Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler (16 page)

“No. Ray is in the woods setting up the howl boxes. I expect him out in about twenty minutes, maybe sooner.”

The early going through the young aspen was frustrating. “Damn it,” Ray cursed softly as one pocket of his sweats caught on a branch and yanked him to a stop. He had taken care to forgo his khaki fishing shorts for the worn navy blue sweatshirt and black sweatpants—the better to disappear into the shadows. But he was hot in the humid evening air and the loose clothes kept snagging.

He stopped to adjust his backpack then soldiered on. The aspen gave way to balsam and red pine, much easier going. Off to his right, he could see pinpoints of light, which disappeared after a few minutes. The drug crew turning in for the night? He hoped so. When he felt he had cleared the area where the sheds and living space were located, he stopped to set down the first howl box. He was making sure that it was turned on when he heard footsteps coming his way.

He backed into a stand of pines and stooped low, hoping the feathery needles of a young white pine would hide him. As the steps grew closer, he realized there were two people. When they passed about fifteen feet away, he could hear the low whispers of a woman coaching someone: a mother and child on their way to a latrine.

Oops
, thought Ray. He hadn’t planned for that. But, of course, there would be no plumbing out here. He stayed quiet until he heard the mother and child pass by again on their way back to their sleeping quarters.

As he waited, barely breathing, he wondered if this was the little boy who had been treated for the deer tick bite and made a mental note to check himself for ticks later.
Lyme disease is hard on the body.
It also struck him that although the law enforcement teams planning to arrest the members of the drug cartel imagined armed men as their targets, the reality was there were women and children here, too. Dealing drugs might be the driving reason for the marijuana plantation but some of these folks were people doing the best they could to survive. At least the woman and child weren’t carrying telescopic rifles and they likely had no choice other than to be here tonight: in the wrong place at the wrong time. His final thought before he pushed on was that he hoped the little kid, boy or girl, would be okay.

Another trudge through stands of evergreens, an area that had looked dense enough to hide him when he had scoured the plat book earlier. He was close to what would be the midpoint for positioning the second howl box when his right foot slipped and he went down into waist-deep water, managing at the last minute to hoist the box in his left arm far enough off to one side to keep it partially on the bank and out of the water. The howl box in the backpack was safe for sure but had the other survived the sudden jarring?

Maybe Osborne was right and he should have brought along a flashlight. But even so he would have stuck it in the backpack, which would have put it out of reach and useless in this situation.

Ray got to his feet, hoping he hadn’t stumbled into sewage but there was no odor. The canal was manmade and must be part of the irrigation system. That was a good sign. After climbing out of the canal, he could see ahead that the evergreens gave way to a forest of hardwoods where he hoped to find it much easier going. Could be he was not far from the Pine River where he planned to set the third howl box.

After wringing the water from the sodden legs of his sweatpants, he adjusted the backpack, stepped over the canal, and was hurrying to a small clearing where he could set the second howl box when he tripped. He looked down at a weathered two-by-four half hidden by grasses. Now how did that get here? Looking up he could see the vestiges of an abandoned tree stand some deer hunter had built about twelve feet up and cantilevered over the branches of a good-sized maple. Rickety footholds were nailed at random angles into the trunk of the tree. Even in the dark, Ray could see the stand was so weathered with gaping holes in the platform overhead that it hadn’t been used in years.

Kicking aside the two-by-four, he knelt to set up the second howl box. Just like the first one, it had a tiny red light that went on to indicate he had them turned on and ready to receive signals from the remote units back in the trunk of Lew’s cruiser.

He knew he had to hurry because the wait in the woods and the fall into the canal had taken more time than he had planned. On the other hand, there was no estimating exactly how long this might take given the trek through woods in the dark, so he decided to slow down to be sure he set the third box up correctly.

He reached a section of swamp that had been indicated on the
Gazetteer
and skirted it to find just the right location where a initial blast from the howl box, given the direction of the night breezes, would be an ideal opener for the evening—slightly distant from the others and very likely a spot the pack itself might howl from on occasion. Yep, this would be just perfect for the last howl box, which was in his backpack. Sitting down to zip open his backpack, Ray had pulled out the box and was leaning forward to position it on top of a tree stump when he glanced up.

