Land of Wolves, page 11
“Is that a threat?”
She turned the knob and opened the door, signaling that the personal portion of the conversation was over. “More of a guarantee.”
And like that, she was gone.
Flipping the handset up, I took the scrap of paper from my desk and punched in the number, dialing Fort Collins.
It rang three times and then a woman answered in an uncertain voice. “Hello?”
“Hello, this is Absaroka County Sheriff Walt Longmire. I’m trying to get in touch with Donnie Lott?”
“Is this about my dad?”
“Excuse me?”
“This is his wife, Jeannie. Is this something about my dad up there?”
“Well, possibly. You’re Abe Extepare’s daughter?”
“Yes, God help me.”
I leaned back in my chair and cradled the phone in the crook of my neck. “I get the feeling that you know why I’m calling.”
“The kidnapping thing.”
“Yep. Would you like to tell me what that’s all about?”
“Why?”
I took a second. “It’s kind of a serious charge, and I’d just like to get the lay of the land before it gets even more serious.”
“Are we being charged with something?”
“Not now, but I would like to know what’s going on between the two of you and your father.”
She fumbled with the phone. “Oh, God . . .”
“If this is a bad time?”
I listened as she breathed. “It was just a stupid threat. Look, my father is very attached to Liam, and we sometimes have trouble getting him from the old man, so Donnie called that idiot Libby Troon and asked her about getting someone to help us get our son back.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Well, Donnie’s had some difficulties with the law, and I didn’t want to press charges on my dad. I mean, Abe’s my father for goodness sake.”
“I see.”
“But my husband can be a little intimidating and so can my father, and the last time we were up there he threatened Donnie with a shotgun.” There was a pause. “Look, my parents are getting older, and it’s easier for them when Liam is around, and they know we’ll be coming if he’s there. I don’t know, it’s all screwed up. Family, you know?”
“It’s what I deal with the majority of the time.”
“Well, Donnie’s going to be pissed that Dad’s gotten you involved.”
“Actually, he didn’t.”
There was another pause. “Did Libby Troon get you—”
“No, there’s been a bit of a tragedy up here that involves one of your father’s herders, and I happened to be over there and met your son.”
“What kind of tragedy?”
“He appears to have committed suicide.”
I listened as she caught her breath. “Oh no, which one?”
“A Mr. Hernandez. Did you know him?”
“No, but I know that Dad gets very attached to his herders.”
“Miguel Hernandez, he was Chilean and somehow politically involved down there.”
“How terrible.”
“Is there any possibility that your husband knew him?”
She laughed. “No, no. Donnie doesn’t want anything to do with the sheep business—the closest he ever came to ranching was buying a cowboy hat and learning to line dance. That’s one of the problems between him and my father.” There was a long pause, and then she spoke again. “I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was again?”
“Longmire, Walt Longmire.”
“My father built an empire, Sheriff Longmire. The problem is that now that he’s built it, nobody wants it but him. I don’t suppose you have any kinds of problems like that in your family?”
“Actually, I still own my family ranch.”
“Working?”
“Leased.”
I could hear disappointment in her voice, all the way from Colorado. “Oh.”
“Ms. Lott, from what I understand, Mr. Hernandez has family down there in Greeley and we’re having trouble getting in touch with them. You wouldn’t happen to know them, or know how I could contact them?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, are you or your husband planning on coming up anytime soon? I’d like to speak with you, perhaps along with your father?”
“We were hoping to get Liam this weekend.”
“Maybe I can help with that. When you get a clear picture of what your travel plans are, could you give me a call and we’ll set something up?” I read her the number and then we said our goodbyes.
That’s the problem with empires—they’re all personal.
* * *
—
As I rounded the corner at Fort Street, I noticed a white Toyota pickup with Montana plates trailing me. Making the turn to go to the hospital, I pulled into the alley behind the bank and stopped, rolling down my window as Keasik Cheechoo pulled up beside me and lowered hers.
“Hey, robbing a bank?”
“Nope, I just saw you tailing me and thought I should see if you wanted something.”
“You saw me?”
“I did.”
“I thought I was being really inconspicuous.”
