Wolves

by Cary J. Griffith

  “Where did Goddard go?”

  “While Angus was getting me water the Sheriff checked out the place, top to bottom. Most of the time Angus was with him.”

  Sam wondered about it.

  “Angus is a prick,” Diane said. “I assume he doesn’t like people nosing through his stuff,” she added, poignantly, since they both knew he was in line, with the other members of the Club, to own the place. “But it looked like maybe there was more to it than that.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Sam said. “Any interest in joining me?”

  Truth was, she still felt a little pissed about Sam Rivers’s attitude. She’d been set up.

  “It’s supposed to be 20 below tonight,” she finally said.

  “Perfect cover for a little trespass.”

  Diane didn’t like being used, even if she had sort of been in on it. She was within her rights to use the cocky investigator however she damn well pleased. Miriam’s son or no Miriam’s son. Her friend was gone and Sam Rivers was clearly his own man. And frankly, she thought, it’d been a damn long while since she’d had a man in her bed.

  “Why don’t you crash on my couch again? It’ll save you a trip.”

  “That makes sense. So you’re joining me?”

  “Sure. Beats sitting by the fire with a book. Besides, I haven’t ever done any trespass... with a lawman.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  January 31st, dusk—the club’s cabin in Skinwalker’s Bog

  The southern boundary of Skinwalker’s Bog was bordered by an old logging road. The road ran thirty miles in a straight line to remote Libby Lake. Since there was nothing at either end but wilderness, and no bars in between, few snowmobilers used it. Bill Grebs hauled his Arctic Cat to a small parking area at one end of the trail. Since the storm, the lot had been used once. Now, at dusk, it was empty. Grebs parked his truck behind a line of black spruce. Then he revved the Cat, backed it off the sled, and headed down the remote trail toward the even-more secluded Libby Lake, a destination he had no intention of reaching.

  He’d come in from the opposite side of Skinwalker’s Bog, knowing Angus would come later, taking the northern, more familiar approach. Given the terrain and rugged path, Grebs’s snowmobile ride and hike to the cabin would take just under an hour, which was fine by him. Bill Grebs needed time to think.

  In the growing dark his snowmobile’s headlight wobbled over the narrow track. He went three miles before recognizing the cave lane, a place where overhead boughs formed a tight canopy. The ground under the trees was icy and barren. Most riders skirted the trees, but Grebs steered straight into them. Halfway down he appeared to turn into a wall of spruce boughs and disappeared. He was through them in less than a second, the thick branches slapping back behind him. He steered the Cat onto a small side trail leading away from the trees. Fifty more yards of ice-covered ruts brought him to a frozen creek bed. He dropped into the ditch and cut the engine.

  Against the left bank a spring torrent had caused a large spruce to buckle and tip halfway over, its flat, broad root structure creating a small enclosure. Grebs pushed the Cat into the hold until nothing but its taillights showed under the wattle of tree roots and debris. He pulled his snowshoes off the back, fitted them on, slogged his way down twenty more feet of solid creek flow, and climbed the bank to the start of a path, indiscernible unless you knew where to look and where you were going. It was a damn cold night, but he wasn’t thinking about the freeze.

  Before he’d left his office the phone rang. It was 4:45 p.m., and he’d hesitated, not wanting to pick up the receiver. He was running late and anxious to get out to the cabin and enjoy Williston’s wake. But official quitting time was still fifteen minutes away, so he finally decided to answer. “Police.”

  “This Defiance?” drawled a woman’s voice.

  “This is the Defiance Police.”

  “This is Clement Beauregard,” she said, a little gravelly.

  “May I help you?”

  “My brother was due in Winnipeg last Wednesday night,” she drawled. “S’posed to be on the 11:25 Greyhound. But he never showed,” she said, emphasizing the last word.

  “Your brother’s from Winnipeg?”

  “I’m in Winnipeg,” she blurted, short. “My brother’s s’posed to be somewhere down there. Farm outside Defiance, I think he said.”

