North Woods Law (The Great North Woods Pack Book 5)

by Shawn Underhill

  “I’ll say it once more. It was the idea behind the action that angered me, Robert. That’s it. You’ve got no respect for the girl whatsoever. You’ve done your work well for a lot of years, but I don’t respect some of your positions, and I don’t mind saying so. No one else ever stands up to you, so it might as well be me.”

  “Hey, I was there first,” he grumbled. “Remember that. I found that freak show yesterday. Then I drove way out of my way to that Quaker town. I put myself at risk first.”

  “That’s if your theory holds water. Which it don’t. And they’re not Quakers.”

  “Who else is anywhere near that area?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, because I’m here. But we both know the numbers. There’s thousands of unaccounted people floating around this country. A hundred of those could easily be right here in Maine. You know some people just quit society altogether and wander off the grid. Some hide from the law. Some aren’t right in the mind and can’t help themselves. Numbers, Robert. How many folks have plain gotten lost? How many times has a plane gone down and no one’s found the wreckage for decades? We’d need an army to comb all those woods and account for every wandering soul that might cause someone harm.”

  “Can’t you be reasonable? I don’t deny any of that.”

  “I’ll be reasonable if you’ll be honest for a change. I suppose you’re disappointed the same killer didn’t grab Kerry today, aren’t you?”

  “When the hell did I say that?”

  “You didn’t have to. I know it and she knows it. It was uneventful. That’s my point.”

  “Okay, okay,” Jones said. “I’m the creep because I want to find the culprit. Makes real good sense, Dorothy. I’m the bad guy for sending her out to do her damn job. She wanted it so bad.”

  “I’ve had just about enough of you for today,” she said. “Sleep well.”

  “Numbers, Dorothy. You want some? I can play that game.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Dozens, Dorothy,” he shouted after her. “Dozens of people missing. Dozens more found murdered since I started on this job. Nearly all adult males. Those are real numbers. Facts. And you know it. Now who’s being dishonest?”

  Dorothy heard him and sighed. She was out of energy and very cold, so she climbed into her car and cranked the motor and slammed the door.

  Jones stood with his hands on his hips watching her for a moment before getting into his truck.

  Chapter 13

  Interesting, Erica thought, watching the two vehicles pull away.

  She stepped away from the building and looked at the empty road beyond the small parking lot. All interest in the young woman, Kerry, was gone. The man she had seen first the day prior had all her attention now. He had gone to the village, then sent the woman after the body. Which confirmed that he was the real meddler, the real problem. Harold did not like the Jones man at all. It seemed no one did.

  She thought of Abel. He would know how to handle this better than she. But he was very far away now, and liable to be ill of temper if she called him away from his caribou for anything less than an emergency.

  His precious caribou.

  She growled, rebuking herself and quickly dispelling that thought. For sake of the pack, Abel would spill his last drop of blood. She knew that well. She stood in awe of his greatness. Aspired to it. He would be the first to fight, the last to die. If he wished to enjoy the dead of winter, the quiet season, he had every right. No one watched and managed the summer people and fall hunters like he did. None came near to rivaling him when it came to running off intruders or punishing poachers. By rights the frozen months were his to do as he pleased. She would take issue with any who said otherwise. Including herself.

  So, this man was strictly her problem for the moment.

  Or should she consult the pack?

  Abel would not.

  But … she was certainly not an elder.

  And then, she didn’t wish to get her grandfather involved. He would always pity the humans, until there were no other options left. That sentiment never set well with her. She loved him. Respected him in many ways. But she could never be like him. Could never emulate his way of life.

  So, to follow this man now and kill him in the night would be a bold strike. It would stop his interest and suspicion and meddling in a second. That served the pack. The trouble was, he wasn’t a lone entity, and the town they were now in, though small, still had a few hundred residents. It would not be an execution soon forgotten. And then more wardens would come.

  She remembered his words. He wished to lure the mysterious killer out into the open like a rat. Perhaps she should play his game. Lure him. Find out what he was really made of.

  Then there were the two women to consider. They would surely be suspicious. The man would not be greatly missed by them, no. But if he died suddenly, they would know he had been right to be worried about the killing. The numbers.

  Decisions, decisions.

  Near the front door of the station there were two shovels leaning against the building. One was plastic and the other aluminum.

  I wonder if he has the women do the shoveling. While he sits in his office with his feet on the desk.

  She changed to her weaker form and felt the instant bite of the cold. Like a million little needles. She grabbed the aluminum shovel by the wooden handle. Wound up like a batter at the plate and smashed it against the nearest window with all her strength. With three swings the glass was gone and she jumped carefully inside, using her arms to help swing herself wide of the shattered glass on the floor.

  A gymnastics judge might have given her a near perfect score for the move.

  The office was dark apart from the glow of several computer screensavers and the small lights of the coffee maker, microwave, and a fax machine. But she could see well enough, even in this weaker form. By the door she noticed a little box with a rapidly blinking light. The silent alarm.

  Come on, rat. Your cheese is here waiting.

