HYBRID: A Thriller

by James Marshall Smith

  Without a word, he shoved his hat on and walked to his truck. She followed behind, keeping between him and the Datsun. As she slipped into her car, she spotted two women hunkered down in the open bed of his truck, their faces turned away.

  FORTY-TWO

  Josh Pendleton shoveled hay with a pitchfork into a feeder. The llamas had gathered inside the open pole barn behind the trailer, jockeying for position. He was calling each by name as if they were his grandkids.

  When he spotted Dieter, he put down the pitchfork and ambled over. “You’re looking upset, my friend.”

  “My retriever was attacked, Josh.”

  “Land o’ Goshen! Your Golden? Attacked by what?”

  “No idea at the moment. But Rusty’s hanging on.”

  “God forbid, I’m sorry, Doc. How bad was it?”

  “Mainly lacerations around his neck.” He paused for a moment as Josh shook his head. “Did you hear about the Grizzly attack on the hikers?”

  “Was all over the radio.”

  “From the inside info I have,” Dieter said, “it wasn’t a Grizzly. It was a wolf.”

  “How they know that?”

  “From the one victim who survived.”

  Bending down, Josh picked up a stalk of hay and twiddled it between his thumb and forefinger while he contemplated the new piece of evidence.

  Before Josh could ask another question, Dieter blurted, “Tell me honestly, do you think there’s more than one renegade wolf causing all the havoc in the area?”

  “Highly unlikely. Next to impossible is probably a better way of putting it.”

  Dieter knew that would be his response before he asked it. He was leading Josh down the path he’d already blazed in his mind. “I’ve looked at a topo map. The distance between my cabin and the site where the attack took place is at least ten miles. Isn’t that too big a territory for a single renegade wolf . . . I mean . . .”

  “To call home? Come with me, Doc. I’ll ‘lighten you on some things I’ve been researching.”

  Dieter followed as Josh sauntered across the barn, speaking to each llama as he passed. He led the way into an enclosed nursing station in the corner of the open area and flicked on the light. A map was taped to the wall. The region around Colter was recognizable and Dieter stared at the pins with bead heads that covered a narrow swath. One pin stood out with a scrap of red tape attached.

  Josh said, “That’s where they found the photographer.” He pointed at the winding Madison River near Baker’s Hole. Each of the other pins located a livestock attack he and Molly had heard about from the neighboring ranchers. Most were never reported, just complained about. The pins scattered along the Park boundary from the Jack Straw Basin south of West Yellowstone north to the Ernest Miller Ridge, a twenty-five mile stretch. Josh inspected the map, waving his finger up and down the western border of Yellowstone. “Look here, Doc. The renegade is working this area. A few miles north of Colter near the border right here would be your cabin.” He tapped on the map with his index finger.

  “When Amy and I did a flyover,” Dieter said, “we spotted a massive black wolf. It was a few miles north of Colter and west of Crowfoot Ridge. If I was reading the map right, it was fairly close to Divide Lake.”

  “And it’s not that far from your place,” Josh replied. “It’s where Bacon Rind Creek and the Gallatin River meet.”

  Exactly! All of that was confirmation of what Dieter had already suspected. He turned and paced across the small room and back.

  “I’m going looking for it, Josh.”

  “Looking for what?”

  “The renegade wolf.”

  Josh folded his arms across his chest. “And what do you plan to do if you find it?”

  “Just want to locate it first. Then consider my options.”

  “Was you thinking about shooting it?”

  Dieter looked away without answering. The whole damned affair had gone on too long. The fact was that he’d dedicated his life to caring for animals and believed deeply in that calling. He’d asked himself all night long how could he ever justify twisting that philosophy around, ripping apart the very principle that had guided his life and career. He had to take action and regretted he’d put it off so long.

  “That is the craziest thing you’ve thought of since I’ve known you,” Josh said. “Tell me, Doc. Have you ever spent a single day in the woods hunting?”

  “I used to hunt rabbits with my dad.”

