Throughout the night he had seen pairs of eyes glowing among the trees at the edge of the rock fall as members of the pack came and went, but none of the animals attempted to negotiate the treacherous slope of broken rock to get at him. He knew that in the wild wolves will go to extreme lengths to avoid contact with humans, so all things being equal, he should not be in great danger of imminent attack. But all things were not equal. These hybrid wolves were not in the wild; they were trapped, like him, in a giant enclosure where he was the only pork chop around, and he had no idea when they had last eaten. In addition, they had been brutalized, first as cubs by having their vocal cords cut out, and then, presumably, through the kind of training that had conditioned in them the savage reactions he had observed in the aI doubtnimal he had rescued from the river. In short, the behavior of these animals, as individuals and as a pack, would be unpredictable. And he had only the rocks he held in each hand to defend himself against the pack’s fangs and the guns of the men who would come during the day.
As dawn broke he found one animal, a male who was either very hungry or intent on establishing territory, standing at the edge of the rock fall and looking up at him. Almost five minutes passed, and then the wolf bared his fangs and started up toward him, picking its way carefully through the sharp riprap. Garth casually tossed the rocks he was holding in the wolf’s direction, and then picked up two more. He was not so much concerned with holding off the wolf, which could not maneuver well in the broken rock, as he was with the stalking animal giving away his position to Kunkel’s young, would-be storm troopers, perhaps led by Franz Heitman, who had certainly begun fanning out through the enclosure at first light. The worry became academic when a burst of fire from an automatic weapon caused the animal to spin around and bound back into the trees.
Garth recognized the young man who emerged from the tree line twenty-five yards away, to his right, as one of the two companions of the acne-scarred man whose jaw he had broken at Hook Mountain in Nyack. Then he had worn black leather, but now he was dressed in an ill-fitting khaki uniform with the group’s lightning-bolt-and-cross patch on the left sleeve. Although the morning was cool, with a steady breeze from the river, the young man’s shaved head glistened with sweat, and his hand trembled slightly as he raised his Ingram MAC 10 machine pistol and aimed it at the spot where Garth sat behind the boulder.
“That’s a lot of firepower you’re carrying there, kiddo,” Garth said easily, “but the problem with it is that it sprays bullets all over the damn place. Be careful you don’t shoot your dick off.”
“You’re not such a big shot now, are you, Frederickson?” the man said in a tight voice that cracked. “Get down here!”
Garth wriggled his damaged left ankle in his boot. It was still decidedly sore, but there was no longer the stabbing pain that had disabled him before. It would hold his weight. “I can’t. I twisted my ankle.”
“Get up or I’ll kill you!” the man shouted, his eyes glinting with both hatred and fear as he started to advance up the slope toward Garth.
“So kill me. What do you have to lose, except twenty to twenty-five years tacked onto the prison sentence you’re already likely to get? You’ll certainly make Kunkel and the man you call Otto, not to mention your birdbrain buddies, happy, at least in the short term, because right now they’re probably trying to figure out what to do with me if they find me. Like you said, I’m a big shot.”
The man advanced another ten yards, and Garth threw a rock with a hard sidearm motion, aiming at the man’s head. He missed, but the sharp stone sailing past his left ear made the man flinch, and then stumble on the rocks at his feet. By the time he recovered, Garth was on him, punching him in the throat, then on the side of the head. The man fell, hitting his head against a boulder, and did not move. Garth did not check to see if he was dead or alive, for he didn’t care. He picked up the machine pistol, checked to make certain that the specially treated cloth he carried in his jacket pocket was hidden yet secure, and then, limping only slightly, headed down into the trees. Now that he had a weapon, he was no longer interested in running or hiding, or trying to find a way to escape from the enclosure. He would see how these young men and their masters, who dreamed of the deaths of so many, liked it when they faced their own deaths at the hands of a man who loathed them as much as they loathed their intended victims. And he knew there was an outraged veterinarian who would very much approve of his present course of action.