  She walked on her toes, hating the feeling of the cheap tiled floor against cold, slippery human feet. She searched around for nothing particular. Just hunting. Getting a feel for the place and her foe.

  In a utility room she found shelves of random supplies and some cold weather gear. She picked up a pair of thick winter socks in flimsy cardboard packaging. She ran her fingers along the inner lining. They were soft fleece. She ripped the packaging away, separated the socks and bent and slid them on her feet. They felt so strange. Like something was binding her, weighing her down, though only by ounces. But it was better than the unnatural feeling of the floor.

  Jones kept a disorganized office. The desk and shelves were cluttered. The room smelled mildly unpleasant. Like dust and old coffee and microwave dinners. His screensaver was a picture of an old Camaro. On the walls were photos mostly of Jones posing with trophy game. Fish and slain deer and moose. Jones, always smiling proudly.

  She turned from the photos and faced the stuffed head of a whitetail buck with very impressive antlers. He was mounted to the wall behind his desk. He was not smiling.

  “Nice rack,” she said before reaching up and testing the display by the neck. It seemed to be securely mounted to the wall. Nothing a little muscle couldn’t fix. She closed both forearms around the neck and slowly transferred her full weight to her arms. A cracking sound encouraged her to pull just a little harder and, crunch, the buck came down in her arms.

  Standing back from the wall, she set the buck in Jones’ chair and nodded in satisfaction. A fine interior redecorator. It changed the whole mood of the place.

  She ignored the female warden’s office and at the end of a hall she went through a door leading into the big garage area. Among plenty of equipment and tools and vehicles, there sat the snowmobile and the sled with the body bag.

  She released the straps securing the bag and kicked the bag off the sled. Then reached with one hand and dragged it behind her like a rolling suitcase with broken wheels that
scuffed. In his office she lifted the buck from the chair to the desk, then lifted the bag and dropped it on the chair, laughing to herself.

  That should mess with his mind.

  Near the doorway of the office she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the glass of the door across the hall. She certainly looked wild. Her black hair was like a ruffled crow’s body. Had she been someone else, she would not have wished to run into herself in some dark corner.

  She was beautiful as the wolf. Maintenance free beauty.

  She returned to the front room to the kitchen area and opened the refrigerator door. The bulb seemed terribly bright to her sensitive eyes. On the shelves she found boxes of donuts and Christmas cookies and banana bread and a rum fruitcake. Plenty of coffee cream. A small carton of milk. A slice of pizza that looked sad and old on a paper plate. The donuts were fairly fresh. Still soft. Multiple flavors.

  She had eaten little in the past two days, and she could hardly recall the last time she’d eaten human junk food. Strangely, it looked appealing to her now.

  So she dove in with a big bite. The donut tasted almost sickeningly sweet. The sugar hit her like a ton of bricks. It made her face pucker and her eyes bulge and blink.

  No wonder humans are sick all the time.

  With two donuts down, and the little carton of milk, she was working on the third donut when she heard a vehicle approaching, the tires crunching on the snow. Edging near the front door, she peered out the empty window case. A green truck. Jones. She watched him skid to a stop and dump himself from the cab with a shiny revolver in hand. He was all charged up and ready to make a mistake.

  Perfect, she thought. Even the rattiest of rats are no challenge to lure. Kill him now or not? Kill him or lure him out. Make up your mind. Quick.

  She inhaled the rest of the third donut as she headed for his office.

  Chapter 14

  After some time spent visiting in the quiet forge, the three Snows emerged from the log building and started in the direction of the great hall. After a few strides, one of them abruptly stopped.

  “Papa,” Evie said.

  Both men turned and looked at her.

  “I think,” she began, and then trailed off. In truth she felt very restless and wasn’t sure that she understood why, let alone able to explain it. Though she was immersed in her serene surroundings and enjoying them greatly, deep down she felt that unsettled energy of a caged animal.

  The wolf was not asking to be set free.

  It was demanding.

  It was the difference between a gentle tap of a knuckle on a door and the smashing of a battering ram.

  “Ready for a break?” her grandfather asked.

  “Something,” she said with a shrug.

  “I’ll see you,” Harold said and promptly trudged off, puffing smoke like a steam engine as he went along with Stephen’s coat slung over his broad shoulder.

  “I don’t get it,” Evie said to her grandfather. “How can I be sickened by the thought of that woman … and still pity her?”

  He, as usual, offered no easy answer. Instead he motioned her to follow as he said, “I’ll show you to our cabin. You can relax there.”

  They were now moving due east along the road, away from the hall and the lake.

  “I didn’t want to say that in front of Harold,” she said.

  “It is an odd subject. A touchy subject.”

  “You feel the same.”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “Though I find it hard to say as much aloud. It is a struggle.”

  “It’s weird because it’s such an innocent place.”

  “In most cases.”

  “Viciousness doesn’t fit in here. Not from what I saw in the hall.”