I glanced around. “It’s a small town with not much cover. Do you have something on your mind, Ms. Cheechoo?”
She nodded, parked, and, telling her dog to stay, walked over to my window. “News from the wolf front.” She leaned her elbows on the sill, a little breathless. “As it turns out, 777M is something a little special.”
“In what way?”
“He’s native.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“To Wyoming, he’s one of our original wolves.” She smiled and continued. “Sheriff, wolf remains in the Lamar Valley of Yellowstone National Park go back almost a thousand years; wolves have always been here, but they were irremotus and not occidentalis.”
“I’m not following.”
“By the late nineteen thirties there were maybe a dozen wolves remaining in Yellowstone Park, and they were irremotus, but in the sixties they started using compound-1080, sodium fluoroacetate, to virtually wipe them out. Do you know that one spoonful of that stuff can kill a hundred people?”
“No, I can’t say that I do.”
Ignoring my answer, she continued, “But there was a sighting in the late seventies of a dark-colored pair living in the northeast section of the park.”
“So?”
“So, the midnineties was when the occidentalis, the Canadian wolves, were reintroduced into the Yellowstone ecosystem—a completely different subspecies.”
“And the irremotus is the native Wyoming wolf that you say survived? How is that possible?”
She threw up her hands. “Who knows? Usually the ox’s kill the irre’s but some of the irre’s must have survived both them and the poison.” Out of basic respect, I reached down and switched off the motor on my truck. “There must’ve been a mating pair that produced pups that produced more pups that must’ve produced this guy.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“777M was tagged and collared by a National Park Service trainee before turning him loose. Well, our people did the DNA paperwork and discovered 777M is full-blood irremotus.”
“Don’t the two subspecies mix?”
“Not generally, and like I said, it’s more common for the ox’s to kill them because they’re smaller, but not this guy if he’s as big as you described.”
“You’ve seen him too.”
“Yes, but not as close as you.”
I thought about it. “So, you have a throwback.”
“I know, isn’t it amazing?”
“Congratulations.”
“Well.” She stared at me. “You have to stop your wolf hunt.”
“It’s not my wolf hunt, Ms. Cheechoo, it’s the Department of Agriculture’s Wolf Management people or the predator board you need to be talking to, not me.”
“But you’re picking the wolf hunter.”
“No, I’m not. That was Ranger Coon’s attempt at a joke, since he is retiring, and one that I don’t think is particularly funny. I suppose you could also talk to Don Butler of the Wyoming Cattlemen’s Association, but I’d imagine that’s going to be a rather one-sided conversation.”
“You’re not going to help me?”
“Frankly, I don’t see how I can.”
She stepped back and practically shouted at me. “Call off the wolf hunt!”
“I don’t have the jurisdiction to call off anything, Ms. Cheechoo. It’s the state and federal agencies you’re talking about. I’m a county sheriff. Now, if you want to talk to me about the investigation into the death of Miguel Hernandez, that’s within my job description, but not wolves.”
She stood there for a moment more and then stalked away, headed for her truck, but turned back and stuck a finger out at me. “By the way, I read your interview in the local paper, and for my money it was one of the most shameless, exacerbating things I’ve ever read—you’ve started a full-blown wolf scare here, Sheriff.”
With that, she turned away again and jumped into her truck, tires squealing down the street. I thought about going after her and giving her a citation, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember if I had a ticket book in my truck.
I glanced over at Dog, who looked as shell-shocked as I felt, and then pulled out and continued to the hospital. “Let’s not follow that car, shall we?”
Dog wanted to go into the hospital and couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed inside. “It’s not my fault they don’t allow dogs.” I stood there holding the door of my truck in the sunshine as he studied me. “I don’t know why you wanted to come, they’ve never allowed dogs.”
He sat and continued looking at me, eye to eye.
“Some people are allergic . . . Or something. I don’t know.” I rolled down the windows a bit, and he settled, resting his mammoth head on his huge paws, and stretched out the full length of the seat as I shut the door.
Walking into Durant Memorial always gave me a slight chill, maybe because there were times when I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to leave the place of my own volition. I turned the corner, waved at the receptionist, and walked down the hall to Isaac Bloomfield’s office.
