In the Company of Wolves: Thinning The Herd

by Larranaga, James Michael

  After an awkward silence, she said, “Well, if you ever get a craving—”

  “I’ll call, Candy. Right, you’re in my phone,” Quin said as he watched her walk to the door. She turned and winked, and he waved politely.

  Quin skipped on the latte and walked to the booth where Zoe sat with her laptop.

  “Who was she?” Zoe asked.

  “Somebody I bumped into last week.” Quin sat next to her in the booth.

  “She’s slutty,” Zoe said. “What’s with the apartment lock? Where you evicted?”

  “Lunde moved on, and there’s no reason for me to hang out there,” Quin said. “Can I crash in your dorm tonight?”

  She shrugged. “What’s the plan with Ben? When are you turning him in?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Still thinking through my options. It’s like we are both waiting for the other to make the next move.”

  “If he goes to the police first and tells his lies, you’ll be a person of interest, a suspect,” Zoe said. “You might as well contact the police first.”

  Maybe, but if it backfired and if the police thought Quin was responsible for the murders, Big Ben would roam free to hunt Rebecca.

  Quin had a better idea. “Lunde hired me as a bounty hunter to find out what happened to his partners Cassy and Martin. I know where the bodies are. Why don’t I retrieve them? If I hide them for a while, there’s no evidence of any crime.”

  Zoe looked up from her laptop. “That’s chilling. You’d do that?”

  “I’m a bounty hunter. Of course I would. It’s why Lunde hired me. I should finish the job that I started. Cassy and Martin, if that’s even their real names, have families. They each deserve a proper burial.”

  He checked the time on his phone: 12:15 a.m. He was already short on sleep. This could be another long night. He held the phone in his hand wondering if Harold was tracking him right now.

  He slid it across the table to Zoe. “Hold onto this for me. I’ll be working off grid tonight.”

  Quin sped across the ice, his truck fishtailing with a snowmobile trailer in tow. He had borrowed the trailer from Lakeside Lift and Dock by hopping the fence and helping himself. He figured if he returned it within a couple of days, nobody would notice.

  The lake was different tonight—there was no moonlight to guide him to the icehouse, and Quin’s high beams bounced with each snowdrift as he read his GPS watch.

  At the west edge of Crane Island, the icehouse had company. Quin squinted and noticed other fishermen had set up a small village around Cassy and Martin’s grave. He hoped nobody had looked inside, but if they had, they would have reported it by now.

  Quin slowed and drove around the other fishing shacks and tents. It was quiet, without even the dim glow of a Coleman lantern. He spun the truck around and slowly backed the trailer to Big Ben’s icehouse. Quin left the engine idling and stepped onto the ice, the wind pushing him forward. He looked around casually and pulled on the metal handle. The door was frozen shut. He kicked the wood hard and pulled again. The door opened.

  He stuck his head inside but remembered he’d left his phone with Zoe. He had no light, so he waited for his eyes to adjust. His nose caught the stench of death. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and to the ambient light from his truck. He could make out the shapes of the bodies. They were still here. He felt a calming sensation, of respect, as if he were in a cemetery. Quin always felt that any bounty assignment that ended with him bringing home the dead was a sacred event. He owed Cassy and Martin, as well as their families, a respectful transfer of their bodies.

  Quin closed the door and reached into his pocket for a padlock. He secured it and walked through the wind back to the truck, where he had an electric winch mounted on the back of the cab. He pulled cable from the winch across the flatbed to the trailer, and he lowered the trailer gate ramp.

  He tugged on the cable’s slack as he walked around the icehouse, slipping on the ice as he pulled. He secured the cable and walked back to the winch to turn it on. The cable tightened, and Quin walked back to the icehouse and pushed it as the winch pulled it up the ramp. He gave the wooden structure one final shove, walked back to the winch, and turned it off. This was much easier than he had expected.

  He kept the cable secured to the icehouse and tied two more ropes through the cable to the sides of the trailer so the shack wouldn’t shift while in transit.