  Josh tossed back his head and laughed. “With a twenty-two, I suppose. It takes more than a popgun to bring down a wolf on the run. You got only one shot and it’s got to be fatal.”

  “I’m fed up with all this, Josh. Fed up living in fear for my kids, my dog. I’ve even thought about moving back to Pennsylvania. But why? Why should I leave the place I love and want to raise my children because of asses like Jack Corey. He’ll never be convinced there’s a problem.” He then paused before asking the big question. “Will you join me?”

  Josh stared back at him as if it were time to knock some sense into a naïve, bred-in-the-city veterinarian. Instead, he shook his head and motioned for Dieter to follow him out of the room.

  Dieter wouldn’t budge. “I’m going to do this. I made up my mind when I was stitching up Rusty’s neck.”

  Josh kept moving and opened the door as he reached to turn off the light switch.

  “I need your help, Josh.”

  Josh stopped and glared back at Dieter, who stood planted to the floor in the dark. “I can’t believe I have to say this to a professional. But have you given any damned thought to what would happen if you got caught?”

  “I don’t plan on getting caught.”

  Josh switched the light back on. “You’re a stubborn cuss. That’s just one level down from a fool. Now the Lord and my llamas know that I’m tryin’ to be diplomatic here.”

  “There are plenty in my past who’d call me something like that . . . or worse.”

  “You do know, Doctor Vet, that hunting inside the Park can send you up the river? And I ain’t talking about the Yellowstone.”

  Dieter broke into a big smile and said nothing.

  “I’m not joking! If I was you, I’d take me serious instead of standing there grinning like a Chessy cat that just swallowed a fat mouse.”

  “I never thought I’d hear an ol’ trapper talk like this. You’re acting like you never flirted with breaking the law before.”

  Josh placed one hand on his hip and lowered his head. He then looked up at Dieter for a long minute while he fiddled with his beard. “I could track down and take out a wolf without leaving a trace.”

  “I believe that.”

  “Well, would you believe I’m not as young as I used to be? In my prime I’d plan on a week for something like this. You have to be persistent once you pick up the trail of a wolf. You gotta beat ‘em at their own game, one that their ancestors have practiced for ten thousand years.”

  “So . . . does that mean you’ll join me?”

  Josh shook his head. “I’m just not up to it, Doc. I can still hike a mile or two—maybe—but the years are taking a toll on my joints.” He patted his left knee.

  Dieter knew he was expecting too much from his friend, who had already provided him with a mother lode of knowledge. “Of course. Sorry I tried to talk you into this. It was selfish of me.”

  “Time’s short,” Josh said. “You better get going ‘fore long. The almanac says the big snows should be moving in soon. Easier to track in the snow, but you don’t want to risk a blizzard. A lot of high country hikers found that out when they woke up to meet Saint Peter.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Scoutmaster Farmington called out names from the list while the Scouts going on the overnight hike stood with their backpacks on the ground beside them.

  Michael had counted thirteen boys gathered at the trailhead, a short walk from Indian Creek campground. Some of them carried hiking sticks made from tree branches. Most of the backpacks looked to
o heavy. His own was light because he didn’t have to carry a pup tent or many supplies. He belonged with the younger kids who’d sleep in the patrol cabin at the end of the hike. Fat Kenny stood nearby, ready to laugh at him as soon as he opened his mouth.

  Michael knew that his dad didn’t understand he was old enough for all this. He also knew that it was wrong to sign the permission slip for his dad, but there were lots of wrongs to go around.

  His dad was wrong for taking him away from his friends in Pennsylvania and he was wrong for bringing Amy into his and Megan’s lives. He’d watched the way his dad looked at her and knew what that was all about. Amy wasn’t old enough to be his mom. She was more like an older sister. It wasn’t fair that his mom was murdered either. If only his dad had only taken the time to go with her downtown that day. He wasn’t blaming him but if he had gone with her, maybe he’d still have his mom.

  Scoutmaster Farmington flipped though the papers on his clipboard and called out each Scout by name. Michael began thinking through it all again. It was going to be a hike of a few miles at least . . . maybe five. Maybe longer. He could be spending the day instead at Indian Creek, messing around with Randy Cunningham and taking part in archery and games and other stuff. Randy was back there pouting because his parents wouldn’t let him go on the hike.

