Wolf Stalker (9 page)

“How were Jack's pictures?” Olivia asked.

“Your son,” Steven answered, “is one of the world's great junior photographers. As soon as we're finished here I'll go get the prints of his wolf pictures. But you know,” he said, turning to Mike, “there's something that's weird about the other pictures—the ones Jack took of the mountain. Right in the middle of all three prints is a little red dot. I can't figure out what it came from.”

Mike shrugged. “Maybe somebody dropped a bandanna on the ground.”

“No, it looked more like a light.”

“Ashley said she saw a shirt through the binoculars—” Olivia began.

“The shirt wasn't red, Mom. It was blue plaid. Too bad I couldn't see the face of the person wearing it.”

“I couldn't guess what the red spot was, then,” Mike said. “But I have to tell you, your Ashley makes a great witness. She convinced me you kids heard only one shot. And then she came up with a question that got me thinking.”

“What question was that?” Troy asked, talking with his mouth full.

“Ashley wanted to know why we couldn't take the bullet fragment from the radio collar and the bullet from the wolf's wound and see if they matched. In the first place, we don't have the bullet that hit the wolf's side. It was a grazing wound, so the bullet just skimmed off somewhere.”

“Good thing it did,” Olivia said. “If it had penetrated, Silver would have died.”

“Right. Silver is one lucky wolf,” Mike continued, “in a lot of ways. Because that first bullet, the one that hit the collar, is what we call a hot bullet—it was made to fragment on impact at close range. Looking at the way it tore up the battery pack, I'd say that bullet came in at an angle, too. When it hit, it blew into fragments, but the battery pack absorbed most of the energy. I'm sure Silver got knocked down from the impact—you know, like when a policeman wearing a bullet-proof vest gets shot at? The bullet doesn't go in, but it slams him to the ground.”

“I did notice he had some blood spots around his collar,” Olivia said.

“I guess it was from a few tiny bullet fragments striking him through his thick fur.”

Mike put down his fork and added, “Anyway, I started to wonder just when that first shot was fired. The one that hit the collar. Was it yesterday, or even before that?”

This time they all stopped eating to pay attention to Mike.

“I realized,” he went on, “that this was the same wolf whose signal stopped transmitting a couple of days ago. His radio collar went silent on the day George Campbell's dog was attacked. So I thought, is that just a coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe not. And then—”

“I asked him about the hair,” Ashley said. “I said, ‘What color was that hair that was stuck on Silver's collar?'”

Olivia frowned. “What are you suggesting, Mike? That it was dog hair? Golden retriever?”

“Could have been. I think it might be smart if we paid a visit to George Campbell and picked up a sample of his dog's hair to see if it matches.”

“His dog is dead,” Troy said.

“Dogs shed hair. If he stayed in a doghouse, there'd be plenty of hair inside it. Most likely it won't match what was on Silver's collar, and even if it does, I don't know just what that would prove, exactly.”

“Well, if it was the dog's hair, that would prove the collar had to be shot before the dog attack, wouldn't it?” Jack exclaimed. “The hair wouldn't stick to the radio collar if it was smooth. Only if it had jagged edges from being blown apart.”

Mike shrugged. “It's a mystery. And there's another mystery we didn't tell you kids about. You know how we went searching for the dog's remains yesterday? We rode to the exact place where Campbell reported the attack happened. Well, we didn't find any dog remains.”

“We went back and forth along the border between Gallatin National Forest and Yellowstone National Park—” Olivia began.

“Three times,” Steven broke in. “We split up and scoured the whole area, a good couple of miles in all directions from the spot Campbell pointed out on the map in Mike's office—”

“That's why we were so late getting back,” Olivia continued. “We searched it thoroughly, but we couldn't find a thing. I guess Mr. Campbell was mixed up about where it actually happened. I mean, there's no visible boundary marker that a person would notice, especially with a pack of wolves chasing him.”

“Anyway, I know where Campbell lives,” Mike said. “Anyone want to come with me? We can all drive there in the park van.”

Jack, Troy, Mike, and Steven all shoved back their chairs at the same time and stood up. Olivia got up, too, and answered, “Definitely. There are a lot of questions I'd like to ask Mr. Campbell. Like, how old was his dog, and was it in good health? Wolves often attack an animal when they sense it's weak—if it's sick or limping or something.”

