Wolves

by Cary J. Griffith

  He’d also checked the weather maps. He’d been right about that wind. There was a major winter storm blowing out of the northwest, which could be a good thing, given his plans.

  Sam ate an early dinner, not much. He crossed into Minnesota around 7:00 p.m. Just after he crossed, the first heavy snowflakes drifted down through his headlights. Over the next five hours, traveling first down Highway 2 and then up 71, toward Minnesota’s Iron Range, the weather worsened.

  By the time Sam neared Defiance, he’d been driving for more than five hours. Now he had to find some place to pull over.

  Heavy snow gusted over his jeep and covered the highway in broad patches of white. The radio DJ warned listeners about the first bad winter storm of the new year.

  “We have four inches,” he barked, “but I’m here to tell ya‘, that’s just the start! We’re going to see plenty more. Isn’t winterland wonderful?”

  Sam flicked off the jocular DJ. He recognized the crossroads. In the tight interior of his car, the heat was turned on full blast, but the icy gusts whipped at his windshield and doors. When he was a boy he’d loved these storms. The weather canceled school and everything but the most necessary chores. The typical follow-up was a temperature plunge so deep it broke plastic and froze skin, if you were stupid enough to expose it.

  Now he stared into the storm. He peered ahead, replaying his planned entrance into town, imagining his jeep’s tires speeding and banking over the snow. As he hit the deeper patches of white, he imagined the car making solid whumps in the dark. Given his post-midnight stealth and the reason for his return, he couldn’t have planned better weather.

  He paused at the intersection, considering how little had changed. Even through the driving snow he could see the crossroads still crowded with black spruce and popple. He looked to his right, down the dark tunnel of highway disappearing into blowing snow. No vehicles. At this hour, in this storm, he didn’t expect to see anyone, hadn’t for the last twenty miles. Perfect.

  When he glanced left, peering up the northern stretch of highway, he thought he saw headlights. Then they disappeared. He waited, hoping he was mistaken or they’d turned off. Then they crested a far off rise and opened like a pair of carnivore’s eyes. They were a quarter mile off, driving slowly over the snow-choked blacktop.

  He accelerated across the intersection. It would be better if no one saw his jeep. He tried to remember some place to turn off. He searched along the tree-lined road and saw a mailbox marking a drive opening. Peterson’s field!

  Well beyond the drive a gap in the tree line revealed the narrow entrance to a pasture lane. Twenty years ago old man Peterson hired him to help cut a narrow road next to the highway. Between the road and blacktop stood a solid stand of black spruce. If that car turned onto the road into Defiance, the spruce wall would provide all the cover and privacy he needed.

  Sam turned into the narrow lane, steered left and parked behind the stand of trees, cutting the jeep’s engine. His headlights darkened.

  He flung open the door, stepped into the snowy tree branches, snapped off a five-foot section of branch and carried it, running, back to the lane opening. He found the place where his tracks left the road and used the tree branch to sweep them clear. By the time he was nearly finished he saw the muffled glimmer of oncoming headlights, nosing slowly around the bend.

  Sam tossed the tree branch behind him and ducked into the wall of black spruce.

  The car crawled along the highway, looking for something. Suddenly high beams flashed along the wall. Sam remained motionless, well concealed. As the car approached he peered through the branches and glimpsed a small outline of overhead lights and a passenger door that read Defiance Police.

  Sam remembered Bill Grebs, wondered if it was him. He watched the car pass the lane’s entrance. It traveled another ten yards and then pulled onto the shoulder and stopped. He couldn’t imagine the cop had seen him, but why stop?

  After fifteen seconds a second pair of headlights rounded the bend. The police car waited while a new blue pickup crept up beside it.

  The two drivers rolled down their windows and yelled over the wind gusts. “Thought I saw something,” the policeman said. “You see anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “Thought I saw a car cross that intersection?”

  “At one o’clock in the morning? In the middle of a storm like this?”

  Their voices sounded familiar, but Sam wasn’t sure.

  “Could have sworn I saw something.”

  “It’s your nerves, Grebs. Maybe you need a little more remedy.”

  There was a pause, a stretch and rustle, and then a sharp exhalation followed by Grebs’s harsh voice. “Let’s wait a minute,” he managed. “If I did see someone, we’ll give him plenty of time to get home.”

  “Suits me.”

  “It’s one hell of a storm.”

  “Nothing like back at the farm.”

  There was a sharp flick and a yellow flare as the outline of the patrolmen’s face lit up. Bill Grebs started a cigarette. “We couldn’t have hoped for a better snowfall.”

  “Could have been a little lighter.”

  “Harder the better. Sock everything in for a while. We could use a little break.”

  “Just so they don’t get caught in it.”

  “With Angus’s truck? They’re back at his place by now.”

  “Hope so,” the pickup commented, nervous.

  “It’s not like you to worry, Hank.”

  Hank Gunderson. Sam heard a light cough, after what he assumed was another long swallow of remedy.

  “I’m not worried,” Hank said. “Just concerned for the well-being of our friends.” There was levity in his voice.

