James Smith - Hybrid

“They found nary a trace of him. Everyone guessed he just crawled down into a hole somewhere and died.”

Dieter considered for a moment the similarities between people and wolves. “What made these legendary loners so tough to trap?”

“They learned from watching their companions die in agony from strychnine planted in chunks of meat. That taught ‘em anything smelling of man was a threat. Then they became smart as tacks. Used to detect the old number fourteen traps buried in the dirt from the human scent left on them. They’d sneak up on one and scratch all around it, exposing the trap and the chain. Then they’d take their hind feet and scatter twigs and stones onto the trap to set it off. Now that’s a fact.”

Josh leaned toward him. “I been thinking, Doc. How much can you learn from a autopsy anyway?”

Dieter shrugged. “Cause of death is often apparent.”

“So if we could get a good look at the corpse you found out on the Madison, it might just tell us something?”

Dieter jerked his head back.

“Got a ’quaintance over at Winslow Memorial who’ll likely let us sneak a view of the body if you want.”

Dieter hesitated. That needed careful thought. How deeply did he really want to go? On the other hand, he’d made the trip to see Josh and find out more. Why hold back now? “I’d like to do that. How about tomorrow?”

“What’s wrong with tonight?” Josh replied.

ChiefPark Ranger Jack Corey ordered a third drink—Glenffidich with a splash—while he waited alone and out of uniform at a corner table at Minicozzi’s.

The upscale restaurant in the center of Gardiner was complete with white tablecloths and olive-skinned waiters with slicked-back hair. Good place to meet—far enough away from Colter to be a little more discreet. At least that’s what he thought. A well-dressed couple two tables away had glanced at him more than once. But that happened a lot.

The reason for the third scotch was Anne. After twenty-two years, she was leaving him for another man, an asshole of an insurance agent older than he was by ten years. Anne put the blame square on Corey’s shoulders.

Maybe it belonged there. He had always put his career ahead of family. A crisis somewhere ahead of anniversary or birthday celebrations. Late for dinner. Exhaustion taking the place of romance.

He caught a guy at another table staring his way. He—Jack Corey himself—had made it to the enviable position of Yellowstone’s Chief Ranger. Everyone paid him respect. Whenever the annual meeting of park rangers from around the country took place, he was The Man. “Look, over there,” they would whisper. “He’s in charge of Yellowstone.”

How about lunch, Jack? Any plans for dinner?

After she entered the restaurant, he quickly caught her eye as she drifted across the room, dressed in a sleeveless silk blouse and slim-legged jeans stuffed into leather boots.

“You look stunning as always,” he said, as editor-in-chief Claire Manning approached the table with a put-on smile inside a serious expression. He called the waiter over and asked for a bottle of Torciano Merlot—her favorite.

She held up her palm. “Not for me. I’ll just have a glass of iced tea.”

“I’ll take the bottle, please,” he added.

Their chitchat began with the latest from the offices of the Gallatin County Weekly Reporter . She’d hired a recent graduate of Rexburg Technological College to run the refurbished printing press. After a few minutes the small talk shifted as usual to her husband. George’s latest sporting trip—hunting on a Kenyan game farm—sounded like shooting fish in a barrel. George was the co-owner of the Manning and Weisner trucking firm that had done well and provided George all the resources he needed to travel the globe for exploration, fascinating recreation and murdering wildlife.

When the waiter brought her tea, Corey asked to give them a few minutes to look over the menu and then offered her the pretense of a toast. She tilted the bottom of her glass in his direction and the slice of lemon annoyingly rubbed against her elegant nose.

“So, what do I owe this honor of your driving all the way up here for a dinner with me?” he asked. He slid an arm forward and brushed an index finger across hers.

She pulled back her hand. “How is the Operation going, Jack?”

She’d followed Yellowstone’s Operation Wolfstock from the beginning. She was even smack in the middle of the dignitaries from Washington when the first wolves transported from Canada arrived on that snowy January day two years before. But her accounts in the newspaper at the time missed the mark. She wasn’t getting good info. Between phone calls with the prime news outlets on both coasts, he began giving her more time on the phone to help her get the stories straight. That led to meetings in his office for extended interviews, which led to meetings outside the office for extended cocktails, then inside her home for extended lovemaking whenever George was enjoying extended big game killing sprees somewhere around the world.

George Manning was the global sportsman, no doubt, but Jack Corey was The Man. She was the one who finally broke it off.

Lately she was probing the Operation deeper than ever. She kept on top of the spending for the program, always calling into park headquarters and asking about budget details. He finally got wind of her call to Washington when she spoke with the financial people in the Interior Department. She wanted to compare the Operation’s budget figures from the superintendent’s office with those from the feds. He might be spending more money on the Operation than allotted from Washington, but that was his call. Robbing Peter to subsidize Paul was standard operating procedure. Everybody did it. She struggled to uncover a story like it was Watergate and she was another Woodward or Bernstein.

“The Operation’s going better than expected,” Corey said. “The wolves are breeding. Spreading out and claiming territory. We had no idea it would happen this fast.”

“I still have upset ranchers calling me. They want me to write about the livestock the wolves are slaughtering.”

Corey shook his head. “That’s just not happening, Claire, at least not anywhere close to the numbers people think. You know that the main lot of your callers are out after money. That’s all. The payoff for each kill claim makes it worth their while to file. Hell, I might do the same if I was in their shoes.” He brought his glass to his lips and took an extra long sip.

“Where does Superintendent Gilmer stand on all of this?” she asked.

“He’s just interested in finding out what packs have moved in near Colter. Sometimes I think he believes all those cock and bull stories people come up with.”

“What killed that Arizona photographer, Jack?”

He suddenly choked and spit up the wine down the front of his white dress shirt. He grabbed his napkin and wiped at the stain as he coughed. A waiter from across the room rushed in with more napkins and another brought soda water to the rescue.

After he blotted his shirt, he collected himself and scooted his chair back to the table. “You’re asking about a photographer?”

“Was he killed by a wolf pack?”

“Listen to me, I know there’ve been reports about livestock—”

For the second time she waved off the waiter as he approached the table. “I’m not going to play guessing games with you. Why haven’t we heard anything about his death?”

“The case is under investigation, Claire. The sheriff’s people are on it. You should be talking with them.”

“You know they’re not talking. Especially with me.”