The five men sat at the cabin table. The blistered pine lay covered with red, white and blue poker chips, cards, a couple of ashtrays and glasses. Bill Grebs’s Old Gold cigarette sent a slender trail into the thick cabin air. In the other ashtray Williston had parked one of his Cohibas. Since the evening started he’d had one of the long cigars almost perpetually stuck into the corner of his smiling mouth.
After the burial, all of the Club members made their way to Skinwalker’s Bog. They forged their own trails and had all arrived within an hour of each other, around dinnertime. And Williston had been ready. He’d fired thick fillets over the grill. He’d baked potatoes, cut a small hole in the center of three large Vidalia onions and filled them with Worcestershire sauce, topping them off with thick pads of butter. Then he wrapped them in foil and baked them with the potatoes. It had been a feast, washed down with plenty of libation. Now, just after midnight, the five men were practically giddy with good humor.
“I’ll call you and raise you,” Gunderson said, tossing his chips onto the considerable pile.
Winthrop, Grebs and Gunderson were the only three left playing the hand.
Williston loved the game. He turned to Hank and smiled. “I’ll call ya‘,” he answered, adding the necessary chips to the centered mound.
They turned to Grebs. He was a careful player. But they’d been drinking long enough, and it was, after all, a celebration. As the Club members figured, they were all millionaires, give or take a few thousand. Before Svegman had left the farmhouse he told Angus he’d get the check to them on Monday. Angus figured he’d be sleeping in. He told Svegman to leave it in the farmhouse mailbox.
Grebs had two pair, sixes and sevens. He peered at the remaining players and smiled. What the hell? It was liberating to know money was no longer an issue. Not a real issue. Now they simply had to figure out how to spend it. And paying attention to whatever other opportunities came their way. “I’ll call,” he said, tossing in his chips.
Gunderson laid down his cards. He did it slowly, with flourish, one card at a time.
“A six,” he said, setting it down. “And a three.” He peered at the two men, smiling. The rest of the men knew Hank. This was his technique for showing three of a kind. And sure enough. He laid them all down at once, beaming. “Three aces,” he said, like a schoolboy, poised to rake in the cash.
Grebs cursed and threw down his hand. Williston reached over and grabbed Gunderson’s arm. “Wait a minute, goddamn it.” The others stopped. You never knew about Williston. He looked Hank Gunderson in the eye and said, laying down his cards. “A flush.”
Gunderson swore, but his curse was drowned out by a howl of laughter that would have awakened the phantoms in Skinwalker’s Bog.
“I’m out of remedy,” Williston finally chuckled, rising to fetch what was left of his Canadian whiskey, parked in a snowdrift outside the front door.
Nearly two hours earlier three cars approached the chained entrance to the overgrown logging road. Tire tracks confirmed the entryway to the boundary of Skinwalker’s Bog. Diane remembered, then spotted the road as Sam’s jeep passed in front of the chain.
“That’s the place,” she said.
Sam drove beyond it and pulled to the side of the road. A patrol car followed behind, then Steve Svegman’s DNR vehicle. Sam got out to examine the entrance. The Sheriff opened his patrol car door and stood up in the cold.
Sam Rivers approached. “Looks like a couple of big vehicles, maybe a truck and an SUV, entered that logging road, judging from the tracks. Recently.”
Dean leaned down into the nearby patrol car and said, “Smith, can you fetch those bolt cutters from the trunk and take that chain down?”
“No problem.”
Diane wore a heavy down parka that hung above her knees. She had a pair of nylon ski pants over two sets of long underwear. Her breath clouded out of her ski mask.
The Sheriff turned and started walking toward the chain. “Can we drive into it?”
“Not with our patrol cars.”
“We can climb into Svegman’s DNR vehicle and my jeep,” Sam suggested. “We should be able to make it.”
“That’ll work.”
Smith’s bolt cutters made an easy snap on one side of the chain. Then he dragged the cut end across the opening.
