Sounds good.
Maybe. Britain has a history of wealthy eccentrics who love grand schemes, especially if they can be named after themselves. They think they can do whatever they want. Maybe they can — a few handshakes with old-school friends in Parliament and off they go. It’s not like here.
Kyle jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
Ha. Who do you think is living out there? The democratic anti-corruptionists? The communist party? Gandhi?
She laughs, shakes her head.
Tax dodging is different. In Britain there’s a set at the top. It’ll never change, no matter who is in power or how many proletariat rock stars get knighted by Her Majesty.
Liam Gallagher is a Sir?
Probably.
Well now I feel confused. I’ll have to get rid of my CDs.
She takes the remaining pound notes out of her wallet, folds them, and slips them into a side chamber. They eat their food quickly, split the bill, leave a good tip, and head for the door. Kyle takes a mint from the dish next to the cash register.
I’m going to Coeur d’Alene next weekend to fix the boat. Want to go?
Is Oran going?
Nope.
OK.
Kyle shakes his head.
I hope you keep quit. That guy is like a dog. He thinks if he trots along faithfully, one day you’ll fall in love with him and everything. It’s not going to take much to fuck him up again.
He doesn’t think that. I’ve assured him.
If you say so.
Back on the road the day is almost gone, leaving an immense plain of grey sky. The dark, arboreal wings of the road flash past, vast trunks, interstices where the forest has been clear-cut. No lights are visible but in the trees there are compounds and sawmills, factories, swimming pools, and hunting lodges.
You know Scotland really might vote for independence, she says.
Is that so?
It’s looking that way. The No campaign is floundering.
Will it be a republic?
No. They’ll keep the Queen.
Would you vote for it?
I don’t know, she says.
She leans back in the seat, stretches her legs out. She is glad to be back. Tomorrow they will start analysing the month’s data, video footage from the den, audio recordings from the pack’s patrols along the buffer zone. She will email Lawrence and apologise for not managing to see him while over. While the visit is fresh in her mind she will look on Amazon for a Christmas present for Binny. She’ll make the introduction between Stephan Dalakis in the Carpathian rescue centre and Thomas Pennington — she will be a friend to the Annerdale project; she’ll help get him his wolves.
Night presses down on the road. The headlights of the truck shine into the distance. A deer blunders from the verge, across the road and into the trees opposite, the red disc at the back of its eye flashing. Kyle doesn’t flinch or brake. She cracks the window open for a second, then presses the switch to close it again. They drive on in silence, then she says,
I remember Chernobyl.
When you were a kid?
I was ten. They told us not to go outside if it was raining. Where I come from, it’s always raining. We had exercises in school for nuclear disasters afterwards. This bell would ring and you’d have to duck under the desk and count to one hundred.
Scary shit, Kyle says.
Yeah. They’ve only just stopped testing the lambs before sending them to the market.
When St Helens blew, he says, we got the ash. You could see the cloud coming, like this huge black column. Mom took me and my brother out of school and made us stay under the bed for three days. She fed us tuna sandwiches under there. There was black shit on everything. The windows, the grass, everything.
Do you think the hide-under-something strategy works?
Nope. It’s like wiping God’s ass with a Kleenex.
Kyle switches on the radio and tracks to a popular music station. He sings along, out of key. He turns off the road onto the timber route, towards the Reservation. They gain altitude. The road closes over with white. Flakes spiral out of the black void onto the windscreen and are swept away.
You want to stop and put the chains on?
Nah.
They pass a sign — 57 km to nearest gas. The snow is falling faster now. In December the centre can be cut off for days. They have to ski into town until the grit truck arrives. The back-up generator stinks the place out with diesel fumes and smoke, and they play cards while the big weather subsumes them, and the buried landscape seems like a trick to desolate the mind.
So, what was this business in town then? she asks.
In the glow of the dashboard she can see Kyle’s profile.
Brother was in court, he says. Dealing meth again.
*
Back to the routine. Her house in the woods, on the periphery of the centre complex, rough-hewn yellow pine, one of seven cabins. Loading the stove wearing gloves and pulling tarpaulin over the woodstack next to the porch to keep it dry. Unpacking cans into the cupboards. More blankets on the bed as winter comes on, and showers so hot in the morning, her skin is laced red. In the office she and Kyle mop muddy snow off the floor. Administration: entering data into the system, specimen samples, weight of prey, observed behaviour. Howl patterns, the length of their solos. The two new volunteers reorder the filing system and send out sponsor renewal packs. The girl, barely a college graduate, is approached very obviously by Oran one night when they are all out in a bar. Were it not for the blatancy, the show, Rachel would believe he has moved on. In the quiet December evenings she adds a few hundred words to her book chapter, somewhat speculative. She needs to understand more about serotonin levels before any conclusions can be reached. Thomas Pennington remains in touch, through Honor Clark. The barrier is nearing completion — the quarantine pens are ready. The introduction to Stephan Dalakis has proved to be very useful. The Romanian rescue centre will supply an initial pair, as Rachel suggested. The wolves must be unsocialised, their gene pool well mixed. A cheque arrives for her consultancy work; issued by a private London bank, the royal bank, the amount winds her, and it is complicated paying it into her American account.
The following week, Left Paw’s radio collar arrives by courier, sent by a Mr R. E. Buke, postmarked Clarkston, Washington. Kyle opens the package and holds up the device to show her, then tosses it onto the office table. The collar has been cut, the transmitter is broken, its electrical chip pried out — probably smashed or doused in solvent. A sudden heaviness enters her, confirmation of the worst.
They got him, she says.
Kyle reads the note and relays its information. Mr Buke found the collar lying on the path near the Snake River Bridge. The centre’s address and logo were printed on the inner tag. Perhaps it was tossed from a vehicle travelling on the overpass, he speculates — the spot being notorious for dumping.
Good of him to send it back, I suppose, she says.
Kyle looks at her.
Oh come on. R. E. Buke? Rebuke?
What. Really?
Yeah. Tossed from a vehicle, what an asshole.
He shakes his head, swivels the office chair back towards the computer and the loose stack of envelopes on his desk, and begins to sift through them for hand-addressed ones — possible donations.
Really? she asks again. That’s a bit too clever, isn’t it? And brazen.
If you want to try to find him in the Clarkston and Lewiston phone book and write a thank-you note, be my guest.
He continues sorting the mail. Rachel reaches over and picks up the collar. The strap has been sawn through, some kind of industrial cutter. She hopes to God he was shot, rather than trapped or run over or anything worse. She isn’t angry. The game is stupid and sufferable; she and the other Chief Joseph workers are often agents for the losing side, but she must play the part. She puts the collar down. The Reservation is protected, but there are almost 800,000 acres, with few enough tribal members and settlers that witnesses will be unlikely. The authorities cannot help. Such crimes are seldom prosecuted. Meanwhile, the hunters are good at what they do: they know the movements of the packs, the trailways. And a dispersing male is, for some, the highest prize. She knows the refrain well. Spreading their goddamn scourge. Let them get a foothold and they will be upon you, threatening your livestock, your home, your family. Bullshit, semi-biblical paranoia. Left Paw will be a good trophy. Plenty of taxidermists would agree to the work, even the ones in town with award-winning mounts and sophisticated websites — no need to go to some unlicensed backwoods skinner. The pelt is probably already on display, in a den or hanging on a timber wall, arousing admiration. She picks up the phone, dials the number of the US Fish & Wildlife Service, asks what tags have been turned in. Kyle swivels in the chair, holds up a cheque.