Weekend of the Wolf

By Michael Peak

Diamonds, gold, and a decades-old smuggling operation running through the Boundary Waters of Northern Minnesota.  Everything runs perfectly until the operators agree to a new and far more dangerous and top-secret shipment.

Paul Westover, a reporter for the Associated Press, accidentally stumbles upon the operation while researching wild wolf populations for an upcoming article.  Partially distracted by a questionable romance, Paul still manages to figure out the operation.

Murder and arson send Paul into hiding.  Offers of help come from several directions, but the entire town is so corrupt from years of dealings with the Path, it's impossible to know exactly who is on the take.  Paul meets with resistance primarily because most of the locals are unaware of the new cargo, which is profoundly more dangerous than anything they could possibly imagine. 

 

Michael Peak is an Emmy Award Winning television journalist and successful seminar leader.  He is well known for his nature and wildlife photography.  He lives in Carlsbad, California.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Feb 10, 2024

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COVER

WEEKEND OF THE WOLF

MICHAEL PEAK

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2024 by Michael Peak

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Michael Peak.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For more information, please visit:

www.michaelpeak.com

CHAPTER 1

The darkness was interrupted only by two tiny lights, casting an eerie glow through the volumes of smoke from a bucket-sized citronella candle. Ignoring the sharp smelling haze, mosquitoes buzzed throughout the dark interior of the van, only visible when their silhouettes crossed one of the small patterns of light.

The three-a.m. black outside was complete. There were no city lights for miles. The stars were obliterated by a moderate yet persistent rainfall, which rattled the old van just enough to occasionally drown out a rhythmic beeping originating from the work console.

While the constant beeping could get annoying, the alternative was worse. Silence meant the subject had moved beyond radio contact, requiring the van to reposition with the hopes of catching up. Driving the dark, muddy, wooded roads in the rain was courting disaster. They had moved twice already during this shift.

The subject’s position was monitored every fifteen minutes. Seated in the very back of the van, Paul rolled his chair forward and began to spin the antenna, which jutted up from the center of the van and peered out through the roof. It had a large, circular wheel, which could be turned in similar fashion to a periscope. And like a periscope, it kept the operator dry while the directional antenna above dealt with the elements and searched for the suspect.

The subject had no idea of surveillance. She didn’t even know about the tiny transmitter she carried, which exposed her every movement. The high-band radio wave broadcast of beeps was good for several miles, even through the thick forest terrain of Northern Minnesota, and even for the cumbersome receiver in Paul’s van.

The suspect also carried a GPS tracker, but satellite tracking through these ancient, majestic woods was iffy at best. The GPS was certainly monitored, but Paul and company were focusing more on tracking the old-fashioned way.

Paul moved one of the tiny lights closer to the base of the antenna so he could read the compass for an accurate heading. Even with the light, he had to squint through the fuzzy blur of mosquito netting, which covered his head like a sack used to blindfold the condemned, complete with drawstring about his throat.

Only his hands remained uncovered, yet even they were protected with enough Deet-enhanced repellant to sting. Paul half expected to find chemical burns on his fingers when the sun made it light enough to see.

Paul began to turn the antenna away from its current position. The long, red arrow representing the antenna’s direction began to slowly move south. Paul checked his safety wire to make sure he didn’t turn too far which might damage the connection. Realizing he was well within specifications; he resumed the sweep.

The beeps immediately began to fall off. The monitor offered only empty hiss with a turn of less than forty-five degrees. He swept back the other direction, hearing the beeps increase and then fade as he passed through the strongest point. Within moments he was back to the original position.

The signal remained solid and without any fluctuations. Its lowest reading was at four on the gain control, which was within the realm of a moderate reading. It was good for another fifteen-minute reprieve.

Hasn’t moved, said Paul.

Make the call, said Allison.

Paul reached for the microphone on the two-way radio. The other team was on a hill somewhere across the ravine, probably equally thrilled about not having to move. There was virtually no cell service this deep in the woods, so again, the old-fashioned way worked best.

Two vans were used to chart different angles on the subject. By comparing coordinates, the trackers could draw a cross on the map, identifying a near exact location of the transmitter.

Green Scout this is White Fang, said Paul. We have the suspect at one hundred-twenty-two degrees, down, with a moderate signal.

White Fang we have thirty-five degrees, down, and moderate, Max Falkoski’s voice boomed through the speaker.

