No kidding,” I say. “I’m surprised he hasn’t indicted me for standing here too long.”

  “Well, you know what they say about a good DA: he can get a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich. Lucky that ours just isn’t that good.”

  I have to laugh, because Kezia doesn’t usually smack-talk law enforcement, but she has a special contempt for District Attorney Elroy Compton. So do I. He’s a silver-haired white man whose trial record consists almost entirely of convicting black defendants in a county racked with a mainly Caucasian-driven meth and prescription-drug trade. He pleads out the white offenders, naturally. They’re “good people at heart,” and other such shit, no matter how violent and depraved their crime. Their church members will vouch for them. Their parents are fine Christians. The usual refrain.

  It reminds me painfully of those years I blindly believed in my monstrous ex-husband, unable—or unwilling—to see the truth right in front of me. Sometimes I think half the world has sunk into the same state of denial. And that makes me angry.

  “Any idea who’d want to scare you like that?” Kezia asks.

  “Are you serious? Most of Norton still believes I got away with the local murders, for a start. And that’s not even counting all the trolls, the stalkers, the families of Melvin’s victims . . .”

  “Criminal hackers from the Absalom collective who slipped the net,” she finishes. “Yeah, I know. I was hoping for a more specific enemy, because pretty much everybody doesn’t narrow it down that much.”

  “I know. But right now, it’s what I’ve got.”

  She taps her pen against the pad of paper she’s using for her notes. “Yeah, not sure you helped with what went on TV today. What about the woman? The one from your interview?”

  I don’t want to believe that, but the fact is, the most die-hard fanatical harassers were, for a while, the family members of Melvin’s victims. Including Miranda.

  “Miranda Tidewell? She might put arsenic in a mint julep, but snake handling? I really don’t think so,” I say. “But . . . she might hire someone to do it. Just to scare us.”

  “She did seem like she was on a mission to prove you were . . .”

  “A monster? Yes. She’s always been, since my trial. I just thought—well
, I hoped—that she’d moved on.”

  “These days we’ve got obsessive freaks for everything,” she says. “Especially if it’s complicated and stupid. Sorry. Hate to say it, but, Gwen—”

  “Yeah, look out for myself. I know. I’m on that.”

  She studies me. “You forgot to carry, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t forget. I left it in the truck while I came to get the mail.”

  “Truck’s up there,” Kez says. “And you’re a sitting duck out here, you realize that?”

  “I did once I was stuck watching the snake.”

  She nods. “Good. Don’t do that again. Most jackasses around here, I wish they’d leave their damn guns in the safe. But not you. You actually do need one. So make sure you have it.”

  I give her a smile—thin, because I know she’s right, and I’m smarting a little from that. “Message received,” I tell her. I realize how dark it’s gotten. She usually walks her father uphill to his cabin well before this. “Did you get Easy home already?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I wasn’t here first,” she says. “Sorry, but I had to see him safe.”

  “Good. And you’re heading home?”

  “To Javier’s,” she says. Javier is her lover, maybe even (though I haven’t asked) her long-term partner, but they still live apart. “Hey, Beto? You done?”

  “Done,” he says. He’s closing up his kit. “Didn’t get a lot; a few good prints, but they’ll probably be either the family’s or the postal worker’s. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Maybe,” Kezia says. “Thanks, man. Get home safe.”

  “You too.”

  Her gaze suddenly shifts and focuses as he moves to his truck. She’s looking uphill, and I follow her gaze to see Sam heading down toward us.

  “So you’ve got some explaining to do,” she says. “Good luck, girl, I’m rolling. Javier’s waiting dinner.” She’s gone before he gets there, and he watches her drive away as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet away from me.

  “So,” he says, “Lanny said you lied about being okay, next thing I know Kez is here plus two more cars . . . What the hell is going on?”

  I sigh. I’d been hoping to avoid this. “Let’s go inside,” I tell him. “Better I catch everybody up at once.”

  I make a detour to the truck and retrieve my firearm; the instant I have it, I feel steadier. I know that’s wrong; the gun doesn’t make me any safer, just more capable of retaliating. PTSD, lying again. I’m going to have to train myself out of using a weapon as a comfort blanket. It’s a necessary evil for me, but that shouldn’t mean I need it.

  “Gwen?” Sam’s concerned. I give him a smile I don’t really feel.

  “Ready,” I say. I’m really not.

  As soon as we come into the house, I lock the door and set the alarm to stay. Lanny stands with her arms crossed, hipshot. Connor even looks up from the book he’s reading. They’re waiting for an explanation too.

  “How’s it coming?” I ask, trying to sound normal. It doesn’t work. Lanny keeps frowning at me, Connor shakes his head, and Sam’s look says that I am failing miserably at reassurance. “Okay,” I say. “So there was a snake in the mailbox.”

  “A what?” Lanny blurts out. I’ve surprised the frown off her face. Sam stops stirring.

  “What kind of snake?” Connor asks. “Was it a copperhead? I’ve seen a copperhead before.”

  “Not a copperhead. I don’t want you to worry . . .” My voice fades, and I realize that I have to do this. “I’m lying—I do need you to worry. I need you to understand that after the day we had, things are not going to be the same. You need to be extra careful. And from now on, Sam and I will get the mail. Okay?”

  “Mom, we’re always extra careful,” Lanny says. “Come on. You know that.”

  But they’re not. They’re not. And it makes me feel sick all over again to think about Connor opening that mailbox, or Lanny, or even Sam, though his reaction time is even better than mine. My kids think they’re paranoid enough.

  They never can be. Not enough to prevent everything that might come for them, and that overconfidence could be deadly.

