HYBRID: A Thriller

by James Marshall Smith

  “You okay, Jack?” Montgomery finally asked.

  Corey swiveled around to face him. “They’re after my wolves, Bantz.”

  “There’s no way in hell that we or anybody else could’ve known this might happen.”

  “After all these years of fighting to bring wolves back to the Park, to—”

  “I found out we got another call from Washington today,” Montgomery interrupted.

  “What about?”

  “They gave Claire Manning the budget figures she’s been looking for. They didn’t have a choice. She threatened to make a ruckus.”

  “She’s trying to second guess me, the sonofabitch. McFarland’s been doing the same thing since day one. All over my ass. Just like my wife.”

  Corey rambled on. Maybe a stray wolf was on the loose, a killer hybrid. So what? The wilderness was a dangerous place. What can you do about it? Better to keep people away and leave to nature the wildlife and the woods and lakes and the streams. Removing the wolves was not going to happen. Not on his watch. He paused as if to wait for moral support.

  “It’s not the end of the world, Jack. If the superintendent does decide the Operation failed—”

  “What kind of talk is that?”

  “I mean, worst case, if the superintendent decided to move the wolves out of—”

  Corey slammed his fist on the desk. “I don’t want to listen to that shit! Do you hear me? The only way this project will come to an end is over my dead body, goddammit.” He turned to stare out the window again, breathing hard. Then he twisted back around. “And don’t look so smug, ranger. There could be more casualties than me around here.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Molly arrived close to dusk at the Colter Bar and Grille on the south end of Main Street, across from the Mountain View Chevron Station. Next door was Conover’s Laundromat, a place that made it convenient to drop a load of dirty clothes into a front-load washer, deposit four quarters, and stroll over for a cold brew.

  Peanut shells crunched under her boots as Molly sauntered across the floor through a haze of cigarette smoke and the reek of barbeque and beer. On one wall a bison head glared out over a country-western house band gearing up for the evening’s entertainment.

  “Nothing to drink,” Molly announced. “The Judge has the nose of a bloodhound.”

  “I can sneak you one to go for him, too,” Leeanne replied from behind the bar. She’d been a good friend of Molly’s for the past nine years. Molly told her she needed help and would tell her more when she didn’t have to talk over the damn band. She described Charlene’s features.

  “We were busier than usual at lunch,” Leeanne said. “But I might have seen her eating with a stranger. Jodi served them. ‘Course she’s off tonight.”

  Molly wrinkled her nose and mouth into a plea. “Could you do me a real big favor?”

  “Exactly how big a favor you talking, honey?”

  “Would you give Jodi a call for me?”

  Leeanne bit down hard on her back teeth and glanced up at the ceiling. Shrugging, she grabbed a pen and scribbled on a bar napkin, then handed it to Molly and glared back at her from the tops of her eyes. “Some of us gotta work for a living, girl. Tell Jodi I said ‘Hey.’”

  Molly rushed to the hallway. The pay phone, by some brilliant feat of architectural design, was located within easy earshot of the bandstand. Jodi answered on the fifth ring. Molly raised her voice to compete with the battering from the drummer in explaining her predicament.

  Yes, Jodi remembered the girl. On the skinny side. Had three glasses of lemonade and added heaping teaspoons of sugar to each glass, if you can believe that.

  “What about the guy?” Molly asked.

  “Sorry, did you ask about a guide?”

  Molly held the receiver down to her chest and stared at the frigging band, as if the nastiness of her glower would somehow stop the music, if that’s what they called it. She took a breath and shouted into the phone again. “The guy, Jodi. The man that joined her.”

  “Oh, they got together all right. He was a tall drink of water. Wore tattered jeans and gold wire-rimmed glasses. I overheard something about hiking. He appeared to be a tourist. Maybe a student. But he was a nice-looking kid, Molly. I mean, I’d let him eat crackers in my bed.”

  “You said hiking?”

  “I said what?”

  “Hiking, Jodi. You said something about hiking.”

  “That’s right. And I heard him say Yellowstone a few times, too.”

  “Did either mention where they were headed. Or the name of a trail or a place?”

  “Name of what?”

  “Name of a trail or a place.”

  “Can’t help you on that one.”

  “No problem, Jodi. Sorry I called so late.” Molly slipped the receiver back on the hook and leaned against the wall just as the singer in the world’s only one thousand decibel band announced a break.

  Good timing, asshole.

  She jabbed her hands into her sweater pockets and walked back down the hallway.

  The phone on the wall rang out.

  She turned and hustled back. When she shoved the receiver into her ear, Jodi answered. “I have that phone number there memorized, you know.”

  “Did you forget something?” Molly asked, crossing her fingers.

  “I can hear you a helluva lot better now.”

  “The band stopped playing. What did you forget?”

  “It’s probably nothing . . .”

  “Right now I don’t have a clue to work with, Jodi.”

  “The kid was talking about peppers.”

  “Which kid?” Molly asked.

  “The guy. The one I’d let—”

  “Peppers?”

  “He was concerned about stopping to get some kind of peppers. I thought it was ridiculous. But remember, he looked like a college kid. Can’t expect them to know that much.”