“Yeah, and I'd like to ask him if he saw any of those demonstrators in the woods the day his dog was attacked,” Mike added. “If it turned out to be the same day the wolf's collar got hit, Campbell might be able to give us a lead on who did the shooting. A militia member, or an angry rancher, or anyone he noticed carrying a rifle—”

“Dad, please, let's pick up my prints before we go,” Jack begged.

“Good idea,” Troy said. “I want to see the pictures of my wolf.”

“G
o on, keep them,” Jack told Troy. “I can make a ton more prints if I want to.”

“Thanks!” Troy clutched the wolf pictures as if it were Christmas and he'd just been given the keys to Wal-Mart. He stared at them for five full minutes as the van wound along the road toward the park's north gate. Then, with much less interest, Troy examined the other three pictures.

“Weird!” he said. “Red dots in the middle of each picture. Must be something wrong with your camera.”

“No way,” Jack argued. “If it was the camera, there'd be red dots in the wolf pictures, too. And they are fine.” More than fine, he added in his own mind. They're the best I've ever taken.

Troy shrugged and handed the prints back to Jack, except for the wolf pictures, which he continued to grip tightly in his hand.

“Let me see,” Ashley said. “The red dot ones.” She studied them for a long while before shoving them into the pocket of her sweatshirt. By then, her lips and eyes had both started to pucker. “How much farther?” she asked, looking more and more uncomfortable. No wonder, Jack thought, since she'd had a full dinner on top of a chocolate sundae, and the road kept twisting and turning enough to make anyone a little carsick. Jack was glad Ashley had picked the seat right next to a back window. If she really felt bad, she wouldn't have to crawl over him to reach fresh air.

“About ten more miles,” Mike answered. “The last part will be on an unpaved road.” He glanced at the rear-view mirror to check Ashley—from the sound of her voice, he must have been able to tell she was queasy. Mike probably had kids of his own, Jack thought, who got carsick on roads like these. “George Campbell owns a run-down little ranch a few miles from here. He stays on the ranch but he doesn't raise cattle anymore. I don't know how he makes a living.”

“So he's not one of the mean, nasty ranchers who hate wolves,” Ashley said.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Mike glanced quickly at the three kids in the back seat. “Ranchers aren't mean and nasty—at least the vast majority of ranchers aren't. You need to realize they make their living raising cattle and sheep. When a wolf takes down one of their livestock, it's a serious loss to them.”

“Oh,” Ashley said meekly.

“Just figure,” Mike went on, “if the rancher has a cow that could be auctioned off for $500, but a wolf kills it first. Maybe, then, the rancher won't be able to afford new tires for his pickup that winter, or college books for his daughter at Montana State.”

“I'm sorry,” Ashley began, her lips held stiffly, as though she was getting ready to cry or maybe throw up.

Jack hoped she wouldn't do either.

“Naturally, when there's any controversy, I most often take the side of the wolves,” Mike explained, grinning. “Not surprising, since I'm a wolf biologist. I've spent the past few years of my life trying to make this reintroduction program work. But don't go thinking ranchers and their families are the bad guys. They're not. They're just regular people trying to—”

The last words broke off as Ashley rapidly lowered the window, stuck out her head, and took some deep breaths.

“You OK?” Jack asked.

Olivia glanced back nervously, but Ashley gasped, “I'm fine.” She slumped back into the seat.

After they bumped four or five more miles down an unpaved road, with Ashley's face pressed against the partly opened windowpane, Mike stopped the van. “We're here,” he announced.

They were parked in shadow, at least a hundred yards from the dilapidated ranch house.

No one made a move to get out. Through the gray dusk, they all watched a dimly lit window behind the front porch. The curtains moved, but no one came to the door, and the evening stayed silent, with not even a bark from a dog. But then, George Campbell's dog could no longer bark.

“You know,” Mike finally said, “I think I'll take a little walk around the place. I'd like to check….” He didn't finish. “You guys want to wait in the van? Or maybe, since Ashley's feeling kind of green around the gills, you might want to wait outside in the fresh air.”

“Good idea,” Steven said. “OK, everybody out.”

As Mike took off into the darkness, the Landons stood together at the bottom of the driveway, if you could call it that. It was nothing more than a twin-rutted dirt track that led up to the front door.