“You know,” Sarah Bleekman had said, eyeing Garth suspiciously as she removed the needle from the flank of the muzzled animal that lay on the examining table under the tall man’s firm grip, “what you’ve got here is mostly wolf.”
“I do know, Doctor,” Garth replied evenly, stroking the animal’s quivering hide as the veterinarian prepared a second hypodermic. “It’s a hybrid. It’s got some dog in it, but not much—maybe five percent or less, just enough for some breeder to leave a paper trail that would make it legal to own in some states.”
“Not in this state,” the round-faced woman with short, dark hair replied in a clipped tone that displayed her severe disapproval. “It doesn’t belong here. This is a very dangerous animal. You need a special license to keep one, and then you have to show a special reason. Wanting to own an unusual pet to impress the neighbors isn’t good enough.”
“I appreciate the information.”
Sarah Bleekman studied the famous man with the shoulder-length, wheat-colored hair and dark brown eyes who stood across from her on the opposite side of the examining table. He had, she thought, a mysterious, perhaps mystical, aura of gentleness combined with an implacable toughness, was probably not afraid of anything, and would be very dangerous to the wrong kinds of people. This was the first time she had ever spoken to Garth Frederickson, but like virtually everyone else in Cairn, she knew who he was; he was a celebrity, like his folk singer wife, whose career had blossomed the sixties, been eclipsed, and was now once more in ascendance. She had read the newspaper stories and heard the wild rumors about this man who, teamed with his even more famous brother, ran what was probably the world’s best-known private investigation agency, an enterprise that seemed to virtually specialize in bizarre cases that made headlines. But she often saw Garth Frederickson and Mary Tree in town and they never acted like the celebrities they were, never put on airs. She certainly did not believe all the stories she’d heard about the fantastic exploits of the Frederickson brothers, but if even half of them were true, Garth Frederickson was a brave man indeed. He did not seem like the type of man who would need to keep a dangerous pet to bolster his ego. “Did you have his vocal cords cut out?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you if you knew any other veterinarian in the area who might have been persuaded to perform such a procedure.”
She shook her head, and then tears misted her eyes. “Then it doesn’t belong to you?”
“I fished it out of the river yesterday. It was going someplace, or was after something, that was very important to it; he’d been swimming against the tide and current to the point where he was exhausted. Even if he hadn’t been about to be run over by a tanker, I believe he would have kept swimming until he drowned, or his heart burst.”
“Do you know where he was going, or what he was after?”
“No.”
She finished, patted the animal’s flank and stroked its fur. “Except for the fact that it’s been mutilated and can’t communicate vocally with its own kind, it’s healthy. And now he’s had his shots against rabies and distemper. But you do agree that it isn’t a suitable pet?”
“I thought I’d said so,” Garth replied quietly, holding the wolf’s leash tightly as the animal bounded off the table and looked up at Garth with its golden eyes. “How much do I owe you, Doctor?”
“You saved his life, and I gave him his shots. We’ll call it even. May I ask what you plan to do with him?”
“Try to find a suitable home.”
“That won’t
be easy, Mr. Frederickson. The only suitable home for this animal is in the wild, and he can’t go back there.”
I don’t think he’s ever been in the wild; my guess is that he was bred. Are you recommending that I have him put down?”
Sarah Bleekman quickly shook her head. “I’m not recommending that at all.”
“Then I’ll just have to do the best I can, won’t I?”
“Let me know if I can help you. Seeing what’s been done to this animal makes me very angry.”
“You can let me know if anybody else with a wolf comes to see you, or if you can think of a skilled amateur who might have cut this animal.”
“I will. You might want to touch base with the police or Animal Control about having this animal.”
“Oh, I certainly plan to.”
Jeffrey Bond, the Cairn chief of police, was in his office, a grim expression on his face as he sorted through a small pile of crudely printed posters and pamphlets. The thickset man with the crooked nose looked up as Garth knocked and entered, and then smiled thinly and motioned Garth to a chair.
