Season of the Wolf

by Jeffrey J. Mariotte

  “That’s really not what I’m about,” Alex tried to say, but Deeds talked over him.

  “That’s not how things work here, though. Here people mind their manners. Do the right thing. We don’t attack our elders, then call for a rich man to get them out from under.”

  “That’s really not the case here,” Alex said.

  “This town’s got some real trouble right now,” Deeds went on, ignoring Alex. “We don’t need outsiders coming in here and stirring things up, making things worse. I keep a safe, orderly town, and—”

  “Morris!” Robbie was stalking across the parking lot toward them with her arms crossed over her chest and her brow furrowed into a frown. “You’re not even listening to the man.”

  “Robbie, this isn’t your affair,” Deeds said.

  “I’ve spent all day with Alex,” she said. She closed in and came to a halt. Alex would not have wanted to see that fire directed at him. “He’s not some rich asshole who’s here to make trouble. He’s a serious man, and a good one, and you’re jumping to conclusions. Again.”

  “Now listen, Robbie—”

  “No, it’s your turn to listen for a change. You run a lot around here, but you don’t run me. Alex and his people are here for a reason. I might not agree with every one of their beliefs, but I accept that they have a right to express them. And while they’re here, they’re pumping money into the local economy, which we badly need. When they’re finished, their movie might bring more people here. Scientists, tourists, whatever. They’re not here to cause trouble, and they’ll behave themselves from now on. But you’ve got to back off. Okay?”

  “I’m just saying,” Deeds countered. “We don’t need any extra problems right now. There’s enough going on without that. People who make trouble are going to spend time in jail. Believe that.” He still spoke firmly, but his volume was down, his ire reduced. Alex was impressed by the influence Robbie had over him—just one more of the many ways he had been surprised by someone he was coming to see as a remarkable woman.

  “Understood, Chief Deeds,” he said. “I’ll talk to Peter. You don’t have to worry about us.”

  “I am keeping my eye on you, Mr. Converse, and your friends. The trouble didn’t start till you showed up. I don’t hold you responsible for wild animals, obviously, but if I find out you’re connected…”

  “You won’t.”

  “Let’s hope not.” The chief turned around and clomped back up the stairs.

  “Thanks, Robbie,” Alex said on the way to her Jeep.

  “Morris Deeds is the most self-absorbed person I’ve ever known,” Robbie said. “Everything that happens is all about him. Other than that, he’s not really a bad guy. But he has to be nice to me—he knows if he’s really got a wolf problem, he needs me.”

  “It’s good to be needed.”

  “Yes.” She reached the driver’s door. Peter and Ellen were huddled in the backseat. “Yes, it definitely is.”

  * * *

  Titus was down at Spud’s, no doubt scoring his drinks for free on the strength of his story. Barb Johnston had no doubt that the tale had raced around town—too many people knew about it, what with everybody in Earl’s at the time, then everybody at the Town Hall who would have seen that California hippie taken there in handcuffs. Titus liked the limelight to begin with, and this event would make him a celebrity. By Silver Gap standards, anyway. She was sure he would come home drunk, which in his case could mean happy and horny—though often unable to live up to the demands his own libido made on him—or it could mean…well, mean.

  She expected the former, tonight. His drinks would be free, after all. Everybody would be gathered around him, sympathetic to his pains and begging to hear the story. He would be jovial, sucking up the attention. When he came home drunk, he would still be riding that high. And yes, in heat, most likely, and really there was nothing wrong with that. She enjoyed a good hump as well as the next woman, And if Titus wasn’t always good—hell, he was rarely good, these days, drunk or not—he was at least enthusiastic, and that counted for something.

  While she waited, she read a book, a Jodi Picoult novel that her book club would discuss next week. She was enjoying it, mostly, and would have plenty to say about it. She had a classical CD playing in the background, and a glass of red wine on the table next to her chair. Even if Titus never came home, she was having a good night. She was happy.

  So when the doorbell rang, she put the book down gently on the table, picked up the glass of wine, took a sip, and swept toward the front door, graceful as a skater on fresh ice. She had a smile on her face and a song, as they said, in her heart.

  She checked through the little peephole, aware that the person on the other side could always tell, when the hole went dark, that someone was on the other side—so as a security measure, it left something to be desired. Then she pulled the door wide. “Titus isn’t here,” she said. “Check down at Spud’s, though. Look for the guy everybody’s buying drinks for.”

  “I actually didn’t come to see Titus,” the visitor said. “I came to see you, Barb.”

  “Well, I don’t know how I can help you.”

  Her visitor smiled. She had seen that smile before, plenty of times. It was authentic, but a little disturbing, too. “I guess you’ll have to find out, then,” he said, and then he struck.

  20

  Christy Deeds knew she shouldn’t go to Gil again. If he didn’t want her anymore—at least in the way that she wished he did—there was nothing she could do about it. Anyway, she was married, and if Morris wasn’t the most attentive husband ever, that didn’t alter the fact that she had taken vows. Those vows were the traditional ones, and she remembered the words to this day, including the ones that went, “In the presence of God, our family and friends, I offer you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, and in joy as well as in sorrow.”

