In the Company of Wolves: Thinning The Herd

by Larranaga, James Michael

  Hawk had simple tastes for a millionaire. Wool blankets draped the walls and the floor, a chipped coffee table sat in the middle of the room, and a futon couch had been wedged tightly against one wall. On the vaulted ceiling, two fans stirred the aroma of mint tea throughout the room. There was no entertainment center, not even a small portable television. Hawk would never spend his time like that.

  Wrapped in a blanket, he shuffled across the room and poured himself a cup of his secret tea. “You’re working again, huh?”

  “Yeah, I got the call about a week ago.”

  “What kind of beast are you tracking now?”

  To Quin, many of Hawk’s comments seemed layered with symbolism. He was never sure if the elder spoke metaphorically or if Hawk was growing old and senile.

  Quin kept to the metaphor. “Tracking wolves this time, Papa.”

  Without sipping his tea, the eighty-year-old set the ceramic mug on the counter between the kitchen and the family room. Two years before, Hawk had recommended that Quin join the DNR up north to track wolves after Quin’s mother, Helene Woman of the Storm, had been sentenced to the Shakopee Woman’s Correctional Facility for murdering her boyfriend. Hawk wanted Quin off the reservation, away from the casinos and away from his mother’s bad ways.

  “Hunting a wolf pack for bounty?”

  Quin knew what Hawk was thinking. Tracking wolves was one thing, but hunting wolves was a delicate matter. Some Indians believed that a weapon that killed a wolf would never work the same way again. Hunting wolves brings bad luck.

  “Yes, a large bounty.”

  “How many wolves?” Hawk asked with a worn-out voice that sometimes cracked and popped, like a record album beneath an old needle.

  Quin thought about this for a moment, counting in his head. Excluding his friend Stray Dog, he came to “About five wolves.”

  Hawk poured a cup of his strange brew for Quin and carried the mugs to the futon where they sat. The old man’s expression was etched with vertical dark crevices. His face was developing its own camouflage, as if he were going to blend in with the row of birch trees outside his back window.

  “Wolf packs come with personalities,” he said.

  “This pack is vicious,” Quin said. “They kill more than they can eat.”

  His grandfather nodded, staring into his steaming tea. “A pack gone mad.”

  Quin nodded. “I think so.”

  “People go mad, too,” Hawk said. “Mad people deserve respect.”

  Hawk drew his own parallel between humans and wolves. The Sioux weren’t alone in their respect and admiration for the wolf. Almost every Indian tribe had a special understanding that the wolf, like the Indian hunter, provided for a much larger community. The fox, the raven, or any other roaming animal often shared a wolf’s kill.

  “You are not yet ready for the wolf,” he said, looking up at Quin, squinting. “You need to prepare.”

  Prepare? Quin hadn’t anticipated this. He was hoping he could steer the conversation toward the money he needed to borrow.

  “Papa, I don’t have a lot of time,” he said.

  “Have you seen the raven?”

  He had. The pair had been in the trees all week; he had seen the ravens at the icehouse, too. “Yes, how did you—“

  “The raven is a good sign,” the old man said, pouring a plastic bag of what looked like sugar into both of their cups of tea. “He is the trickster who steals from the wolf. The wolf respects the raven and will not harm him.”

  Quin sipped the tea, allowing the bitterness to wash over his tongue before swallowing. This was much stronger than the tea Quin had been drinking off the reservation. He never quite got accustomed to the bitter aftertaste of Hawk’s brew. His chest felt warm, his arms relaxed as he sat back on the couch.

  “I came here because I need your help,” he admitted. “To catch these wolves, I need to borrow some of your money, Papa. I will pay you back, of course, with interest.”

  “Why would you give wolves money?”

  Quin thought about Rebecca. “They’re stalking someone, and it worries me.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “You will offer the wolf money for the woman?”

  Quin sipped his tea again, his tongue now numbing to the taste. “Only to save her from attack. Then I will return your money.”

