“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 too 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.