Knocking on the door, I heard nothing inside and then knocked again, wanting to make sure that the piles of files hadn’t fallen over and incapacitated him.
“He’s not in there.”
I turned to see David Nickerson, Isaac’s protégé—and didn’t we all have them these days? “Where is he?”
“Outside. There’s a picnic table in the back where the staff can eat if the weather is nice.”
“Thanks.” I pushed off and walked past the dark-haired young man.
“It’s the other way.”
I called over my shoulder. “I’m bringing a friend to lunch.”
It didn’t take long for Dog to navigate the grounds around the hospital building, and he now sat with Isaac’s hands cradling his head, the finely boned fingers supporting the boxy muzzle as the two old souls gazed into each other’s eyes.
“Maybe you should do his DNA.”
“I’m not so sure I want to know what he is.”
Isaac released Dog’s head and reached onto the picnic table, breaking off another piece of matzo and feeding it to the beast. “Happy Passover.”
I broke a piece off for myself. “Certainly seems like spring today.” Chewing the unleavened bread, I did my best to ignore the thin remains of snow on the grounds, leftovers from the skiff of the other night.
“Are you all right, Walter?”
“I . . .” I thought about whether I wanted to share my symptoms with him but then figured he was the only one who was medically trained that I really trusted. “Um . . . I’ve been having these phases.”
“What kind of phases?”
“I’m not really sure, but it’s like some traumatic pause.”
“Physically or mentally?”
“Both.”
He studied me, and then his eyes went toward the trees by the creek. “You are familiar with the fight-or-flight response?”
I nodded. “Survival-oriented acute stress response.”
“Yes, but have you ever heard of the fight-flight-or-freeze response?”
“No.”
“You access the menace as something you can defeat or one that you must run from. Both of these responses require a burst of biochemical, such as adrenaline, that enable you to combat or flee your adversary. But what if in those nanoseconds of response time, you realize that you can neither defeat nor escape the menace.” He finally looked back at me. “Are these phases happening in moments of stress?”
“No.”
“Interesting. Are you alone?”
“Mostly.”
“How long are these periods?”
“Vic timed one at almost eight minutes.”
“It is possible that your mind is disassociating itself from the terrifying enormity of what you are facing because accepting it might rob you of your sanity.”
I looked at the concentration camp survivor. “I’m getting tired of it all, Doc. I’m getting sick of what people do to one another.”
“This is the first time you’ve felt this way?”
“No, but it’s gotten to me worse than it ever has before.”
He nodded. “You’ve been through a great deal lately.”
“Maybe it’s enough.” He stared at me through the thick-framed glasses as I spoke to the surface of the table. “Maybe it’s time to have it over with—just up and quit.”
“That would be a shame.”
“Why?”
He adjusted the glasses and smiled the sad smile that had aged like wine. “Because you are very good at what you do, Walter.” Isaac reached under his down jacket and pulled a small plastic bag from the front pocket of his smock. He handed it to me.
I held the bag up but couldn’t see anything inside.
“Mule hairs.”
I sighed, thinking about how high the man had been hung. I held the bag up in the sun and could now see the short fibers and then lowered it to the table and studied the wood grain of the surface. “So, what is it I’m so damned terrified of, Doc?”
“Why Walter, I would’ve thought it was obvious.” He smiled his sad, worldly smile. “Yourself.”
7
“Even though Chuck Coon is fur-bearing, I still don’t think we’re going to be able to have a hunting season on him.”
Vic cocked her head at the game warden. “He’s retiring, that means he’s old and slow and will be easier to shoot.”
“Um, I don’t think the department will go for it.”
She crossed her legs. “Then I guess I may have to resort to the shoot, shovel, and shut-the-hell-up plan.”
I glanced at the twenty-inch brown trout on the wall above Ferris Kaplan’s desk, adjusted my hat on my knee, and changed the subject. “What do you know about this Keasik Cheechoo?”
He laughed. “The wolf advocate—she’s a major pain in my ass, but that’s not an official department position either.”
“She was quoting me some interesting findings on 777M earlier today.”
“Like what?”
“That he’s a native Wyoming wolf and not one of the Canadian transplants you guys brought down here in the nineties.”