  Grebs finished his cigarette and flicked it out his window. He put the patrol car in gear. “Let’s just keep our eyes open,” Grebs said. “If you see anything, flash your lights.”

  “Will do.”

  Then they both started off down the road. Sam remained concealed in the snow-covered bush until their taillights disappeared.

  He stood up and shook the snow off his coat. He wondered what he’d overheard. Angus... he assumed Moon... and someone else? Hal Young? At the farm? The old man’s farm?

  Sam pushed through the branches and stepped up to the highway, searching for the glowing butt. He saw a dark spot, reached down and plucked it out of the snow, held it close. The fine print above the filter read “Old Gold.” Good to know some things hadn’t changed, he thought, remembering Grebs’s brand.

  Sam returned to his jeep. From the glove compartment he pulled out a black-handled flashlight. The butt of the flashlight was solid steel, heavy enough to break a window, if it came to that. Or Bill Grebs’s head. He switched the light on to make sure it worked. Then he flicked it off and tucked it into the belly panel of his coat.

  When Sam was young, Angus Moon’s gaze was enough to make him avert his eyes. Moon noticed the boy’s furtive turning away. Sometimes he stared at him just to watch him squirm. Unless it involved cards, hunting or fishing, Angus Moon had an instinctual distrust for anything civilized. Sam hoped he’d have another opportunity to stare into the rugged man’s face. This time he wouldn’t look away.

  Hank Gunderson owned the local Ford dealership. Or at least used to. He was a big man who 20 years ago drank whiskey like water. Gunderson had a reputation for hunting women the way the old man hunted deer. Only for Gunderson the season never ended. And instead of a deer head mounted on his wall, he’d pull an undergarment out of his coat pocket, grin with boyish pride, and tell the story of how he’d acquired his trophy with so much lewd embellishment even the crudest bar patrons turned aside.

  Hal Young’s independent insurance agency was attached to his house, not far from Sam’s mother’s place. Sam had often enough walked in front of it, when he was staying at his mother’s.
He’d even nodded to the man on occasion, who at least nodded back, more cordial than the others.

  Grebs, Moon, Gunderson and Young. They were the only friends the old man ever had, if you could call them friends. Now the four of them shared almost five million dollars and what was left of his parents’ property. “But who’s counting?” Sam wondered aloud. It was a lot of money, but he didn’t care about the cash. He’d come to recover his things.

  He stared into the snowy darkness of the road. He would give Grebs and Gunderson time to settle into their beds.

  He reached into the back of the jeep and pulled open his gray metal toolbox. He felt for his crescent wrench and a plastic case of small screwdrivers. He didn’t believe he would need them, but he wanted to be prepared. He folded the wrench in a thin wool scarf. He pulled a stiff chamois from his glove compartment, wrapping it around the plastic case of screwdrivers. Then he slid them both into the belly panel of his coat, arranging them so they would not rub or clank.

  He would have to be careful. He didn’t know what Moon was doing, or with whom. But this storm would give them cover. Sam appreciated it for the same reasons. After he was finished he’d blow out of town before anyone knew he’d arrived. He’d plow south to Brainerd, establish his alibi, and then­—after the storm blew itself out—revisit Defiance, the closest place to a childhood home he’d ever known.

  The weather was taking on a life of its own. If he wanted to avoid getting stuck he would have to move quickly. After a couple more minutes he put the jeep in gear, backed down the narrow pasture road and edged up to the highway. Then he turned toward town.

  Chapter Seven

  January 30th, past midnight—Williston Winthrop’s farm

  Outside the barn there were occasional gusts of straight-line winds. The truck’s headlights illuminated a wall of white. The windward side of the truck was already drifting with a high bank of snow. After another half hour watching the storm rise and seeing no abatement in the fury, Winthrop started to worry.

  He turned off the truck and cut the lights. He opened the door and fought his way into a semi-upright position.

  “Angus!” he yelled. The wind tore the words out of his mouth. There was no way Angus would hear him through this howl. If they hoped to make it out to the cabin before dawn, he would have to climb up to the loft and fetch Moon.

  He pitched forward, feeling along the barn wall. He worked around carefully to the back upper side. He went in through the loft door. A dim light glowed from the rafters.

  “Angus!” he yelled. There was no immediate answer. “Angus!” he repeated.

  “What?” Angus finally snapped, startled from his observations of the dogs.

  Except for occasional struggles the hybrids were quiet, their dark shapes shadowy in the poorly lit barn. The interior was heavy with the smell of carnage.

  “It’s getting worse,” Williston said.

  Angus stared down into his feeding animals.

  “They finished?” Winthrop asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Can we get them out?”

  Angus kept staring. He called to one of the hybrids, but there was no response. He picked up a wood chip and tossed it into the center of the feeding dogs. There was an immediate snarl.

  “Not now,” Angus said.

  The wind blustered against the barn.

  “When?”

  “When they finish eating.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “When do you think?”

  Angus considered. “Hard to say. They’ve been two days without anything but water. They’ll have to satisfy their appetites.”

  Williston peered down at the dogs. From this vantage they looked a whole lot more wolf than dog. For the first time his careful sequence of events was taking an unexpected turn. The storm was perfectly timed, but it was growing too violent. And he had underestimated the hybrids’ reaction to two days of confinement and starvation. He began to realize the animals might have to be left behind.