“Got a couple of minutes, Chief?”
“For you, my friend, I’ve always got a couple of minutes.” He paused, pushed the pamphlets and posters aside with a gesture of distaste. “Besides, I’m tired of looking at this garbage.”
“What kind of garbage?”
“We’ve got ourselves a neo-Nazi outfit in town. They call themselves Angry Cross. They opened up a storefront down at the end of Main Street, staffed by a bunch of skinheads. They’re trying to turn Cairn into Creep City. They seem to be having an influence on some of the more dysfunctional members of our little community, and we’re getting a rash of synagogue and Jewish cemetery desecrations. I can’t stand it.”
“Bust them.”
“Can’t. Protected speech.”
“Defacing synagogues and desecrating cemeteries isn’t protected speech.”
“No, but we have to catch somebody actually doing that, and then tie them to Angry Cross. We haven’t been able to do that so far—but we will.” Bond cursed softly under his breath as he swept the papers onto the floor, then sighed as he turned back to Garth. “How’s your smart little brother? Usually he’s up here every weekend during the summer, but I haven’t seen him around lately.”
“My smart little brother is over in Europe taking care of business with some corporate clients while I hold down the fort here.”
“What can I do for you, Garth?”
“A couple of things. First, I want to report what I think could be a crime in progress.
“And what crime do you think could be progressing?”
“I’ve got a hybrid wolf out in my van. I fished it out of the river yesterday.”
“What the hell is a hybrid wolf?”
“A big, bad wolf with a little dog bred into it. They breed them legally in Alaska, where they’re a hot item as pets. I’ve got a small mining claim in Alaska, and I used to spend some time there before I got married, so I’ve seen a lot of hybrid wolves. They’re dangerous.”
“How dangerous?”
“Keeping one as a household pet would be about the equivalent of bringing a leopard, or a bear, into your home; you could do it, but you’d best not be prone to carelessness.”
“So it’s very dangerous,” Bond said with a curt nod. “And that makes it illegal in New York State. Any tags on it?”
“No. And there’s more to it. This animal had its vocal cords cut, and it’s an old scar. That indicates to me that the owner, or breeder, planned from the time it was a pup on bringing it into a heavily populated area. When you hear a wolf howl, you know it’s no dog—and wolves howl a lot. It would be bound to attract attention. Cut their vocal cords, and they don’t howl. Maybe only this animal was cut, and then delivered on special order. But maybe not.”
“You’re suggesting that a breeder may be attempting some market expansion?”
“I think it’s possible that mutilated wolf cubs are being shipped down here from Alaska to people willing to pay a premium for them, or even that they’re being bred around here. Now, some people might ask, who the hell would want to keep a wolf in the city, or in a town like Cairn? Well, you and I know there are lots of folks who think they might want a wolf—but especially people who are into intimidation, personally or professionally.”
Bond slowly nodded. “Like drug dealers thinking to make a switch from pit bulls as the attack dog of choice to wolves.”
“The thought occurred to me, and I wanted to share it with you.”
“What are you going to do with it, Garth?”
“If I turn it over to the shelter or the state police, my guess is that they’ll eventually feel they have no choice but to destroy it. Mary would certainly not be pleased, and I’d hate to think I saved it from drowning only to have it killed. It’s not the animal’s fault that it was brought here, or that its vocal cords were cut and it can’t be put out into the wild. I’d like to try to find a home for it, maybe with one of my friends in Alaska, or in one of the western states where they’re legal. But I need some time. I have no right to keep a dangerous animal in Cairn for any length of time, and I don’t want to. I was hoping you could give me some kind of short-term special license.”
“How much time do you need?”
“Hard to say, Chief.”
“How about a month?”
“That should be more than enough.”