  That “faithful partner” bit she had violated many times over. Worse, she had done it with a man of the cloth, most often at his church. And she was on her way back. She had told herself it was to check in on him, because his eyesight seemed to be deteriorating more quickly than ever. She couldn’t fool herself, though. She hoped for much more than a friendly visit. And anything he offered she would gratefully accept, vows or not.

  When she arrived, she drove past the congregation parking area to the back. Clara Durbin was parked in front; she would be mopping the floor or polishing brass, something like that. She was the domestic type, Clara was. Christy parked by the rectory, next to the old Sebring that Gil, with his vision problems, should probably give up driving.

  The light in his office was on. The office had its own entrance, as it was where he counseled people and worked on church business. It was, he liked to say, between the rectory and the church because it bridged the gap between his life on Earth and his life in service to the Lord. His desk was within sight of the window, and he was seated in front of his computer monitor. She tapped on the window set into the door, and saw him look up, blink a couple of times, then smile. He came to the door and opened it. “Christy,” he said. “What brings you here?”

  “I just wanted to look in on you,” she told him. “I’ve been worried. About your vision.”

  “It is what it is,” Gil said. “It’ll never be good, I’m afraid. But Dr. Steinhilber says it won’t necessarily get worse, either.

  “That’s something, at least.”

  “Would you like to come in?”

  “Yes. Please.” Don’t throw yourself at him, she reminded herself.

  But when she stepped through the door, he didn’t move out of the way. Instead, he put his arms around her, buried his head in her hair, and breathed her in. “You smell divine,” he said. “I’ve missed holding you so much.”

  “I’ve always been here,” she said. “You only need to ask.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “I know, Gil. I didn’t come here for—”

&nb
sp; He put a finger under her chin, tipping her head back, lips toward him, and then he kissed her and kicked the door closed at the same time.

  She didn’t try to speak again.

  * * *

  After they left the police station, Alex, Robbie, Peter, and Ellen swung by Mountain Grocers, where they ordered sandwiches from the deli counter and bought cut carrots and celery with dip, two kinds of chips, and various nonalcoholic beverages. They took it all with them back to the motel, and Robbie joined them in Alex’s room for an early dinner. When they were done, Robbie headed home. Peter said he was fried from the day’s activities, but Alex thought it was more a matter of wanting to be alone with Ellen so she could comfort him in her own way. They excused themselves, and Alex let them go with a warning to stay in the room and out of trouble, at least for one night.

  As soon as he was alone, he went out to the Lexus. He wanted to talk to the pastor at that church, Reverend Calderon. Alex was no scientist, and he didn’t try to pretend otherwise. But different things people had said to him during the day had collided in his head, and he wanted to try to make some sense of it.

  Peter had told him that he thought they were making the wrong movie—that they should really focus on the reactions of the Silver Gap townsfolk to the apparent wolf attacks. Alex couldn’t argue with his contention that wolves were more dramatic than pine beetles, but he didn’t know how wolves fit into his concerns about climate change. Robbie had told him that wolves never attacked humans without cause, and even hinted at the possibility that they might be dealing with a pack of feral dogs rather than wolves.

  From the stories he’d heard, it sounded as if Calderon was the only one in town who had witnessed an attack. If he could confirm that the animals were wolves and not dogs, then Alex would put some effort into looking for a way to tie wolves to global warming. If not, he’d stick to his original outline, and Peter would just have to shut up and film some dead trees.

  Between the faint light of dusk and his own distraction, Alex almost missed the church driveway. At the last second, he saw the sign in the trees and braked to a sudden halt. As he backed toward the drive, a pair of deer—a mother and her fawn, he thought—emerged from the woods just ahead, as if they’d been patiently waiting for the road to be clear. They crossed the street, illuminated by his headlights, and then vanished into the forest on the other side. He watched them until they were out of sight, then continued backing into the driveway, turned around, and found a space near the church in the almost empty parking lot.

  He was barely through the church’s front door when an interior door into the seating area swung open. It took him a second to place the woman who emerged. “Mr. Converse,” Clara Durbin said. She was a pleasant looking woman, plain-faced but friendly, with round cheeks and small dark eyes and a sharp chin, and she wore a sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was tied back under a bandanna. There was a rag in her hands, parts of it black with dust or tarnish. The distinct aroma of lemon-scented cleanser cocooned her. “How nice to see you here.”

  “Do you work here, Mrs. Durbin?”

  “I don’t call it work. Work is what I do at the lodge. I volunteer here, helping Reverend Calderon with some of the housekeeping and administrative tasks. It’s my pleasure, really. Truly, a joy and a blessing.”

  “Is the reverend here?” Alex asked. “I really came to see him.”

  “I think he’s in the rectory,” she said. “He was last I saw him, anyway. I can call him, if you’d like.”

  “That would be great.”

  She pulled a smartphone from her jeans and touched the screen. When Calderon answered, she spoke briefly. Then she put the phone away. “He’ll be right out.” She gestured toward the doors to the church’s interior. “If you’d like to take a seat—or a pew, rather.”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Durbin,” Alex said. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Well, I’ve got about a mile of woodwork to polish, and it’s getting late. Holler if you need anything.”