Paul nodded and put down the microphone. The suspect hadn’t moved. She was probably tucked away in some dry holding, waiting out the rain. Not a bad idea, but Paul needed to relieve the four cups of coffee he had consumed since the shift began at midnight. He reached for his raincoat.

Be right back, he said, reaching for the sliding side door. Allison only leaned back in the driver’s seat and closed her eyes.

The nasty damp and chill hit him immediately. Lovely weather for July. Minnesota July. Paul hadn’t seen the sun once in the week since he’d left Los Angeles. He held his head down, snorted when he stepped into an enormous mud puddle, then walked into the trees.

Paul had never been one for the great outdoors. Being raised in Southern California had left him far more comfortable with freeways than foliage. Still, this was turning out to be a fascinating—if not necessarily comfortable—assignment.

In his six years since joining the Associated Press, Paul Westover had covered just about everything on the low end of the political scale. It was his beat, and it suited him just fine. The high-powered glitz of Washington politics or the fast-paced drama of cops kicking down the doors into drug busts had never held much appeal. Paul was happy to pass those assignments onto some of the more dramatic characters in the business.

Many of his colleagues scoffed at Paul’s assignments, calling them nothing less than mundane. Paul smiled to himself. There were far too many other words besides mundane to describe standing in the rain at three in the morning while taking a leak in the middle of the woods.

As it was turning out, the environment—one of Paul’s beats—was becoming more volatile in politics every day. The current President of the United States appeared hell-bent on plundering the continent’s remaining resources, creating worldwide outcry and demonstrations.

The Department of Interior was leading the president’s charge. The agency responsible for protecting the nation’s wildernesses had been doing the opposite, including everything possible to reverse a previous administration’s efforts to release wild timber wolves into the nation’s national park system. It was the timber wolves that brought Paul to the Superior National Forest near Ely, a small country town in northern Minnesota.

The region boasted the largest population of timber wolves in the continental United States and was the perfect place to research the circumstances before diving into the politics of the story. Before Paul could question people about the merits or hazards of transplanting the large carnivores, he had to find out what they were all about. Volunteering to track and plot the daily movements of a female timber wolf who wore a transmitter around her neck was the perfect opportunity.

His task complete, Paul turned around and began to walk back toward the van, several hundred yards away. He had taken a much longer walk than necessary, simply to stretch his legs and reinvigorate his system. He was not used to being up so late.

He had barely taken two steps when the sound of movement in the branches off to the right caught his attention. He froze, immediately, hoping not to frighten whatever it might be. While the possibility of seeing a wolf was remote, there was always a good chance of spying a deer, or perhaps even a moose if he was lucky. He just hoped it would pass by close enough for him to see it in the misty darkness.

The movement became louder. It was coming directly toward him. Carefully, Paul leaned to his left for the seclusion of a large cedar. The visitor might also be a black bear, who might become unpredictable with the surprise discovery of a journalist in its path.

Paul took a deep breath and held it for several seconds before releasing it. He noticed his hands clenched in his pockets. The black bears in these woods were not supposed to be dangerous, but Paul couldn’t help but be nervous. He had grown up with too many fables about the creatures of the woods.

The next sound Paul heard ruled out a bear. It was something smooth and slick, sounding exactly as Paul’s raincoat had when it rubbed against the brush. He instantly relaxed, but with a thread of disappointment. A bear would have been far more exciting, regardless of the outcome. He had never seen a bear in the wild before.

He was about to call out to Allison but stopped when he heard the footfalls. They were distinctly heavier than those of the petite wolf researcher. They were not only heavier, but Paul realized they belonged to more than one person.

Paul quietly moved to his left in order to place a wider tree between himself and the approaching footsteps. There was no telling who they might belong to, since there was no sane reason for anyone to be wandering through the woods at this hour, especially during a storm. Of course, he was out in the woods at this hour, during a storm, but Paul was always willing to acknowledge his questionable sanity. There was no way to vouch for the people who moved closer to him in the night.

He ducked down into some bushes but instantly regretted it. His raincoat did not protect the lower legs of his jeans, so his knees were soaked through within moments. He grit down hard to prevent the accidental release of a sound, as the vision of damp, prune-fleshed knees for the remainder of the shift squished through his head.

They were getting closer. Paul could hear the dull clumps of rugged boots on soggy leaves and sod. They might have been louder through the crisp forest of a dry night, but the moisture sucked away the edges, leaving a hollow, nearly invisible impression. But Paul could hear them, and they were becoming more distinct with every step.

