This is ridiculous. I’m the law. This is my job. I can go on a little. Just to be sure. Maybe they’ve got a snowmobile stashed up at the junction and I can get the registration sticker and find out who they are. Then turn around and get home before the snow flies. It’s good that you came out. You found the bag. Now you’ve got proof to back your story. Someone carried it off. You had to recover it. It’s your job.
Sure, go ahead and play that game. You know why you’re playing along. It’s not the job. You want to know what’s out there. Admit it. You’ve lived this lifestyle all these years and now you can’t stand not being in the know. You’ve laughed at every strange story, but now that something has happened to you, you need to know. You can’t let it go.
He rolled up the empty bag roughly and tried to cram it into the storage pouch of the snowmobile’s seat. It wouldn’t fit, so he tossed it on the side of the trail to grab on his way back. Then he thumbed the throttle and took off, going only about twenty-five miles per hour.
He felt more tense than tired, but his eyes were very tired and struggling to focus, straining to keep watch for what he knew not. And the wind felt brutal, even at low speed. It found its way in through every little crease and seam in his heavy clothing. It burned almost like fire.
Just a few more miles, he told himself. Go up to the trail junction. If there’s nothing there, turn around and get back for the night. Come back tomorrow in daylight, where the advantage is yours. That’s what you’ll do.
At the far end of the headlight beam, a dark shape suddenly crossed the width of the trail in one long bound. It touched down, sprang, and disappeared again.
Jones grabbed a handful of the brake lever.
Chapter 28
The three wolves pushed west, quick and steady. Not sprinting but not cruising. The roads and trails were mostly deserted. Dozens of lakes were easily crossed rather than skirted around. Many miles were behind them since leaving the village and the only significant animal life they encountered was a small herd of moose, also benefiting from the trail.
They were young bulls. A trio, likely run off by some old bull. Perhaps siblings recently departed from the herd to find their own opportunities. Obviously inexperienced, the wolves were nearly upon them before they realized it. They plunged off the trail in momentary panic, smashing through dry brush, only to turn and see with great relief as the wolves passed on by, uninterested.
On the outskirts of Baxter State Park the three Snows slowed at the sound of machinery. Light shone dimly ahead. They jumped off trail and took the time to lay and rest while a big trail groomer came lurching and groaning by. They could see the driver in the enclosed cab of the huge machine, warm and toasty. Happily oblivious to those watching him. He was making the most of that bitter night, grooming trails while they were free of the sometimes busy daytime snowmobile traffic.
While she had been moving at that steady pace, Evie had felt like she could keep on going for another ten hours. It was a rhythm, much easier to maintain than sprinting and stopping. This became evident as soon as she stopped, as it was then that she realized how hungry she really was. Her flanks were caving in. All that sprinting earlier in the night, and now hours of cross country had left her feeling like she hadn’t eaten in days.
She cleaned the ice from her face with her forelegs as she resolved to say not a word about her hunger. To run on while tired and starving was as much of a reality in a wolf’s life as fur and paws. It was not expected to be enjoyed. It was to be endured. To make one stronger.
Looking around, she realized that they were near the base of a massive old pine tree. Easily one of the largest trees she’d ever seen. It was so wide and its branches so dense that the ground around its trunk was permanently sheltered by its mass. The snow in which they now crouched was barely a foot deep. Beyond that inner radius of shelter the snow was three and four feet deep. Five and six feet where the wind had blown and drifted it.
Old-growth timber, she thought. Amazing. People rarely see such trees but in old grainy pictures.
“You are strong?” her grandfather asked, breaking her thought.
“I am,” she answered, feeling thankful that he hadn’t asked her directly if she was hungry. She wouldn’t want to lie any more than she’d wish to admit weakness.
The white wolf with the ghostly green eyes regarded her for a moment before looking away again. The noise and light of the big groomer was fading. Already Abel was standing and stretching.
They bulldozed and sprang through the deep powder and hopped back onto the trail. It had been fairly smooth before. Now it was as smooth as a newly paved highway.
“We are at least halfway to her,” Abel said. “I sense her stronger by the minute.”
“Can you guess the warden station?”
“I have an idea.”
“Favor is with us this night,” replied his brother.
“So far.”
“Harold has trailed us.”
“Some,” Abel agreed. “Only part way.”
“Why?” Eve asked.
Abel said nothing. He only fixed his eyes to the west in a concentrated glare.
“These trails,” said the silver-white. “These places. You have them all in your minds as maps?”
“Think of the trails around Ludlow,” her grandfather answered. “Only days you needed to memorize them.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Enough,” Abel said, and started off.
“Best save our breath,” her grandfather said.
She nodded and started off and they three ran stretched out in a line, the youngest in the middle, Abel in the lead.
Chapter 29
She stepped into her office and collapsed into her chair. Then swung her legs up and rested the damp heels of her boots on the corner of her desk. She felt everything from anger and insult, fear and confusion. All of it swirling around, making her temples ache. She was physically exhausted. Hungry. Emotionally drained.