  Not from what you’ve seen, he thought. It was absolutely true, from her perspective. She had no memory of the twentieth century. No firsthand knowledge and experience. She had not led the final bloody offensive to rid the pack of its sworn enemies and secure these remote woods once and for all. She had not torn young men to ribbons for blindly following their deceitful leaders who profited from wealthy donors to one of Rome’s enduring little cults. She had not lived through the relentless fear and uncertainty. The bullet wounds. The bloodshed. Death. Gunfire that echoed in one’s mind for years after. Had not felt the frail bodies breaking within her jaws. Heard the horrific cries of the naïve and gullible, tricked into joining a cause with no sensible end but for the few that grew wealthy. She had not looked upon hundreds of mangled bodies, the bloodied snow, here in this beautiful land, and contemplated the appalling waste of young life. Forfeited without just reason.

  But nothing has changed, he reminded himself. He knew the facts. The young are still incited to war by the clever occupying seats of power. They have not lead us to utopia but to hell. The Twenty-first century is off to a worse start than the twentieth. These modern day fighters are maimed and killed just as those of old. Those caught in the middle, what innocence may be, are brutalized and die in despair. An endless cycle of destruction. And those who crave power still cling to it. Collect wealth. The most prolific inciters of destruction rest in comfort, in fine clothes and fine dwellings, surrounded with the best security money can buy.

  She has seen battle, he thought. She watched the young Wilson child die. But she has not been privy to total war. Confrontation always follows strife. From confrontation can only follow complete surrender or total war.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Just fine,” he answered, drawing himself back to the present. “By and large you are correct. Peace is absolutely our preferred way. But as you’ve witnessed at home, an outside threat changes one’s attitude drastically. We haven’t much choice, when push comes to shove.”

  “Maybe I’ve just got whiplash,” she said. “After that welcoming and everything, to see that woman again brought me crashing down.”

  “You’re not the only one,” he returned. “Harold hadn’t told me the full extent of the problem. I guess he didn’t want to dampen our plans.”

  “He misses you.”

  Joseph said nothing.

  “I can tell how happy he is just to have you visit the forge.”

  “I know. But I can’t be everywhere at once. Can’t be all to all.”

  “Maybe my expectations for this place were unrealistic,” she offered, redirecting his attention as he often did to her.

  “You’re far from the first to be guilty of that.”

  “Seriously. I had it built up in my mind as perfectly untouchable.”

  “It almost is.”

  “And I don’t like seeing you troubled,” she said.

  “Likewise,” he returned. “Yet our quandary persists.”

  She nodded.

  “Ignoring it won’t spare us of our troubles in the long term,” he said. “And with our great length of life, we certainly must think in longer terms.”

  “There will always be some problem or another,” she said. “Someone will always be opposed to us.”

  “That is our dilemma as a pack, absolutely. But now we come to the most difficult part. Reality. We must sometimes look beyond ourselves. Like it or not, we are a part of the world, as much as many of us would love to be entirely separate. Way out here, we can almost have our cake and eat it too. But not quite. Not in this day and age.”

  “Wild and free still isn’t completely free,” she said. “Freedom isn’t free.”

  “I’ve lectured you like a skipping record, haven’t I?”

  “I’m here to learn,” she returned, though in part she wished it was merely an adventure in the woods. She wished the plane really had taken her back in time a century or two.

  “So, the woman is a problem,” Joseph said, his voice taking that lecturing tone. “More accurately, she represents a problem. We could say that she is evil, wicked. Or at least that she represents evil, in our eyes. Yet some might think her bold, progressive. What are we to make of that?”

  “I don’t kn
ow,” she muttered. “Values?”

  “It might look like a lack of values on one side.”

  “No, it’s not a lack,” she corrected herself. “It’s a clash of values. That explains the level of passion.”

  “Good,” he said. “Precisely. Many people scoff at the idea of evil. They say there are only disagreements and clashes of worldviews among ignorant and intolerant people. That being the case, if we could only get all to fall in line with one common view, one common agenda, the problems would cease.”

  “Whose problems? Ours or theirs?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Those in control would cease to have problems, at least in the short term. Dictators and tyrants have often found that to be the case. Hence the irresistible appeal of power. But even once they’ve attained some personal power, they’ve actually solved nothing with the wider world. They’ve merely gone around a personal obstacle rather than attempting to dismantle the larger one.”

  “And everyone under them suffers.”

  “Always.”

  “Was it easier in the old days?” she asked. “Just living one day at a time and getting by?”

  “Certainly, in a sense. There were less people, and traveling took much longer. We read week-old newspapers.” He laughed. “Many here still do.”

  “Sometimes I wish I was born back then.”

  “Plenty of folks feel the same.”

  “Do you?”

  “Wish I was born earlier?”

  She nodded.

  “Sometimes, of course. The idea of the younger world is a highly romantic notion. But make no mistake, there have always been problems. One could wish his way all the way back to prehistoric times, only to find that evil, as we’ll call it, was still a factor of life. The ancients spoke often of it. Now, post-modern elites laugh rather than listen. They fail, or refuse, to acknowledge the simple facts of history. There was most certainly a time on this earth when there were very few people, few languages, and few differing worldviews. No guns or bombs. No tyrants commanding armies and directing economies. Yet strife came about, born from a scant few. Just think of that.”