James Smith - Hybrid

She caught his startled eyes darting about. Playfully, she dug the tips of her fingers into his sweater and began making tiny circles. He bent his head lower and nibbled on her earlobe. Gently exploring her face with his soft lips, he allowed one hand to slip under her jersey and sneak to the top button of her woolen shirt. Then he slid the hand across her warm chest until he reached what all men go for first. Caressing her small breast, he gently freed it and brought his lips down to it.

She tossed back her head and held her breath. His fingers crept to her jeans, but stopped when the cold steel rammed against his stomach. The tip of a four-inch blade had snapped out of a brown and ivory scrimshaw handle. “Caught you, didn’t I, slugger?”

He suddenly straightened up. “I… I’m sorry, Charlene. Please… put that away.”

“You can kiss me all you want, but I’ll decide when it’s time to fuck. I’m not particularly ready right now.”

He nodded more than necessary. She flicked the blade back into the handle and shoved the knife into her pocket. She wished she could find better ways to express herself. “Besides,” she said, “I’m having my period.”

Son-of-a-bitch, he mumbled.

She heard him anyway. Why was he so befuddled? Nice girls aren’t easy. She buttoned up and gathered herself.

For the umpteenth time, he fixed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose with his index finger. “Do you want to—”

“Beg your pardon?” She couldn’t tell if he was talking to himself like he was before or to her.

“Do… do you want to use the sleeping bag?”

“Well now, that is so kind of you! I don’t mind if I do.”

She crawled into the tent and took off Marilee’s shoes. He followed her inside and crouched against the canvas wall, facing her. She thought better of taking off any clothes and slipped into the nylon bag, then zipped it up to her chin. “You gonna be warm enough, slugger?”

“I’m fine, just fine.”

Light from the campfire’s dwindling flames cast a tangerine glow on the canvas walls as they fluttered with the wind. He yanked the collar up around his skinny throat and wedged his knees together against his chest. Occasionally she opened one eye. Each time she caught both of his fixed on her. He probably didn’t trust her anymore. Men were like that.

The howl of that lone wolf arose again. She shuddered and buried her head deep into the sleeping bag.

Itwas early morning when Dieter drove into the Park to Madison Junction and joined the Grand Loop Highway toward the Roosevelt Gate at the northwest entrance. Getting an appointment with Superintendent George Gilmer at his headquarters office was easier than he thought. He assumed his DVM credentials helped make it happen.

When he arrived, the secretary he’d talked with on the phone asked him to wait in the reception area, then excused herself and entered the superintendent’s office. Dieter picked up a copy of National Parks Magazine from a side table and rifled through it as he rehearsed his spiel. Discussing the delicate matter of the chief park ranger’s idiotic behavior required political savvy, a trait he’d never even come close to mastering.

It didn’t take long before the secretary returned. “I’m sorry, Dr. Harmon. The superintendent is on an unscheduled conference call with Washington.”

“That’s not a problem at all. I can—”

“I’m afraid the call will take him into his next appointment, but he doesn’t want you to have made a wasted trip.

“Oh, no—I have no problem waiting until—”

“Now you just follow me, and I’ll take you to the chief ranger’s office.”

Dieter froze, trying to think of a quick reply.

The secretary headed for the hallway and Dieter followed. “Mr. Gilmer is very apologetic. You know how—”

“Pardon me, Miss, but what I’m trying to say is that I expected to see the superintendent himself.”

She stopped and looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Now, don’t you be at all concerned. Chief Corey has many years of experience here in the Park.”

“I came to speak with Mr. Gilmer. It’s frankly about a private matter.”

“Thank you, Barbara,” a voice from behind blurted out. When he turned around, Jack Corey approached. The sharp creases in the trousers of his immaculate uniform could cut down a small sapling. The chief ranger held out his hand to shake. He was all smiles.

“I would be more than happy to see you, Dr. Harmon. Please, come on down to my office.”

Corey led him into his lair and closed the door behind them. He motioned for him to take a seat. “We really regret that Mr. Gilmer’s too busy for you today. How can I help you?”

“As I told the receptionist, I came here to see the superintendent.”

“I’m sure you can appreciate that a National Park superintendent has a lot on his plate every day of the week?” He wouldn’t wipe the fake smile off his face. “These sudden calls from Washington happen often.”

“I understand, but I’m here to file a complaint.”

The smile finally dissolved. Dieter leaned forward. “There’ve been too many wolf kills reported outside the Park. Some kind of action needs to be taken.”

“But I explained all this to you at Joshua Pendleton’s ranch.”

“That explanation didn’t fly,” Dieter replied. “Pendleton knows what he’s talking about. He’s been around the Western wilderness more than anybody. When he speaks about wolves—”

“He’s speaking for the ranchers who live around here? Is that what you want to say?”

Dieter struggled to avoid raising his voice. “Don’t you think the Park Service should at the very least be more willing to hear them out?”

“Both of us need to calm down.” Corey turned toward the large picture window across the room. Lush green ferns, trimmed by a meticulous hand, decorated the window sill. Dieter stared out the window and began to recover normal breathing. Outside was a grand view of the open meadows of Mammoth Springs and distant mountain peaks, but what immediately caught his eye was a large vertical antenna on an adjacent building in the headquarters complex. An idea popped into his head, the same thought he’d had during his last visit to Molly’s home.

Corey walked to a file cabinet and opened a drawer. After pulling out a bulging folder, he spread a stack of photos on the desktop. “Let me give you a history lesson,” he said. “At the beginning of the century, wolves were the equivalent of rats, so they were eradicated from the Park. So, Operation Wolfstock’s been underway for two years now.” The new goal of the National Park Service, he explained, was to establish wolves in Yellowstone permanently and allow them to breed in numbers large enough to be removed from the endangered species list. He slid a black and white photo across his desk. It showed a motorcade of park rangers and politicians passing through the Roosevelt Gate on a cold January day two years before. Another photo showed a pickup truck hauling a steel cage and carrying eight wolves.

“These wolves,” Corey said, “along with six more two weeks later, made up the three original packs—Rose Creek, Crystal Bench, and Soda Butte. They were named after the landmarks where we released them. All of them were captured in Alberta and transported here. Their survival and breeding have passed all our predictions. Restoring that good ol’ balance of nature, just the way God and Bruce Babbitt intended.”

Dieter knew the lore of Bruce Babbitt—the Secretary of the Interior and the champion of environmental activists everywhere.

Corey squinted. “Did anyone ever tell you what happened to the wolves released up in the Park’s northeast corner?”