Wolves

by Cary J. Griffith

  Bill Grebs and Angus Moon stood in front of the doorway and waited. The snow was deep and their tracks cut a clear line from their vehicles to the barn door. The rest of the yard was buried under a sparkling, deep alabaster.

  “Having fun yet?” Hank managed to put on a smile.

  “Looks like the dogs had all the fun,” Grebs said, indicating with a gesture the inside of the barn. “What’re you doing here?” Grebs wasn’t happy to see Gunderson. Coming out to the farm and not finding the dogs was worrisome enough. Now Hank.

  “Where are the dogs?” Hank asked.

  “They ran,” Angus said, looking away.

  “What the hell happened?” Gunderson wanted to know. Missing dogs was troublesome news, though Hank wasn’t one to worry about details.

  “Into the woods.” Angus indicated a broken trail through the snow that ran from the barn’s entrance across Winthrop’s side yard over the field to the line of trees. The blowing snow obscured their tracks, but they were still visible in the early morning light.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Hank muttered. “How’d they get out?”

  “Too much storm,” Angus explained. “Me and Williston had to leave.”

  “You left ’em?”

  Angus didn’t appreciate Gunderson’s tone. After a day of drinking, a short afternoon sleeping it off, and his late night arson in Defiance, his head felt pickled. He stared at Hank for one long second, conveying his mood. “If we hadn’t left when we did we would have been stuck here with ’em.”

  Hank looked away, wondering about it. But he couldn’t let it go. “Better to have been stuck here with ’em instead of letting them loose in those woods.”

  “And if they’d gotten stuck?” Grebs interceded. “How do you think they’d explain Williston’s presence, just in case someone happened by?”

  Hank chewed on the question, but didn’t answer.

  “Angus is coming out and finding the kill,” Grebs said, setting up the scene. “Now we’re seeing where wolves got in and what they did. Came in the storm.” This conversation was a waste of time. “What’re you doing here?” he asked.

  Gunderson paused, looking at Angus, then back at Grebs. “I assume you know about the Winthrop Building?”

  Grebs stared at him. “We know. That was Williston’s business and it’s done.”

  Bill Grebs was shutting Hank down. The car salesman was getting pissed. “And did you know Clayton Winthrop’s back?”

  It had been a long time since either of them had heard the name.

  “Clayton Winthrop,” Grebs said, recalling the jeep with Colorado plates. “I bet that was his jeep at the hotel?”

  “He’s got a beard? And he’s a lot bigger than I remember,” Hank started. “He’s changed his name. Goes by Sam. Sam Rivers.”

  “No shit. When did you figure all this out?”

  “Ran into him,” Hank said, not wanting to explain the circumstances.

  They all paused for a moment, letting the information ripple across the frozen yard, wondering about it. What’d he have to say?” Grebs asked.

  Hank thought about it. “Not much. I got the impression he’s grown up some. What’s it been? Fifteen years?”

  “More like 20. Though I doubt any length of time would be enough to shake the boy out of that skin,” Grebs said.

  “Horseshit as a hunter,” Angus remembered. “I expect he wants money. Come around like crow on roadkill.”

  “What makes you think he’s different?” Grebs wanted to know.

  “He’s not a kid,” Hank offered. “We had a few words. I told him there was nothing for him here and he more or less told me to fuck off.”

  Grebs laughed into the wintry air. “You didn’t need to do that, Hank. He may be Williston’s kid, but he has no claims on the estate. We’re all legal and proper. The will’s pretty specific.” Then Grebs thought for a moment. Something was missing. “Why did he tell you to fuck off?”

  Gunderson looked away, considering. Then he turned back to Grebs and said, “I was visiting Diane Talbott.”

  “Talbott?” Grebs asked. He was trying to see it. Bill Grebs knew Diane Talbott. The idea Hank was hoping to get lucky with Talbott was absurd. But if Hank had been drinking, anything was possible, at least in the old car salesman’s mind. “Get lucky?”

  “Might have.” Hank smiled, seeing where he could go with it. “But that goddamn kid interrupted us.”