  “I have not known you long, Quin,” he said, referring to their first meeting two years ago when Helene Woman of the Storm had returned to the reservation. She’d had a son by a white man years prior, and when she returned and introduced Quin, they were all in shock. “Inside you I see no warrior.”

  Quin giggled, the buzz taking over his senses. If Hawk had only seen all the fights Quin had won over the years, then he’d know of the warrior inside Quin.

  Quin’s mind drifted to strange images. “Hawk, do you believe in Bigfoot?” he asked with a snicker.

  Hawk exhaled slowly. “Ah, the ancient ones.”

  “Are serious? You believe?”

  “Chiha Tanka is the Dakota name,” Hawk said. “All tribes have their own name for the Elder Brother.”

  If Quin were sober, he’d debate Hawk and challenge him for proof of Bigfoot, but he felt comfort in the fact that other tribes had seen it and given it a name. Maybe Zoe was right to belive in it too.

  Quin felt tired now; the tea clouded his concentration. “What do you see in me? Who am I?”

  “To catch the wolf, you must trick the wolf,” Hawk said. “You must be a trickster. You must become one with the raven.”

  Quin realized that whatever was in Hawk’s tea was now reacting with his medications. He looked up at the ceiling fans spinning in slow motion with streaks of light trailing behind, like comets spinning off the blades. The birch trees outside pulsated, and their black-and-white bark appeared to be dripping into puddles on the hill.

  He felt good and couldn’t wait to describe this hallucination to Kirsten. The colors in the room took on a whole new dimension, and he felt he could actually taste anything just by looking at it. Hawk’s red woolen blanket was sweet like a plum, and the pine rocking chair in the corner tasted like white chocolate—the knots in the wood were almonds.

  Hawk laid him back on the couch, stood up, and began chanting above him in a native tongue Quin did not know. Quin closed his eyes, staring not into darkness but into a wide blue sky filled with a flock of ravens soaring overhead along the jet stream. He and Zoe held hands watching the birds swirling overhead. How many were there? Their numbers were increasing. The blue sky in his mind became darker, darker, darker, until Quin drifted off to sleep.

  This had been one hell of a bad week, Ben thought, handing Harold the letter of resignation Christopher had left behind the night before.

  “What do you think?” Ben asked.

  Harold stood in the doorway of Ben’s office reading the letter. How many times did he have to read it to offer an opinion?

  Harold stepped into the room, leaned against the wall, and sighed. “Doesn’t make sense. Why would Christopher resign right before he’s about to land us one of our biggest accounts?”

  Ben pondered the same thing, glad he and Harold were on the same page. “He’s pulling a fast one, isn’t he?”

  “Before I came up here, I checked the sales department,” Harold said. “He cleaned out his desk. I also checked our computer logs. He downloaded company files.”

  “What? How?”

  “He used your password,” Harold said. ”How did he get your password?”

  “On a few occasions my computer froze,” Ben said. “I asked for his assistance. Don’t lecture me on security protocol.”

  Ben swiveled in his chair and looked up at Harold. “Sit down, would you?” He couldn’t concentrate with him standing against the wall like a slacker. “Let’s think of what the likely scenarios are. Why would he quit now?”

  “Maybe he’s cut a deal with his old boss, Louis,” Harold said, finally sitting in a chai
r across from the desk.

  Benson & White had beaten Safe Haven on many bids. That was why Ben had hired Christopher, to learn more about the competitor’s business practices, but what if Harold was right? What if Christopher had decided to hand this deal back to his old employer? The guy knew how much Safe Haven was offering. He could make it easy for Benson & White to offer a slightly higher bid.

  There was only one problem with that logic: “Why would he resign right before he does it? Wouldn’t Christopher keep his mouth shut and watch the deal play itself out?” Ben asked. “He’d get paid a finder’s fee from us, then some commission from them.”

  Harold mulled this over with his hands in his face. “OK, what if he got bitter when Quin got involved in the sale, and he figured he was never going to make it here, and—“

  “Stop. That’s it,” Ben said.

  “What? He’s bitter about Quin?”

  “No, flip the idea,” Ben said. “What if Christopher befriended our new intern, who we all know has access to money, and the two of them decided to make their own proposal to Rebecca Baron?”