I need help, she thought. Backup. But she couldn’t stand the thought of actually relaying the true events to anyone. She didn’t want to hear such nonsense pouring from her own lips. Didn’t want to hear the silence on the line followed by the awkward questioning.
For a moment she put it off. She closed her eyes and tried to envision one of the lighthearted Christmas movies she should have watched before bed. She settled on one and let it play by memory in her imagination. She felt herself calming, smiling inwardly. Warm and comfortable. Then felt it all disperse with a sharp jolt as one foot fell from the desk and smacked the floor, waking her with a start.
She checked her phone. Forty minutes had passed.
Clearing the screen while scolding herself for falling asleep, she called Warden Boyd two towns away. Thankfully he was a light sleeper and remarkably mellow about being roused after midnight. She explained briefly the events of the afternoon and evening and then moved on to the fact that Jones had gone off on some wild goose chase on his snowmobile.
“Cantankerous old goat,” Boyd remarked. “Jeezum crow, Jones ought to know better than that at his age.”
“You’d think.”
“Sure picked a great night to go out playing Rambo. Can’t guess it’s been too easy on you working with him over there.”
“Yeah, but, life is tough all around,” she replied, playing it down.
“Ain’t that the truth,” he assured her. “Okay, don’t stress it. You did the right thing, Kerry. Better to call for help now, before an incident grows into a big emergency dispatch.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Don’t suppose he’ll answer his cell phone, even if he does happen to hear it.”
“Maybe he’ll answer your number,” she said. “If he hears it.”
“Yeah, we old goats can’t get used to this new stuff. And he sure won’t answer his truck radio. Tell you what, we’ll save the time and try calling him while we’re driving. For now let me get Davidson on the phone. I’m guess
ing if we don’t doddle around doing our hair and stopping for coffee, we can meet you at the station house within, ah, maybe forty-five minutes. An hour tops.”
“Awesome,” Kerry said. “I’ll have fresh coffee waiting. Thank you.”
“Very good. We’ll sure appreciate that coffee. And just to be absolutely clear, you say you haven’t seen the girl again since she walked out of your place?”
“Correct.”
“Very peculiar,” Boyd said.
“Very.”
“Dare say spooky.”
“Yeah, to put it mildly.
“Jones may have made an enemy or two over the years,” he said. “But this sounds a little over the top.”
“A night to forget.”
“I could tell ya a story or two. Maybe not quite as good, but pretty good.”
“As long as it’s not tonight.”
“All right,” he laughed. “Keep your earmuffs on and keep that stove stoked up. We’ll sort it all out somehow or another. That’s why they pay us, right?”
“I guess so.”
“Okay. Between the three of us, we should be able to bully old Jones into giving up for the night. In the meantime, get those snowmobiles gassed up for us. I’ll see ya when I see ya.”
“Okay, will do. Thanks again.”
The call ended and she went out to fill the fuel tank in her old snowmobile and also filled the even older backup machine. They weren’t fancy but they were sure quicker than walking.
Then she returned to the front of the station. Added wood to the stove. Started a pot of coffee and then started heating water for a dehydrated spaghetti dinner.
Long night, she thought. Endless.
It had been her dream job.
Until she’d known all it entailed.
Outside, miles from the station, a gunshot she could not hear echoed in the darkness.
Chapter 30
The sleek black wolf leapt through the deep snow, darting between trees. She could hear the snowmobile idling and when she stopped and looked back, she saw Jones standing in the square of light before the grumbling machine.
Look at yourself, she thought, regarding the anxious man. Don’t you know? Don’t you see? You’ve bitten off more than you can chew. You waved the white flag once, by setting the bag in the walkway. What you’ve done before you must do again. Wave it now and you might yet live. Turn and go back. You are outmatched.
Almost on que there was a burst of flaming thunder from the shotgun’s muzzle, aimed at nothing. The pellets flicked off through the trees.
“All right,” the man shouted, his voice weak from a dry throat, his breath steaming. His head looked small after removing his helmet. “I know you can hear me. You want to play? Let’s get to it! You run by again and I’ll shoot. How’s that?”
Remarkable, Erica thought. His fingers must be burning. His breathing is labored. I can smell his adrenalin burning through his precious energy. There will be only temporary warmth from it. Maybe a slight sweat. Then he will be chilled and his heart will fail to keep his extremities from freezing.
Is he only prideful? Or insane? One of those men with a death wish? The sort that imagine themselves as rugged as the old explorers? An older man, refusing to accept the toll inflicted by time? Or an older man still covering the remembered frailties of youth with outward displays of bravado?
Yes. And no. He is some of all, but all of none. I see now. The job is his life and his life is the job. He is one of those rare men that opt to confront death rather than postpone it. Yes, his fear and pride manifests differently. Rather than bear the burden of reflecting on such matters and risk appearing weak, his mind reacts to fear by turning solely to action. Yes, it is an attempt at dominance. What is that old saying? Die with one’s boots on. Yes, that is this man.
Maybe he isn’t quite the worm I thought him to be.