  A shade fell across the town cop’s face, the kind of shadow Hank had been hoping to avoid. “You just can’t lay off, can ya‘, Hank?” Grebs started, carefully, so Hank would feel the pressure. Hank was Hank, and Diane Talbott, some affirmed, had a past. Only her past had been over 20 years ago and it was in Eveleth, across the Range, miles from Defiance and in Diane’s case from a different lifetime. He admitted she still had appeal. But from what Grebs heard, she’d never partied for money, and never with an aging son of a bitch like Hank Gunderson.

  “She called me wanting background on Williston’s obituary. So I stopped by. No harm in trying. Once a party girl, always a party girl. It’s a matter of timing.” Hank held onto the smile, but it was unconvincing.

  This time, Bill Grebs thought, Hank Gunderson’s reliance on his professed pussy knowledge was not only wrongheaded, but stupid. “It’s a matter of intelligence. You think with your dick.”

  Hank considered a response, but thought better of it. “Maybe it was a mistake. I just mention it because it was surprising to see him. Clayton Winthrop. Sam Rivers. And he wasn’t running scared like he used to.”

  “We can deal with him,” Grebs reassured. “The best approach is courtesy. If we have to, we can show him a firm hand.”

  Angus smiled at the prospect.

  “As I recall, it didn’t take much to get Clayton packing,” added Grebs.

  Hank looked away. “He’s not a kid anymore.”

  “Aw shit, Hank. It’s just what you put behind it. I’m not worried. Williston will be interested to know he’s come around.”

  “You think he’s after the money?” Gunderson wondered.

  “Of course,” Grebs affirmed. “I don’t know how he heard about Williston’s death. I know Williston hasn’t heard from him in years. Yeah,” he concluded. “He’s after the money.”

  “Fuckin‘ good luck,” Angus said.

  Grebs agreed. “His presence is a minor distraction. Once he reads the will and listens to probate, he’ll hear reason.”

  “I don’t think Diane Talbott was expecting him.”

  “Was she expecting you?”

  Hank smiled. “Come to think of it, I don’t think she was,” he answered. “Seems to me we got bigger problems than Clayton. What about the dogs?”

  “We’ll get ’em back,” Angus said. “They won’t run far. It’s goddamn cold and there’s still a barn full of food. Not to mention a place out of the wind. What would you do?”

  “I suppose.” Hank looked away to where the dogs’ trails disappeared into the trees. “I don’t like it. If someone finds those dogs there’ll be questions.”

  “Nobody’s gonna find ’em,” Angus reassured. “’Cept us. Besides, anyone see ’em would see wolves.”

  “Truth is, it doesn’t matter a rat’s ass what happened out here,” Grebs said. “So far we still have a livestock kill to report, still have the evidence. And wolves would have run. They wouldn’t have stuck around. Those tracks are fortunate, if you ask me. They’re too drifted over to get any good prints, but you can see there were about five of them, and they disappeared into those woods.”

  “I’ll get ’em,” Angus said, looking up into the wall of trees. “Then I’ll teach ’em a lesson.”

  “Maybe they got a taste of freedom,” Gunderson suggested.

  “They won’t be gone long. Too damn cold and they’ll get hungry in a hurry.” />
  “I heard wolves can go a week without food,” Gunderson observed. “And winter doesn’t seem to get into their bones like it does us.”

  “Wolves.” Angus nodded. He squinted in the sunlight, still peering toward the tree line. “Not my dogs.”

  “Maybe they’ve gotten a taste of their heritage,” Grebs suggested. “Right now they’re out there trying to figure it out.” He looked up and recalled how those woods were the start of wilderness that stretched all the way into Canada.

  “Right now,” Angus argued, “they’re probably just inside those trees, couple hundred yards in, sleeping off the gorge. Come night they’ll be back. They’re good at tracking and killing, but they’ve never done it on their own.”

  “Did the other night,” Gunderson observed.

  The three of them finally went into the farmhouse to get out of the cold. After they shed their coats they began mulling their options. Angus could stay at the farm and wait for his dogs. He could secure them in the cages and return them to their houses, then call in the kill. Or they could, according to the plan (or at least most of it), report the kill to the DNR.

