The Loop (34 page)

Dan couldn’t help feeling a twist of jealousy.

What he wasn’t so sure about was the idea of Luke helping her out with trapping and tracking the wolves. After the hostility of the meeting and her mailbox being smashed, it was good that she wasn’t going to be alone up there. But the fact that the helper was Buck Calder’s son seemed somehow risky. He’d said as much to Helen on the phone the other day when she first mentioned it.

‘Isn’t it a little like sleeping with the enemy?’

‘I’m not sleeping with anyone, if you don’t mind.’

‘Helen, I didn’t mean it literally—’

‘He’s just helping me out. You ought to be damn grateful.’

‘But what if he tells Calder where your traps are or—’

‘Oh, give me a break, Dan. That’s ridiculous.’

There was an awkward pause. Ever since she was sick, she’d been different, either touchy or distant, whenever they spoke.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s a good idea.’

She didn’t reply. He imagined her sitting there, all alone, up there in the cabin, surrounded by nothing but forest and darkness.

‘Helen, are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ she snapped back. ‘Why?’

‘Nothing. Just, you don’t sound too happy.’

‘Is it obligatory? In my job description? “Temporary federal biologists will at all times be cheerful”?’

‘Absolutely.’

He thought he heard a little sniff of a laugh. There was another pause. She went on, more gently:

‘I’m sorry, Dan. I guess I’m just feeling a little short of angels.’

‘I worry about you.’

‘I know you do. Thank you.’

‘Okay. Listen, I’ve found you a snowmobile.’

‘Same place as you found my pickup?’

‘No. It’s new. Well, almost. You’re going to be needing it soon. I thought maybe I could bring it up at the weekend.’

‘Sure.’

He’d told her to take care and after hanging up, sat there awhile, thinking about her, while Hope’s Hero, Abe Harding, scowled at him from his coffee mug.

He would buy her dinner again, somewhere nicer this time. He hadn’t had a date with anyone since their meal at Nelly’s Diner. He had eventually summoned enough courage to ask Sally Peters out again, and again been forced to cancel. When he called the next day to apologize, she’d told him he was a sad and pathetic man and ought to get himself a life.

Dan had to concede it was a pretty accurate assessment.

 

Kathy unbuckled Buck Junior from his car seat and hoisted him onto her hip. Just along the street, Hope’s oldest inhabitant, Ned Wainwright, was being interviewed by yet another pain-in-the-ass TV crew. The town had been crawling with them for two weeks and people were getting a little tired of it, Kathy included.

As she headed along the sidewalk toward Paragon, she could hear Ned holding forth on why the federal government liked wolves.

‘It’s plain as can be. They want ’em to wipe out all the deer and elk, so’s there won’t be nothing left for us to hunt. Then they’ll say, since there’s nothing to hunt, nobody needs guns no more and they’ll ban guns. That’s what it’s all about, getting our guns off us.’

Kathy had never heard anything sillier in her life, but the TV reporter was nodding as if it was gospel. As she walked by, one of the crew smiled at her. She didn’t smile back.

‘Haven’t you folks got anything important to cover?’ she said and, before he could answer, disappeared into the gift shop.

Her mom had been going on about all the great new things Ruth had gotten in for the run-up to Christmas and, out of loyalty, Kathy had decided to buy as many presents here as possible. It was a little early to be thinking of that, but she liked to be organized. She’d chosen this morning because it was the day her mom went shopping in Helena.

Ruth greeted her warmly and insisted on holding the baby while Kathy had a browse.

‘Don’t all these TV people drive you nuts?’ Kathy said.

‘Absolutely not. They buy things. Anything with a wolf on it.’

‘I hadn’t thought. So at least there’s something good about it.’

It took her no time at all to find what she wanted. She got Clyde a fancy leather vest, a wood and brass box for her daddy to keep his cigars in and some pretty silver necklaces for her mom and Lane. She got Bob, Lane’s husband, a book on Indian art and a hatband in braided horsehair for Luke.

