Season of the Wolf

by Jeffrey J. Mariotte

  “Change of plans. We’re staying open.”

  “You are? That’s awesome news. What happened?”

  “Let’s just say there’s a new man in town, Alden. A crazy man. A rich crazy man.”

  “That’s the best kind.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Mayor, you got that right.” Charles unleashed a deep chuckle. “You got that right as hell.”

  3

  “Let’s go,” Alex said, ducking his head back into the hybrid RX 450h.

  Peter Hasselstrom unfolded his lanky six-foot-three frame from the front passenger seat and gave his shaggy mane a shake. “Dude ripped you off.” Peter was the palest blond person Alex had ever met in Los Angeles, but he was a skilled cinematographer. Even more significantly, he was available and interested in Alex’s project. “He would have jumped at any chance to stay open. You could have taken two rooms and he’d have creamed himself.”

  Alex shrugged. “It’s only money.”

  “You’re the only person I’ve ever heard say that who meant it,” Ellen Playfair said. The pixyish brunette sitting in the backseat was Peter’s sound tech. Also, his girlfriend. Alex had deduced that she was more skilled at the latter than the former.

  “I guess it just doesn’t mean that much to me.” A facile answer, he knew, but honest. He had never not had money. He had been born with it, raised with it, and had inherited much, much more. Ellen, like others he had known who had spent their lives without it, was obsessed with money. He had it, but it was blood money and he didn’t like to talk about it.

  He went to the back and grabbed a couple of equipment cases. Peter was in charge of the actual shooting, while Alex would be doing on-site research and showing Peter what to shoot. Peter was fanatical about his cameras—or Alex’s cameras; he had purchased them, but Peter treated them like they were his, and as precious and fragile as Fabergé eggs. So Alex carried in the other gear and left the cameras to Peter. The documentary was his project, conceived by him and self-financed, but he wanted to be seen as part of the crew. Unless there was disagreement, at which time he would not hesitate to pull rank.

  When he had deposited the cases on the flagstone walkway linking the rooms, he tried to peer through the darkness at the trees beyond the parking lot. In daylight, on the way up the mountain, he had seen plenty of healthy-looking evergreens. At some elevations, bark beetles were destroying the big pines, but he didn’t know the situation right around Silver Gap. He would find out, come morning, whether the surrounding trees were a vibrant green or a dull, rusty red.

  “I’ll check us in,” he told Peter and Ellen. “I guess you two have your pick of the rooms, so let me know if there’s one you want.”

  They were still standing in the parking lot. The rooms were individual cabin units, pine-walled and steep-roofed, spreading out around them and disappearing into the trees. “Far away from yours seems like a good idea,” Peter said. “Ellen’s one hell of a screamer.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Alex started toward the office. He didn’t mind if Peter and Ellen were way out in the woods. He had brought them along not to be his friends, but to do the job he was paying them for.

  When he stepped through the doors into the lobby, bare but for a pile of what looked like furniture under a blue tarp, he heard the motel owner saying goodbye to someone on the phone. Alex made his way to the front desk, which, like the rest of the room, had been stripped of everything functional.

  He had his mobile phone, if anyone needed to reach him, and he didn’t expect any calls through the motel’s switchboard. As long as there were still beds in the rooms, they would be fine.

  Charles Durbin passed through a doorway behind the counter, smiling, and Alex reached for his wallet. He had a feeling he would be doing a lot of that over the next few weeks.

  * * *

  There were beds in his room, two of them. Those and a straight-backed chair and an empty dresser with scratch marks on it where a TV had sat were the only furnishings. Two nights earlier he’d been at home in Santa Monica, in a nice California bungalow eight blocks from the beach, on a street where the neighbors were appropriately progressive and culturally diverse. He owned two homes next to one another; the second served as the offices for the Alex Converse Foundation.

  The night after that was spent at a Hilton in St. George, Utah. Nothing special, but the bed was comfortable and the room had a TV and a dresser, towels and sheets, a working sink, inoffensive artwork on the walls—all the amenities one would expect.