  “Will do. Thanks again.”

  She passed back through the doors, leaving Alex alone in the entryway. The interior was dimly lit, but lovely, expressing a sense of peace while keeping in tune with the natural surroundings. Lush potted plants and native stone and rich, glowing wood combined to create the impression that instead of a building, Alex had wandered into a grotto someplace deep in the forest, where the trees were all green and there were no destructive beetles or wolves.

  A couple of minutes passed before Calderon appeared, coming from a side hallway instead of through the church proper. His cheeks were red and flushed, and when he extended his hand, he sounded out of breath. “I’m Reverend Gil Calderon,” he managed. “Clara says you’re a guest at the lodge.”

  “That’s right.” He gripped the clergyman’s hand. “Alex Converse.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Converse. And welcome to the Lord’s house.”

  “Thank you. I’ll warn you up front, I’m not a believer.”

  A look of disappointment flashed across Calderon’s handsome face, but it didn’t linger. Almost before it registered, the smile was pasted in place again. “What can I help you with?”

  “I wanted to talk about wolves.”

  “They seem the topic du jour, that’s for sure. What about them?”

  Alex didn’t see any reason to beat around the bush. “I’m here to make a documentary film,” he said.

  “I’ve heard.”

  “I know I’ve arrived at a difficult time for the community, and I’m sorry for the things that have happened over the last few days.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I have a scientific interest in the intersection between human populations and the natural world. Obviously, that plays into what’s been going on. And you’re the only one I’ve heard about who actually witnessed one of the attacks attributed to wolves. I was wondering—”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you tell me what you saw? Were the animals definitely wolves?” Remembering what Robbie had said about the one in the ravine, he added, “And were they standard wolves, or did you notice anything odd about them?”

  Calderon’s normal coloring had returned, and he was breathing easier now. Maybe he had caught the man working out, Alex thought. Or he had just rushed to greet his visitor. “You’re not from here,” Calderon said. “And although I’m sure word is spreading, not even everybody in Silver Gap knows. Mr. Converse, I’m losing my eyesight. It’s not entirely gone yet, but in some conditions, it might as well be.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “One of those conditions is twilight. Dusk. When the sun goes down, I’m nearly blind. After dark, if I use a flashlight, it’s not too bad. But for that hour or two right after sunset, there’s just not enough contrast and I’m useless.”

  “I know what you mean,” Alex said. “I just almost missed your driveway.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. Anyway, what I’m saying is that when those things caught up to poor George, I could hear him calling for help. I could hear the snarling and yapping, and then I could hear George screaming. Those sounds—what I’m told were the wolves, and George’s cries—I still hear every time I close my eyes.”

  “I’m sure it was horrible.”

  “You have no idea. At any rate, I prayed and prayed, and then I ran inside to a telephone and called 911. But in that instance, my prayers went unanswered. I asked for the power to help, the power to see, to at least bear witness to poor, brave George Trbovich’s final act. All for naught, though. I could tell when George died because the growling changed, and I could hear tearing, ripping noises. Awful, awful sounds. But I couldn’t see any of it. Even when Chief Deeds arrived, all I could do was point him in the general direction. The bad light, the thick trees…it was all beyond my ability to observe. So I’m afraid I can’t answer your questions.”

  Alex thanked Calderon for his time, shook his hand again, and let himself out. A wasted trip. The only eyewitne
ss was no witness at all. He heard animals, but for all he knew they could have been dogs or bears or wolverines. Having made the man’s acquaintance couldn’t hurt, especially if Peter was determined to make an enemy of everyone he met. But other than that, he had thrown away time he could have better spent in any number of ways.

  In the deepest reaches of his imagination, some of those ways involved Robbie Driscoll. But those, he was certain, would always remain imaginary.

  Still, it didn’t hurt to daydream…

  * * *

  Morris Deeds was almost home when the radio in his car crackled and squawked and he heard Althea’s voice calling his name. He swore and keyed the mic. “What is it?”

  “Chief Deeds, we’ve just had an emergency call from Titus Johnston.”

  “He’s drunk.”

  “Well, yes. Just the same, he said he got home and Barb’s not there. The front door’s open. There’s something that looks like blood on the carpet.”

  Morris was quiet for a moment, and Althea filled the space. “You said if anybody else went missing, you wanted to know.”

  Morris pulled to the side of the road, hit his lights, and made a U-turn. “Get Honeycutt,” he said. “Have him meet me there.”

  “Ten-four,” Althea said. “Over and out.”

  He hung the mic back up and raced toward the Johnston home, a few blocks out of downtown. Over the radio, he heard Althea calling Howie Honeycutt. What he didn’t hear was Honeycutt responding. He let that go on for about a minute, then broke in again. “Althea, how about Ortega? You know where he is?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Send him. Make it quick, I’m almost there.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  He replaced the mic, and he wondered what the hell was happening to his town, and how he could put a stop to it.