“First off, we didn’t bring them down here, the Forest Service did, and second, I haven’t heard anything about that.” I spread my palms as he studied me and looked thoughtful, finally shaking his head. “Irremotus. That would be highly unlikely.”
“How big of a deal would it be?”
“Huge, like finding an extinct species or the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot.”
Vic slumped in her chair. “So, we get to be the ringmaster of an even bigger shit-show than the one we have now.”
“Possibly.” Ferris leaned down and opened a desk drawer. “Want a drink?” Not waiting for a response, he placed a bottle of Sazerac Rye on his blotter along with two tumblers. “You guys are going to have to share.”
Vic reached for the glass as he finished pouring. “Okay, so this wolf is collared, right? So why can’t you guys just track him and dart him, or whatever you do?”
Kaplan took a sip from his personal glass and leaned back in his chair. “Well, that supposes that the smart collar is operating.”
I reached over and took the tumbler from Vic as she lowered it from her lips. “I take it it’s not?”
“Sometimes. The new collars were developed by a team of scientists at UC Santa Cruz with accelerometers like those of smartphones.” He paused and glanced at Vic. “Will you explain what a smartphone is to him?”
She turned to me. “It’s a phone that’s smart.”
The game warden sighed. “Anyway, they not only track the wolf but give us an indication of when they’re burning up calories by running or conserving energy while resting, almost like keeping a diary of the wolf’s activities.”
“Sounds great. So, what’s the problem?”
“That batch got the first-generation leftovers, and they proved to be a little finicky. Sometimes they transmit; sometimes they don’t.”
“The Cheechoo woman also mentioned that a trainee was the one who tested and collared 777M.”
“That could’ve also had an effect.”
Vic took the glass back from me. “Does it have GPS tracking?”
“Sometimes.”
I leaned forward. “And is it true that private individuals can get transponders and track the wolves themselves?”
He nodded. “If the transmitter on the collar is working, yes. I’ve heard of cases over near Yellowstone and that could be true with 777M.”
“Hey, what the hell is this 777M shit anyway? It sounds like we’re talking about a U-boat—can we just name this fucking wolf?”
She turned the knob and opened the door, signaling that the personal portion of the conversation was over. “More of a guarantee.”
And like that, she was gone.
Flipping the handset up, I took the scrap of paper from my desk and punched in the number, dialing Fort Collins.
It rang three times and then a woman answered in an uncertain voice. “Hello?”
“Hello, this is Absaroka County Sheriff Walt Longmire. I’m trying to get in touch with Donnie Lott?”
“Is this about my dad?”
“Excuse me?”
“This is his wife, Jeannie. Is this something about my dad up there?”
“Well, possibly. You’re Abe Extepare’s daughter?”
“Yes, God help me.”
I leaned back in my chair and cradled the phone in the crook of my neck. “I get the feeling that you know why I’m calling.”
“The kidnapping thing.”
“Yep. Would you like to tell me what that’s all about?”
“Why?”
I took a second. “It’s kind of a serious charge, and I’d just like to get the lay of the land before it gets even more serious.”
“Are we being charged with something?”
“Not now, but I would like to know what’s going on between the two of you and your father.”
She fumbled with the phone. “Oh, God . . .”
“If this is a bad time?”
I listened as she breathed. “It was just a stupid threat. Look, my father is very attached to Liam, and we sometimes have trouble getting him from the old man, so Donnie called that idiot Libby Troon and asked her about getting someone to help us get our son back.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Well, Donnie’s had some difficulties with the law, and I didn’t want to press charges on my dad. I mean, Abe’s my father for goodness sake.”
“I see.”
“But my husband can be a little intimidating and so can my father, and the last time we were up there he threatened Donnie with a shotgun.” There was a pause. “Look, my parents are getting older, and it’s easier for them when Liam is around, and they know we’ll be coming if he’s there. I don’t know, it’s all screwed up. Family, you know?”
“It’s what I deal with the majority of the time.”
“Well, Donnie’s going to be pissed that Dad’s gotten you involved.”
“Actually, he didn’t.”
There was another pause. “Did Libby Troon get you—”
“No, there’s been a bit of a tragedy up here that involves one of your father’s herders, and I happened to be over there and met your son.”