  “Michael Harmon?” the scoutmaster called out.

  Everyone stared at him. “Yes, sir.”

  Farmington paused to study the permission slip, spending far too much time. “Your father couldn’t be with us this weekend?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But he’s not here.”

  “I mean, no, sir.”

  Fat Kenny held his hand over his mouth, snickering.

  Farmington looked back at Michael for a moment, as if he knew what was going on. But then Farmington slid the paper underneath the stack and shouted, “Daniel Throckmorton?”

  Michael finally let out his breath. No way he could back out of the hike now. When the last name was called, the Scouts picked up their backpacks and assembled in single file.

  ***

  The vet at the Livingston hospital had called the night before to say that Rusty had a setback during the day. He had checked his blood count every four hours and had doubled up on the IV antibiotics. Rusty’s white cell count was now coming down, a sign the infection was under control.

  After Dieter prepared his backpack and laid out his hiking clothes, he rummaged through his old equipment stored in a shed behind the cabin: camping stove, lanterns, cooking utensils, a sleeping bag, air mattress with a hand pump, paring knife, a bundle of plastic storage bags. Glad he’d saved his gear for all those years. Many of the boxes had never been unpacked from the move across country. In one box he found the dart pistol he once used and packed along with it were syringes and vials of old tranquilizing drugs, expired years before—why had he saved those? During one summer in veterinary school, he’d worked for the state on a project to manage black bears in Rothrock State Forest. The project team trapped bears using Aldrich paw snares baited with bacon; tagged them for breeding studies. Even though he only had to shoot bears with drug-loaded darts, he had to become certified for firearms.

  He recalled it all quite well—two consecutive weeks away from Fran. He’d leave his old sleeping bag behind. No plans to use that in the wilderness. He flicked through his backpack for the third time, then walked into his bedroom and lifted the mattress to pull out the Ruger .44 Magnum. The grip seemed molded for his own fingers. He lifted the weapon to eye level and rotated the empty chamber. Perfectly balanced. Holding the revolver straight ahead with both hands, he leaned forward and pulled the trigger. The dull snap of the hammer felt rock-solid. He repeated the action, each time taking aim on a different target around his room and pulling the trigger. A box of cartridges was in a dresser drawer covered with underwear. After stuffing the box and revolver into the backpack, he turned on the radio by his bed for the news and weather, but jerked upward when he heard something sounding like a Mack truck pull up outside the cabin.

  Opening the front door, he broke into a wide grin. Josh Pendleton stood by a horse trailer latched to the back of his pickup. He shrugged. “What can I say?” He nodded toward the trailer. “Rocko’s been looking for adventure.”

  Unexpected change in plans and perfect timing.

  “But . . . what about hiking? Is your knee up for it?”

  “Oh, hell yes,” Josh replied, flexing his knee. “Made up a ointment with juniper and black pepper and wrapped it up good. It’s feeling pretty warm right now.”

  Josh motioned for Dieter to move closer as he lifted the llama’s panniers that had been stuffed with supplies from the floor of the trailer. He opened a pouch and brought out a rusted contraption, holding it up for Dieter to admire. “That’s what you call a ‘number fourteen’! One of the old reliable traps I’ve hung onto. I’ll wait here while you grab your gear.”

  Dieter hustled back to the cabin, eager to take advantage of his sudden luck . . . even though he had a different approach in mind.

  ***

  Josh drove north on Highway 191 along Yellowstone’s western border toward the area that he’d earlier pinpointed on his map at the llama ranch. He motioned behind him toward the truck bed where Dieter had tossed the electronics and antenna rig. “So you planning to watch TV on the search?”

  Dieter had come close to destroying the antenna when he crushed it with his feet in the plane accident. But when he later twisted the aluminum tubing back into shape, it resembled what the Judge had delivered.

  “It’s a signal detector,” Dieter said.