The footsteps abruptly stopped, leaving no sound other than the light rain dancing through the trees, the sickening whine of mosquitoes, and the pounding of Paul’s heart in his ears. He held his hand up to his face in an instinctive effort to cover his breathing, which was becoming labored in the silence.

As much as there was no reason for anyone to be in the woods, there was no reason for Paul to be worried about it. They were probably just other people involved with the wolf research, or possibly someone associated with the property. Still, Paul couldn’t help but notice his hands shaking.

After more than a minute, the footsteps resumed. Paul began to assess the situation. In the current direction, they would pass along the path, which was barely two yards from where he crouched. Unless he took a direct hit from a powerful flashlight, he would probably remain undetected. His dark jacket and the gray mosquito netting over his face would render him nearly invisible amidst the trees in the darkness. He also held the element of surprise. The others presumably did not know he was there.

A thin beam of light passed through the higher branches of conifers, then swung to the path at Paul’s right. The steps became louder. There was the loud snap of a branch, followed by more slippery brushing against leaves. They would pass within moments.

The first thing Paul could see was the source of the light. It was a medium sized flashlight, carried by the gloved left hand of the first man through. Barely a pace behind him was the second, a man taller but not quite as stout.

Enough of the light reflected off of the glistening branches to illuminate a trace of detail. Both men wore dark rain gear. Their faces were nearly concealed by the hoods, but Paul could see dark beards on both men. As far as he knew, there was no one associated with the wolf research project who sported a beard of this magnitude.

The men did not see Paul, and as far as he could tell, they did not suspect his presence. Both men held lights in their left hands, but only the leader’s was actually turned on. They each held their right hands tucked beneath their raincoats.

They indeed followed the path, which wound its way past the crouching Paul. He could see their breath steaming up as they kept their heads pointed downward to the trail. Paul began to relax. They were too intent on their footing to stray a look in his direction.

Suddenly they stopped. The second man flipped on his flashlight as both men stared at the ground. They were a scant three paces from Paul, who lowered his head and held his breath.

Now who the hell would be out here this late? asked the follower. On a night like this?

Pretty fresh, too, observed the leader.

Boot prints. Paul had crossed the trail twice. He slowly angled his face back toward the men for another look, half expecting the light to meet his eyes at any moment. The two men no longer concealed their right hands beneath their raincoats. They were instead held down along their sides, each holding a pistol.

Probably from the wolf tracker van we saw, said the leader.

Those people don’t know squat about wolves, snorted the other.

Wish they’d stay the hell out of our way.

Ya wanna look around just to make sure? asked the second man.

Both flashlights were simultaneously extinguished. The instant blackness was only interrupted by greenish streaks the two lights had burned into Paul’s eyes. He hoped the night vision of the other two men was equally destroyed.

No one moved. The two men held their ground, intently listening for any sound which might betray the presence of another person. If possible, Paul would have crouched even deeper into the wet shrubbery.

Paul carefully controlled his breathing for what seemed like an hour, desperately trying to avoid a sound in the suffocating silence of the early morning wood. His right leg began to tingle with the fire of lack of circulation. He dug his fingernails into the trunk of the cedar and closed his eyes.

He wondered what they were waiting for. If they were indeed looking around, they were doing so from a stationary position. Paul expected them to follow his boot prints at any moment, but they held their ground.

One of the men finally moved. A slow, careful step. This was it. Paul thought they would trip right over him.

False alarm, said the man who was moving.

The man stopped after two brief steps. Only the broad-based cedar in Paul’s grasp separated the two of them. Paul was certain he had been spotted. A moment later the sound of water on bark brought Paul to roll his eyes. The man was urinating on the tree.

It’s better this way, the man said as he drained his bladder. Real wolves are never seen, remember?

True enough, said the follower. Let’s get outa here.

Gimme a minute. Too damn much coffee tonight.

Hey, you heard anything about some special deal supposedly going down?

I’m always hearing shit. Rumors, God knows what. I just do my job.

The waterfall drained to a trickle, then finally stopped. The sound of a zipper followed within moments. The path to Paul’s right lit up from the beam of a flashlight, and the two men stepped forward in the opposite direction of the research van, leaving Paul behind them.

I hear it’s supposedly some pretty. . ..

The words faded into the footfalls on underbrush, and Paul could understand nothing more. He pulled his phone from his pocket and was surprised to see the entire ordeal had lasted but five minutes, far less than it had seemed. He remained in place for another five, afraid to move in case the men returned. But finally, his other leg was beginning to cramp and his lower torso completely soaked from squatting in the brick weed, he pushed himself up and turned back toward the van.