  He climbed back into the warmth of his truck and looked into his rearview mirror. The structure stood tall in the trailer, and Quin could barely see any of the remaining icehouses behind it. He set the truck in gear and stepped on the gas while watching the icehouse and trailer vibrating as he drove across the ice. Nobody would suspect anything. He was just another fisherman heading home with his gear.

  Leaving the lake with Cassy and Martin was like leading a small funeral procession. He drove with great care in case people on either side of the trailer were trying to catch a glimpse. He wondered what Cassy and Martin had been like as people. Were they friendly colleagues? What were their opinions of Spencer Lunde?

  Quin eased the truck and trailer off the ice onto the pavement of the public boat launch. He drove up a small hill to the highway and headed south toward the reservation. He punched the radio buttons, searching for music, and landed on “Crossfire” by Stevie Ray Vaughan. He relaxed into the bending of blues notes as he thought about Big Ben. All of this had happened because Quin was caught in the crossfire of Big Ben, Spencer Lunde, and Louis Schultz. Cassy and Martin were the victims along with Munroe Pilson. Quin had to keep his own head down low, or he and Rebecca would be the next victims.

  He continued on the two-lane highway with cars passing him. One driver flashed high beams before passing. Quin drove slower than usual to prevent the wind from blowing the icehouse off the trailer.

  He noticed more flashing lights, looked into his side mirror, and saw the blue-and-white lights of a squad car flashing behind him. He slowed to the edge of the road, assuming the squad car would race past, but it pulled up behind him.

  Damn it!

  He set the truck in park and reached for his ID as he watched the sheriff approach with a flashlight. Was this Sheriff David Carlson? Was he working for Big Ben? Quin didn’t need to look at his watch to know his heart was racing.

  He lowered his window. “Evening, Sheriff,” he said, blinded by the flashlight.

  “It’s late for ice fishing,” the sheriff said.

  “Yup, pretty cold out there. Time to go home and warm up, get some sleep.”

  “ID?”

  Quin handed it to him.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over?” the sheriff asked.

  “No, I can’t imagine I was speeding.”

  The sheriff moved back with the light still focused on Quin. “Step out of the vehicle, please.”

  Quin’s senses were on overload. The colors of the flashing squad car felt brighter. The traffic flying by seemed louder.

  What if he asks to see what’s inside the icehouse?

  He stepped out of his truck as the officer scanned Quin’s body with the flashlight and then pointed it at Quin again. Quin caught glimpses of the man, who seemed younger and thinner than Sheriff David Carlson. This wasn’t the same sheriff.

  “You have a problem with your trailer,” the sheriff said. “I’ll show you.”

  Quin followed him along the truck to the back of the trailer where the sheriff pointed his flashlight.

  “Your taillights aren’t on. And with the large icehouse you’re lugging, nobody can see the taillights on your truck.”

  Quin had been in such a hurry to borrow the trailer he never tested the taillights. ”They worked earlier in the week. I must have a wiring problem.”

  The sheriff shined his flashlight at the hitch. “Yeah, wires get brittle in the cold. You need to get that fixed.”

  Quin felt relief until he caught the whiff. The sheriff smelled it too and spun his flashlight beyond it into the woods.
>
  “What’s that smell?”

  “Maybe a dead deer,” Quin suggested. ”There’s coyotes out here.”

  “Smells like something dead, all right. How far you going with this rig?”

  “Just across the river,” Quin said.

  “I won’t write you a ticket. Just get that trailer wiring fixed before you take her back out on the road.”

  “OK, I will,” Quin said as he turned and headed back to the truck.

  “Oh, one more thing,” the sheriff said.

  Quin stopped and turned around. “Yeah?”

  “You got a fishing license?” the sheriff asked.

  “Ah…”

  “I’m just shittin’ you,” the sheriff said with a laugh. “What am I, the DNR?”

  “Good one,” Quin said.

  The sheriff walked back to his squad car. “Man, that’s a foul smell.”