Ruth wanted to give her a discount. Kathy wouldn’t hear of it. But she accepted the offer of a free coffee and settled at the bar with Buck Junior on her knee, while Ruth made it.

‘All the wolf stuff we’ve sold, you know, it was your mom’s idea to get it in.’

‘Really?’

‘Uh-huh. She’s so smart.’

‘She sure is. Always was.’

‘I just adore her.’

They talked about Kathy’s mom for awhile and then, over their coffees, moved on to Ruth’s parents. Her father had died a long time ago, she said. Her mother remarried and now lived a frantic social life in New Jersey.

‘She’s the exact opposite of Eleanor,’ Ruth said. ‘Your mom always seems so calm and collected. Mine’s like a tornado. I can remember once, after some terrible row, she ran upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom and I had to go talk her out. I was, like, fifteen or something. And as I was doing it, I thought, hold on a minute, this is all wrong, I’m supposed to be the teenager around here.’

When it was time to go, Buck Junior reached out to Ruth and she held him again. He seemed quite smitten and wouldn’t leave her hair alone.

‘He loves women,’ Kathy said.

Ruth laughed. ‘So it seems.’

‘Don’t you think he’s like his grandpa?’

‘You mean . . .’

‘I mean, looks.’

‘Oh.’ Ruth laughed. Then she frowned, assessing him.

‘You know? I’d say he’s more like your mom.’

 

Buck Calder settled himself at the end of one of the long wooden benches at the back of the auction hall and looked down over the rows of white hats toward the arena where a gaggle of Black Angus heifers had just gone for an absurdly high price and were refusing to leave.

They were big-framed and gawky and Buck couldn’t understand why anyone in his right mind should want to buy them. There were some things in life where size surely did count, but cows weren’t one of them. All you were paying for was extra bone. It was amazing how some folk still didn’t get it. As long as an animal was big and black (the only fashionable cow color nowadays, as with everything), they automatically thought they were onto a good thing.

The young rancher sitting next to him, all dressed up in his best clothes, was grinning. Buck assumed he was thinking the same.

‘Thank the Lord for fools,’ Buck said and saw the man’s grin vanish.

‘Huh?’

‘Paying good money for bags of bone like that.’

‘I raised ’em myself.’

‘Oh.’

He tried to think of something to say but the man was already on his feet and pushing past to leave. What the hell, Buck thought, and looked down at the arena again.

It was a sandy space, about twenty feet across and surrounded by high white rails. At the moment, two young cowboys were running around it, trying to oust the reluctant heifers who stood under the spotlights like actors who’d forgotten their lines. The cowboys had long white sticks with orange flags on the end and were using them to thwack and poke the heifers. But the only evacuation it seemed to prompt was of the animals’ bowels. One of the cowboys slipped in the product of this and fell flat on his face and the audience roared its appreciation.

In the little booth at the back of the arena, the auctioneer, a suave young man wearing a mustache and a scarlet shirt, leaned toward his microphone.

‘Never say we don’t put on a good show here, folks.’

Buck only came to the Billings auction yards three or four times a year, but he always enjoyed it. It was a long way to come, a good three and a half hour drive, and the prices you got were no better than at stockyards nearer home. But it was good to get away, check out the market and generally keep up contacts over here. The contact he most enjoyed keeping up was Luke’s former speech therapist, Lorna Drewitt.

They normally had lunch and then took a motel room for a couple of hours and that was the plan today. Buck glanced at his watch. It was a little after twelve, which was fine, because the two young bulls he’d brought over in the trailer this morning were up next. They hadn’t quite been up to snuff for the annual Calder bull sale back in the spring.

The heifers at last found their way out and, right on cue, in came the first of Buck’s bulls. He came charging in so fast that the poor shit-covered cowboy had to dive for cover behind one of the corrugated-iron shields that were there for precisely such occasions. The bull’s head made a resounding clang as it struck the metal. The only thing missing was steam from his nostrils. Buck felt like shouting
olé
!

Forty minutes later, he was proudly towing his empty trailer out onto the highway under the big green and yellow sign that said WELCOME TO THE NORTHWEST’S LARGEST STOCKYARD. There was a man on the sign waving his hat and Buck was so pleased with himself and the price he’d got for his bulls that he almost waved back.