  Sam’s watching me very steadily. “Hey. Kids. Give us a minute, okay? Connor, go stir the beans. And you owe me a salad, kid.”

  “Okay.” For me, Connor would have sighed as if the weight of the world had landed on him, but Sam just gets a compliant mood and instant acceptance. I envy that.

  Lanny checks her phone. “The chicken’s almost done,” she says. “Like, three minutes.”

  “Then take it out when it’s ready,” Sam tells her, and disarms and unlocks the front door. “Gwen?”

  I follow him out. I don’t like being on the porch right now, and I turn out the lights. We’re plunged into darkness until my eyes begin to adjust.

  “What’s going on?” he asks me.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Snake in the mailbox has me on edge, obviously. So does what happened today. I just feel—”

  “Exposed?” he asks. Puts his arms around me. “I’m sorry. I really am. I know you didn’t want to do that damn show in the first place, and I’m sorry I didn’t warn you off it harder. I had a bad feeling, and I’m sorry to be right. I still didn’t think they’d dare pull that, not after all the agreements.”

  “Neither did I, or I never would have been there.” I relax into his warmth. His strength. I can disarm for a moment here with him, even if it is out in the open. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe somebody left a fingerprint on the mailbox.”

  “You never answered the kids,” he says, and tips my chin up. It’s dark, but not dark enough that I miss the look in his eyes. “What kind of snake was it?”

  “Timber rattler.”

  “Jesus, Gwen!”

  “I know.” I rest my head against his shoulder. “I’m fine. The snake’s fine, even. No harm done.”

  He has a lot to say about that, I can sense it, but he holds back. I can tell he brought me out here to talk about something, but I doubt it’s the snake in the mailbox. Odd. He usually doesn’t hesitate to bring up uncomfortable things.

  I think about how strange this is. Every once in a while, it hits me: Sam is the brother of one of Melvin’s victims. By any logic at all, he shouldn’t be here, and we shouldn’t have . . . this. It didn’t start that way; I didn’t trust him, and he believed deep down that I was guilty. It’s taken time and work and pain to get here to this moment of trust, of peace. And it’s still fragile, even though we’ve built that bridge. It isn’t steel. It’s glass. And sometimes there are cracks.

  After a long moment of silence, he says, “Listen, about Miranda Tidewell. Did she . . . did she say what she was really planning?”

  “Just some kind of documentary. For release everywhere, I guess, or as wide as she can manage. I’m going to guess it won’t be flattering.” I try to make that sound light, but it isn’t. It can’t be. Miranda Tidewell is filthy rich and brutally angry, and if she can’t take an actual hatchet to my life, she’ll do it with a metaphorical one instead. She understands the power of the medium.

  “Gwen.” He moves his hands from my waist and cups my face, a wonderfully gentle gesture, something that makes me catch my breath. “How are we going to do this? Tell me. Tell me how we protect the kids from this.”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. I feel tears prickle at the corners of my eyes, and blink hard to keep them from forming. “Maybe we can’t. Maybe we have to help them learn to live with it instead.”

  “God,” he says, “I hope you’re wrong. I really do.”

  When he kisses me, it’s sweet and gentle, with an ember of heat beneath it. A little desperation too. I feel that. We’re always, ever standing on the edge of a cliff with some long, dark drop below. Right now that cliff feels especially precarious.

  “Food’s ready,” he says. “How scared do we all need to be?”

  “Very,” I say. “I need you and the kids to be on guard.” I hate that. I hate taking away
the small bit of normality we’ve carved out for the kids. But they’re going to have to understand what might be coming.

  We lay it out over the dinner. It’s rosemary chicken, my favorite. That was sweet of them. The chicken’s delicious, the beans done just right; the salad is a mess but my kids are trying. None of us really taste any of it, I think, as we talk about the possibility that Stillhouse Lake may get more and more hostile for us. We talk about awareness, and staying with friends and adults we can trust. We talk about what to do if things go wrong. It’s not a fun conversation, but it’s necessary.

  The kids don’t protest. I see Lanny’s mutinous anger; she’s just gotten to an age where she wants her life to get bigger, not smaller. Connor’s less bothered. He’s been introverted since well before this, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

  But I have to keep close watch on my daughter.

  They ask to be excused. I let them go with their plates half-finished, and Sam and I clean up the kitchen. I keep glancing over to be sure I’ve set the alarm to stay. He notices, but he doesn’t comment. I wash the plates and pass them over, and he dries and puts them away. It’s done in a comfortable, easy silence, but my mind keeps going back to the studio, the frozen horror, the way I lost it on live television. It’s like touching a hot stove, but I can’t stop.

  I’m almost grateful for the distraction when the home phone rings. I keep a landline for safety reasons; nine times out of ten it’s some recorded voice trying to scam me, but landlines don’t go down nearly as fast in a crisis as cell phones, and they’re not reliant on either battery or house power.

  I feel better having it as a fail-safe.

  I reach for the phone, then pull back. I don’t recognize the number, so I listen as the recorder catches the call. Old-fashioned, but this way I can screen calls and pick up if I recognize urgency. I’ve got the volume low, and I’m prepared to walk away. But after the greeting starts, a real human voice on the other end says, “Uh, hi, I’m looking for . . . for somebody named Gwen Proctor?”

  I get a sick feeling in my stomach. I’ve fielded lots of abusive phone calls, of course. Nameless strangers who want to kick me while I’m down, shouting insults. Nameless men who tell me in detail about their fantasy of raping and murdering me, or my children, or both. A creepy more-than-few who tell me they loved me at first sight and knew we were destined to be together, if only I’d just understand.