That’s when he saw the eyes: glowing flame-red against the darkness… all around him.

He stood stock-still, a familiar mantra running through his mind:
Wolves have never been known to attack humans.

It was a mantra from childhood. His father had told him that for the first time right after he had taken Ray deer hunting and they had met a wolf on an old railroad track. Ray would never forget how the wolf, which was about fifty feet away, had stood perfectly still watching them.

“Do not make eye contact,” his father had warned. “That can be perceived as a threat. I want you to stand your ground, yell, and wave your arms until he runs off.” The wolf did not move. “Okay,” his father had said, “that isn’t working so now we back away. But don’t turn around—we have to try to appear intimidating.”

And so father and son had backed away slowly, hollering at the top of their voices. It seemed forever that the wolf stood right where it was, watching. When they reached their car, which was parked at an old rail crossing not far away, and scrambled in, Ray’s father had exclaimed so loudly with an uncharacteristic curse that Ray knew he had been terrified.

Ray forced himself to keep working: position the howl box, flip the switch to turn it on, double-check the switch, now stand up. The eyes were still there, knee-high and watching. He couldn’t make out any shapes in the dark but he figured they had to be wolf pups. He picked up his backpack and started to back away along the edge of the swamp, keeping the eyes in his peripheral vision yet trying hard not to look directly at them either. Yelling was not an option—not if the routing of the drug cartel was to go as planned. And not to mention that one yowl from him and, whether it be man or beast, he’d be lucky to get out of the Nicolet National Forest alive.

At first, the eyes following him seemed curious. Then more sets of eyes, taller than the early ones, joined the crowd. The eyes seemed to move closer and he half expected to feel a curious snout sniffing at the legs of his wet sweatpants. Twice he thought he heard a low growl but he refused to think about it.

Backing through the woods was more difficult than he had hoped. Twice he stumbled backwards but managed to grab branches and stay upright. The eyes moved in closer. He thought about calling for help on his cell phone, which was in the backpack, but remembered that Lew had arranged for all cell service to go down. That was not an option.

But the thought of his backpack jogged a critical memory—earlier he had shoved a roast beef sub sandwich in there. It was supposed to have been his dinner but the preparations that night had gotten so busy he never got around to eating it. Along with that thought came a vision of the packages of venison chops in his freezer. If only he had those in hand, then he might have a chance. One thing he knew—everyone in the Northwoods knew—was that wolves love deer meat. But he did not have any venison. All he had was one roast beef sandwich. The challenge was how to turn around so he could get it out safely without looking weak and frightened. The roast beef sandwich. It wasn’t much but maybe, just maybe…

A plan started to take shape in Ray’s head but it could work only if he was able to retrace his steps with some accuracy. Continuing to keep the glowing eyes in his peripheral vision, he tried to glance around and see if he was on track, returning the way he had come. At first it seemed impossible to tell where he was going but if he could just turn around and take a good look, he might be able to orient himself.

He was still backing up when his right foot struck something hard. He dared to take a quick look down: ah, the old two-by-four. A few seconds later he felt a sturdy tree trunk against his back.
Okay, let’s go for it
, he told himself.

Holding the backpack out in front, he did his best to look past the eyes staring at him as he zipped open the backpack, grabbed the sandwich, and in one motion, ripped off its crisp tissue wrapping. He flung it forward as hard as he could. He could hear it falling in soft clumps as it came apart in the air.

Yelping and shoving, the pups dove for the prize. The eyes disappeared. Turning around so fast he nearly broke his nose on the tree trunk, Ray grabbed for the footholds and, wobbly though they were, pulled himself up one after the other. He hoped to hell the rusted nails wouldn’t pull out. They held, and scrambling he managed to find one toehold after another.

Hauling himself up onto the rotten platform, he crouched on the few wooden planks still there and prayed his weight wouldn’t dislodge them. From down below he could hear branches snapping as the pups tussled and yelped, tearing at the clumps of bread and roast beef. For an absurd second, he wondered if they preferred mustard or mayonnaise.