  This place, not so much.

  The room had been stripped. The mattresses were bare. The TV and anything resembling the traditional clock-radio were gone. Dark spots on the fake-wood-paneled wall showed where pictures had once hung. There was no toilet paper or tissues, much less little shampoos or paper-wrapped soaps.

  The Durbins had promised to bring linens soon. Alex guessed they had canceled their linen service, and would have to rummage up somebody’s personal sheets and towels. He just hoped they were clean.

  Before leaving L.A., he had checked out the motel online. He had tried to make reservations, but the phone was never answered, and finally he had decided to take the chance and drive up. If the place had been full, he would have offered somebody cash to check out early, or rented a house or cabin locally.

  Renting the whole place might have been extravagant, but such a small indulgence was a drop in the bucket. A minor sin. He was responsible for much greater, and the fortune that weighed on him came from a catalog of horrors he didn’t like to acknowledge, although it confronted him every time he looked in the mirror, and haunted his dreams at night.

  He had to shake off this mood, try to focus on the positive impact his film could have if he could bring it off right. But it was hard; he was tired and he was starving and at this moment, his greatest desires in life were for clean sheets and towels and maybe some toilet paper.

  Just in case.

  4

  Alden Stewart, the mayor of Silver Gap, descended the four front steps of Town Hall and started across the street. Whenever he passed through the big, weighty double doors of the building, he felt a thrill of pride. Silver Gap was his town, and he was the town’s devoted servant.

  He had sought the job not because it paid well, because it didn’t, and not because it conferred on its holder a great deal of power, because it didn’t do that either. The town council retained most of the power, and not only could they enact legislation without his approval, they set his salary, which—in the interests of the taxpayers, they claimed—they kept on the low side, barely enough to keep him from having to attend to his duties buck-naked and barefoot.

  But he had, as a younger man, read John Buchan’s autobiography and been struck by the British author’s claim that politics was “the greatest and most honourable adventure.” He had determined then that he would have a political career. Now, he figured, it was too late to correct his error.

  Silver Gap was a small town, with all of any small town’s trials and tribulations. But it was a good town, its people mostly fair-minded and willing to do for one another. He had been to other places, towns and cities that felt, to him, as if evil thrummed beneath their streets, turning those who walked them sour and mean. Silver Gap had its share of small tragedies: death and betrayal and heartbreak, as any place inhabited by that failed tribe known as human beings would. On the whole, though, her townsfolk cared. They made an effort. He could do no less on their behalf.

  He and his wife Belinda lived mostly on proceeds from the Cup & Cow, the restaurant and bakery that Belinda ran. She served beer and wine, but not hard liquor; most of the town’s heavier drinkers spent their paychecks at Spud’s. But people came to her for food, especially her baked goods.

  From the middle of the street, the aroma of steaks on the grill inside the C&C reached his nose, perking him up. Alden had never known a better cook, and he was glad she had opened the restaurant and found an appreciative audience. He’d had an early supper, and th
e smells made him consider adding a second one to his day.

  Instead, after he pushed through the glass front door, ignoring the tinkle of the bell that hung on a leather thong from the handle, he veered straight for the bakery counter. “Any doughnuts left?” he asked.

  An attractive woman who clearly enjoyed her own cooking gave him a smile and a nod. Her hair was dark and basically helmet-shaped, her eyes twinkling, her grin impossible to look away from. At least, for Alden. “I can probably scrounge one up,” Belinda said. “You hungry again?”

  He looked down at a stomach that had, sometime during the past two decades, bulged to the point that he had to lean forward to see his feet. He had never thought of himself as a fat man, but he had to accept that he had become one. Thanks, primarily, to his deep and abiding appreciation of his wife’s cooking and baking skills. “I wasn’t, until I walked in.”

  “We like to hear that.”

  “I was really coming over to tell you to raise your prices.”