Allison was already doing a coordinates check when Paul returned. He shook his head as he slid the van door closed behind him. He had been gone for fifteen minutes.

Thought you might’ve fallen in or something, said Allison, glancing at Paul through the darkness.

Paul sat down and stared at the two tiny lights while Allison turned the antenna. She was obviously waiting for a response, but he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

The princess hasn’t moved, said Allison. She’s holding up in some dry niche somewhere.

Paul couldn’t blame her. He almost wished he hadn’t gone outside at all. He pulled off his raincoat and dropped it on the floor, then shivered slightly as he felt his soggy jeans.

While trying to warm up and dry out, Paul spent the next few minutes trying to decide whether or not to tell Allison about the encounter in the woods. He liked Allison. She seemed very tolerant of his endless questions, and her responses often expressed imagination along with facts. She also possessed unnerving insight, which Paul found intriguing. When she reached for a protractor to chart the wolf’s course, Paul decided to take a calculated risk.

Actually, I saw a couple of men out there, he said.

You did? asked Allison, quite surprised. Who were they?

I don’t know, said Paul. They didn’t seem like the type who were up for conversation.

Did they say anything to you? asked Allison.

They didn’t see me, said Paul.

Still shivering, Paul leaned back onto the long back seat and explained the situation as best he could, without mentioning the part about guns. He decided it was best to leave it out until further investigation, so as not to instill panic into the research group. They would become understandably jittery about being in the woods all night while armed men—probably poachers of some sort—skulked by, only a few paces away.

He instead referred to the fear he had experienced when they stopped, which was genuine enough before he had seen the guns. Allison had proven very perceptive during previous conversations. Paul left it for her to figure out.

We’ve seen them before, said Allison. Usually in winter, when there are no leaves on the trees and we do aerial tracking. It’s easy to follow wolf tracks in the snow.       So, you know these guys? asked Paul.

No, said Allison. We don’t know anything about them, other than they usually travel in pairs. They’ve been around for years. At first, we thought they were poachers because they always try to avoid us. But we’ve never seen them with game of any kind. No carcasses, nothing. Since they don’t appear to be doing anything wrong and they stay out of our way, we just tend to ignore them.

Paul looked out into the darkness. They had in fact made it a point to stay out of the van’s way. They didn’t want to be seen under any circumstances. And while they technically had done nothing wrong, except for perhaps trespass, it was still a suspicious venture to be walking through the woods at three in the morning.

Especially since they had drawn guns the instant they suspected the presence of another person.

Is this where you always see them? asked Paul.

No, said Allison. All over this place. I saw them several miles north of here, and then on the other side of Bear Island Lake. They’ve even been seen canoeing through the Boundary Waters.

Do you always see them at night? asked Paul.

The ones I saw were in daylight, said Allison. I’d imagine most sightings were in daylight.

Without even thinking, Paul had already picked up his tablet and was jotting down notes. The brightness of the screen seared his eyes after hours of near total darkness.

Do they ever carry guns? Paul asked casually.

I’m not sure, said Allison. The ones I saw weren’t carrying rifles, but who knows? With all the good ol’ boys around here, practically everyone carries something.

So, none of the other researchers have seen them with guns? asked Paul.

You sure ask a lot of questions, commented Allison.

Paul laughed. So I’ve been told. It’s my job, I can’t help it. Anyway, I’d love to find out about these guys, and the only way I can is by asking.

I’d love to know, too, said Allison. They give me the creeps.

CHAPTER 2

Had he known better, Paul would never have lined up an interview for ten in the morning. After the all-nighter in the tracking van, he barely had enough time to shower and shave back at the lodge, then race on into town. Fortunately, the rain had stopped, and weak sunshine was working its way through the gray.

Paul sat with his subject on the porch of the old man’s house. It was an antique structure compared with what Paul was used to in Los Angeles, but fairly typical for the area. Perhaps it had been brown at one time, but now it could best be described as blending. Its most remarkable feature was how it was almost completely devoured by the surrounding forest, which brought trees to within a few feet of its walls and concealed it from the main road.

From trackers to trappers. Norm Dillman had trapped and hunted the woods of Minnesota for most of his life, which Paul estimated to be well over seventy years. He certainly looked the part. He wore a thick red and black Pendleton jacket, with a red vinyl cap and camouflage pants. He chewed on an unlit cigar, which he pulled out for an occasional spit onto the dirt.