The group piled into the two vehicles. Then both vehicles turned carefully into the bush-covered lane, following the tire tracks. After a half hour they came up a small rise and saw the tracks turn off the old logging road to the left. Sam Rivers got out of his jeep and followed them another fifty yards until he came up behind Bill Grebs’s pickup and Hal Young’s CR-V.
The others cut their engines and waited for Sam’s return. When he came out of the trees he raised one mittened hand and twirled it in a rapid circle. Car doors opened, quietly, and the group got out of their vehicles. After taking out their snowshoes the Sheriff closed the jeep door without a sound. Once his snowshoes were affixed he followed Sam up the trail. He came around the sides of both parked cars and pushed his way out in front. There was a small opening in the trees along the path where a shallow pool of moonlight fell down around him. He motioned for the others to approach and in a moment they all stood in the pool, listening.
From the other side of the woods they heard wolves, faint and far off but distinct.
“They’re a few miles,” Sam whispered. “Sounds like they’re waking up.”
“Probably going to hunt,” Svegman whispered.
“Cold like this would make anything howl,” the Sheriff added.
“The cold doesn’t bother them,” Sam said. “They’re marking territory. These woods are theirs. Those calls are to let others know they shouldn’t come near.”
“Let’s hope they make an exception for law enforcement,” the Sheriff said.
“The only way we’d get in trouble is if we happened on a fresh kill while they were just starting to eat. Even then you could probably scare them off. Wolves don’t like us much, seem to know we’re trouble.”
There was another chorus of howls from deep in Skinwalker’s Bog.
“Problem is, you just never know about hybrids,” Sam added. “Which is why it’s a good thing we’re all armed.”
The Sheriff pointed to the tracks disappearing through a pair of black spruce boughs. “Looks like we have an easy enough path to follow.”
“They may have blazed it for us,” Sam said. “But if what I’ve heard about this place is true, I suspect it isn’t easy.”
“If Bill Grebs can walk it, so can we,” the Sheriff observed.
Sam turned and snowshoed four paces before pushing into a wall of black spruce. The others fell in behind him in single file.
On occasion, the woods were so thick Sam had to switch on his flashlight. He covered over the front of the flashlight with his hand, muffling its brightness. When he was certain it was safe he shined the light on the ground behind him so the others could approach in safety. They made slow progress through the trees.
The evening wore on. They did not hear the wolves again. Sam knew that could mean anything.
The air was particularly cold, but Sam no longer noticed it. His camo coverings added a layer of insulation and his head, like the others’, was covered with a ski mask. Tracking carefully along the trail was absorbing work. After more than an hour they came to a small rise that climbed upward a few feet. When they walked onto it, Sam could see the path continue at this level. The swamp thicket changed to old-growth woods. The trail was still very dark but partial moonlight filtered through the trees, enough to see where others had passed before him.
Sam turned off his light and walked in the faint glow. The others followed carefully through the trees.
They walked less than a hundred yards, winding through the island of woods, when Sam stopped. The others stopped behind him. Sam peered ahead. T
hrough the trees, falling down on the path, he noticed a faint change in the intensity of the light. He motioned ahead to the others, but raised his finger to his lips. Then he went forward fifteen paces, rounded the corner of a large fir tree, and saw the lights of a cabin through the trees.
He carefully retraced his steps. He knew they’d been fortunate to come after a big snow, when the trail was easy to follow and covered with powder.
“It’s around the corner,” he whispered. The Sheriff nodded, turned around and passed the word down the line. They all stiffened at the news.
Sam turned and started forward along the trail. They all followed to the corner tree. Fifty yards ahead the cabin lights were barely visible. Sam moved forward another twenty yards, where the path bent through some Norway pines.
Now they were close enough to see through the windows. Not close enough to see details, but they could see occasional movement from within the cabin, what appeared to be figures sitting at a table. The windows were frosted over and the shapes were blurry.