  Molly couldn’t make any sense of what Jodi had overheard and it was late. The Judge would be worried. She had to get home before he called the sheriff’s office and reported her missing.

  As she drove, she played back the conversation in her head over and over.

  Student . . . Yellowstone . . . hiking.

  Anyone new to Yellowstone would want to do the Grand Loop. But how many miles was that?

  Peppers?

  Maybe they wouldn’t go to the Park. He probably wanted to get to a motel. They could always hike tomorrow.

  Halfway home, it hit her. She pulled off to the side of the road.

  Bears.

  The guy who picked up Charlene was afraid of coming across a bear when they went hiking. He wanted one of those canisters of pepper spray to bring along on the hike. They were supposed to thwart off a bear attack.

  Marketing!

  She’d rather put her trust in kicking the shit out of the bear. Only one place in town would carry pepper spray.

  ***

  When Molly arrived at the General Store, the door was locked but lights glowed from the back. She pushed her face against the window and waited. Someone inside moved and she rapped on the glass with her knuckles. When no one responded, she walked to the door again and jiggled the handle, then hammered on the door with her fist.

  Lights came on up front and Sam Phillips shuffled to the entrance.

  “When the door don’t open,” he barked, “you can usually take that as a sign we’re closed.” A frown permanently adorned his long, trail-blazed face.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Sam.”

  He motioned for her to come in. Without speaking, he led her into the back room where he was opening boxes from a shipment.

  She scampered to keep up. “Of course I wouldn’t have knocked this late unless it was important.”

  He stopped to grab a box and give it a swift karate-chop. She knew he still held that grudge over the price-fixing charges she’d brought to the town council against Main Street businesses. “Could I ask a question, Sam?”

  Anot
her chop. “You can ask, I suppose.”

  “About a customer from this afternoon.”

  Sam reached inside the opened box and held up a transparent package of fish hooks. He examined it from every angle. She wondered if he was counting every damned hook.

  “Tall guy,” she continued. “Small, wire-rimmed glasses—”

  He threw the package into a pile with the others. “Lots of customers come through here. Tall, short, bald, fat.”

  “Maybe in his twenties.”

  Sam pushed his glasses to the top of his head. “What the hell is this all about?”

  “Don’t mean to grill you, but there’s a girl from down on Duck Creek who’s in trouble. Big trouble.”

  He raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  “She’s missing, Sam. Ran away. I think this guy picked her up and he’s probably up to no good.”

  Sam reached for another box and ripped it open. “So you’re some kind of sex cop now?”

  “I’m talking about the Loudermilk family, Sam. She’s one of their girls.”

  “You mean the Mormons? They’ve always been regular customers. Good people.”

  “They’re polygamists, Sam. The girl was being abused by the old man.”

  He stopped and stared back at her. “That’s one helluva charge to bring against someone.”

  “I know what’s going on with that family,” she said.

  “Then let the law handle it.”

  “Old man Loudermilk isn’t about to report her missing. I was thinking maybe you talked to this guy today. Tall? Glasses?”

  “Look, I’m busy right now.”

  “The girl was raped and beaten, Sam. By a customer of yours and a neighbor of mine. We can’t stand back and do nothing.”

  “Don’t raise your voice at me. I don’t care who your husband is. I told you I’m busy.”

  She didn’t have to put up with his stubborn asinine ignorance. When she turned to walk out, she stumbled over a box.

  Dammit.

  Molly bent over to rub her knee as blood trickled down her shin. Could’ve ruptured a vein. Would serve him right if she sued.

  Limping back toward him, she asked, “Would you have anything I could wipe this blood off with?”

  He looked down at her leg and walked over to a table and found a rag. He tossed it to her. “Did he look like the brainy type?” he asked.

  “Probably,” she said, not looking up as she dabbed at the blood.

  “Maybe I remember the guy,” he said. “He was going hiking. He read somewhere that he should carry a can of pepper spray for Grizzlies. I told him I wouldn’t have the guts to get close enough to use it.”

  As he spoke, Molly examined the rag and then flipped it over on top of a box. “By chance did he say—”

  “I told him that I always tie some bells on my knapsack. Like to give bears plenty of warning. That scares ‘em away. He laughed it off.”

  “Did he mention what trail he was planning on taking?”

  Sam pulled on his giant earlobe. “As best I recall, might’ve been Deer Pass. It was miles north of here anyway, by the way he was talking .”

  Molly smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll check it out.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, then he said, “We’re just trying to make a living around here, Molly. It’s not like we’re getting rich doing this day in and day out.”

  As she drove home she rehashed her earlier meeting with the Loudermilk women, still trying to gain a glimpse into what might be going on deep inside their brain-washed heads. For now, she had to get home to take care of the dogs and the Judge, in that order. She could do nothing more for Charlene Loudermilk at the moment, but she’d sure as hell be ready to take off at dawn.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Can we drive up to Bozeman after school tomorrow to buy my scout uniform?” Michael asked his dad. “The Camporee is Saturday.”