I’m tellin’ ya, said Dillman. Since they went’n protected them damn things back in Seventy-three, there aren’t hardly any deer left in the state. Why I can recall back before when a man had no problem gettin’ his buck, or even a moose. But now, hell, ya don’t find much of either.

Environmentalists would say deer stocks might be down because of hunters, not wolves, Paul said, not quite certain of the statistics pertaining to the whitetail deer population of Northern Minnesota. When in doubt, quote the opposition, especially when the opposition included environmentalists. It guaranteed an animated response.

And I’ve got a hound that flies, chuckled Dillman. Them damn environmentalists don’t know shit about what really goes on in the woods. Hunters is what keeps the deer population honest.

And you think short supplies might be because of the wolves, said Paul.

Damn right it’s the wolves, said Dillman. We all know they’s nothin’ but killin’ machines. They kill everything out there. We should just trap ‘em all and shoot ‘em all and be done with it. Then there’d be some deer left for the hunters.

Admittedly, Paul wasn’t completely up to date on the wilderness situation of northern Minnesota, but he did know ecosystems. At least, he knew the theory of how they operated best. Human intervention of any kind was rarely part of a formula for a healthy ecosystem.

But how about all those thousands of years before the wolves were bounty hunted and destroyed in the first place? asked Paul. The deer populations did just fine back then. The wolves didn’t kill them all off.

That was before there was hunters, said Dillman. But now we have hunters, so there’s no place left for the wolf. In my opinion, the only good wolf is a dead wolf.

Paul nodded as he reached over and shut off the recorder on his phone. A perfect quote. He was just about to stand up and thank Dillman for his time when he suddenly remembered his episode in the dark.

Oh, one more thing. Last night, well, actually about three this morning I was out near Bear Island Lake, and I came upon these two men walking quietly through the woods, said Paul. They seemed to be on some sort of mission. You ever seen anything like that?

The wolf men, said Dillman. Seen ‘em all the time, going way back.

Wolf men? asked Paul, reaching back to restart his recorder. Who are they?

Can’t say much about ‘em, other than I seen ‘em out there for thirty, maybe forty years. They don’t have much to say, but hell, I don’t either. They like to keep their distance. I just let ‘em be, and they leave me be.

Why did you call them wolf men? asked Paul.

‘Cause they act like wolves, said the trapper.

Like how?

Well, I guess I can’t really say I seen ‘em kill anything, said Dillman. So, I guess they aren’t that much like wolves. But hell, they act like ‘em in every other way. I guess I’d just say they’s sneaky.

Sneaky? Why would they need to be sneaky?

Hell, why don’t you ask one of ‘em? There’s a guy in town who used to be one. I seen him all the time for years. He’s old what’s his name. Runs a souvenir store.

It took a minute, but the trapper finally remembered the name of the store. Paul jotted the information into his notepad, then stood up to leave.

A little advice about dealing with wolves, said Dillman, as Paul shook his hand. Don’t get caught like a deer in the headlights.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The group assembled in the living room of a wooden cabin near the lake. It was cozy with well used furniture and a small kitchenette off to the side. For the six visitors from other parts of the country who were volunteering their time to the project, it was home for the week. The living room served as operation control for the tracking organization, a conference room for meetings and lectures, and a place to relax when nothing else was going on.

The room was lit only with the indirect window light of two enormous panes, which offered scant light from the overcast outside. There might have been a view of the lake if not for the thousands of aspens and Indian paintbrush, and various other species of foliage surrounding the shores. It was a beautiful view regardless, despite the grayness of the skies.

Paul had wanted to go directly to the store owned by the man mentioned by Norm Dillman, but his presence was required back at the lodge for a mandatory debriefing of the tracking session.

There wasn’t much to talk about, since the wolf in question slept through most of the night. But despite his desire to interview the former ‘wolf man,’ Paul was quite happy to return. The reason was Shannon Mottler.

In the two days since their arrival in Ely, Shannon had been a major distraction. She was a high school teacher from Atlanta, but nothing like any teacher Paul had ever attended class with. She was in her early thirties, close to Paul’s age, and just possibly as stunning as anyone he had ever seen. Her elegant face and dark eyes were framed with long black hair done with the slightest hint of something wild.

She sat across from him at the large wooden table. The curator of the project was speaking, and as always, Paul asked lots of questions, but somehow his gaze seemed to continue drifting in her direction. On more than one occasion, the look was returned.