The motel where he was meeting Lorna Drewitt was just off Interstate 90 and it only took him five minutes to get there. He tucked the truck and trailer away in a discreet corner of the parking lot, in the unlikely event of it being spotted by someone he knew, then headed into the motel.

Lorna was already there, sitting pert and pretty in the lobby, reading a copy of the
Billings Gazette
. It was about six years since she moved here, after that unfortunate day when Luke had caught them in her office (though the boy was too wet behind the ears to have had any notion of what was going on). Now nearly thirty, Lorna looked sexier than ever.

She saw him and got up, smiling and folding the newspaper while he walked toward her. He put his arms around her and she tilted her head back and let him kiss her neck.

‘God, you smell good,’ he said.

‘You smell of cows.’

‘Bulls, sweetheart. Purebred Calder bulls.’

The motel had a restaurant that wasn’t too bad. They had steak and a bottle of Napa Valley merlot and kept touching knees and stroking each other under the table until Buck couldn’t bear it any longer. Without asking for the check, he laid a hundred-dollar bill on the table and led her off to the room for which he already had the key.

Later, as they lay on what remained of the bed linen, Lorna told him this was the last time she could do this. Buck hoisted himself up on one elbow and frowned at her.

‘What?’

‘I’m getting married.’

‘What? When?’

‘Next month.’

‘Jesus. To what’s his name?’

‘Buck, you know his name.’

He did. It was Phil. They’d been going out for four years.

‘Well, why does getting married have to change things?’

‘Buck, what the hell do you take me for?’

Buck was sure there was an answer to that, but right now he couldn’t think of it.

They got dressed and, in the fading light of the parking lot, kissed each other goodbye.

‘Don’t call me, okay?’ she said.

‘Aw, sweetheart. At least let me call you.’

‘Don’t.’

He drove back along the interstate, feeling more and more sorry for himself. Rain clouds the color of granite scudded low across his windshield and the trailer shuddered in the cold north wind.

Everything seemed to be going wrong lately.

First, Ruth going into business with Eleanor and getting all conscience-stricken about it and now Lorna doing the same. Then there were all those wackos who still kept calling him about the wolf thing. In fact, now he came to think of it, everything had been fine and dandy until those goddamn wolves showed up.

Well, it was time to get serious and get rid of them.

The first part of his plan was already in place: Luke was working for Helen Ross. And though Buck hadn’t yet managed to glean any information from the boy about where the varmints were, it was only a matter of time. When he got it, he would need someone who could act upon it.

And, along with selling bulls and seeing Lorna, that was what he intended to see to today.

In his scheming, he’d remembered an old trapper who, a long time ago, used to live up on the Hope River. One of those legendary fellows you never came across nowadays. Buck’s father used to hire him whenever they had varmint trouble, usually coyotes, but sometimes a mountain lion or a grizzly that was hanging around.

Buck recalled the guy having a son in the same line of business. But try as he might, he couldn’t remember the name.

Then, two nights ago, over a beer in The Last Resort, he’d casually asked old Ned Wainwright, who was ninety if he was a day, if he could remember it.

‘Lovelace. Josh Lovelace. Passed away, hell, must be twenty, thirty years ago.’

‘There was a son too, wasn’t there?’

‘Uh-huh. J.J. Moved down Big Timber way. Old Josh went there too when he got too old to cope. That’s where they buried him.’

‘Does the son still live there?’

‘No idea.’

‘Must be knocking on a little himself.’

‘What’re you talking about, Buck Calder? He’s a good twenty years younger than I am. Barely out of diapers.’

The old man laughed wheezily and started to cough. Buck bought him another beer then saw him safely home.

He’d found a J.J. Lovelace in the phone book and had called several times. There was never a reply. So, with the address in his pocket, Buck had decided to stop by on the way back from Billings and see if he could find him.

Driving in his black mood toward a black horizon, he saw the sign for Big Timber looming ahead. He indicated right and pulled off the interstate.