“What kind of tragedy?”
“He appears to have committed suicide.”
I listened as she caught her breath. “Oh no, which one?”
“A Mr. Hernandez. Did you know him?”
“No, but I know that Dad gets very attached to his herders.”
“Miguel Hernandez, he was Chilean and somehow politically involved down there.”
“How terrible.”
“Is there any possibility that your husband knew him?”
She laughed. “No, no. Donnie doesn’t want anything to do with the sheep business—the closest he ever came to ranching was buying a cowboy hat and learning to line dance. That’s one of the problems between him and my father.” There was a long pause, and then she spoke again. “I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was again?”
“Longmire, Walt Longmire.”
“My father built an empire, Sheriff Longmire. The problem is that now that he’s built it, nobody wants it but him. I don’t suppose you have any kinds of problems like that in your family?”
“Actually, I still own my family ranch.”
“Working?”
“Leased.”
I could hear disappointment in her voice, all the way from Colorado. “Oh.”
“Ms. Lott, from what I understand, Mr. Hernandez has family down there in Greeley and we’re having trouble getting in touch with them. You wouldn’t happen to know them, or know how I could contact them?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, are you or your husband planning on coming up anytime soon? I’d like to speak with you, perhaps along with your father?”
“We were hoping to get Liam this weekend.”
“Maybe I can help with that. When you get a clear picture of what your travel plans are, could you give me a call and we’ll set something up?” I read her the number and then we said our goodbyes.
That’s the problem with empires—they’re all personal.
* * *
—
As I rounded the corner at Fort Street, I noticed a white Toyota pickup with Montana plates trailing me. Making the turn to go to the hospital, I pulled into the alley behind the bank and stopped, rolling down my window as Keasik Cheechoo pulled up beside me and lowered hers.
“Hey, robbing a bank?”
“Nope, I just saw you tailing me and thought I should see if you wanted something.”
“You saw me?”
“I did.”
“I thought I was being really inconspicuous.”
I glanced around. “It’s a small town with not much cover. Do you have something on your mind, Ms. Cheechoo?”
She nodded, parked, and, telling her dog to stay, walked over to my window. “News from the wolf front.” She leaned her elbows on the sill, a little breathless. “As it turns out, 777M is something a little special.”
“In what way?”
“He’s native.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“To Wyoming, he’s one of our original wolves.” She smiled and continued. “Sheriff, wolf remains in the Lamar Valley of Yellowstone National Park go back almost a thousand years; wolves have always been here, but they were irremotus and not occidentalis.”
“I’m not following.”
“By the late nineteen thirties there were maybe a dozen wolves remaining in Yellowstone Park, and they were irremotus, but in the sixties they started using compound-1080, sodium fluoroacetate, to virtually wipe them out. Do you know that one spoonful of that stuff can kill a hundred people?”
“No, I can’t say that I do.”
Ignoring my answer, she continued, “But there was a sighting in the late seventies of a dark-colored pair living in the northeast section of the park.”
“So?”
“So, the midnineties was when the occidentalis, the Canadian wolves, were reintroduced into the Yellowstone ecosystem—a completely different subspecies.”
“And the irremotus is the native Wyoming wolf that you say survived? How is that possible?”
She threw up her hands. “Who knows? Usually the ox’s kill the irre’s but some of the irre’s must have survived both them and the poison.” Out of basic respect, I reached down and switched off the motor on my truck. “There must’ve been a mating pair that produced pups that produced more pups that must’ve produced this guy.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“777M was tagged and collared by a National Park Service trainee before turning him loose. Well, our people did the DNA paperwork and discovered 777M is full-blood irremotus.”
“Don’t the two subspecies mix?”
“Not generally, and like I said, it’s more common for the ox’s to kill them because they’re smaller, but not this guy if he’s as big as you described.”
“You’ve seen him too.”
“Yes, but not as close as you.”
I thought about it. “So, you have a throwback.”
“I know, isn’t it amazing?”
“Congratulations.”
“Well.” She stared at me. “You have to stop your wolf hunt.”
“It’s not my wolf hunt, Ms. Cheechoo, it’s the Department of Agriculture’s Wolf Management people or the predator board you need to be talking to, not me.”