She darted through the snow, making no attempt to be stealthy, and leapt across the trail once more. She heard one shot. Then a second and a third. She landed in the powder well off the trail and heard another boom followed by pellets snapping against the tree trunks. She had been very fast and he had been slow. Not one hit her.
Jones was near frantic now. His fingers were failing him with only liner gloves on. They were burning and going numb at the tips. He dug into his pockets for more shells, his eyes huge and darting around, and forced the shells roughly into the magazine. He leaned forward and made himself inhale deeply. His heart was drumming and the subzero air only made his chest feel tighter.
For a moment he looked at the idling snowmobile. His racing mind slowed. He knew he was acting crazy. He understood it as if from the perspective of some great height. If he had witnessed anyone else behaving similarly he would’ve scolded them mercilessly and told them to get home as soon as possible.
But then those thoughts scattered again. He saw the last trace of dark movement disappearing into the shadowed woods, and for reasons that he could never defend, he felt the irresistible urge to pursue the mystery into its own dark territory.
It’ll be okay, he told himself. Just go far enough to get off a few more shots. Maybe one more look at it. You can use the light of the snowmobile to see and to get back. You can do this. You have to try. If you don’t, you’ll live with it for the rest of your days.
Five seconds.
He stood at the edge of the trail and it felt to him as if standing at the edge of a cliff. Something was holding him back. Fear was present, but fear was not what held him. Beyond the acute awareness of danger, it was the hazy understanding of pressing too close to the point of no return. Images flashed through his mind. Memories. Some old. Some recent. Some good and some bad.
What do you want? You want answers? Or do you want to survive? To go on? Any day now you can collect your pension and spend your summers fishing from a boat and your winters from a warm shanty with a little stove. Is that such a bad pasture to be put out in?
Answers.
No, it’s not such a bad pasture. But what follows the good times? You know exactly what. Aimlessness. Pain. Complaining at the post office with the other old guys. Whining about the cost of coffee at the little store. The arthritis is already setting in and you know it only goes downhill. It gets worse and worse until finally you’re helpless and someone wheels you into a nursing facility and shuts the door behind you. The state takes most of what you worked to save and there you sit.
Five more seconds.
He stepped off the trail and sank to his waist in snow. He flipped the shotgun across his back with the sling across his chest and leaned forward and tried to wade out away from the trail, practically swimming. His hands sunk in the snow and the snow wet his wrists. He could feel ice cold crystals seeping into his sleeves and boots and up his pant legs, wetting his socks, and seconds later, freezing. Almost burning his skin.
He managed only thirty feet of hard progress before the inadvertent reflex of self-preservation kicked in, blunting his pride and curiosity, and ultimately causing him to turn and rush back for the snowmobile. The only means of escape. It looked so far away.
Panic took him, and in his panic he made a mad rush and fell forward in the snow and went out of sight. He popped up again with a gasp that was part cry of pain and more of terror. He was covered in snow. His face was wet now and his already parched lips began to burn as if being scalded by a hot drink. He could barely feel his nose and could only breathe through his parched open mouth. There would be no relief without struggle. All he could do now was look ahead at the snowmobile and keep digging. Keep crawling. Pride was behind him. The bare instinct to survive now dominated the whole of his being.
By the time he climbed back onto the trail he was riding a sharp upswing of emotion. He had made a foolish mistake, he realized. But he had been wise enough and had caught himself, hauling himself back just before his foot had gone over the precipice. He laughed to himself and gasped as he staggered and fell against the snowmobile, not realizing that he�
�d lost the shotgun some fifteen feet off the trail.
He climbed on and with aching hands fumbled the lever that put the machine into reverse, his head swimming with thoughts of home and warmth and comfort. The snowmobile lurched. He turned the handlebars sharply to the right and the skis turned hard. Then he hit the throttle with a freezing thumb that was not entirely in his control. By that small and seemingly insignificant act, he negated any good he had done himself by returning to the machine.
The engine revved. The rear end shot back, up over the small banking and off the trail and dropped down into the seemingly endless powder.
No, no, no, he was thinking as he felt the rear end sinking beneath him. The headlight pointed up into the trees. He leaned forward and struggled with the shift lever and got it back into forward gear and jammed the throttle. The engine revved again. The track spun and the rear end dropped deeper and deeper.
Stuck.
The machine rendered useless.
Stranded.
Miles from the station.
The night air was thirty below zero.
Chapter 31
The sleek black wolf stood at the opposite side of the trail, in the rough path left from the freezing man swimming through the snow. She regarded him partly with pity, partly with awe.
Why do this to yourself? You could have gone home. You could be warm in bed this very moment.
Robert Jones was too disturbed to realize what stood watching him. His mind was racing from one panicked thought to the next. Planning and problem solving seemed beyond him. The only consistent idea he could settle on was the infantile desire to somehow attain and enjoy warmth. Relief. Comfort.
“You can do this,” he muttered with a burst of that old New England spirit of defiance. “You can handle this. You screwed up. Now get to fixing it.”
North Woods Law (The Great North Woods Pack Book 5) Page 13
