“By thunder and all the myths,” Harold growled, his tone deepening, eyes flashing. “I’ve done all that talking to you, and now I see this folly. I may as well have reasoned with a half-brained jackass.”
“My deepest apologies, sir,” Stephen said. “I’ll understand if you must let me go. It seems all is lost with me. I’ve become completely useless.”
“Stop. Right. There.”
Stephen froze, but for his mouth.
“Close your trap,” Harold ordered with a point of his finger.
“Sir?”
“Quiet!”
Stephen nodded.
“I’ve just had a wonderful idea. And you’re going to help me.”
“Sir?”
“Give me your coat, boy.”
“My coat?”
“Hand it over.”
“I … I don’t understand.”
“Hand it to me peaceably. Or I’ll tear it from ya and toss it to the flames.”
“But my mother made me this coat.”
“Give it here.”
“I’ll be cold when I go out, sir.”
“And you’ll be plenty warm by the fire in the hall. Ah, see? Now give it to me. Before I plant my boot most unpleasantly.”
He stood there with an expression of shock and confusion, until Harold stepped toward him, biting his pipe, and began unbuttoning and rolling his shirtsleeves. The angriest, most intimidating Santa in the history of the world. The smoke of his pipe resembled raging steam from the ears of an angry cartoon character.
At last Stephen shrugged off the heavy coat and handed it over. The sight of Harold’s massive forearms, which were thicker than most men’s quads, seemed to get through to him more than any words could.
“Be gone!” Harold bellowed from within a cloud of vanilla smoke.
Stephen hugged himself and rushed out without shutting the door. They could hear his boots crunching in the snow halfway to the town square.
“You see this?” Harold asked, closing the door and hanging up the coat.
His cousin nodded slowly.
“Have I made any exaggeration of truth to advance my own cause?”
“None.”
“Right. The woman’s mad and she’s taking us along with her,” Harold grumbled, now rolling his sleeves back down and buttoning them. “None with eyes could deny. And now I tell you, every morning of late I walk to my forge under a cloud of dread. I step inside not cheerful to work but churning with fear. Of what? The idea that I’ll find the boy’s hammer buried into the woman’s skull. The boy would then be gone from us. Run off south to some town to hide from Abel. I say, enough is enough and I’ll take no more. I cannot.”
“I’ll speak with my brother,” Joseph said.
“You’ve already said as much.”
“Very well. If he won’t budge, I’ll deal with her myself. I give you my word.”
“Your word has always been good by me, cousin. But if you don’t deal with her soon, I suppose I must.”
“No,” Joseph said. “You’ve been through enough grief around here. I will handle it. Timely. That is my word.”
“Right of you to say,” Harold returned softly, the brief fire of his anger cooling. He looked from Evie to Joseph with a sudden sadness in his eyes.
“Ah, I should not lose my patience with a youngster that way. You know how it is.”
“Once the young folk begin to lose their manners, you can be sure your society is starting downhill,” Joseph said.
“Of course. Oh, blast it all. Of all the silly things to let ruffle my feathers.”
“You tried to reason with him,” Evie offered.
“Aye, reason,” Harold puffed thoughtfully. “If the cares of the world keep pushing at us, sure as sunshine we’ll lose our reason, just as it has. And then what? We’ll be as crazy as they are. There are good ways of living and poor ways. You can see the clash. It’s right here before your eyes. In all truth, I say, damn this trouble and grief. Damn it all and leave it. I wish we were only visiting and speaking of good tidings. I do so love this time of year.”
Chapter 10
He followed snowmobile trails whenever possible, moving fast along the even surfaces. Then, when it suited him, or when trails no longer served his route, he took shortcuts, cutting through patches of dense timber, crossing windblown ridges and descending grades of deep snowdrifts.
After some time of hurried travel, along a river’s edge Abel found a fallen oak tree. There he stopped for a rest and a closer look.
The tree was old, heavy. The massive weight of its top had broken through the ice covering the river, and the current had not yet frozen over the open water.
His belly grumbled, both with hunger and with agitation of spirit. He hated being called away from his winter meanderings. He hated more the purpose for which he felt himself being summoned.
The weather was harsh. Cruel to some. But of all seasons he loved the long and dark winter most. If not for hunger he would spend much of winter wandering aimlessly and admiring the herds, immersing himself in those glimpses of the way the world once was. Living quietly amid his memories. The way he recalled it amid his earliest hazy memories.
Few things pleased him more.
As for the merits of winter, it was the great time of the wolf. As cold and wind humbled most, it bothered him little. Falling snow did not melt on his back but merely rolled off his coat after accumulating. Deep snow was no roadblock but rather soft and forgiving underfoot. And how he loved the frozenness of the land and the silver glow of the snow under moonlight. The solitude. The silence of the north. The ease of traveling and distance of sight without foliage. The largeness of the unobstructed sky. He loved blasting through drifts of fresh powder. Sprinting across frozen lakes under blazing star shine. Gazing upon the glittering multitudes in the perfectly clear skies, so deep and midnight blue and flecked with light that in time one felt almost in a trance, or a sinking sensation. Then raising his deep voice to the sky. Which was a song, a proclamation, and a challenge all in one to all with ears. No answer but simple greetings ever returned. Then curling up in a bed of white powder like a sled dog. Falling asleep after a meal feeling completely content. Needing no thing, no one.