  And suddenly Grebs recognized the name, and accent. James T. “Jimbo” Beauregard. When Grebs first found him he said he had a sister, somewhere in Canada, and that he was on his way to see her. It was the only time Grebs heard Jimbo’s last name, and it took a second to register.

  “Yeah?” Grebs asked, wondering how in the hell she’d figured out to call Defiance. “And he was supposed to be in Winnipeg on Wednesday?” Grebs feigned interest, buying time.

  “Thas’ right. Wednesday night.”

  “Where did you say he was?”

  “Last I heard from him, some farm outside your town. He called me las‘ Monday mornin‘. From a farm.”

  “What’s his name?” Last Monday the only place he could have called from was Williston’s.

  “James Beauregard. Folks call him Jim, or Jimbo.”

  “Jimbo?”

  “Thas’ right. Uh-huh. Jimbo. Jimbo Beauregard.”

  “Can’t say I’ve seen him. He from around here?”

  “Course not. We’re Cajun. Bayou. Down Louisiana,” she said, the ‘s’ like a lazy z. Like teeth on a saw blade.

  “But you’re in Winnipeg? Manitoba?”

  “Thas’ right. My cousin Emil started a Cajun Café and I told Jimbo we could use a little help. He was s’posed to be here Wednesday,” she repeated.

  “Did you say he was taking the Greyhound?”

  “Thas’ right.”

  “We don’t have a Greyhound bus that comes through Defiance.”

  “Bemijji,” Clement answered, without a beat. “He was takin‘ it from a place called Bemijji.”

  “But he said he was in Defiance?”

  “Uh-huh,” she affirmed. “Stayin‘ at a farm.”

  “Did he give you any names?” Grebs tried to ask the question normally, but was buzzing inside.

  “Huh-uh,” she answered.

  He breathed. “Did he say how he was getting to Bemidji?”

  “Huh-uh,” she said. “A ride, I s’pect.”

  “We had quite a storm the middle of the week. Maybe he got caught up in it?”

  “Maybe,” she guessed. “I jus‘ thought I’d hear from him by now. It’s not like Jimbo.”

  “What’s he look like?” Grebs asked.

  “He has a mark on his face. Birthmark. Reddish.”

  Grebs remembered well, listened as Clement Beauregard described her brother in more detail.

  She finished by saying, “he’s had run-ins. With the law, I mean. He never done nothin‘ bad. Just a little liftin‘, time and agin.”

  “We haven’t arrested anyone recently, Ms. Beauregard.”

  “Glad to hear it.” When he called Jimbo’d told her he’d won the money for a bus ticket played cards, fair and square. She’d been worried about the money. She was happy to hear he wasn’t in jail, at least in Defiance. She made a note to call the county sheriff’s office. “But I’m worried,” she added. “Jimbo was a lot a‘ things, some of them trouble. But if he said he was goin‘ to be somewhere at a certain time, he shown. I never known him to be late like this, without word,” she wondered aloud.

  “You sure it was Defiance?” Grebs asked.

  “I remember. Hard to forget a name like that.”

  “I guess,” Grebs said, thinking. Hard to know what else to do but play along. He took down the information and assured Ms. Beauregard he’d look into it, let her know what he found. He enquired again after the farm, if she could tell him anything else about it, since th
e country around Defiance was settled with many farms. But she couldn’t. Grebs eased a little.

  “We’ll keep an eye out,” he assured, friendly as he could manage, concerned. “I’ll put out a missing person report on him.” He took down her number and told her he’d call her Sunday evening, or Monday the latest. It was the weekend and he was heading out himself.

  “If you see him, tell him his sister’s askin‘ after him, and please call.”

  “We sure will, Ms. Beauregard,” Grebs said, and rang off.

  Grebs approached the cabin quietly, snowshoes swishing through deep powder. He thought about the conversation, worried over it, wondering how and when Jimbo called his sister. Jimbo had been planning to leave. That was a goddamn surprise. The Greyhound out of Bemidji. They were fuckin‘ lucky he neglected to mention the farm’s name, or the rancher who owned it. Mentioning Defiance was bad enough. And it was good she’d phoned Grebs. Let’s just hope she stopped there.