The cabin looked large enough for a few rooms. One large front room and two or three rear bedrooms, Sam guessed. It was a typical cabin layout. He suspected there was a rear door that went back into the woods to an outhouse. Ideally one of them should work their way around the back through the woods and cover the rear. But it would be difficult to move through the heavy bush without a trail and not make noise.
It was important they maintain surprise. Everyone was armed. Sam wasn’t worried the Club members would have time to move for their weapons, largely deer rifles, he guessed. Surprise gave them a formidable advantage. And he suspected by this hour their senses would be dulled by plenty of remedy.
Sam retreated to where Sheriff Goddard waited in the trees.
“I’ll get around back. I suspect there’s a back door and we should cover it before we move in.”
The Sheriff agreed.
Sam snowshoed soundless through the crystalline glaze. He walked without raising his feet more than a couple inches above the powder. He could feel it shift beneath his boot, pack down under the pressure, then fill in behind him as he moved forward. In a long few minutes he’d cut the distance to the cabin in half. He was almost close enough to get a good look when he heard the Club members erupt. He’d heard it before. Poker. And unless he was mistaken someone had just won a big hand. Sam peered through the front window and saw someone pass in front of the opaque pane. It had been twenty years and he couldn’t be certain, but it looked like the old man.
His heartbeat rocketed. He squinted through the frosted glass. He remained still, his snowshoes planted in the narrow path.
Behind him, the others watched Sam freeze.
With what appeared to be Williston so close to the front door and window, Sam knew moving might betray his position, so he waited and watched.
Then suddenly the front door opened and the old man stepped out and bent over to the right of the door. He leaned out far enough to fetch a bottle from a snowdrift, where the natural deep freeze was keeping the liquor cold.
The old man glanced to his right, found the bottle he was after, straightened up and saw Sam standing in the outer rim of cabin light, like an apparition.
For a moment the unexpected body scared hell out of him. And though Sam was covered head to heel in camo, carrying the big weapon in front of him, the old man focused on Sam’s eyes. Then he glanced behind Sam, to where the others waited in the trees.
Then Sam watched recognition bloom across the old man’s face like a bad fever flush. Williston quickly turned, closed the door, and slid a bold lock into place. There was a shout from inside the cabin, followed by chaos.
Goddard, Garnes and Svegman rushed forward. Sam turned onto the perimeter path and struggled to hurry around the cabin corner. Diane waited in the trees with the two remaining deputies, who were falling in behind the others.
Deputy Garnes and the Sheriff came to either side of the front door. Sam disappeared around the corner. Svegman joined Garnes to the side and Goddard yelled, “It’s Sheriff Goddard! Open the door!”
The only thing Sam heard were his own movements rushing through the snow. Then when he turned the corner a loud bang made him duck. He realized the bang was a back door snapping shut, and he jumped forward along the pitch-black cabin wall. He fought his way through branches, sounding like a goddamn hippo breaking through the trees.
Back at the front door the Sheriff didn’t wait long before the bolt lock slid open and Bill Grebs opened the door.
“Sheriff,” Bill Grebs said, trying to act normal. “What in the hell are you doing in the middle of Skinwalker’s Bog?”
In back of the cabin the well-worn path made a straight line fifty feet to an outhouse. To the right of the outhouse black spruce boughs wavered where someone had just whipped through them.
Sam ran down the path and hesitated in front of the structure. If Williston was armed, he’d use the gun. He peered around the corner of the house and noticed freshly broken snow disappear around the spreading spruce boughs. The old man was on the run.
Williston Winthrop knew these woods. He could be waiting fifty yards up ahead with the barrel of his rifle aimed at whoever had guts enough to follow. On the other hand, Sam reasoned, he’d probably seen they had force. Sam guessed it would keep him running. And Sam had come too far not to follow. He only hoped Williston Winthrop hadn’t had time to pick up a weapon. He turned onto the old man’s trail and began to follow.