Perfect freedom.
Lordship unchallenged.
A king basking in his kingdom.
Yet he did not just love winter as a climate. He had to respect something before he could love it, and he respected winter with a true and pervading reverence. It was something vast and immovable. Momentous and unstoppable. A force to be reckoned with. A force worthy of testing his strength against.
Any frog or toad could lay about in summer. Feeble creatures did so annually. But only the strong laughed in winter, shunning shelter and the warmth of fire. Only the mighty thrived. Only the greats sang victory songs to the darkest nights. Only the wolf call cut deeper than the wailing northwest winds, shivering the humans locked cringing within their wooden structures, cowering as infants in their warm beds.
For love of my kind, he thought. And the beautiful world which sustains us. None other will I serve.
Now, considering his current need, he looked down into the dark river. First at his reflection, then beyond into the depths of his being. Family called. The pull was strong. And now his stomach called louder still. The river held the answer.
Stepping carefully, he waded into the freezing water and broke away more of the ice from around the heavy tree top. Large chunks of ice splintered and cracked and went tumbling downstream with the churning current. He knew there were landlocked salmon hugging the stones deep in the swirling pools. Big salmon. Easy to catch. Full of nourishment.
He plunged his snout into the numbing water. Moved one foreleg, then the other, sending a fish straight between his jaws. The trick was to disturb them in the deep pools between the rocks, and then cut off their escape. He had perfected this art of fishing.
The first salmon was large but not impressively so. No more t
han a snack. He flicked his neck and tossed it yards up onto the shore. The second was larger. Combined with the first it would be enough to get him through the night.
He climbed from the water and shook the weight of it from his coat, sending out a misty shower of tiny ice pellets. The very smallest particles crackled as they froze in midair. Then he lay on his belly to eat.
After the small meal he groomed each of his feet, carefully gnawing away the ice forming between his toes. He licked his chops and wiped all the ice from his face and whiskers with his forefeet. Then he rose and stretched and walked upstream to cross the frozen river.
Chapter 11
In the front room of the station, Kerry Bowers poured her coffee and stood with her fingers interlocked around the mug. Dorothy had just made the coffee and it was still too hot to sip. The heat radiating through the ceramic mug tingled her frozen fingertips. She had to focus to keep the mug steady, and to make sure the tips of her fingers did not start to burn.
With the day’s awful task now behind her, all that remained was to recover, regroup, and hope that the next day would be better. A hot shower and then warm pajamas, she figured. A nice fire and a Christmas movie. Maybe not Scrooge being tormented by the ghost of Marley. No, not that night. Not after this day. Maybe something much lighter would do. Home Alone or Elf.
“Did the camera crew quit for the day?” she asked Dorothy. Not that she cared but for something to talk about. She wasn’t about to bring up the bear crossing the trail. Not until she got a clearer sighting and could speak with absolute confidence.
“A few hours ago,” Dorothy answered.
“Can’t blame them.”
“Poor guys. They must be burning furniture at that cheap motel by now to keep warm. Did you know one of those men is from Texas? Can you imagine that? Going from there to here one week to the next?”
Kerry didn’t get a chance to answer. Because right then Jones came lumbering out of his office and said, “Uneventful?” Not a hello or anything.
She nodded, saying only, “No problems.”
He waited.
“Sure makes you wonder,” Kerry said after a pause, nodding but not looking at him.
He looked displeased.
Unnerving as hell, she was thinking. No way am I telling you that.
“Horrible,” Dorothy shuddered, mercifully distracting Jones. “Just horrible. I can’t figure how a person could do something like that to another person.”
“No?” Jones said with mock concern.
“What could drive someone to be so cruel?”
“Motive,” Jones grunted as he swaggered to the coffee maker.
“I’ve been turning it over in my head all day,” Dorothy said. “I just can’t see what that motive could possibly be.”
Can’t see your own toes either, Jones thought. Don’t mean they ain’t there.
“That man was alone for years,” she continued. “Barely showed his face in a town but for a few supplies each summer.”
“And how did he pay for those supplies?” Jones asked, stirring his coffee.
“Certainly he must’ve had savings,” she said. “Must’ve traded a bit. I’ve heard of as much. And face it, a man living out his days on his old family homestead allotment wouldn’t have needed for much currency.”
Jones turned and leaned back against the counter with a steaming mug in hand. He looked at Kerry without a hint of friendliness and said, “What do you think, college kid?”
“Not sure,” she shrugged. “His records are almost nonexistent.”
“Some people must just prefer to live the old native ways,” Dorothy said. “Hard life. And then to have it end that way.”
“If the trees could talk,” Kerry added.