He could see better now and the figures of at least six pups emerged from the shadows. Behind them were taller shadows: the adults. He counted four. Very likely two were the parents—the alpha male and alpha female.

Time stood still as he watched from the tree stand, barely breathing. Maybe he was just not very interesting or maybe a new prey had surfaced somewhere but as quickly as the inquisitive eyes had appeared, they were gone. Still Ray waited. He was ready to wait until dawn if he had to—drug cartel and marijuana trafficking aside. The goal at the moment was to stay alive.

He figured he’d waited at least twenty minutes before he was sure the wolves weren’t coming back. Slowly, pausing on each a rung as he went, he lowered himself onto the forest floor. Then he ran.

He flew over the canal then slowed, determined to keep his distance from the latrine, then picked up his pace as he neared the aspens crowding the road where he had left Lew and Doc. A shooting pain in his left eye forced him to stop. Too many shadows. He had run right into the pointed end of spindly young red pine. The pain was so intense that he had to stop, take a deep breath, and place one hand over his eye until he could be sure he wasn’t bleeding. He slowed to a cautious walk. Even though he was sure he had to be close to the road, he made himself move with both hands held out in front of him, desperate to keep from damaging his other eye.

Back at the police cruiser, Osborne and Lew waited, the sounds of the forest growing louder as the minutes ticked by: rustlings, owls hooting, the scream of a rabbit losing its head.

Lew began to pace back and forth. “Doc, it’s been over an hour. According to Ray’s plan, he should have been back twenty minutes ago. Something’s happened.”

“If anything happened, I think we might have heard it,” said Osborne, not mentioning gunshots being one guarantee that Ray’s mission had gone bad.

“I’m going in,” said Lew. “I know the direction he was headed. I am sure I can use a flashlight without alerting anyone.”

“Not a good idea, Lew,” said Osborne. “You don’t really know where he was going once he disappeared behind these aspen. Let’s hold on five more minutes.”

“Okay, five minutes. Then I may have to call this operation off.”

A whisper of soft footsteps and a tall shadow emerged from the wall of aspen. At first Osborne was as relieved to see his neighbor as he had been at the sight of Cody sitting up in his fish hat earlier. Then he became aware that Ray was staggering.

“What on earth?” Lew spoke first. “What happened? Have you been shot?”

“No, no, it’s my eye… I ran into a branch. I’ll be fine… we’ll worry about it later.”

“Oh, no, we won’t,” said Osborne. “You need the emergency room—now. I did that once and you have to get it treated tonight, I mean this morning.”

“All right,” said Ray, “but I don’t think that one more half-hour is going to kill me. Let’s get this done first…”

Just then two figures emerged from the dark in front of Lew’s cruiser: Alan Strickland and Ron Hardin, the DEA agent who was working with him.

“Chief Ferris?” asked Alan in a low voice. “What the hell is happening? This operation is almost an hour late by my watch.”

“Just a brief setback,” said Ray, one hand over his eye.

“What do you mean ‘a brief setback’?” asked Alan.

“I said it’s nothing,” said Ray. “I’m ready to set the howl boxes off right now.”

“We have to get him to the hospital,” said Lew. “He ran a tree branch into his eye. Just as soon as we’ve finished here, Doc and I will—”

“That’s it. Everything’s off,” said Alan, making a chopping motion with both hands. “Forget this ridiculous setup.”

“Alan,” said Lew in a warning whisper, “keep your voice down. Doc is ready to take Ray in for treatment as soon as we’ve run the operation.”

“That’s nuts. I’m calling for the SWAT team first thing in the morning.”

“Maybe…” said Ray, walking to the back of the cruiser where the lid of the trunk was open, “… maybe you could calm down and let us give this a try… no skin off your nose, right?”

Alan snorted and motioned to his colleague. “Remind me of this conversation in the morning when we’re marshaling the troops, will you?”

“I think it’s worth a try,” said the other man. “Pradt is right—we’ve got nothing to lose and maybe all we hear are a bunch of howling wolves but I’m in. I want to see this.”