  Quin drove south across the Minnesota River past Mystic Lake Casino to his reservation. He decided to enter the reservation from the south side, where there was another lake where he could hide the icehouse on. He drove through a grove of pines and onto the lake, thirty yards from shore. After he lowered the icehouse onto the ice surface, he climbed back into his truck, yawning. It was late—or as Big Ben would have said, it was early—but Quin needed sleep. Hawk’s house was just over the hill, and he couldn’t wait to get there.

  Quin turned into the main entrance of the reservation and noticed Carver County and Scott County squad cars blocking the way. A group of law enforcement personnel, dressed in bulletproof vests and black knit caps, stood in a small circle with their backs against the wind, the way a cattle herd stands to keep warm in a pasture. Quin spotted Sheriff David Carlson among the men, and it seemed as if the sheriff noticed him too.

  What happened here last night?

  Indian residents were gathered inside the gate, many of them sitting on the hoods of their Cadillac Escalades and Range Rovers, watching the scene. A team of reporters pushed against the gate, interviewing residents.

  When Quin stepped out of his truck, one of the deputies approached with his hand resting comfortably on his gun. “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to pass through,” Quin said, watching the man’s gun hand.

  “You Indian?” he asked.

  Where had he heard that before? Everybody wanted to know if he was Indian. Another man emerged from the posse with open arms. Quin knew him from the FBI. He’d worked on a couple of bounty hunter cases for him.

  “Quin, how are you, man? Delmar Torres, remember?”

  Quin shook his gloved hand, looking him up and down. Delmar was a short Hispanic officer with a thin mustache and thick lips. He was a good negotiator. If Delmar was called to a scene, there must be a hostage somewhere on the reservation.

  “Why are you here?” Delmar asked. “Nobody called for a bounty.”

  “I was about to ask you the same question. What’s up?” Quin asked.

  Delmar waved the sheriff’s deputy away and pulled Quin aside. “You know some of these people, right?”

  “Some.”

  “One of them escaped prison last night and with an accomplice kidnapped a wealthy lady from Minnetonka. We’re not sure if the hostage is still alive. They’re not communicating with us.”

  Quin noticed tension on both sides. Law enforcement outside the gate wanted that suburban woman off the reservation, and the tribal members on the inside wouldn’t let the white men on their land.

  “Was the escaped convict a woman?” Quin asked.

  “Yeah, from the Shakopee Prison,” Delmar said. “Helene Woman of the Storm. Is she someone you know?”

  “Unfortunately, yeah, I know her.”

  “Do you think maybe they’d let you go in there?” Delmar asked. “You could go inside for us. See if the woman is alive.”

  “You want me to be your bounty hunter?”

  “Well, more like a negotiator.”

  Quin agreed. Why spend his morning in the backseat of a squad car explaining how he was partly to blame for this mess?

  Delmar spent a few minutes of discussion with the Indians at the gate and then gave Quin permission to enter the reservation. Before Quin stepped across, Delmar loaded him up with a bulletproof vest and a radio.

  “Call us right away with the status of the woman’s condition. Then find out what they want.”

  Quin stepped across the barricade and looked back at the law enforcement from the Indians’ point of view. There must have been fifteen squad cars parked in a row along the gravel road, and more were on their way. The wagon train of squad cars was beginning to surround the reservation.

  He recognized many of the Indians sitting on their vehicles. Some were neighbors who lived near Hawk; others he’d only waved at when driving through the reservation. The person who seemed to be in control on this end was Slim Jim.

  “Quin!” he said, waving a rifle from the hood of his Ford Bronco. “Over here.”

  Slim Jim jumped down from the hood and climbed into the Bronco. Quin opened the passenger door and joined him. This must be the vehicle he had seen last night along Rebecca’s street. “What are you up to, Jimmy?”

  “We’re at war,” Slim Jim said. “Whose side are you on, Quin? Are you playing Indian or cowboy today?”

  Slim Jim, always the smart-ass.

  “I’m here to see Rebecca. What happened last night?”

  Slim Jim put the vehicle in gear, backed up, and drove up the street to Hawk’s. “She’s up at the house.”

  “How is she?”

  Slim Jim watched his rearview mirror, looking back at the squad cars as he drove. All he said was, “She’s up at the house.”