  The cabin lay 20 yards ahead through the trees. Grebs slowed.

  And then in the dark, from his right, a metallic ping silenced his reverie.

  Grebs turned, startled, to see Williston holding his .45 automatic. He gripped the slide with his gloved right hand and pulled it back to reset the trigger. If there had been a shell it would have ejected. Instead, he clicked a second time and the firing pin ratcheted down on another empty chamber, making another hollow ping.

  “You’re dead,” Winthrop said. “Sounded like a goddamn moose through those trees.”

  “That’s a good way to get yourself dead, Williston.”

  “Not if I get you first,” he said, stepping forward, reaching and slapping the startled Grebs on the back. “Besides, I’m already dead.” They chuckled in the dark. “Did you bring those Cohibas?”

  With everything else that had happened, Grebs had forgotten Williston’s cigars. “Goddamnit. I forgot. I was preoccupied.”

  “You know how I get when I run out of smokes.”

  Grebs nodded, knowing once Williston heard why he’d forgotten the cigars, he’d understand. “I know.”

  “Promise me you won’t forget tomorrow.”

  “You’ll have your cigars, Williston. Right now we got bigger things to worry about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let me get in out of this cold and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Outside the cabin he took off his snowshoes and stuck them in a drift beside the door. Williston went in before him and announced, “The law finally arrived!”

  Young and Gunderson were at the table, playing cards and sipping whiskey. They looked up at the cold entry, grinning. “Told ya‘ I heard him,” Williston said.

  “Looks like you could use a drink,” Gunderson said.

  “I’ll pour him one, man as deserving as the law,” Young laughed, getting up and crossing the room.

  Once they settled down and Grebs had a drink, he turned to them and said, “guess who called, just before I left?”

  “The DNR,” Williston said.

  Grebs shook his head.

  “Ag?” he guessed.

  “They won’t call, Williston,” Gunderson said. “They’ll just write the check.” He turned to Grebs. “The insurance company?” Hank guessed.

  “Clement Beauregard.”

  No response. None of them knew a Clement, but a look of surprise spread over Williston’s face. “Christ,” he hissed. “One of Jimbo’s relatives?”

  “A sister,” Grebs said. “Remember him saying he was heading up to Canada?”

  Williston nodded. The others waited for Grebs’s story.

  “She wondered about Jimbo,” Grebs explained. “Wondered where he was.”

  “How’d she know where to call?” Williston asked.

  “I guess Jimbo made a call. He was planning to leave your place Wednesday. All he told her was he was staying at a farm outside Defiance. Somehow he was going to get to Bemidji and take the Greyhound up to Winnipeg. He was supposed to arrive last Wednesday night. I double-checked the schedules. A bus leaves Bemidji at 2:50, gets into Winnipeg at 11:25.”

  Now they were all tracking, and worried.

  “Ol‘ Jimbo made a call,” Williston finally breathed. “Wonder if he used my phone?” That wouldn’t be good. Calls could be traced. The number could be on Clement’s bill and his own, if they decided to enquire at the phone company. He had to think about it.

  “Not sure where else he could have called from,” Grebs said. “After I picked him up at the old rail depot I took him straight to your place. And he never left, far as I know. She said it was Monday morning. He was at your place, wasn’t he?”

  “He was out there by himself a couple times. That was one of them. He could have used the phone to call when I was out.”

  “Maybe he had a cell?” Young wondered.

  “Jimbo?” Gunderson laughed, no humor in it. “Didn’t have a pot to piss in.”

  They all considered the news, wondering what could be done.

  “Goddamnit,” Williston repeated, unsettled. He took a long swallow of remedy. It seemed to help, but he felt tension winding tight as a trigger spring. “All she’s got is a number, maybe. And given she’s calling Grebs, we got it contained. And she hasn’t yet figured out anything, about the phone. Hell, maybe the Canadian phone company doesn’t keep a record of phone numbers.”

