“I’m not here to hurt you,” Erica said.
“Sure,” Kerry said. “This is completely normal, right?”
“Don’t make light.”
“Likewise. I want you out of my house.”
“You mean, you don’t like intrusions in your territory? Having your way of life disrupted?”
Kerry said nothing.
“Funny, coming from someone in your position,” Erica said. “You get paid for interfering where you don’t belong.”
“You don’t like wardens or just people in general?”
“Wardens should maintain the trout population and stop poachers. People in general bother me. Nosey, troublemaking people.”
“Sorry,” Kerry said. “I can’t help being born with two legs. Now get out of my place.”
“I will. Soon. And you are going to stay in your place. This cozy little place. All night.”
“I don’t like being threatened,” Kerry said. She was losing control of her voice. Her finger was squeezing the trigger.
“Stay home,” Erica said. “That’s all you have to do. Enjoy the fire and get some rest. It’s no night to be out.”
“What the hell are you?” Kerry whispered.
“I already told you.”
“Yeah, I guess you did.”
“So why the confusion? The nerves?”
No answer.
“You must be familiar with the coywolf,” Erica said.
“Yeah,” Kerry answered. “It’s a relatively new hybrid.”
“Created as a result of men killing wolves in the east. The coyote and the wolf, formerly rivals, merged in order to survive. Men pushed. Nature pushed back.”
“Why the lesson, professor?”
“Be careful how hard you push. Nature might push back harder than you can handle.”
“And you’re a part of nature?”
“Very much so.”
After a pause Kerry said, “I think we used to tell stories about you at camp.”
Erica’s face brightened. Interested.
“It was summer camp,” Kerry resumed, noting the change in the other’s expression. “Owl Pond Campground. My parents sent me up from Portsmouth every year. Some kids hated it. I loved it. The woods. The water. The animals. I hated going home to the noisy city and back to school.”
“And the stories?”
“Weird stuff,” Kerry answered. “Campfire stories. Nothing too gory. Just enough to get us wound up before bedtime. The counselors would build fires and set up benches near the iron fence of a Colonial graveyard, for the mood, and tell us all these stories. Old stuff. Sometimes a ship captain story or two. But mostly about natives and trappers and loggers and colonists. Camps being robbed. Men being stalked and killed or chased from the woods. Back before the slender man got popular, the wendigo was usually blamed.”
Erica smiled.
“What’s so funny?”
“There’s no wendigo.”
“No?”
“No. At least, not anymore. My family would’ve killed him long ago.”
“Funny.”
“No joke. No monsters, no cannibals, no slender man. It’s just nature out there. And the only problems stem from human interference. Maybe old time people knew that.”
“I can’t say. I wasn’t there.”
“Maybe plain, ordinary people did all those bad things in those stories. Maybe they did them in the woods because there was nobody else there to catch them. Maybe they made up the monsters to pass the blame.”
“You killed that old hermit,” Kerry said.
No reply.
“And you followed me back today. I knew I wasn’t alone.”
Erica made the faintest hint of a smile. It was more of the eyes than the mouth.
“What have you got against me?” Kerry asked.
“I barely know you.”
“Jones?”
“Nothing great. As long as he minds his own business, he’ll be okay. The same goes for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not feeling all warm and fuzzy,” Kerry said.
“Go sit by the fire. Pretend there’s a storm out there tonight. A big blizzard. All you can do is sit back and let it pass.”
With that said she stepped to the door and pushed it open. Dropped the blanket and stepped out. Then turned to one side in order to speak in the direction of the kitchen where Kerry stood staring down the sights of her gun.
“One more thing,” Erica said. “This is your only warning. After this, don’t ever point a gun at me again. Your family cares about you. You don’t want them wondering what happened to you all winter and burying an empty box when the ground thaws.”
Then she was gone and the door clapped shut from the wind.
For five seconds Kerry remained as she was, pressed against the counter and trying to breathe. Her shoulders burned from holding her arms straight out, the death grip on the gun. She lowered the gun, still clasped with both hands, and moved to the door and peered out through the frosty glass.
She flicked on the outside light. Opened the door for a clearer view. The driveway was empty apart from her truck. The road beyond was deserted. No tracks in the surrounding powder leading away from the house. No sign of anyone or anything. A low moaning wind. A starry night.
She closed the door and locked it. Stepped back and shrugged off her parka. Dropped the parka on the floor and dropped herself exhausted onto the couch and leaned back looking up at the ceiling.
“Wake up,” she muttered. “If this’s one of those weird nightmares, it’s time to wake up.”
Nothing changed. She didn’t wake up. She just sat there staring at the ceiling.
After a minute or so she gathered her thoughts and resolve and got out her phone to call Jones. No answer on his cell. She killed the call and dialed his office line. No answer. She called him every insulting name in the book until he finally, angrily, answered the cell phone.
“Someone broke into my house,” she told him. She was talking loud. Talking over him. “A girl. Just a teenager. She threatened me and threatened you, Robert. No, I’m not kidding. It was very creepy and … Robert. Yes. She’s gone now. I don’t know where. Yes. I think she’s on her way back to the station. No. No. I don’t know. How can I make sense of it? No. I’m just telling you what happened. Listen to me! Shut up and listen! I don’t think—”
Her phone blinked.
