Wolves

by Cary J. Griffith

  “Officer Grebs?” she asked.

  Apparently she’d done her homework. “Yeah,” Dean said. “Have you spoken with him?”

  “Ah have. Said he’d look into it. I jus‘ thought somethin‘ might have happened somewhere else. Jimbo said he’d be here on the 11:25 Greyhound outta Bemijji. He ain’t perticular ’bout much, but he’s always punctual. Has been, anyway.”

  “Are there any other, ah, reasons he might be late, Ma’am?” Dean asked. He needed to know if the man was a schizophrenic or used alcohol or drugs. And Clement Beauregard sounded like the type who wouldn’t whitewash a brother’s bad habits.

  “Whaddya‘ mean?” she asked.

  “Does your brother have any mental issues, ma’am. Is he on any medication? Does he drink? Does he use drugs?”

  “Jimbo? Lord no. Take some nips now and again, but not reglar. He’s had bad luck, most his life. Has a mark on his face. A big red birth mark. People have always thought it strange, but we know it’s where God touched him.”

  Another bizarre stroke from God’s hand, Dean thought. Goddard noted the time the man was due in Manitoba, reminded himself to call Greyhound and ask about it, if he got a spare moment. He took down the rest of the information on Jimbo. Nothing much. A big guy, overweight. Prominent birthmark on his left cheek. Maybe Grebs would know something.

  When the Sheriff mentioned the Defiance town cop, Clement Beauregard told him Grebs was running a missing persons on him.

  That would be a BOLO Report. If so, it’d have to come through the Sheriff’s office, and he hadn’t seen anything yet. He’d have to get an update from Grebs, soon as he got a chance.

  Dean promised Ms. Beauregard he’d get back to her no later than tomorrow afternoon, then rang off. He was back at his paperwork less than five minutes before the phone rang again.

  “Line 1,” the deputy called through his door. “Dunlap.”

  Goddard picked it up. “Shouldn’t you be tending to family matters?”

  “I knew you’d be in. Goddamn it, Dean, get a life.”

  “Jeff,” Dean heard Dunlap’s wife in the background. “Watch your tongue.”

  “Yeah, Dad,” agreed Dunlap’s seven year old son.

  “Yeah,” then his daughter.

  They were out doing something as a family, Dean guessed. There was something about the imagined scene that made the Sheriff nostalgic, longing for what he suspected he would never have.

  “Sorry,” Jeff said to the others in his car. Then back to the Sheriff. “Taking Katie to catechism. Just trying to keep abreast of the important stuff. Like Pine Grove.”

  “Watch your goddamn mouth,” Dean admonished. “God’s gonna wash it out with soap. And for you he’s got an extra-big bar.”

  “Better him than Marlys,” he said, referring to his wife.

  “Guess what happened at the Winthrop’s farmhouse?”

  “What?”

  “Wolves returned.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Meeting Steve Svegman from the DNR out there around noon.”

  “Angus trap them?”

  “Nope. Your friend Sam Rivers was out there last night. Said he had a hunch they might return.

  “So he was right.”

  “Yep. But if Angus Moon knew Sam Rivers had gone out there in the middle of the night and trapped those wolves he’d have an aneurysm.”

  “And then he’d kill something. What about Pine Grove?”

  “Nothing new. I didn’t find anything at the farm. Nosed around a little, but there aren’t a lot of places in that old house to hide case files.”

  “Wouldn’t take more than a crack.”

  “A pretty wide crack, I’d guess, if we assume he’s been bilking them awhile. And taking notes.”

  “Maybe. What about the house in Defiance?”

  “I went over to the house. Someone got in before me.”

  “Broke in?”

  “Uh-huh. A window well in the back. Went in through the basement.” Dean had a strong suspicion Sam Rivers felt nostalgic and made a visit, but the timing wasn’t right. “Whoever it was didn’t take much, far as I could tell. Some preserves.”

  “Preserves?” Jeff asked, surprised. “You mean, like, jam?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure they didn’t walk off with any files?”

  “When I nosed around the place I couldn’t find anywhere files would be kept. Dimes to donuts it went up in that office fire.”

