Widowmaker (29 page)

 

28

As I thought about the day ahead, I realized there was something productive I could do that wouldn't violate my agreement with DeFord to refrain from rule-bending activities. I would make it my personal mission to find someone willing to adopt Shadow.

I started researching what Maine state law had to say on the subject of wolf hybrids. Like most legal language, it resisted clear interpretation. Title 7, Section 3911 gave game wardens six days to dispose of a wolf hybrid at large before ownership of the animal was transferred to a shelter for it to be put down. Did that mean I was still the legal custodian of Shadow as the warden who had confiscated him? After five minutes of scratching my head, I pulled up Kathy's number and hit the call button.

My former sergeant picked up on the second ring.

“Mike! I heard about that crash up in the Allagash. Did you know Stacey was not on board?”

“Not until she called. I thought I was talking to her ghost.”

“Jesus! Is she all right?”

“Not remotely. I just called the field office in Ashland and a woman there told me Stacey took a sled out to Clayton Lake because she wanted to ‘help.' She practically has walking pneumonia as it is.”

“And what's this I heard about you being on the sharp end of a knife?”

“That's another long story, but the short version is that I am fine. I'll tell you all the gory details later, but right now I have a question. Do you know anyone who would adopt a wolf dog?”

“So that animal you called me about really was a hybrid?”

“Afraid so. I've been looking at the law book, and I think I have six days to find a home for him before he's euthanized. Am I reading that right?”

“I never had to deal with that situation, but I'm guessing the language is vague enough that, unless the department formally transferred ownership to the shelter, you can take him around to people who might consider adopting him. It won't be easy. Most of the wolf dogs I've met have been holy terrors, especially those with the higher wolf content. What's your guess about this one?”

“I don't have to guess. He came from Montana, and the state had him listed in its registry. He's ninety percent wolf.”

“Ninety percent!” Kathy said. “That's a wild animal, Mike. That's not a pet.”

“I was hoping you might consider taking him.”

“No.”

“Please, Kathy. You have a permit, and you're so good with dogs. Pluto has been gone nearly two years and—”

“Mike, you need to stop right there.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You should be.”

It had been rude of me to try to foist Shadow onto my friend. When Kathy was ready to adopt another dog, she would no doubt want an animal bred for search-and-rescue operations, one she could train. Wolf hybrids were probably the worst-possible animals for the work she did.

“What about some sort of sanctuary?” I asked.

She gave the question some thought. “Well, there's nothing in Maine.”

“There used to be one in New Hampshire, but I heard it closed.”

“Fenris Unchained didn't close,” she said. “That was just a rumor because the guy who runs the place had a heart attack, and they thought he was going to die. Somehow, he recovered and is back to taking wolf dogs. I don't know if he's accepting new animals, though. More and more states are banning wolf hybrids.”

“Where's it located?”

“Just across the border in the White Mountains. I've never been there, but I heard it's a funky place. Do you want me to make a call for you?”

“Yes! Thank you, Kathy.”

“What is it about this particular animal that's gotten to you?”

“I feel responsible for him.”

“There's got to be more to it than that.”

“I can't explain it. If you saw him, you would understand, I think.”

After we'd signed off, I pondered the matter some more.

Being a game warden means dealing daily with dying and dead animals. In the course of a shift, you might be called upon to shoot a rabid fox or kill a moose whose brain has been turned into Swiss cheese by parasitic worms. The thrash-metal band Megadeth once put out an album titled
Killing Is My Business
 …
and Business Is Good.
I hated the music but thought often of the title. In the course of your career, you see hundreds of dead deer, bears, moose, geese, ducks, turkeys, coyotes. The list goes on.

Game wardens couldn't afford to be sentimental about wild animals. Those feelings were a luxury that belonged to first-world people who no longer had to think about the cycle of predator and prey—people who could afford to remain ignorant of how life actually played out on planet Earth.