“But you’re picking the wolf hunter.”
“No, I’m not. That was Ranger Coon’s attempt at a joke, since he is retiring, and one that I don’t think is particularly funny. I suppose you could also talk to Don Butler of the Wyoming Cattlemen’s Association, but I’d imagine that’s going to be a rather one-sided conversation.”
“You’re not going to help me?”
“Frankly, I don’t see how I can.”
She stepped back and practically shouted at me. “Call off the wolf hunt!”
“I don’t have the jurisdiction to call off anything, Ms. Cheechoo. It’s the state and federal agencies you’re talking about. I’m a county sheriff. Now, if you want to talk to me about the investigation into the death of Miguel Hernandez, that’s within my job description, but not wolves.”
She stood there for a moment more and then stalked away, headed for her truck, but turned back and stuck a finger out at me. “By the way, I read your interview in the local paper, and for my money it was one of the most shameless, exacerbating things I’ve ever read—you’ve started a full-blown wolf scare here, Sheriff.”
With that, she turned away again and jumped into her truck, tires squealing down the street. I thought about going after her and giving her a citation, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember if I had a ticket book in my truck.
I glanced over at Dog, who looked as shell-shocked as I felt, and then pulled out and continued to the hospital. “Let’s not follow that car, shall we?”
Dog wanted to go into the hospital and couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed inside. “It’s not my fault they don’t allow dogs.” I stood there holding the door of my truck in the sunshine as he studied me. “I don’t know why you wanted to come, they’ve never allowed dogs.”
He sat and continued looking at me, eye to eye.
“Some people are allergic . . . Or something. I don’t know.” I rolled down the windows a bit, and he settled, resting his mammoth head on his huge paws, and stretched out the full length of the seat as I shut the door.
Walking into Durant Memorial always gave me a slight chill, maybe because there were times when I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to leave the place of my own volition. I turned the corner, waved at the receptionist, and walked down the hall to Isaac Bloomfield’s office.
Knocking on the door, I heard nothing inside and then knocked again, wanting to make sure that the piles of files hadn’t fallen over and incapacitated him.
“He’s not in there.”
I turned to see David Nickerson, Isaac’s protégé—and didn’t we all have them these days? “Where is he?”
“Outside. There’s a picnic table in the back where the staff can eat if the weather is nice.”
“Thanks.” I pushed off and walked past the dark-haired young man.
“It’s the other way.”
I called over my shoulder. “I’m bringing a friend to lunch.”
It didn’t take long for Dog to navigate the grounds around the hospital building, and he now sat with Isaac’s hands cradling his head, the finely boned fingers supporting the boxy muzzle as the two old souls gazed into each other’s eyes.
“Maybe you should do his DNA.”
“I’m not so sure I want to know what he is.”
Isaac released Dog’s head and reached onto the picnic table, breaking off another piece of matzo and feeding it to the beast. “Happy Passover.”
I broke a piece off for myself. “Certainly seems like spring today.” Chewing the unleavened bread, I did my best to ignore the thin remains of snow on the grounds, leftovers from the skiff of the other night.
“Are you all right, Walter?”
“I . . .” I thought about whether I wanted to share my symptoms with him but then figured he was the only one who was medically trained that I really trusted. “Um . . . I’ve been having these phases.”
“What kind of phases?”
“I’m not really sure, but it’s like some traumatic pause.”
“Physically or mentally?”
“Both.”
He studied me, and then his eyes went toward the trees by the creek. “You are familiar with the fight-or-flight response?”
I nodded. “Survival-oriented acute stress response.”
“Yes, but have you ever heard of the fight-flight-or-freeze response?”
“No.”
“You access the menace as something you can defeat or one that you must run from. Both of these responses require a burst of biochemical, such as adrenaline, that enable you to combat or flee your adversary. But what if in those nanoseconds of response time, you realize that you can neither defeat nor escape the menace.” He finally looked back at me. “Are these phases happening in moments of stress?”
“No.”
“Interesting. Are you alone?”
“Mostly.”
“How long are these periods?”
“Vic timed one at almost eight minutes.”