George Campbell's small house was made of wood that had dried to the color of chicken bones. Right away Jack noticed how beaten down the house looked. Suddenly Troy exclaimed, “Hey, everybody, look over there!”

In one corner of the yard stood a doghouse as weathered as the Campbell home. A rusty metal chain snaked from inside it to wind around an empty water dish. Propped against the side of the doghouse was a large cardboard tombstone made from what Jack guessed was a refrigerator box. A can of black spray paint lay tipped over on the ground nearby, next to a paint-stained rag. The sign read:

 

Rex

MURDERED BY WOLVES

Your dog could be next.

Or YOU!

 

“Oh, please,” Olivia groaned, color rising to her face. Steven reached out and squeezed her elbow lightly. “Stay cool, lady. Blow it off. It's just a publicity stunt.”

“Now we know there's a doghouse,” Jack said. “So we can collect some of Rex's hair.”

Walking close together, they approached the crudely lettered monument to Rex. “I just gotta get some pictures of that,” Steven said. “Jack, stand over on that side and hold the strobe light so we don't get too much shadow.”

As Jack took his position where his father told him to, Steven fired off about ten shots from different angles.

When he finished, Olivia got down on her knees. “Looks like there's plenty of hair inside. We'll have to ask Mr. Campbell if he'll allow us to take a sample.”

None of them noticed the man who'd stepped out onto the front porch. “No need to stand in the cold. Come on in,” he yelled. When they whirled around to stare, they saw him rotating his hands like a traffic cop, urging them to move forward. “Come on, come on.”

“That has to be George Campbell,” Olivia said softly. “He certainly seems anxious to get us in his house.”

“I guess it's ok,” Steven answered. “Mike will figure out we've gone inside.”

As they moved up the dirt driveway Steven added, “Jack, hang on to my camera—carefully!—while I fit this strobe back into the camera case. And when we get in the house, I don't want you kids to say a single word except ‘hello.' You got that? Just keep quiet and stay still. You can look around as much as you want to, but don't move around.”

The stairs up to the porch sagged forward; as Jack walked up them he felt slightly off-balance. His parents paused on the top step while Troy, Ashley, and Jack jostled for position behind them.

“Howdy!” George Campbell was a big man, tall and heavyset, and he had a big voice. “Come in, come in, come in,” he almost shouted. Then, rubbing his hand over his stubbly chin, he said, “Guess you saw my sign over there. I noticed you out here takin' pictures.”

“We did,” Olivia answered calmly. “We're all very sorry about your dog.”

“Demon wolves,” he grunted, as he led them inside. “They killed my dog and could have killed me. I'm tryin' to rally some right-thinking citizens to get together and demand that every last one of those critters gets exterminated.”

Blinking hard, Olivia followed Mr. Campbell. The rest of them filed in behind her, and the screen door banged shut.

The inside of the house was as dark and cramped as Jack imagined it would be. To the left stood a wood-burning stove. On all four walls hung stuffed heads of deer and elk. One wall held a bison head, and next to it the mounted head of a young grizzly bear. Where had he gotten that, Jack wondered. Glass eyes seemed to follow them as Mr. Campbell motioned Olivia and Steven to sit on a sofa with a faded knit afghan thrown over the top.

Ashley perched on the end of the sofa while Steven and Olivia sank low in the sagging middle. Jack and Troy hung back against the wall.

“You kids want to sit?” Campbell asked, pointing to the floor.

Nudging Jack with his elbow, Troy shook his head quickly.

“No thanks,” Jack told him. “We've been sitting a long time. We'll just stand over here.”

“Suit yourself,” the man said, eyeing the camera in Jack's hand and the camera case Steven set on the floor.

The boys took positions on either side of a tall cabinet, the only new, expensive-looking piece of furniture in the room. Behind the glass front stood four high-powered hunting rifles. One, with a long black barrel, looked like it could blow a hole in brick. Troy stared at the cabinet, then glanced toward George Campbell. From the tense way Troy pressed backward against the wall, with his palms flat against the rough wood paneling, Jack could tell that something about the gun case had excited him. But what?

Clearing her throat, Olivia leaned forward. She had a small tape recorder in her hand. “Do you mind if I tape our interview, Mr. Campbell? I find it very helpful.”