*   *   *

One of the perks of being a warden is that the department allows you to use your patrol truck on your days off, provided you reimburse the state for your mileage.

I put on civilian clothes over my long underwear—L. L. Bean boots, jeans, wool shirt, and Carhartt coat—and went out into the freezing garage.

Most days, I lived out of my patrol truck. A warden's pickup is the closest thing he or she has to an office and supply shed. Most of the gear I carried was standard from season to season: binoculars, an old-fashioned pager to receive messages when I was miles from the nearest cell tower, a camouflage jacket and pants, a spotting scope, a first-aid kit, a Mossberg 510A1 tactical shotgun, a Windham Weaponry AR-15 rifle, boxes of all kinds of ammo, evidence bags and body bags, a come-along, multiple thicknesses of rope, a sleeping bag, a GPS, a camera, crime-scene tape, flares, safety cones, et cetera.

I didn't normally travel with an animal carrier or catch pole, but I knew I would need the carrier at least on this trip. The department had just given us new talonproof gloves that extended up the arm to the elbow. They were comparable to the bite sleeves worn by dogcatchers. I threw my new gloves onto the passenger seat.

As I got behind the wheel, I saw my father's dog tags dangling from the rearview mirror. I'd forgotten that I had hung them there. I could hear Amber's last words in my head as clearly as if I were back in that smoky room again.
I thought you were a good person. I thought you were loyal. But you're just as much of a heartless bastard as Jack was. What kind of asshole son doesn't even claim his dead father's ashes?

A son who had been utterly betrayed by his father?

I had no idea what had become of my father's ashes. I assumed that the state of Maine had some protocol for dealing with the unwanted remains of the indigent and outcast. I figured there must be a twenty-first-century equivalent to the old potter's field. But I wasn't entirely sure where to begin looking for it.

I flicked the dog tags so that they jingled, then backed out of the garage.

*   *   *

The Lakes Region Animal Shelter was located in a nondescript building along busy Route 302, which is the main road from Portland into the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It was one of those long, low rural structures that had probably been half a dozen things over the years—day-care center, dentist's office, travel agency, beauty salon—but which was now the temporary home for wayward cats and dogs waiting to be returned to their owners or in need of new ones.

From the icy parking lot, I couldn't see the pens at the back of the building, but I could hear the barking of dogs, large and small, let outside into the open air. At least the people who ran the shelter had had the courtesy to choose a headquarters far from the nearest residences. There was an auto-body shop across the highway, but otherwise nothing but white pines in either direction.

A buzzer sounded as I stepped through the door. I breathed in the earthy scent of cat litter and dog hair gone airborne. Muffled barks made their way through the walls. The entry was decorated with pictures of animals up for adoption and posters that offered veterinary tips for pet owners.

A thin, freckle-faced young woman appeared from another room. She was cradling a tabby under her arm. It had a bandage on its foot, a plastic cone around its neck, and a displeased expression on its small face.

“Hello?” she said in a stuttering voice.

“Good morning,” I said. “I'm Mike Bowditch, the game warden who rescued the wolf dog that you're sheltering.”

Rescued
seemed a cruel word under the circumstances, given Shadow's likely death sentence.

Her eyes widened. “Really? That's so awesome. Oh my God, he's such a beautiful animal.”

“How is he doing?”

“Dr. Carbone said he's actually very healthy.” She stroked the cat's back, but to no good effect. The tabby continued to glower. “Those awful people didn't abuse him at least.”

“That's good to hear.” When I reached out to touch the cat's fur, it gave a hiss. “What's this guy's name?”

“Gremlin.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got caught in a trap. Those things should be outlawed! Talk about animal cruelty!”

I doubted she would have liked me if I'd told her I'd gotten a junior trapping license the month I'd turned ten. I reached into my wallet and found a business card. “If you ever have problems with dogs or cats getting caught in traps, give me a call, and I'll go have a talk with the trapper.”

“You'd do that? That's so sweet of you.”

We smiled at each other while she stroked the cat.