“It is possible that your mind is disassociating itself from the terrifying enormity of what you are facing because accepting it might rob you of your sanity.”
I looked at the concentration camp survivor. “I’m getting tired of it all, Doc. I’m getting sick of what people do to one another.”
“This is the first time you’ve felt this way?”
“No, but it’s gotten to me worse than it ever has before.”
He nodded. “You’ve been through a great deal lately.”
“Maybe it’s enough.” He stared at me through the thick-framed glasses as I spoke to the surface of the table. “Maybe it’s time to have it over with—just up and quit.”
“That would be a shame.”
“Why?”
He adjusted the glasses and smiled the sad smile that had aged like wine. “Because you are very good at what you do, Walter.” Isaac reached under his down jacket and pulled a small plastic bag from the front pocket of his smock. He handed it to me.
I held the bag up but couldn’t see anything inside.
“Mule hairs.”
I sighed, thinking about how high the man had been hung. I held the bag up in the sun and could now see the short fibers and then lowered it to the table and studied the wood grain of the surface. “So, what is it I’m so damned terrified of, Doc?”
“Why Walter, I would’ve thought it was obvious.” He smiled his sad, worldly smile. “Yourself.”
7
“Even though Chuck Coon is fur-bearing, I still don’t think we’re going to be able to have a hunting season on him.”
Vic cocked her head at the game warden. “He’s retiring, that means he’s old and slow and will be easier to shoot.”
“Um, I don’t think the department will go for it.”
She crossed her legs. “Then I guess I may have to resort to the shoot, shovel, and shut-the-hell-up plan.”
I glanced at the twenty-inch brown trout on the wall above Ferris Kaplan’s desk, adjusted my hat on my knee, and changed the subject. “What do you know about this Keasik Cheechoo?”
He laughed. “The wolf advocate—she’s a major pain in my ass, but that’s not an official department position either.”
“She was quoting me some interesting findings on 777M earlier today.”
“Like what?”
“That he’s a native Wyoming wolf and not one of the Canadian transplants you guys brought down here in the nineties.”
“First off, we didn’t bring them down here, the Forest Service did, and second, I haven’t heard anything about that.” I spread my palms as he studied me and looked thoughtful, finally shaking his head. “Irremotus. That would be highly unlikely.”
“How big of a deal would it be?”
“Huge, like finding an extinct species or the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot.”
Vic slumped in her chair. “So, we get to be the ringmaster of an even bigger shit-show than the one we have now.”
“Possibly.” Ferris leaned down and opened a desk drawer. “Want a drink?” Not waiting for a response, he placed a bottle of Sazerac Rye on his blotter along with two tumblers. “You guys are going to have to share.”
Vic reached for the glass as he finished pouring. “Okay, so this wolf is collared, right? So why can’t you guys just track him and dart him, or whatever you do?”
Kaplan took a sip from his personal glass and leaned back in his chair. “Well, that supposes that the smart collar is operating.”
I reached over and took the tumbler from Vic as she lowered it from her lips. “I take it it’s not?”
“Sometimes. The new collars were developed by a team of scientists at UC Santa Cruz with accelerometers like those of smartphones.” He paused and glanced at Vic. “Will you explain what a smartphone is to him?”
She turned to me. “It’s a phone that’s smart.”
The game warden sighed. “Anyway, they not only track the wolf but give us an indication of when they’re burning up calories by running or conserving energy while resting, almost like keeping a diary of the wolf’s activities.”
“Sounds great. So, what’s the problem?”
“That batch got the first-generation leftovers, and they proved to be a little finicky. Sometimes they transmit; sometimes they don’t.”
“The Cheechoo woman also mentioned that a trainee was the one who tested and collared 777M.”
“That could’ve also had an effect.”
Vic took the glass back from me. “Does it have GPS tracking?”
“Sometimes.”
I leaned forward. “And is it true that private individuals can get transponders and track the wolves themselves?”
He nodded. “If the transmitter on the collar is working, yes. I’ve heard of cases over near Yellowstone and that could be true with 777M.”
“Hey, what the hell is this 777M shit anyway? It sounds like we’re talking about a U-boat—can we just name this fucking wolf?”