Williston’s face had been gray, unshaven, and he was heavier, his square shoulders gone round. He’d aged, but he was still formidable. And Sam thought he saw something he had never seen break across the old man’s face: surprise, followed quickly by fear.
Sam moved forward slowly, following the old man’s tracks through the snow. The length of the stride was long, but as he tracked, moving through the trees, the seconds growing into minutes; he watched the stride shorten, the steps contract. The cabin light quickly receded until he was surrounded by dark woods and silence. The tracks continued through the trees. The woods were thick but on occasion islands of larger pines rose into the dark sky.
Sam trailed for several more minutes. He paused, listening for the old man’s footsteps, but heard nothing. He carried the 10 gauge and was ready to use it. He followed the broken trail through the snow, cautiously moving forward. The adrenalin left his senses keen and hyper aware. Concentrated fascination.
For over an hour he tracked. He wondered how long the old man could maintain it. He wondered where he was going. The old man couldn’t have left with much. His tracks showed he was in boots, in places struggling through deep snow. Sam turned around a thick pine bough and came out into a thirty-foot opening in the trees.
And across the clear expanse of white waited Williston Winthrop. Sam could hear his labored breathing, watched it clouding in front of him as he tried to recover. He was winded, tired and waiting.
“Thought it was you,” his father managed, a little wheezy. “Clayton,” the old man added, as though speaking his name might soften the boy.
“Rivers. Sam Rivers.”
The old man’s breathing quieted enough to chuckle. The chuckle led to a brief coughing fit. After it passed he said, “Is it, now? And why the name change, son? Unhappy with your heritage?” There was familiar derision in the old man’s voice. It reminded him of his childhood, of being Williston Winthrop’s son. It blew the ash off a coal Sam could feel fester, turn scarlet.
“Just needed a change.”
“Just a change,” the old man wheezed. “Well isn’t that sweet. Do you think a different name is going to do it? Still Miriam Samuelson’s boy, I ’spect.”
Sam considered raising the 10 gauge and firing. The idea was spontaneous, powerful, not easily resisted. Blow a hole in the old man’s chest, vaporize his heart. At least what passed for one. His finger inched forward to the trigge
r guard.
“Take it easy, son,” Williston said. “We’re just having a family discussion here. Remember. I think you should give the old Decimator a rest, put it down.”
Sam thought about it, about shooting him.
“Maybe you should just give me the gun, Clayton. Here I am out in these woods, unarmed. It’s certain I won’t be heading back to that cabin. Give a man a fighting chance.”
When Sam didn’t move, the old man made one step forward.
Sam raised the gun from his waist to point it dead center at the old man’s chest. Then he pulled back the firing hammer. “This time it’s loaded.”
The 62-year-old peered at the narrow black holes, noticed their deadly trajectory. He stopped and raised his hands. “Hold on, son. I’m stepping back,” he said, returning to his original position. “No sense in getting trigger happy. You’ve handled yourself well to this point.”
“I’m about to come into a fair amount of money. That is, if I stay dead. Providing none of your other friends out there saw me. Right now the most that can happen is fraud over that wolf kill. But truth is, that would be hard to prove, without those wolves.”
Williston was getting warmed up. Sam remembered the monologues, which could go on for hours.
“Just think about it, is all I’m asking,” Williston continued, stepping again to his former position.
Sam’s barrel rose a few more degrees, enough to remove the old man’s head.
“OK, OK. I’m stepping back. Let’s just talk about this. It’s business, son. Business. You could share in this, if you played it smart. You could have half my share, which is considerable. I’ll even let you keep that 179,000,” he added.
So he knew about the money. “That was my mother’s gift,” Sam said. “Like the house.”
“That was my money, son.”
It was good to see the old man hadn’t lost his love for the green.
“Never was. Never will be.”
“I knew you’d come back. I knew she hid it somewhere. Why do you think I sent you all those messages? I don’t know how you found out about my accident, but for two years I tried getting you back,” Williston said. “And this is the treatment I get?”
Wolves Page 30