  “Never heard of a signal defector.”

  “Detector . . . a signal detector. Most of the wolves have transmitters attached to neck collars. They constantly send out electronic signals. Judge Schoonover made up this portable system for me.” He explained how he picked up the faint signal from a lone wolf in the flying excursion with Amy.

  Throughout the morning they occasionally stopped along the highway to hunt for likely spots to begin the search, walking up streambeds and along cleared paths, scouting for tracks. Josh often found subtle signs of wildlife, whether claw marks on a chunk of bark from a dead log due to a foraging bear or scrapes on an aspen trunk caused by a bull elk rubbing away antler velvet. For a better look at tracks or scat, Josh would awkwardly lower his giant frame to his hands and knees on the ground. One pile of scat was from a cougar. He showed how the cat used its hind feet to mark territory by heaping together leaves, pine straw and twigs before dropping a load on top. Josh spread the mound apart with his pocketknife to reveal bone and hair fragments of the unlucky prey that had been an earlier snack.

  They returned to the truck and continued up the highway, repeating the task of pulling off the road and searching. When Josh saw Dieter inspecting the dashboard, he told him that his truck radio stopped working a year before. It turned out to be a blessing; he’d developed a keener ear for engine noise. He said that by listening carefully, he could tell when an oil change was due.

  Josh spotted a sign for a trailhead and drove into the dirt parking area. High on a post were the words Fawn Pass. As they pulled in, Josh gazed into his rearview mirror. “Hold on just a damn minute. I can’t believe this.”

  A park service truck rolled in behind them. Dieter quickly hid the box and antenna on the floorboard under his legs as the park ranger ambled toward the truck and Josh lowered his window.

  “I see you’re towing a llama, sir,” the ranger said.

  “Rocko’s his name,” Josh replied. “He’s one spirited animal. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “I take it you plan to do some guiding in the Park?”

  “I got a trekking permit, Officer.”

  “May I see it, sir?”

  Josh reached for the wallet in his back pocket. While he fumbled for it, Dieter pushed the antenna further down with a hidden hand. Josh displayed his Park Service permit and the ranger studied it. “Oh, y
es, Mr. Pendleton. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “You know about me?”

  “You betcha. Your name’s been around.” The ranger paused, looked inside the truck, and then back at Josh. “You gentlemen be careful today. A storm’s moving in. Could be lightning. Nothing to fool around with in high country.”

  As the ranger pulled away, Dieter looked at Josh and winked. “What’s it like being famous?”

  “Wish I could tell you I need a bullwhip to chase the women away.”

  The trailhead showed footprints of hikers along with vehicle tread marks in soft mud. “ATV tracks,” Josh said. “Likely a teenager on a joy ride.”

  They sauntered a short distance down the trail to explore when Josh suddenly stopped and bent down. He pointed to an obvious animal track—a huge impression of a heel pad and four toes. “Look how sharp the edges are. That track’s no more than a day old.” He hovered his hand over the print. “A wolf, all right. But just look at its size! Sumbitch.”

  “Jack Corey told me there wouldn’t be any wolves in this area,” Dieter replied.

  “A print that size ain’t from any ordinary wolf.”

  A rush of adrenaline shot through Dieter as they hurried back to the truck. Josh led Rocko down the ramp from the trailer and hauled out the trekking gear. He spread a pad over the llama’s back before tossing the saddle and panniers up and over it. After hooking the front and rear cinches under the animal’s belly, he pulled until they were snug. He placed a strap around Rocko’s breast and fastened the ends to the saddle, then tied a large coil of rope onto the saddle. (“Could come in handy on the hike.”) Dieter helped stuff the panniers with food and gear as Josh made sure the load on each side balanced, then cut off sections of rope to fasten the antenna to the saddle horn and tie the signal meter to the panniers.

  Josh stood back to appraise his handiwork. “Rocko, ol’ boy, you look like a creature from Mars with that thing growing out of your back.” He grabbed him by his muzzle and planted a kiss on his big wet nose, then glanced skyward. “Lots of feathers up there. We’d best get moving.”