“Go right ahead,” George agreed. “I already told my story a hundred times, but I don't mind saying it again and again until somebody listens and does something about it. I've collected over $600 from people like me who hate those wolves. I'm planning on telling the whole world about—”

“Six hundred dollars?” Olivia asked.

“That's just from people who heard me on talk radio. The newspapers will be even better.”

What an old buzzard, Jack thought. His mother had pressed a button, and was holding the recorder in Campbell's direction. “OK, Mr. Campbell. Would you like to talk about exactly what happened that day, step by step, starting with what you were doing in Yellowstone?”

“Hiking. I'm a—you know—a nature lover.”

Yeah, right, Jack thought. He didn't listen to any more, but let his eyes slide over onto Troy, who was still staring intently at the gun case.

“…. no call for the government to tramp all over the rights of law-abiding citizens—”

“Mr. Campbell,” Olivia broke in. “Let's get back to your dog and the wolves.”

“Sure. Right. I get carried away. So…which newspaper are you from?”

Everyone froze. So that's why George Campbell was being so friendly! He'd noticed the camera, had seen them taking pictures of the doghouse, and mistakenly thought they worked for a newspaper! They all waited, staying perfectly quiet—even Ashley—to see what Olivia would do.

“We…uh…work in Jackson Hole,” she answered.

So she was going to fake it! Jack bit his lip to keep from grinning.

“Good!” George Campbell exclaimed. “The further this story reaches, the better. At midnight tonight I'm gonna be on talk radio in Denver.” Since he was oblivious to anyone but himself, Campbell hadn't noticed the nervously exchanged glances or the bated breaths, and he didn't notice it now when they all started breathing again.

Troy was moving his lips, trying to say something silently to Jack, but Jack couldn't make it out. Troy shook his head impatiently and mouthed the words again. Jack still didn't understand.

Moving slowly around to the other side of the cabinet, Jack got close to Troy and flattened himself against the wall the way Troy was doing. “What?” he whispered.

“Look at that rifle barrel,” Troy breathed.

Jack's voice was so low he could barely hear himself. “Which one? I don't know guns.”

“Yeah? I do. That 308 in there'll blast a hole the size of a dinner plate. But check out this rifle!” With his finger, Troy traced a path along the glass to point at a silver tube, only a couple inches long, that had been mounted beneath the barrel of one of the rifles.

“Hey—what is this? What are you kids doin' over there?” Campbell's eyebrows knit together in a dark line as he glared at Jack and Troy. “Get them away from my guns,” he told Steven. “Those things are valuable, and I don't want the kids fooling with them. I'll get sued if they blow their heads off.”

“Jack, Troy, don't touch anything,” Steven ordered them.

“We just want to look,” Troy said. “They're…cool.”

“You bet they are.” George Campbell nodded. “Nothin's better than a powerful gun. You go on and look, but mind you don't do more than that.”

Satisfied, George Campbell turned around with his back to the boys and started right in again. Olivia didn't have to ask him any questions at all, because Campbell needed no encouragement. He was a talker. Give him an audience, and his mouth took over.

But Troy was growing agitated. Moving his head a little toward Campbell, he whispered, “Check the shirt.”

It was a gray sweatshirt with a team logo. “Oakland Raiders,” Jack said.

“No! The one he's got on underneath!”

Although the gray sweatshirt reached all the way up to Campbell's neck and down to his wrists, hanging out from the bottom edge in back was a bit of shirttail, wrinkled and limp. Then Jack saw it. The shirttail was blue plaid.

“Yes!” Jack hissed. “That's the same color the shooter had!”

Troy's jaw clenched and his face reddened. Suddenly, he took two steps forward and yelled, “You—you shot Silver. And you pointed your gun at my friend Jack. You jerk!”

“What?” George Campbell sputtered. “Are you talkin' to me?”

“Yeah. You, man!”

Jack stared at Troy, shocked by the rage burning in his face. Then the words penetrated, and Jack felt a sensation like ice in his chest. Was it true what Troy was saying, that George Campbell had pointed his high-powered rifle at Jack?

“The red dot! The red dot!” Troy was shouting. “It came from the laser sight on that rifle right there. He was pointing it right at Jack when Jack took the pictures.”