“My name's Kendall,” she said out of the blue.

“Can I speak with the director, please, Kendall? It's about Shadow.”

“Let me put Gremlin back in his cage, and I'll go get Phyllis.”

“Phyllis is the director?”

“Uh-huh. I'm just a volunteer here. I just started three weeks ago.”

After Kendall disappeared into the next room, I checked my phone. There were no messages or texts from Kathy yet. I hoped she was having luck persuading the founder of Fenris Unchained to accept Shadow. If he didn't, I had no idea what I would do next.

Kendall returned after a few minutes, accompanied by a stocky middle-aged woman wearing granny glasses, a hand-knit sweater, felt pants, and sensible shoes. Her clothes were absolutely covered in dog and cat fur.

“Phyllis Murray,” she said, shaking my hand solidly. “I'm the director here.”

“Mike Bowditch.”

“You're the warden who saved Shadow, Kendall tells me.”

I removed my knit cap out of old-fashioned politeness. The way Phyllis was dressed, she struck me as the old-fashioned type. “That's right,” I said. “I appreciate your taking care of him for us.”

“Are you here to see him one last time?”

The implication being that his appointment with death was imminent. “No, ma'am. I'm taking him to be adopted.”

She didn't stand more than five feet tall, but when she straightened her back, she seemed to grow in size. “I am confused. Shadow chased and killed a deer. Dr. Carbone has already declared him to be a danger to the public.”

“I've found a sanctuary in New Hampshire willing to take him,” I said, hoping it wasn't so much a lie as a prematurely told truth.

“That Fenris place?” Her eyes went to heaven. “Have you ever seen that so-called sanctuary?”

“No, ma'am. Have you?”

“No, but I've heard stories.” Phyllis Murray was not a woman who was easily swayed. “We're not allowed to release a wolf dog that poses a danger to the public, even to a person licensed to possess wildlife. I'm sorry, but those aren't just shelter rules. Our hands are tied by certain laws.”

“That's not entirely true, legally speaking,” I said. “Title 7, Section 3911 gives my department six days to dispose of a wolf hybrid at large, before the shelter can claim ownership. That means I'm the one who is still responsible for him for the time being.”

“Are you certain of that?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am. The Warden Service is committed to doing everything we can to keep these animals from being put down. I saw on your Web site that this is a no-kill shelter.”

“Normally.”

“So we have the same goal here. Fortunately, Shadow has gotten a reprieve. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a long drive ahead of me today. I'm going to go get a carrier out of the back of my truck, and I'll be right back.”

I stepped outside before she could respond. Outside, traffic was moving at a steady clip in both directions. The cold air smelled heavily of auto fumes. I lifted the dog carrier from the bed of my truck and returned as quickly as I could to the shelter.

Phyllis Murray hadn't been idle. While I'd been outside, she had gone to retrieve Shadow's folder and was examining every document with great care. “My understanding was that everything had already been decided.”

“Is there anything in there granting the shelter ownership of him?” I asked, hoping that no one at IF&W had signed any papers yet. I hadn't considered the possibility that somebody in the department might have unwittingly sabotaged my plan.

“No, but—” she said.

“Then let's go get him.”

Phyllis Murray raised her eyes from the folder. Then, to my surprise, she laughed out loud. She had been torn between two aspects of her personality, I realized: the side that believed in strict adherence to rules and regulations, and the side devoted to saving animals at all costs. In the end, the better angels prevailed.

Still smiling, she handed the folder to Kendall. “Let's go get him.”

The three of us passed through a series of rooms before arriving, finally, at the kennels. The floors were concrete, with inset drains, and there were overhead fans mounted in the ceiling that recirculated the air. The odor of urine and feces was overpowering, and the barking was so loud, it hurt my ears.

Dogs of all sorts—purebreds and mutts—surged forward, pressing their wet noses against the cages to meet us. One elderly beagle licked the steel links, unable to reach my hand.