Jones had ended the call.
Chapter 24
Moving west on the main road, Evie walked along slowly in the dark under the trees. Killing time. Hoping her grandfather could make peace with his brother, each could see the reason in the other’s stance. Her head was low, her spirit uneasy.
She was following Harold. Not intentionally. His familiar vanilla scent seemed to be leading her nose along. The lake was just visible through the trees on her left. Here and there she passed a cabin on her left and one small farm on her right.
At the end of the next driveway on her right she paused. She sensed Harold in the old cabin, maybe fifty yards away. Closer to her stood a small barn with an open door. From within she heard the comic sounds of sheep conversing and expressing themselves. Bahhh being their primary sound.
She moved up the drive slowly and peered between the boards of a fence between herself and the nearest end of the barn. She could see their puffy shapes moving about and saw much straw and wood shavings on the floor. She made eye contact with several sheep near the open doorway. One tilted its head curiously in response. The rest seemed not to pay her any mind at all.
“New wolf,” said the most observant one. Bahhh.
A few others repeated the news to those standing away from the door. Bahhh. Bahhh? Bahhh. Then all seemed to go back to normal.
“You are not afraid of me?” she asked.
“No.” Bahhh.
Then she heard a door. She looked and saw a heavy white wolf trotting towards her. Pure white, like her grandfath
er.
“Have you been left out of the fun?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, and started walking down the drive with him.
“Let them argue,” he said. “Best for most to keep clear of those two, if there be some disagreement.”
They reached the road and sat. The old white wolf scented the air.
“I have a question,” Evie ventured.
“I may have an answer. Or not.”
“Not an important one.”
“Out with it, child.”
“How could Abel know of the death song?”
“No trouble. One might hear many songs and many things when one eavesdrops on so many humans.”
“But he hates most.”
“He watches them. Oh, yes. Campers, hikers, fishermen. Very closely he watches hunters. Those who do no harm, he lets be. Those who practice ill often find ill. I do not know exactly about the song. It may have been last summer or may have been thirty summers. It makes no difference. He knew it.”
“Strange,” said she.
“Not to him. Since his earliest days he has been a wanderer. A watcher. Sentinel. A forest lord. A keeper. Then, he swore off the human life altogether. Devotes all of himself to guarding the pack and the territory. Managing the humans. Defending wild animals, if need be, from undue persecution and death. By that I mean poaching.”
“Killing for sport.”
“Yes.”
“That is why he killed that man,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Erica will be like him, I guess.”
“Can never be sure. But, I would say so. There are others of the same mind and ways. None equal to Abel, but some do wander and watch, above and beyond border patrols. Some go south. Some go west. Abel goes where he pleases.”
While they were speaking, at the same time, near the back window of the forge, the two brothers took turns looking in on the prisoner. Joseph had stacked his clothes on the desk in the forge, and now stood as the white wolf.
The woman began screaming.
“Soon,” Abel grumbled, half to his brother, half to his prisoner.
“Be done with it,” growled his brother. “I will drag her out that you might kill her now.”
“You may drag her out,” Abel replied. “And you may kill her. Before all. Those are my terms.”
“I have nothing to prove.”
“To me, you do.”
“I caught her. For all. Never forget.”
“That you did. For that you deserve all credit. But never forget, she exists because of you, brother. One decision brought about many consequences. All her crimes were made possible by you. So what you made possible, you must end.”
“And what next?” Joseph asked. “When does the killing cease? It is not for her that I am troubled.”
“You know my answer. My killings will cease when all crimes against us have ceased. When all crimes against the natural world have ceased. Call to me when the rule of kind love floods the earth. I will bow my head to you, and thereafter will graze beside the cattle.”
Joseph growled, “We can only guard what is ours. Ancient times have passed. The rest of the world is lost to us. We have no place in it. We cannot change it. We cannot change them. You cannot kill them all. There are too many.”
“On that we agree,” Abel said. He resumed speaking and then suddenly halted, turning his head to the west with his nose in the air. He tried once more to resume his argument and then snarled in frustration.
“What?” his brother asked.
“Have you no connection with young Erica?”
“Very little. Next to none. You know that.”
“I do not mock.”
“We have always clashed. She was born wild. She even refuses bonding with her parents. What of her now?”
“I sense her better than she senses me,” Abel said. “A fast learner, but still a learner. It would be wise, I believe, to seek her now. If the wardens have come calling here, in my absence, I am sure she will call on them. I am sure she has already called. What of it, I cannot yet tell.”
“Is she harmed?”
“No. I do not believe it.”
“Have you not taught her to be wary of the wardens?”
“Must I shadow her every moment? She learns as she wishes. You know this.”
“Then I will go to her.”
“Blindly? Nay.”
“Then, help me.”
“Yes. Like the old times when we fought and won at each other’s side, let us run together now.”
“We are not at war with the wardens.”