  “I spoke with Walt,” Dunlap said, referring to the Fire Marshall. “Says all signs point to an electrical fire. Another accident.”

  “When it rains it goddamn pours,” Dean observed. There was plenty gone wrong with that man and his aftermath. A little too plenty, the Sheriff thought.

  “Whoops. We’re here,” Jeff said, referring to church. “I’ll catch you later, maybe at the office.”

  “Later.”

  The Sheriff hung up. He didn’t wait long.

  “Line 1,” the deputy called through his door. “Sam Rivers.”

  “Morning. Didn’t we just talk?”

  “Diane and I have to come over to Vermilion Falls. Any chance you could join us for a cup of coffee?”

  Dean wondered about it. “Sure. I’m about ready for a coffee break. I’m heading out to meet Svegman at noon. What time can you be here?”

  “We’re practically on our way. We’ll meet you at the Rangers Café. If you get there before us, get a booth.”

  “Business, or pleasure?” Dean enquired.

  Sam hesitated. “Both.”

  Chapter Thirty

  February 1st, before noon—the Vermilion Falls strip, on the edge of town

  Lindy’s Tap was a well-known Vermilion Falls establishment. For most Minnesota bars it was illegal to sell off-sale liquor, unless you had a special license, which Lindy’s didn’t. But it was an illegality Lindy considered more of a guideline than a rule, especially when it came to Bill Grebs. When Bill Grebs walked through the door, Lindy Lewis nodded and said, “William. Coffee?”

  “That’d be nice,” answered Grebs. It had been a long morning.

  “Hair of the dog?” Lindy asked.

  Grebs let his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. Apart from two overweight beer drinkers swilling suds instead of coffee, the place was empty. The tipplers were focused on a fishing show broadcasting on the behind the bar TV. “Why not?” Grebs grinned.

  Lindy poured the coffee into a large cup, leaving a good inch at the top. He lowered the cup behind the bar and surreptitiously topped off the coffee with an inch of whiskey. Technically, Grebs wasn’t on duty. But appearances were important, he knew. Particularly on the Range.

  “Obliged,” he said, taking the cup in hand.

  “What’s new in Defiance?”

  “Been nothin‘ but chaos since Williston’s accident.”

  “I read about the fire,” Lindy said.

  They had agreed not to broadcast the wolf kill. Too much unnecessary press might interest the wrong people. The last thing the Club wanted were treehuggers from that Wolf Center nosing around. Clayton Winthrop was bad enough. But a little gossip in the right corners might cloud things up. “Did you hear about the wolves?” Grebs asked.

  “Wolves?”

  “Wolves got into Williston’s barn and killed his feeder calves.”

  “No shit? I didn’t read that in the paper.”

  “Killed all three of them and ate their fill. The DNR’s being quiet about it. I guess they don’t want the bad publicity,” Grebs said. In places like Lindy’s Tap, the DNR was an unpopular governmental entity. If Iron Range residents thought the DNR was covering up, it would only add to the outrage.

  “Jesus H. Christ. Never heard anything like that.”

  “You know how plentiful they’re ge
tting.”

  Lindy nodded. “Had Buck Withers in here the other day. He said he had to kill a pair that dug a den on the rear acreage of his farm. They were harassing his livestock.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Said he didn’t say anything to the DNR. Just shot ’em and dragged ’em into the woods. Buried ’em.”

  “That’s a logical course of action, unless you need to get reimbursed.”

  “I’d do it,” Lindy said. “Do it in a second, if my livestock were threatened.”

  “And damn well better do it before any more are taken.”

  “The fuckin‘ DNR. And we’re payin‘ for ’em.”

  “Just ain’t right,” Grebs agreed.

  There was a long pause as the two men considered what was wrong with government. Then Lindy said, “It’s a shame about Williston.” Lindy knew Grebs and Williston had been close. Sometimes the two men would come into his Vermilion Falls bar, or buy spirits. Lindy passed along his wholesale price to his friends.

  “A definite loss for the Range,” Grebs said, sincere enough.

  “That man had a string of bad luck,” Lindy said.

  “Not that it’ll bother him now,” Grebs said.

  “Yup. That’s a fact.”