  He knew it was wishful thinking, but he was trying to ease everyone’s worry. There was no goddamn sense getting worked up over something out of your control. But that didn’t prevent him from trying to figure out ways to manage it.

  “Even if she figured it out, got my number from the fuckin‘ phone company, so what?” Williston said, trying to reason through it. “I’m dead, and Jimbo’s gone. Nothin‘ to say I wasn’t helping out a vagrant. Or maybe he broke into my place?” Though Williston knew that was doubtful, given the remote location of the farm and no easy way to get there.

  “Even if he called from my place there’s nothing to say he didn’t light out after my accident. Could make them wonder if this vagrant might have pulled the trigger.”

  The others chewed on it. A pall began to settle over their celebration.

  Then Bill Grebs remembered more bad news. “And someone broke into the Defiance house.”

  Williston’s eyes darkened, a bad sign.

  “Hold on, hold on,” Grebs said. “Far as I could tell the only thing missing was some preserves.”

  The observation didn’t lighten Williston’s countenance. “When?”

  “I found it this morning. I think they got in the night of the storm.”

  “How long’s the kid been here?”

  “Checked in at the Hotel yesterday morning, after the storm.”

  Williston had little doubt it was Clayton who broke into the house. He just wondered what he managed to steal.

  “The timing’s off for Clayton to have done it,” Grebs argued.

  Suddenly Williston’s glass flew across the room and shattered against a timber. The splintered glass brought an even deeper pall to the cabin.

  “Who the fuck do you think it was?! It was the goddamn kid for sure. And I bet he got a whole hell of a lot more than preserves.”

  No one in the room commented on Williston’s guess. There were a few long moments during which the unease in the room was as palpable as a winter storm blast. Hal Young finally pushed out his chair and stood. He walked to a corner and picked up a broom and dust pan. Hank looked back at the table. Grebs kept an eye on the dead man.

  Williston worried about it all. The damn call and now Clayton, who had very likely recovered 179,000 dollars and who knew what else. “The minute you get a chance,” Williston ordered Grebs, “you pull over that little son of a bitch and search his car, his room, every other place he’s been.”

  “That’s my intent
ion.”

  “The woman’s place too,” Gunderson added.

  “Her place too,” Grebs agreed.

  Angus Moon came through the door with a blast of icy air.

  “Shut the goddamn door!” Williston said.

  Everyone was startled by his entry, testament to their preoccupation with Grebs’s news.

  Angus turned and slammed the cabin door.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Williston started.

  “Gettin‘ thirsty,” Angus answered. “And tendin‘ to business. Settin‘ traps for my dogs.” He pulled off his woolen ski mask and flung it onto a bench beside the front door.

  Williston and the others considered the point. When Williston finally eased a little, congratulating Angus on his efforts, the irritability in the room diminished. For the moment the squall passed.

  Bill Grebs handed Angus whiskey in a plastic glass. He drank it off in two long swallows, exhaling deeply when it was done. “It’s damn cold out there,” he said.

  “Well it’s fine and tight in here,” Winthrop managed, recovering some of his equilibrium. “See any more sign?”

  Angus shook his head. “Not exactly. I suspect it’ll be the middle of tonight, more likely tomorrow night.”

  “What makes you so sure they’ll return?” Gunderson asked.

  “They’re hungry and cold,” Angus said. “They can probably stand it another night, might even get lucky and catch some mice or a hare. But they’ll be back. I know my dogs.”

  “Guess who called?” Williston said.

  Angus looked up. He turned and began to pour himself more whiskey. “Clayton.”

  “We know all about the prodigal son.”

  “He’s a goddamn pain in the ass, Williston.”

  “Clement Beauregard,” Williston said. They’d get to Clayton.

  The name didn’t register.

  “Jimbo’s sister,” he explained, before Angus had time to think.

  His eyes turned. “What’d she want?”

  “Wondered where ol‘ Jimbo was. Supposed to be in Winnipeg by eleven o’clock Wednesday.”