“Not yet,” Abel returned. “The day may come.”
“Warden Jones discovered your handiwork. Erica took offense to the removal of the bones.”
“He may be a maggot in waiting, but Jones has never troubled me.”
“He has me. And Harold. And now the hermit’s death has fueled his fire. Blame me for what you will. Blame yourself for what grief you have made.”
“My actions were just,” Abel snarled, his hackles rising. “Men will not reign here while my heart beats.”
“You put the dead man on display.”
“To that I say, do the humans not do likewise with all manner of creatures? Have they not heard that what is given is also received? I laugh in the face of their objection. What are these creatures that they should demand such lofty regard from higher beings?”
“We are not living in the old days any longer,” the white wolf said. “Hate them all you want, we must be cautious of them.”
Then he turned angrily, snarling, and started off down the road.
Abel looked in on the prisoner for a moment, grumbling with discontent. Then he caught up to his brother and they moved west, both in their own thoughts, past the longhouse. Down the road they found the silver-white speaking with the old Snow.
Evie sensed trouble in her grandfather before anyone spoke. She looked from one to the other with a cry swelling in her throat.
“We will go west through the maze of lakes to find Erica,” her grandfather told her. “You may join us on one condition. That is, if there be a confrontation of any sort, you will not be near. You will turn at my word, with no argument, and run for the village with all your strength.”
She nodded sharply, all jumpy with nerves.
He resumed, “Though it is winter and easier to travel, still, it will be hours of toil there and back. It is no pleasant sprint with food and rest soon to follow.”
“I can make it,” she said.
“I feared for this,” Harold said, blinking sadly.
“If we do not return by first light,” Abel said to Harold. “Or if we have not called to you, I ask you, my own blood, to burn my prisoner on a pyre. Feed the fire for days, lest the wardens come and discover bones. Let the ashes be planted in the spring with a tree for remembrance. An apple tree, so that our generations to come may eat and taste sweetness when recalling those who tried to tread on us.”
Harold said, “I would rather you return. All four. Then we will finish this battle together. We will leave it behind us together.”
“I give you my promise.”
“And I give mine.”
“May it be your way,” Abel said with a bow, and started off.
The others followed close after while Harold stood watching them go. The gray wolf that was his wife stepped out of their cabin and joined him.
“May be nothing,” he told her. “May be trouble. We will know in the morning. Until then, I would like to go west and linger, waiting, until the dark hour before dawn. If the young silver-white returns alone, I would like to meet her and bring her home.”
“Do not speak of such tragedies,” Agnes scolded her husband of one hundred and thirty years.
“I speak with a memory of truth,” he reminded her. “The old Snows will die for love of the young. It has always been that way. I do not wish it.”
“Will you kill the woman as Abel said?”
�
��If I must.”
“My husband, always doing what he must.”
“Will you go with me tonight?”
“I always do.”
Chapter 25
Robert Jones felt back in control again.
Once the others had left him it took only a few minutes of absolute quiet to settle him. His fear and confusion had ebbed and left a sort of hollow void in him that was taken over by a dogged determination. His injured pride rebounded and swelled. He wouldn’t be made a fool. Not without hitting back.
If he had observed this phenomenon in another, he might have easily identified it as dangerous and disadvantageous. Possibly self-destructive. But like many men, he was either blinded to his own error, or else, if not totally blind, simply refused to acknowledge it.
It was tunnel vision. Self-hypnosis.
He brought his truck around and opened one of the garage bay doors. Moved a few things to make space and then backed the truck in nose-out to the door. Then closed the bay door again and went into the main office.
From the gun cabinet he took a pump shotgun and two boxes of shells. He looked the long gun over briefly before loading the tubular magazine and then he stuffed the two big side pockets of his parka with shells. Buckshot.
It occurred to him for a brief moment that he had two very clear choices, with no middle ground. Quit and go home. Stay and fight.
Bull, he thought. I don’t quit. I don’t get pushed around. I push back. This is no more than a kid or two getting back at me for something. A fine I issued for some infraction. A party in the woods I broke up. Some bored college kid home for Christmas break.
He sat in his office chair in the dark by the woodstove with the shotgun across his legs. In his mind he tried to scan over the last few years of interactions with the public, local and visitors. Locals were easy. He pretty much knew them all because there were so few. It was the outsiders that presented a problem.
Then there was the larger problem. The backwoods of New England were littered with hundreds of small parcels of private property. Sometimes little more than half of an acre. Little unmaintained roads, rutted and grassy in summer, leading to old cabins and tarpaper shacks. Old pieces of family property now used a few weeks per year as camping getaways. Fishing and hunting cabins. Crash pads for snowmobilers. Quiet havens for underage drinkers. Bored high school and college kids looking for a party spot. The miniscule taxes on these properties were paid by men and woman that long ago moved from the area, or were very distantly related to the prior owners. Or, sometimes, people who had just done well and used some of their money to purchase a little peace and quiet in the boonies for their annual summer retreat from the city.
North Woods Law (The Great North Woods Pack Book 5) Page 11