  “I told Williston we’d be out by 4:00,” Grebs recollected. “The DNR should be able to get somebody out before then.”

  “It’s Friday,” Hank commented.

  “Slow day for a conservation officer. And I checked. Steve Svegman’s on duty.”

  “That’s good,” Angus said. “He’s young, and he don’t know shit, specially about me.” He smiled. “I should call it in?”

  Grebs nodded. “Call ’em,” he said. “The timing’s right. It’s early. With luck Svegman’ll be out before 2:00. Just be sure and tell them you’ve got a wake to attend. Arrange it. We don’t want them coming out here when no one’s around. And get that truck into the garage. We don’t want him asking questions about those cages.”

  Angus agreed. Svegman’s early arrival would be good. If he came out anytime during the day, Angus knew, his dogs would stay put, sleeping off their feed.

  “This kill’s going to set off some alarm bells in St. Paul,” Grebs observed. “It’s big and different. And I don’t recall any others like it being reported, at least in our county.”

  “It was only a matter of time,” Angus argued. “Wolves’re comin‘ back. Some are takin‘ dogs off porches. Somethin‘ like this was bound to happen.”

  “I didn’t say it was totally unbelievable,” Grebs said. “Seems to me I’ve heard about kills bigger than this out west. Idaho or Montana. Outright slaughters. It’s just going to take some care, is all I’m sayin‘. We’ve got to be patient. This is definitely the work of wolves,” he said. “Svegman’ll see that. They just might bring in someone else for a second opinion.”

  “Let ’em,” Angus said. “Wolves took ’em, damn straight.”

  “Just give him the essentials,” Grebs advised. “You came out to feed them after the storm, and found this.”

  Moon nodded.

  Williston Winthrop was to be buried tomorrow afternoon. They’d all attend. Tonight they’d each make their way to the cabin in Skinwalker’s Bog. There would be a party, an unusual celebration. A wake, at which the dead man would play both host and guest of honor.

  “What about Clayton?” Gunderson asked.

  “What about him?”

  “You think he’s going to contest it?”

  “How could he? We’ve got the will. It’s all notarized and legal. And the fact is, Clayton’s been gone for years. And everyone knew there was no love lost between him and Williston.” He looked up toward the woods, as if thinking after the dogs. “Clayton’s timing is interesting. I thought he’d disappeared. Maybe there’s somebody still in touch? Maybe Talbott?”

  “I don’t think so,” Gunderson answered. “She didn’t seem to recognize him, at least at first.”

  “Well that’s one big fuckin‘ coincidence,” Grebs observed. “Clayton showing up a couple days before Williston gets planted?”

  The three men considered it, but there wasn’t much more to say. Grebs knew it was time to check Miriam’s house.

  Angus made the call to Vermilion Falls, since he’d discovered it. The DNR was surprisingly sympathetic. There were increasing kills across the Range, in tandem with a rising wolf population. Cattleman were angry about it, and the DNR and Agriculture had gotten word to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. They’d get a conservation officer over at Winthrop’s place by 2:00, the dispatcher assured him.

  “That’d be good,” Angus said, feigning irritation. “I’ll be waitin‘.”

  After Angus hung up, Grebs said, “Just make sure those damn dogs are far enough in to stay hid. We don’t want them coming back before dark. We’ll come out in the morning and see if they’ve returned.”

  Angus nodded.

  “After you meet with the DNR, we’ll see you at the cabin?”

  “Course,” Angus nodded.

  “Good. There’ll be a full glass waiting for you.”

  “Keep my seat warm,” Angus said. “It’s gonna‘ be blisterin‘ cold tonight.”

  Gunderson and Grebs started out of the house. At the door Grebs turned and said, “Don’t take any chances with those dogs.”

  “They’re my dogs,” Angus reminded him. “They’ll do what I say.”

  Gunderson and Grebs hoped it was true.

  Chapter Nineteen

  January 31st, mid-morning—Vermilion Falls

  Sam and Diane sat in the Ranger’s Café. Their breakfast had just arrived and they spent a few quiet moments focusing on their food.