  They talked briefly while Grebs finished his coffee. It tasted excellent, an hour before noon. Just the thing Grebs needed to put the unpleasantness of his early morning behind him.

  “Gonna need a few items,” Grebs said.

  When Grebs was buying in bulk, or something special, he always turned to Lindy, who gave him better prices than anyplace else on the Range. Given the Club’s recent heavy partying, he needed to replenish, particularly in light of this evening’s celebration.

  “A couple bottles of Crown Royal. A bottle of Stoli. Give me that Reserva Del Senor Tequila, the brown stuff. And one bottle of Glenlivet,” he said.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You’re gettin‘ ready to party.”

  Grebs just grinned and nodded.

  Lindy glanced down at the bar’s only other patrons. Their glasses were still half full. They were watching a fisherman stand at the edge of his boat, fighting to reel in his catch. Lindy nodded and disappeared in the back. Grebs drained his cup while Lindy filled a large grocery bag. He came out with two double-bagged sacks, the Crown Royal boxes in one of them.

  “Williston’s drink,” he said, remembering.

  Grebs hadn’t thought about it. “Yup,” he said. “Me and the boys are toasting Williston tonight, after his burial. We thought the best way to do it would be with his Canadian Whiskey. Not very partial to it myself. But Williston would have liked the gesture.”

  “That man had expensive tastes.”

  “That was Williston.”

  Lindy took Grebs’s money and the town cop said goodbye. He had a couple more errands to run. He had to go to the hardware store and pick up some ammo and supplies. He had to go to the grocery store. And he needed a carton of Old Golds. Williston’s Cohibas, too, he reminded himself. He placed the liquor into his truck’s back seat, pulled out of the parking lot, and turned toward Walling’s Hardware.

  Across the street Sam and Diane stared out the tinted windows of the Rangers Café. They were waiting for the Sheriff, who was taking longer than he expected. They watched Bill Grebs head into town.

  “What do you suppose the Defiance town cop’s up to?” Sam asked.

  “Having a drink and buying some liquor, I suspect.” Lindy’s place wasn’t a big secret. If serious drinkers didn’t know about his lax observance of liquor laws, they had their suspicions. Lindy was careful. He never sold to anyone he hadn’t known since birth. He had plenty of customers.

  “The funeral’s at 3:00 p.m.,” Sam observed.

  “I suspect he’s stocking up.”

  “A little post-burial fling?”

  “Why not? They can afford whatever they want now, can’t they?”

  “Guess I’d do the same thing.”

  “You’re not going to the party?”

  “Wasn’t invited,” Sam said.

  “Imagine that? Doesn’t seem neighborly.”

  “Not that I won’t have a celebratory drink,” he added.

  Sheriff Dean Goddard appeared not long after Grebs wheeled out of Lindy’s. When he came in, Sam moved over to sit near Diane.

  “Sheriff,” they nodded. Sam picked up the coffee pot and topped off his cup. Diane’s too. “Coffee?” he asked Dean.

  “Sure.”

  When Sam reached over to fill his cup Dean noticed Sam’s wrist scab.

  “What happened to your wrist?”

  “Cut it on some glass.”

  The Sheriff thought he knew how. Which meant Sam Rivers had been lying about when he arrived in town. “Healing OK?”

  “Seems to be.”

  “That’s good,” Dean said. Then he pulled his own coat sleeve down and examined his laceration. “Me, too.”

  “What happened?” Sam asked.

  “Cut it on some broken window glass.”

  He looked at Sam, but the USFW special agent gave no inclination he understood the Sheriff’s inquisitive eyes.

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “Shit happens,” the Sheriff said, shrugging.

  They talked briefly. The Sheriff dropped his enquiry about the wrist cut, which reaffirmed Sam’s sense of him. Though he didn’t react to it, he recognized the look, thought it told him the Sheriff knew how Sam had cut himself. And why wouldn’t Sam be interested in visiting the old house? If all he took, far as the Sheriff knew, were some preserves, no harm, no foul. The Sheriff, Sam thought, was reasonable, friendly, professional. He hadn’t seen or felt anything to change his mind. Jeff Dunlap said he was an excellent lawman. Diane agreed. And he was no friend of Bill Grebs. That was four votes in the man’s favor.