  He dropped Quin off in the driveway and drove back to his post two blocks away. Quin entered Hawk’s house and immediately smelled the rich tea in the air. He thought he might find Rebecca on the couch, nursing her wound.

  “Hello?” he said, searching the house.

  Hawk sat in the kitchen with two others. Quin took a closer look, realizing the two people with Hawk at the pine table were Helene and Stray Dog.

  “Surprised to see me?” Stray Dog asked.

  Quin nodded. “Yes and no.”

  “I studied the database on the plane. You were right about Ben Moretti. I turned around and came home last night.”

  Before his friend could finish speaking, Helene jumped up from her seat and began sobbing on Quin’s shoulder.

  “It was an accident,” she said, hugging him.

  “I’ve explained everything to her,” Stray Dog said. “She thought you and I were stealing from Hawk.”

  “You ran from the prison?” Quin said, disappointed in her impulsiveness.

  “I know. It was stupid,” she said, sobbing more.

  Hawk shook his head and folded his arms. “She must go back,” he said with shame in his voice.

  “Papa, no. They’ll put me away for life!” she screamed. “It was an accident, Quin!”

  “Where’s Rebecca?” Quin asked.

  Helene stopped sobbing and looked up at him. Stray Dog set his tea on the table, and Hawk suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

  “Jimmy didn’t tell you?” Helene asked.

  “No, how is she? Where is she?” Quin was growing tired of the runaround.

  “Rebecca was shot last night,” Stray Dog said, shifting in his chair.

  Quin waited in silence and then said, “Did she die?” his voice trailing off into a whisper.

  “No, but she’s in pretty bad shape,” Stray Dog said.

  “Where?”

  “In the bedroom. Come, I’ll show you,” Hawk said, leading him across the house to the guest room on the main level.

  Rebecca lay wrapped in wool blankets, on the four-poster pine bed. Quin approached her slowly and sat on the edge of the bed while Hawk remained in the doorway.

  Rebecca opened her eyes and gave him a weak smile. “Hey, what took you so long?”

  “I had no idea there wa
s so much excitement last night,” he said.

  “You were concerned about my safety, and you were right,” she said. ”From now on, I’ll trust your instincts.”

  Quin felt a tremendous amount of responsibility and guilt. “I expected trouble from Ben, but not Helene. I feel terrible about this. Hawk, why isn’t Rebecca in a hospital?”

  “Helene refused,” he said. “She brought Rebecca here with the police following, then realized she was trapped. I’ve patched the wound as best I can. I’ve given her my best herbs to alleviate the pain.”

  “Have you called tribal police?” Quin asked.

  “They were here earlier,” Hawk said.

  Quin pulled a strand of Rebecca’s hair back and felt her forehead. “You have a fever. We have to get you to a hospital.”

  “She’s safer here,” Hawk said. “The wolves can’t reach her here.”

  Rebecca looked into Quin’s eyes and whispered, “Thank you.”

  “For what? I nearly got you killed.”

  “Thank you for providing the money to buy my insurance policy. And then when Ben forced you to transfer the policy, you said nothing when you watched me give it away to charity.”

  “Well, it was Hawk’s money, not mine. How did you know Ben stole the policy?”

  “Christopher told me last night,” she said. “And I want you and Hawk to know that I will reimburse you for the money. Upon my death, my estate will reimburse you. Last night I had Christopher write my instructions, and he will work with Mike to update my estate plan.”

  “Thank you,” Quin said, looking back at Hawk.

  “Let’s get her to the hospital,” Hawk said.

  Quin helped Rebecca sit up in the bed. She winced and took several short breaths.

  The radio strapped to his belt vibrated, and Delmar’s familiar Hispanic accent filled the small room. “Quin? What’s going on? Give us an update.”

  He held the radio close to his mouth. “I’m inside.”

  “How’s Rebecca Baron?” Delmar asked.

  Quin looked at her closely. Her condition was stable. Maybe Hawk was right; Big Ben could never reach her here. Quin thought of an idea. “She’s alive, but we need an ambulance, Delmar.”