  A gust of wind rattled the window behind Ben. He could see his partner gazing off into the cold morning sunrise, letting the idea soak in.

  “Have they spent much time together?” he asked.

  “Christopher will befriend anyone,” Ben said.

  “So Quin left you the message yesterday that there were two other companies bidding on Rebecca’s business,” Harold said. ”One is Benson & White, and the other is Christopher and Quin.”

  “It has to be,” Ben said, his anger fuming as he grasped the irony of all of this. “We hired Christopher to get an edge on the competition, and Christopher became the competition. What a parasite!”

  Harold sat up in his chair, like an attack dog waiting for a command. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Nothing physical yet,” Ben said, thinking back on his years of experience. His days in Washington, and his dealings with politicians, had taught him a thing or two about weakening the opponent. “I want you to find out more about Quin. Who is he? Does he have a past we can exploit? Find out more detail about those medications he’s taking.”

  Harold beamed a smile of vindication. “So I can continue the background check?”

  “Yes, Harold,” Ben said, as if he were admitting that his partner, Mr. Details, had been right all along. “You may finalize the background check.”

  Quin opened his eyes to see the ceiling fans still spinning above him. They were less psychedelic now, more like chopper blades whirring. He felt so relaxed and weightless on the couch. He hadn’t slept this well in several days.

  What time is it? Where’s Hawk?

  He sat up and looked out at the birch trees casting long shadows on the snow. He looked at his watch and realized he had slept thirteen hours. He took his pulse, and it was only forty beats per minute. Zoe would be worried about him, as he hadn’t checked in. He pulled his phone out of his pocket:

  You ok?

  Quin answered. Yes, at Hawk’s place.

  He waited for a reply.

  I’m in the dorm. Call me later. XXOO

  Will do. XXOO

  On the coffee table lay a fur satchel tied tightly with leather strings. Hawk had often called this bag his “wolf bundle” and kept most of his medicines inside. Attached to it was a note.

  Running errands, won’t be back before you go. The money is in the wolf bundle. Please visit your mother today. She hasn’t heard from you in a while.

  Quin had been avoiding the dreadful visits, but Hawk had a point. He hadn’t seen her in weeks. She was only twenty minutes away. There was no excuse for his poor attendance.

  He opened the wolf bundle. Before him lay bags of tea and a certified check for $8.5 million made out to Rebecca Baron. How did Hawk know? Quin hadn’t told him before he passed out. Maybe he had never passed out at all, and the two of them had come to an agreement. He couldn’t remember.

  He heard the pounding of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. Quin slipped the tea bags into the wolf bundle and tied it before Slim Jim entered the room. His brown hair stood on end like the quills of a porcupine. His eyes were red like the tequila sunrise he probably craved.

  “What are you looking at?” Slim Jim said, staggering into the kitchen.

  Hung over again.

  “You shouldn’t drink so much.”

  “You should talk, homey. You and Pa were flying like kites last night,” he said. “That Indian brew he makes is wicked.”

  It is, but it leaves no hangover. He set the satchel next to the couch where Slim Jim couldn’t see it. His cousin was already suspicious of him; walking away with $8.5 million of Hawk’s money wouldn’t go over well.

  “I think I’ll take a shower.” Quin headed downstairs with the wolf bundle under his arm.

  “I’m supposed to remind you to visit Helene today,” Slim Jim said, scratching his beer belly. “You remember her she’s the short, heavyset woman with black hair—“

  “I’m on my way, wise-ass.”

  Lunde watched his client, Louis, dunk another Spyhouse scone into his coffee mug before shoving it into his mouth.

  “He’s a no-show,” Louis Schultz said.

  Lunde looked around the café at the other executives reading the morning paper and standing in line waiting for their coffee. Where was Quin? He knew he could usually catch him here in the morning.

  He thought he could pick up the database today. His client was anxious, and Lunde had his own funds to collect, other assignments. He did most of his work in the divorce business. Shooting pictures of cheating spouses didn’t pay well, but the work was consistent and less dangerous than this assignment.