  “In the middle of a recession?”

  “Charlie Durbin says there’s some kind of nutty millionaire in town. Bought out the entire Mountain High for two weeks, just for three people. Says he’s making a movie.”

  “A movie? Here?”

  “That’s all I know about it. Except it sounds like he’s got money to burn.”

  “If I raise the prices, the locals won’t eat here.” She slid a glazed doughnut on a plate across the glass case toward him, and turned back toward the coffee pot.

  “This guy spends enough, we won’t need ‘em to.”

  She returned with a brown earthenware mug of black coffee. “He’s only here for two weeks. After that, we’ll still need the locals.”

  “I know.” Alden sipped from the mug and eyed the plate. Best doughnuts in town.

  They were, he knew, the only doughnuts in town, but that didn’t negate the point. “I’m teasing about the prices. Mostly. But I wanted to let you know they’re here, three of them, and apparently they’re happy to share the wealth.”

  “If they come in,” Belinda said, “we’ll take good care of them, just like anybody else.”

  “That’s what I love about you, Belinda. What do I owe you?”

  “For you, Mr. Mayor? Two-fifty.”

  “That’s the other thing I love. You don’t cut anybody a break.”

  “My silent partner would pitch a fit if I did.”

  He was the silent partner, and she was right. He always paid full freight. But it all went to the same place, so he didn’t mind.

  He carried his doughnut and coffee to an empty table near the window, greeting other diners on the way. He had run for office because he believed in government, in the idea that government really should do what it could to help the people it served. He also knew that politics went hand-in-hand with government, so he never wasted an opportunity to be seen around town, supporting local businesses and being friendly.

  He had just sat down and bit into the doughnut when his cell phone buzzed. He eased it from his pocket and saw the name “Deeds” on the screen. Morris Deeds, the chief of police. Alden always took his calls, day or night, though they rarely brought good news. “Hello, Morris.”

  “Alden,” Morris Deeds said. His voice was dry and tight. “We might have us a situation here.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve just been over to see Marie Hackett. Mike went out after elk yesterday. Was supposed to take Frank Trippi with him, but Frank sprained his wrist and backed out.”

  “So Mike went by himself?”

  “That’s right. And he hasn’t come back, or called. Marie expected him last night, latest. Now it’s almost another full day gone by and she’s worried sick.”

  Alden glanced out the window and drummed his fingers nervously on the table. “What do you want to do? It’s dark now.”

  “I’d like to pull together a search party, go out at first light and see if we can’t find him. In the meantime I’ll have some of my guys drive the back roads looking for Mike’s truck.”

  “That’s a good idea, Morris. I’m away from my desk now, but I’ll head back over there and start making some calls.”

  “Thanks. That’ll help.”

  “You know Mike better than I do. Is he a good hunter? Good outdoorsman?”

  Morris paused a moment before responding. “He’s not bad. He’s brought home some trophies. But I wouldn’t say he’s the most careful man who ever picked up a gun.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Keep me posted, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  “And let’s hope for the best.”

  5

  After getting unloaded and into their bare-bones rooms, Alex, Peter, and Ellen met up again, piling back into the Lexus and tooling into town to look for some dinner. There wasn’t much of town, five or six blocks along the main street, lined with brick buildings housing shops and businesses. Side streets appeared residential and quiet. Fully a third of the storefronts were empty, and “For Rent” signs plastered walls and windows. The only place that looked busy was Spud’s, a square brick building with blacked-out windows illuminated by neon beer signs.

  Peter wanted to go in, but Alex overruled him. He would hear about that for an hour, he was sure. Peter was a skilled cinematographer—more than skilled, he was maybe a genius, and that wasn’t a word Alex slung about easily. But he was insufferable. If people considered him merely a genius, Peter thought they underestimated his true worth. He brimmed with opinions, each the true and final word on any given subject. Ellen was happy to feed his ego, which Alex guessed was why he kept her around.