  “I was planning on Bozeman later in the week,” Dieter replied. They sat at the kitchen table where Michael was gobbling a hot dog with spicy mustard dripping onto his T-shirt. Dieter watched Megan counting the cooked carrot slices on her plate. She’d exhausted stories by now of her first day at school and was quickly winding down.

  Rusty scratched at the back door and barked. When Dieter opened it, Rusty flew inside. Dieter walked out onto the deck where a light breeze stirred treetops. As he scanned the yard and the thick forest backing on the property, a pair of ravens cawed from the upper limb of a cottonwood. Again he thought how lucky he was to call Colter home. When he returned inside, Megan had dropped a carrot slice on the floor for the dog.

  “Please take Rusty out on the deck, Megan, and play with him a little while. Your brother and I need to talk.”

  “I wanna stay here,” she whined.

  “Mind your daddy please.” He patted her behind and gently shoved her toward the back door. “And stay on the deck like I told you.”

  She reached up to the door for the slippery brass knob, careful to keep her other hand out of the jamb. He remembered the time she made the mistake of closing the sharp edge on her tiny fingers and her anguished crying.

  When Dieter sat back down at the table, he turned to his son. “Bozeman’s an hour away. I’ll see if I have any calls later in the week. If not, we can drive up there.” Maybe he’d been too harsh. He wasn’t sure how to deal with his son at times like this. Since his mother’s death, Michael was drifting away. He could sense it in so many little gestures. The way he looked away from him at times, ignored his questions, or shrugged off his touch.

  “Have you decided if I can go on the overnight hike?” Michael asked.

  “We’ve talked about that a dozen times. I’m not changing my mind.”

  Michael took another bite of his hotdog and chewed, appearing to think about his next move.

  “You do know,” Dieter said, “that mountain hikes can be pretty rough going. Especially for guys your age. Sometimes even a little dangerous.”

  “How come dangerous?”

  “Lots of reasons.”

  “There’s no snakes . . . like in Pennsylvania.”

  “How do you know that?” Dieter asked.

  “My friend told me.”

  “You made a new friend?”

  “Randy Cunningham. He’s eleven and he’s going on the Camporee.”

  “Do you want more milk?” Dieter scooted his chair back to get up, but Michael didn’t answer him. He sat back down. “What’s the matter, son?”

  Michael dropped the hot dog onto his plate and grabbed the bottom of his chair with both hands and squirmed. “Are you going to find somebody else to be our mother?”

  Dieter reached out to place a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Who knows what life might bring, son. But I’m certainly not looking for anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I’ve watched you stare at Amy.”

  Low blow. “My main concerns are you and Megan. I want you both to be happy.”

  Michael took a gulp of milk, then picked up his napkin and wiped at his mouth. “Mom was my den mother in the Cub Scouts.”

  “I remember that.”

  “I bet she would let me go on an overnight hike.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re too young. Next year, maybe. Please don’t badger me about that anymore.”

  Michael sipped more milk and looked up. “Dad, do you know what a ‘pisskaan’ is?”

  “That’s a strange word.”

  “It’s a buffalo jump. Kinduva cliff out in the middle of the plains.” Michael looked proud that he knew something his dad didn’t. With a burst of confidence, he spoke about how Indians used to round up herds of buffalo and chase them into a stampede toward the cliff. The flustered animals would run right over the edge without knowing where they were going. “They would crash down below and smash their skulls and die.”

  Dieter knew exactly the source of that history lesson. “Did Amy explain why the Indians did that?”

  Michael
folded his hands into his lap. “How did you know she told me about it?”

  “Just a wild guess.”

  “They tried to kill them to get their hides and meat and stuff.”

  “Did she also tell you that the Indians did that so often that the buffalo almost disappeared?”

  “Amy said the white man caused that.”

  Dieter thought it better to read a little more background before getting any deeper into the discussion. “That’s interesting.”

  “I had a dream last night,” Michael said. “It was kind of scary.”

  “You mean a nightmare?”

  “I was running. Running very fast down a dirt trail with lots of other people and—”

  Rusty barked loudly from the back deck. Dieter rushed to the door as the dog kept barking. Megan was nowhere in sight. He shouted for her as he charged down the steps and into the yard. He should never have done it. He should never have let her go outside in the yard alone. It was a stupid mistake, but Michael had taken his mind off of—

  “Surprise!” Megan popped out from under the deck behind him, laughing.

  He turned to catch her as she ran into his arms, then stooped to his knee and looked directly into her eyes, breathing rapidly. He held her chin up with his thumb and finger, trying his damnedest not to lose his temper. “When I tell you to stay on the deck, Megan, I mean it. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded and frowned, then twisted away from him and scampered up the steps.

  Michael stood on the porch. “She was only playing a game, Dad.” He followed his sister in and slammed the door behind him.

  ***

  Dieter drifted into the kitchen with aspirin tablets in his fist. He reached for the bottle of Early Times nestled under the sink, then walked out onto the back deck and sank into the weathered rocker. The kids had gone to bed early that evening, both still upset with their dad’s unusual bout of anger. He couldn’t blame them—he was upset with himself.