  He crushed his paper cup. “Let’s go out back to his apartment.”

  Louis rolled his bulging eyes. “What, and break in?”

  “No,” Lunde said. “I pay the rent on that apartment. I have a key.”

  Louis smiled. He was impressed. He wiped his chin. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Outside, they lumbered into the cold wind along the broken sidewalk and upstairs to Quin’s temporary residence. Lunde actually owned the apartment with his now-deceased partners. He needed a place like this, a safe house, an out-of-the-way location for meetings with clients. The shabby apartment was his most recent real estate acquisition. He’d bought the place specifically for this assignment. He also had an upscale loft in downtown Minneapolis that cost about $2,500 a month.

  He turned the key and allowed Louis to step inside first. The room was smaller than he remembered, with very little furniture. The previous owner had promised Lunde he would bring in more chairs and replace the black-and-white television with a new one. The owner had obviously lied.

  Louis snooped around in the kitchen, looking inside the refrigerator, in drawers and cupboards. Lunde noticed the laptop and walked over to it. Breadcrumbs sat on the table next to computer along with a handful of napkins. “The database might be stored on his computer,” he said to his client.

  Louis nodded, as if the computer were the next place he had intended to look. “Turn it on.”

  Lunde pressed the button and waited for the ancient machine to wake up and come to life. This was one of those early laptops, heavier than a cinderblock. And to make the computing experience even more excruciating, the old thing was slow.

  Louis tapped his big foot. “What’s taking so long?”

  “It’s booting up,” he said. “Takes a while.”

  Hurry up, Lunde thought. All he wanted to do was hand over the goods and collect a check. Time to hit pay dirt, to impress the fat client, and get on with life. He looked around the kitchen, which felt smaller than most walk-in closets, but maybe that was because his obese client was crowding him. On the counter was an answering machine with a blinking light.

  Louis noticed him staring at it. “Your stooge has messages.” He pressed play, and they both listened to a voice fill the small room:

>   “Quin, it’s me, Christopher. I’ve been up all night preparing the contracts for Rebecca Baron. We’re all set. I’ll catch some sleep. Hope you got the money. Call me.”

  Louis hit rewind and played the message again. This time the voice sounded louder, or maybe Louis became quieter as he studied the nuances of the call.

  “Who is this? What’s happening here?” he asked Lunde.

  “I think that’s Christopher Gartner,” Lunde said.

  “I know who he is. Christopher was once my employee! Why are he and your bounty hunter drawing up a contract?” Louis asked, his hands buried in his pockets.

  The only answer Lunde could think of was the one he knew Louis wouldn’t want to hear. “Sounds like they’re making Rebecca Baron an offer of their own.”

  “What?” Louis said, kicking one of the cupboards below the sink. “Why are they doing that?”

  Isn’t it obvious? Lunde thought. To make money.

  “Quin mentioned yesterday another company was bidding for the business. I’ll bet it’s him and Christopher.”

  “I thought Quin worked for you!”

  “He does—or he did,” Lunde said.

  “Doesn’t appear to be an exclusive arrangement, though,” Louis said, in a mocking tone.

  Lunde wanted to smack the jerk, and he would’ve, too, if Louis weren’t a client. He ignored the comment and began typing on the computer, searching the hard drive for files.

  “Well?” Louis asked.

  He knew the client was losing confidence in him, but what difference would it make? He’d agreed to find the database. It wasn’t his job to guarantee Louis would close the Rebecca Baron deal. “There are no databases on this computer.”

  “Maybe he’s got a disk hidden in a closet or under the couch or—“

  “If you want my recommendation, I say we stop hunting around here. You pay him the $50,000 for the database like we agreed,” Lunde said. “It’s a small investment. Hell, you could even blackmail Ben Moretti once you’ve purchased them.”

  “He just double-crossed us, and now I’m supposed to pay him?”

  Lunde continued brainstorming in free form. “You pay Quin for the database. Then you call up your old friend Ben Moretti and tell him you found something that Christopher has stolen from him. There might be something incriminating in that data.”