“You’ve got it. I can’t do anything in Cairn that would supercede the laws of New York State, but I’m going to have to get some very specific information on laws regarding a hybrid wolf, and that could take me just about a month. In the meantime, I’ll give you a letter specifying the conditions under which you found the animal, the fact that you immediately brought it to my attention, and so on. You may consider yourself the holder of a temporary permit to keep it—at least until I officially tell you otherwise.”
Garth left his friend feeling satisfied with the situation, and he felt even better later in the day when Mary spent the afternoon with the animal, feeding it, walking it around the house, frequently wrestling it to the ground as he had taught her, and even occasionally gently nipping it on the ear to drive home the point, or illusion, of her dominance. Garth judged that the wolf now respected Mary, accepted her as master, and even liked her. He could also plainly see that Mary was quickly growing very attached to the wolf, not as a symbol of an endangered species about which she cared passionately, but as an individual. That worried him, but he would attend to the problem of their inevitable separation when he had to. In the meantime, he was satisfied that Mary would be safe with the wolf when he was not around. His usual good judgment in such matters made the wolf’s reaction the next morning when Mary came down to the beach where he was working it even more startling.
“Garth, there’s somebody on the phone calling about the ad. He says—“ The wolf‘s reaction was so quick and unexpected that Garth was caught totally by surprise. The animal had been lying on its side, tongue lolling out as Garth brushed his coat, but when Mary appeared he suddenly sprang to his feet, bared his fangs in a savage, silent snarl, and leaped forward. It was brought up short when it reached the end of its chain and fell down, but it immediately got up again and lunged at her. But then Garth was on its back, pressing it to the ground, gripping it by the throat.
“Get back around the house!” he shouted at Mary.
Trembling, eyes wide with shock, Mary slowly backed away until she was around the side of the house, out of sight. Gradually the wolf stopped its struggles and grew very still, its body limp. It closed its eyes, made breathy mewling sounds in its throat. Garth released his grip on the animal’s throat, but kept his hands in front of him as he slowly got up. The wolf remained on its side, limp, softly mewling—almost, Garth thought, as if it were ashamed. He retrieved the muzzle from the boathouse, put it on the unresisting wolf, and then went to his wife.
Mary was wearing a jacket against the mild
morning chill, but she had her arms wrapped around herself, as if she were cold. She was still trembling and ashen, her blue eyes flooded with tears.
Garth stepped forward, held her tightly.
“Garth, what did I do?!”
“Nothing,” Garth replied, then stepped back and thoughtfully studied his wife standing in front of him in her black leather jacket with its white leather piping and long fringes on the sleeves and bottom. “Take your jacket off.
“What?”
“Take off your jacket. Put it on the ground.”
“Garth, there’s a man on the phone.”
“He’ll wait, or he’ll call back. Just do as I say, please. I want to see something.”
Mary was thoroughly puzzled, but she did as her husband asked, removing her black and white leather jacket and tossing it behind her on the lawn.
Garth nodded, continued, “Now pull yourself together. Wait about a minute, and then go back around to where the wolf can see you. It’s important that you don’t show fear; act as if nothing had happened.”
“All right.”
Garth walked back down to the beach where the wolf was still lying on its side, head resting on the sand, staring almost wistfully out at the river. Garth knelt down beside it, scratched it behind the ears. A few moments later Mary, a determined smile on her face, strode purposefully around the side of the house. The wolf saw her at once, but its reaction this time was totally different from what it had been less than five minutes before. It rolled over on its stomach, and slowly got to its feet and shuddered. With head down and tail drooping, it slouched toward her, and when it reached the end of its chain it dropped to its belly, once again resting its head on the sand.
Garth was too far away to stop Mary as she abruptly walked to the wolf and dropped to her knees beside its head. “You have been a very bad boy,” she said sternly, wagging a finger in its face and cuffing it lightly on the jaw. Then she lay down on top of the animal and draped her arms lovingly around its neck.
Lone Wolves Page 5