  “Goddammit! You think they’ll run when they’re finished?”

  “Leave them?”

  “You want to be stuck here with them?”

  For the first time since the dogs began, Angus tuned in to the storm.

  “What do you think they’ll do?” Winthrop asked.

  “Hard telling. Probably stay here until the storm ends. There’s plenty of food.”

  “You think you can catch them?”

  “They’re my dogs. They’ll come.”

  “Not that we have a choice,” Winthrop muttered. “We’re going to have to leave them.”

  He resigned himself to their departure. He didn’t think the sheriff would come out tomorrow, given the storm and how busy the sheriff would be with emergencies in and around Vermilion Falls. But Williston couldn’t risk being found here with Angus Moon’s animals. With luck, leaving the dogs would only cause a slight alteration of plans. They could hike out to the cabin, and tomorrow Angus would return to the farm, cage the dogs and hustle them back to his place before anyone discovered them. Once they were safely stowed, Angus could return to the farm as if to feed the cattle, discover the carnage and report it.

  “Let’s get the hell out,” Winthrop said.

  He turned and Angus followed. They fought their way down along the edge of the outside wall. At the bottom Angus noticed the door slightly open. He tried to pull it shut but the storm had whipped snow into the hinges, widening the six-inch crack to a foot, freezing it there.

  “Come on,” Winthrop yelled, getting into the cab. “They’ll stay put!”

  Angus wasn’t so sure. He kicked the door, but it was solid. He hunched against the howl and kicked twice more, trying to clear it, but the hinges were frozen.

  “Motherfuck!” He hit it a third time before Williston laid on the horn and startled him. He turned to see Winthrop mouth the words “leave it,” motioning him into the cab. Angus turned and fought against the wind, leaving the door ajar.

  Chapter Eight

  January 30th, past midnight—into Defiance

  Sam skittered over the highway, approaching the edge of town. He caromed through a half dozen blocks to the corner of Beacon and Elm. He watched for any sign of Gunderson or Grebs, but saw no one. He turned north on Beacon, accelerating up the long incline. As he crested the rise he cut the jeep’s engine. His headlights faded and for a moment there was only the velocity of his car going forty through the blackness of the Defiance town street.

  He could barely discern where the street turned and there was a solid thump as his wheels broke through a snowdrift, hardly slowing his progress. He banked the car and the wheels broke through another snowdrift. His eyes grew accustomed to the streetlights. He could see the snow-covered pavement flash in and out of sight as the pace of the car accelerated. Sam hit the bottom of the hill going forty and the jeep started its long gradual ascent. Near the road’s end the street made a short rise. Sam peered to see the end of the street unchanged with the snow-covered ruts rising into the trees. He dropped off the pavement and the jeep jolted through two large banks before it plowed up the narrow path into a black spruce tunnel and he braked.

  He breathed in the darkness. He’d expected at least some of the roads to be different. He had worried the dirt road might be overgrown, or that someone had placed reflector posts to mark the dead end of the street. But the streets were unchanged and the weather and early morning hour were keeping everyone indoors.

  On his way to his mother’s house he crossed in front of Hal Young’s independent insurance office. There were fresh tire tracks up the driveway, just beginning to drift over. He looked up at the old house-office complex, but its windows were dark. Sam wondered about it, remembering Grebs’s and Gunderson’s comments. Maybe Mrs. Young had returned late? Or it was someone else out at Angus
Moon’s place? He hurried over the fading tracks.

  He approached his mother’s house in the dark. Her bushes were rounded over with high banks of snow. The driveway was an unbroken plane. The drive and the walk hadn’t been plowed all winter. The front of the house faced northwest. The force of several winter storms had almost buried the porch. The snow had drifted to the middle of the front door, and the bedroom windows to the right of the door were drifted high up with snow.

  Looks like a goddamn igloo, Sam thought. Perfect.

  He was unprepared for how his mother’s house made him feel. He was suddenly nostalgic for the decent part of his childhood, the part of it that redeemed him: Miriam Samuelson. When he was young she showed him the kind of unconditional love he had come, finally, to appreciate. Time away helped him see it. He had been too young and there had been too much collateral damage to make him appreciate what had been good about his childhood.

  A sting of arctic wind and snow reminded him why he had come.

  He rounded the garage and came up to the snow-covered back steps. Even if the house had been occupied, Sam knew its occupants would never find the articles he and his mother had hidden. A vacant house simplified matters, though he still had to find a way in.

  He peered out at the neighborhood homes, obscured by driving snow. The rear entry was covered over like the front. He reached up, found the doorknob at the top of a drift and turned it. Locked.

  He remembered a cellar window to the right of the back door. There was no sign of it now, buried under a high bank of snow. He remembered its approximate location and tunneled into the drift. Near the base of the hard-packed powder there was a hollow where a small cave had formed. Sam reached in and realized the deep window well hadn’t filled in with snow. He felt for the window, moved down the pane to its bottom, grabbed the single-handled latch and tried it. Locked.