Of the five others in the volunteer group, Paul found Shannon to be the only one of interest. Three of the others, all of them women, were hardcore environmentalists, the kind Paul did not care for. They seemed the type far more comfortable on a protest march, carrying ridiculous banners and making too much noise, than on a wilderness trip in Northern Minnesota. Paul found the tactics of such people ludicrous, since they effectively did more harm to their cause than good.

The other was a car salesman from Des Moines who seemed more interested in a week away from his wife than tracking wild animals.

The project curator stood up and announced a break for lunch. Max Falkoski was trying to make a name for himself in wolf research. The tall, muscular man with the dark hair and mustache was about to finally put the doctoral letters beside his name, which, together with this project, would hopefully launch him into the arena of big-name wolf biologists. At the age of thirty-one, it was his only dream.

I have a few questions about numbers, said Paul, as the group began moving toward the kitchen.

Sure, said Max. I was never great in math, but I’ll give it a shot.

I spoke with an old trapper this morning, said Paul. As with the trapper, it was time to present the opposition’s point of view. He says since the wolves have been protected, there’s hardly anything left out there to hunt.

Maybe I can help you with numbers, chuckled Max. Minnesota has the largest population of timber wolves in the Continental United States, which currently is about seventeen hundred.       It takes about twenty deer to support a single wolf over the course of a year.

Paul was never great with math either, but he was able to calculate the equation on his phone within moments.

Thirty-four thousand deer a year get eaten by wolves, said Paul.

Right, said Max. But the Department of Natural Resources estimates the state’s white-tail deer population at about one million.

Which leaves the hunters about nine hundred and sixty-six thousand deer, said Paul.

Right again, said Max. Which is up, incidentally, from about four hundred thousand back in seventy-three, before the wolves were protected.

So, the wolves help increase the deer population? Paul asked doubtfully.

Probably not, said Max. All animal populations have large swings from time to time. It just happens to be the high end of a cycle at the moment. And as for the tracker not seeing any deer, well . . . why don’t you just go for a walk in the woods and see how many you can count in an hour. They’re everywhere.

Paul smiled and finished writing numbers on his tablet. He glanced at Shannon, who was also smiling. Another side to the story. Whoever had coined the phrase of two sides to every story had obviously never covered one. Most complex news items, such as this one, had at least ten.

I have another question for you, said Paul. On a different subject. Last night while I was on my tracking session with Allison, I ran into a couple of guys who were walking through the woods.

Yeah, Allison told me, said Max said with a squirm, apparently a bit uncomfortable.

Paul explained the circumstances, again leaving out the issue of firearms. He was happy to see Shannon paying close attention as he spoke. The other women, all carrying sandwiches, sat down at the table and also listened intently. The car salesman stepped outside for a cigarette.

What do you know about these guys? asked Paul.

Nothing, said Max. We just see them. Like Allison said, we thought they were poachers, but it doesn’t seem to fit. Based on the conversation you heard, it sounds like they’re smugglers, which would make sense.

The trapper I talked with this morning said they act like wolves, said Paul.

Off hand I’d say they don’t, said Max. At least the way they travel. Wolves are pack animals, and these guys are usually in pairs. Other than that, it’s hard to say. I guess I’ve never thought about it in those terms. Let me think about it a little.

Have you ever spoken with any of them? asked Paul.

Just once, said Max. It was quite by accident, really. We were out in the field looking for more sights for our tracking procedures. We just happened to stumble onto them while they were eating lunch. I think they were more startled than we were.

What happened? asked Paul.

At first we thought they were deer hunters, said Max. It was autumn, and they looked the part. They were dressed in red vests. It was the only time we’ve seen them not wearing the gray or black they usually wear.

Then how do you know it was them? asked Paul.

They weren’t carrying deer rifles, said Max with a shrug. And then, they were on their feet the minute they saw us. They said a quick ‘good afternoon,’ and pretty much took off before we could find out who they were.

Have you ever gone to the police? asked Paul.

And say what? asked Max. We’ve never seen them doing anything wrong. And then, we see them so rarely. The few law enforcement we have around here would never be able to find them. We’re talking about millions of acres of wilderness out there, from the Boundary Waters all through the Superior National Forest.

Sounds like they don’t want to be found, said Shannon, speaking for the first time.

Paul looked in her direction and smiled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shannon walked up the dirt road toward the lodge office and country store. Others from the group walked before her, on their way to check out the supply of wolf t-shirts and other souvenirs. But Shannon had no intention of following them inside. Her eyes were on the pay phone to the left of the front door.

Most of the cabins were quite a distance from the gnarled cedar structure. Shannon watched the others step inside,