  Sam finally reached down beside him and pulled up a brown legal folder with expandable sections and an overhanging flap. He reached into the folder and pulled out the CD. He set it on the table and slid it over to Dean.

  “What’s this?” This time it was his turn to play dumb.

  “I told you I was out at the farmhouse?”

  Dean nodded.

  “When I mentioned it before I left out the part about finding the old man’s spare key and going into the house. And I lied about not finding anything. I just didn’t know what it was.”

  The Sheriff glanced at Diane. She held his eyes long enough to tell him they both knew.

  “The old man had a special place,” Sam explained. “A recess in his study floor. Nobody knew about it. When I was a kid it had mostly old coins. I wanted to see if he still used it. The coins were gone, but we found something we thought we might pass along to you.” The Sheriff hadn’t lost his matter-of-fact demeanor, but Sam could sense his concern.

  “Ordinarily I wouldn’t have touched a thing,” Sam added. “Not coins, anyway. There’s nothing of the old man’s I need or want. I cut those strings a long time ago. I don’t need any reminders of him.”

  “So what is it?” the Sheriff asked, just to be certain.

  “A video.”

  The Sheriff looked away. His index finger started tapping the table. Finally he reached over and picked up the disk. He turned it over, but there were no markings on it. “And I’m in it?”

  “Yeah,” Sam affirmed.

  “I see,” he said, and looked away again. Truth was, Sheriff Dean Goddard felt entirely different than he thought he would, now that others knew his secret.

  “I wasn’t sure if you could tell who was on it. I mean,” he paused, “the woman.”

  “Can’t really tell,” Diane offered, blushing a little, “except by the clothes hanging over a chair.”

  The Sheriff sat back, thinking. He wasn’t sure where to go with it, but the trut
h was he felt a lot better about one thing; knowing he no longer had to keep entirely silent about something that was slowly eating at his core. It was odd. He felt embarrassed, like a boy caught in a lie. And he didn’t know if he even needed to say anything about what Williston Winthrop wanted, though he would. Because Dean Goddard had told Williston Winthrop almost nothing. But for a lawman that prided himself on his stellar record, the affair and the resulting compromise, small as it was, burned in his consciousness like a scarlet letter.

  First he turned to Diane. “You know Belinda,” he said.

  “Not really, but,” Diane paused, “I heard there was some struggle.”

  “First alcohol, after she lost the baby and found out there wouldn’t be another opportunity. Then this church,” he said, feeling more comfortable than he’d imagined, telling it. “I’m not making excuses. There’s no excuse for what I’ve done. But you marry one person and one day you wake up to find an entirely different person. And by then you have separate bedrooms and talk maybe once or twice a week.” He paused, looking away. “And then you meet someone. Someone who helps you remember what it is you thought you could live without.”

  “Sheriff, we’re not here to judge you. What you do with your personal life is your own business,” Sam said. “What I really want to know is why the old man had that disk in his file?”

  That’s it, then, Dean Goddard thought. He wasn’t surprised. Sam Rivers didn’t give a rat’s ass about his moral struggles, probably wouldn’t have cared less if the affair had come to light in some other public way. It was the location of the evidence. The Sheriff understood Sam Rivers’s perspective, because it would have been his own.

  “Your old man,” he began, slowly, shaking his head. “Williston Winthrop was a crook and we all knew it. At least Jeff Dunlap and I knew it. Jeff turned him in once before on an ethics violation, but the St. Paul Ethics Board just slapped his goddamn wrist. Williston knew people. Jeff didn’t like him and didn’t trust him and he thought he was up to no good.” The Sheriff looked away, thought for a minute. Then continued. “And then Susan... Dr. Wallace got a call from an assisted living facility out of Eveleth. Gertie Wendell needed some treatment. Normally it was handled by a physician out of Eveleth, but he was in South America. The place was nice enough, but Gertie was its only patient, and it was small, and something about it didn’t seem right. Susan told me about it and I shared it with Jeff. I went over to have a look, but it was legitimate. Just to be sure Jeff started looking into it.”