  He pointed at a sign that said “Cup & Cow Bakery/Cafe.” The windows were clean, and the interior appeared to be as well. Several of the tables were occupied, but he could see a few empties. “Here we go,” Alex declared.

  “It’ll do, I guess,” Peter grumbled.

  “Looks yummy,” Ellen said. She wore perkiness like a badge of honor. Alex found it draining, and wondered how Peter could stand it. Then again, he wouldn’t be able to put up with Peter’s glum cynicism for long, either, so maybe they balanced one another out.

  “It’s charmingly rustic.” Peter oozed sarcasm. “Sort of like that motel you found us. I’d think it was the place Janet Leigh stayed at, in Psycho, except that one had shower curtains. It’s not exactly the Ritz, is it?”

  “You wouldn’t stay at a Ritz,” Alex countered. He eased the SUV to the curb. “It’s much too bourgeois.”

  “Yeah, well, it sure as hell isn’t the W, either.”

  The restaurant smelled great, the scents of grilled meat and fresh coffee and baked goods combining in a sort of aromatic hug. They were greeted at the door, seated in a booth alongside a pine-paneled wall, and had placed their orders within a few minutes.

  While they waited for their meals, Peter left the table. A burly guy in a down vest was talking on a pay phone—arguing with someone, Alex thought, from the pained animation of his face—and blocking much of the narrow hallway that led to the rest rooms. Peter squeezed past him, but he must have muttered something as he did, because the guy’s face turned dark red and he dropped the telephone receiver, which spun and dangled on its cable, and stalked after Peter.

  “Shit,” Alex said. “Wait here.” He bolted from the table and hustled to the hallway. Pine lined both sides of it, and a handful of framed photos that visiting minor celebrities had autographed decorated the walls. Alex caught up with the big man just about the same time he reached Peter, who had pulled the men’s room door open.

  “Listen,” Alex said. He put a hand on the big man’s shoulder, startling him. The man looked away from Peter and fixed Alex with an angry glare.

  The guy was huge. Bigger than he had looked from the table. He was Peter’s height, only without Peter’s lankiness. A curly red beard clung to his chin, seeping down his neck and beneath his plaid shirt. “What?”

  “I don’t know what my friend said, but he’s tired. We�
�ve had a long trip, and he might have mouthed off or something, but he didn’t mean anything by it. He’s sorry. Tell him you’re sorry, Peter.”

  “Sure,” Peter said with a shrug. He looked anything but sorry. “Like he said, I’m tired.”

  “Tired is one thing, but rude is something else.”

  “It’s the California in me,” Peter said. “Takes a while to slough off when I go someplace civilized.”

  The big man almost grinned in spite of himself. “I hear that.”

  “Can I buy you a beer or something?” Alex asked. “Make it up to you?”

  “I can buy my own beer.”

  “I know you can, I just wanted to do something for you.”

  “Then tell your pal to keep his hole shut.”

  Alex lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Brother, I tell him that every day.”

  The big guy laughed. Peter shrugged again and disappeared into the men’s room. “You’re okay,” the man said. “Your buddy there, he’s an asshole.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Maybe I should kick his ass just on general principle.”

  “Wouldn’t help,” Alex said. “Did you look at him? People have been kicking his ass since birth. He’s used to it.”

  Alex had only known Peter for about two months, but he was on a roll, and the more he insulted the cinematographer, the more the big man relaxed. The burgundy color faded from his face, and he suddenly remembered his phone call. “Damn it!” he said, brushing past Alex and lunging for the receiver. “Baby, you there?” he asked when he picked it up.

  When Alex returned to the table, Ellen greeted him with a smile. “That was ballsy,” she said. She sat on the bench with her legs crossed under her, wearing a tight, white, ribbed cotton shirt with long sleeves, snug over small breasts and a flat stomach.

  “What?”

  “That dude’s about as big as you and Peter put together. He could’ve snapped you in half like a toothpick.”