Jones eyed her, holding his mug in one hand while leaning on the other. Either the girl had strong opinions which she didn’t want to share, or else she didn’t care at all. He wasn’t sure. He preferred the latter. Which would make him correct in his poor assessment of her character and worth.
“We can’t protect everyone,” he said. “We sure can’t guarantee the safety of mavericks.”
“Please,” Dorothy said. “A recluse and a maverick are two entirely different men. You make it sound as if he was out looking to be a problem.”
Jones ignored her, staring at Kerry and said, “If trees could talk we’d know for sure.”
“It’s just an expression,” she said, making sure to keep her tone causal.
“What do you know about the logging village up north?” he asked next. Random question. A little different tone. “You know, the Quakers or Puritans or whatever the hell they think they are up there.”
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “I’ve never been there.”
“Never heard any gossip from stores or outfitters? Hunters? Fisherman?”
Absent shake of her head.
“Never talked to any of them? You’ve been kicking around over a year now.”
“I’ve spoken to a few of the logging truck drivers, here and there. Just friendly conversation.”
“And?”
“Just young, hardworking guys. I recognize the tree logo on all the trucks.”
“That’s all?”
“I hardly get that far north shy of a big call. It’s not really our county. I just see the trucks when they’re coming south sometimes.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. What do you think of them? I mean, the people. The idea of them. There’s no right or wrong answer here. I ask simply for perspective, because I don’t have the benefit of a degree, like you.”
“I have nothing to base an opinion on,” Kerry said. “I don’t know them.”
Jones stared. She’d handled the jabbing very well. In a way it angered him and a in another way it impressed him. She wasn’t easy to provoke. Good poker face.
“They’re not Quakers,” Dorothy put in. “As far as I’ve ever heard, they’re nothing more than poor loggers not giving a hoot about the rest of the world. They sure don’t bother anyone, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I didn’t imply,” Jones said.
Yes, you did, Kerry thought. You lying sack, you sure as hell did. You must have something against them.
“You think they’re poor?” Jones asked, looking at both women. “Poor, with all that land?”
“You’re kidding,” Dorothy said. “Their ancestors must have bought it for a penny an acre. Back before the big paper companies drove the prices up. Heck, back before Maine was a state. They probably purchased directly from the crown.”
Jones shook his head.
“It’s true,” Dorothy said.
“I’m surprised, that’s all,” he said.
“At what?” Dorothy snapped.
“We have people living in our state that we have very little information on, Dorothy. Neither of you seem to think much of that fact.”
“We’ve got a few Indian reservations,” she said. “What’s the difference? That far inland, most of us forget all about them. They sure don’t ever cause any trouble. Why would they start now?”
“I never specifically said they caused trouble.”
“You sure sound like you’re thinking it.”
“How else will anything be resolved without a little brainstorming? That’s all I’m doing here.”
“Fair point,” Dorothy said. “I’ll give you that but no more.”
“Really, I was asking your opinions,” he said. “Both of you. I’m asking for input. All we have is bones until the snow melts and I can search the property.”
You can go to hell, Kerry thought as she nodded slowly. I’m just a dumb, green college girl with no right to be here. That’s my opinion.
“I don’t claim to have a clue,” Dorothy said. “Sometimes bad things happen, I do know that much. At the end of the day, what else can be said?”
“And you?” Jones asked Kerry.
“No clue,” she said to her coffee. “Baffling.”
Jones smi
led and said, “There’s a murderous psychopath roaming around. No towns with local law enforcement up there to help us. We’re the only law around, but hell, let’s just have some coffee and maybe a donut. Should we fire up some Christmas tunes while we’re at it?”
“You don’t have to be so miserable,” Dorothy scolded. “It won’t help matters any.”
“Sorry,” Jones lied.
“I think we might all be tired,” Dorothy said. “For sure I am. All the excitement of Christmas. And now this.”
“The transport won’t be here to take the body bag until morning,” Jones said. “Not much else for us to do now. I guess we can call it a day.”
“Amen,” Dorothy said.
Chapter 12
The black wolf waited in the dark shadow below the window and soon the young woman came out the front door. She walked briskly to her truck and within a minute was gone. Then the man and the older woman came out, arguing as they walked.
“I don’t want to hear anymore,” Dorothy said.
“You’re taking it all wrong.”
“Not at all, Robert. I might be getting older, but my ears still work perfectly well.”
“It’s not like she’s a girl scout or anything. She’s supposedly been trained and tested to handle herself.”
Dorothy stopped halfway to her car, turned and said, “I know she can handle herself. It’s the lack of regard on your end that I’m reacting to. You viewed her as nothing more than a piece of cheese.”
“Dorothy, you and I both know a thing or two. If there is a rat out there, there’s no use chasing after it. It’ll hide and we’ll be wasting our time. To catch it, we have to lure it out into the open.”
“We’re not talking about rats here. Don’t speak down to me, you arrogant old ... Huh! Now I’m finished with you. I’m tired and I’m going home.”
“Look, she got back fine, all in one piece. Can’t you just let it go?”
North Woods Law (The Great North Woods Pack Book 5) Page 5