  The previous evening Sam had finally decided it would be prudent to bed down on Diane’s couch. Diane didn’t want to admit it, but she’d been shaken by her encounter with Hank Gunderson. She didn’t think the man would return, but you didn’t know about Hank Gunderson. Once he grew tired of yanking on his solitary dick, Sam thought, or once he’d had some time to chew on what went down or drink a little more remedy to stir things up, he might rekindle his interest in Diane. Sam could tell Diane felt better with him on her couch. And Sam Rivers felt fine, making sure his duffel was secure and for the time being safe. Though he shared his mother’s instincts about Diane Talbott. She was a good human being. And something he suspected his mother didn’t notice: she wasn’t hard on the eyes.

  As they finished their breakfast they talked about how best to explain the sudden appearance of his mother’s will, post-dating the version that had been probated. After considering a few different options, they finally settled on using Diane as an excuse. Diane had been holding the will in a sealed envelope, with instructions from Miriam she was to give it to her son when he returned home.

  “And Miriam was explicit,” Diane said, rounding out their story. “Under no circumstances was I to mail it to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “For the same reasons Miriam never mailed you the money. She was afraid, given Williston’s wide-ranging contacts, he would somehow discover it. And she wanted to make sure you received what she’d left you.”

  “But the money’s not part of the story. And you didn’t know the envelope held a copy of her will?”

  “I didn’t know what was in the envelope. And I won’t mention the money.”

  “Or the note.”

  “No note. The contents of the will was Miriam’s final testament.”

  “The story’s a little thin,” Sam said, thinking about it. “Why wouldn’t she have at least told me about it? Or why wouldn’t she have told you it was a copy of her will?”

  “You said she told you to come home. The truth was, Sam, your mom was a little paranoid about Williston. There are any number of reasons why she may not have explicitly told you about the will. It could have been forgetfulness in the last days of her life. But it was more likely fear Williston would find out and put a stop to it, to this second,
proper will.”

  “And you never opened the envelope?”

  “Miriam was my friend. It was her dying wish. Of course I wouldn’t open it.” The more she thought about it, the more she thought Sam had a reasonable shot at wresting Miriam’s estate from Hank Gunderson and his friends. Bending the truth to obtain the right result was not ideal Range justice, but it was a start.

  Sam thought it might work, but he didn’t know if an estate that has been probated could be reopened, two years later. It was a question for Jeff Dunlap, and he wondered how well the story would hold up under scrutiny.

  Diane appreciated Sam’s perspective. The man was nothing like his father.

  Diane’s cell phone went off. It was another reporter. There was a quick exchange, then surprise. “The Winthrop Building? That’s damn interesting. I finished his obit this morning. Should be in production.”

  The person on the other end of the line spoke.

  “That’s right,” Diane answered. “I didn’t mention it in the story because I couldn’t confirm it, but I think he was being investigated. About what, I don’t know.”

  Pause.

  “Yup,” Diane said. “Couldn’t confirm it.”

  The reporter thanked her and then hung up.

  “The Winthrop Building in Defiance,” Diane said. “Burned down after midnight. Burnt to the ground.”

  “That’s curious,” Sam said, surprised.

  “Started sometime after midnight. Went up like a dried-out Christmas tree. The place was mostly timber. At least that’s what Walt Gibbons said. Apparently he’d warned Will Winthrop about the place a few months ago. Wasn’t up to code and needed some retrofitting.” She glanced at Sam, curious about his reaction.

  “Any idea how it started?”

  “Not yet. Walt said it would take a while, sifting through the rubble. But his preliminary guess was electrical. He remembered a lot of bad wiring. His recommendation was to upgrade it and install a sprinkler system, which would have brought it up to code.”

  They fell silent for a minute, mulling the news.

  It was an odd development, Sam thought. A damn peculiar coincidence. Maybe someone did it out of spite, he wondered? A disgruntled former client? Someone on the other side of the bench who the old man had eviscerated in a legal battle? But what value would there be in setting the place ablaze, given the old man’s death and, he suspected, the insurance money that would flow to the estate once the claim was settled? It all made Sam think arson was unlikely. And remembering the building, even if someone had set it off... if they’d been careful, it would be hard evidence to uncover. Inconclusive, at best.