Terry Spear - Legend of the White Wolf

THE BLACK BEAR WAS RUNNING AWAY A HELL OF A LOT FASTER than Owen Nottingham and his P.I. partner David Davis thought capable. Their hunting guide, Trevor Hodges, yelled at them to keep up, but at the rate the bear was going, Owen and David would never last. Already Owen had shin splints, and his side was aching something fierce. Damn, here he thought he was in good shape.

They couldn't use dogs on the bear this late in the year in Maine, but the owner of Back Country Tours, Kintail Silverman, got around that by sending his pet wolves on the hunt. The sleek white-furred creatures made Owen feel like he was part of a wolf pack, hunting for survival, diving around snow-laden firs, blending in, exhilarated, hunting together as a cooperative team. The experience would have been more pleasurable if his other partners were with them—Cameron MacPherson, who wouldn't hunt for anything other than criminals, and Gavin Summerfield, who'd rather stay in Seattle and work than fly anywhere. But the four of them were like a wolf pack, solving crimes together as a collective unit and socializing as the best of friends throughout the good times and bad.

So Owen wished they could share hunting excursions together, too.

He noticed then that there were only snowy woods in front of them. The wolves and the bear were lost in the forest ahead as the chilly wind howled through the trees. Trevor was still keeping a good pace in the distance. For a white-haired old guy, he was lean and in incredibly great shape.

David had dropped way behind, but Owen was too busy trying to keep up the chase to wait for him to catch up. One last day before their hunt ended. And, hell, they'd tried to bag a bear for the last four years without any luck. The way the bear was outdistancing them in a hurry in the Maine wilderness; Owen was beginning to lose hope they'd make it this time either. But it was the closest they'd come.

When Owen didn't hear David's heavy breathing behind him, or his size ten boots trudging through the deep snow, he turned and looked to see how far behind he was. David was holding his thighs, leaning over, gasping for breath.

"David, you all right?" Owen asked, knowing it was a dumb question, when he figured David was trying to catch his second wind and couldn't answer anyway.

David motioned him on, wheezing, his face red and pinched with pain. "Get the bear! I'm fine. Go. I'll catch up."

But it wasn't like David not to keep up on a hunt and Owen ran back to check on him. "What's wrong?" Owen asked, grabbing his arm to steady him.

"Go. You'll… never… forgive… me… if… we…" David clutched his chest.

The wolves and Trevor circled back and joined them. The old man shook his head. "Chest pains?"

Through clenched teeth, David growled, "From… running… damn it."

David was the oldest of the four partners in their private investigator practice, but at thirty-five, David couldn't be having a heart attack.

With millions of acres of forest land all around them, they were too deep into the wilderness to get help. Cell phones wouldn't work out here. Owen knew CPR, but…

He helped David to sit. "What are you feeling?" he asked, trying to disguise the anxiety in his voice, although he couldn't hide a deepening frown, and David noticed.

"Don't be a… worry…" David clutched his chest even harder, his face sweating in the frigid air.

"We can't get any help to him way out here," Trevor said quietly. "If he's having a heart attack, it's not a bad way to go. Quick, no lingering illness."

"No!" Owen snapped. "Do you have any aspirin?" How could he let his friend from childhood and one of the best partners he'd had in law enforcement before they'd left the force die on him? He couldn't. "I know CPR."

"It won't be enough." Trevor sounded like the voice of reason, but Owen didn't want to hear it.

The image of David lunging in front of him, taking a bullet in the shoulder two years ago, flashed across Owen's mind. He wouldn't let him go. He couldn't.

The wolves watched silently, almost sympathetically as if one of their pack members was in trouble, their ears perked, their tongues hanging out, panting after the long run.

His hand clutching David's shoulder, Owen clenched his teeth to bite back the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. "Can't we do something? Anything?"

"Possibly," Trevor said, "but it will change his life and yours, forever."

"I'd do anything to save my friend's life," Owen said, figuring Trevor was thinking in terms of if he had enough money, they could air-evac him out somewhere, maybe in a clearing where the loggers had been.

Trevor put a hand on Owen's shoulder. "You sure?"

"Anything, damn it. However much it costs, it's worth it."

Trevor looked back at the wolves. The biggest one bowed its head slightly, then bared his teeth and lunged.

Before Owen could fathom what was happening, the wolf bit David in the arm. He cried out in pain.

As Owen swung his rifle to his shoulder to shoot the beast, he caught a blur of white fur in his peripheral vision, right before one of the other wolves pounced on him.

IN THE DARK OF NIGHT, THE ROADS SLUSHY, THE SNOW plowed in dirty heaps beyond the shoulders, Faith O'Malley drove her rented SUV from Maine's Bangor International Airport to Millinocket, a prickle of awareness making her uneasy. She glanced at the rearview mirror, sure the headlights had been tailing her all the way. Which made her wonder again if her father's concern that he'd been followed for some time before her boyfriend had stolen his research paper was based on reality.

On the other hand, maybe believing someone was now stalking her had all to do with the kind of work she did as a forensic scientist solving crimes and being way too suspicious of everyone and everything. Normally. When it came to Hilson Snowdon, she hadn't been suspicious enough.

A mile from the turnoff for the hotel, she heard a tremendous boom. Gunfire?

Her rental swerved toward the shoulder as if a ghostly force had taken control. Adrenaline flooded her as she twisted the steering wheel to the left, veering away from a speed limit sign. The back end of the vehicle on the right side felt like it was listing. A blow-out, not gunfire. A smidgen of relief washed over her. She eased onto the shoulder and pulled the vehicle to a stop, but didn't cut the engine. What next?

The truck she thought had been following her pulled up behind her, the lights shining in her rearview mirror. The pickup idled, waiting.

Her heartbeat sped up again. Not about to hang around for the truck driver's help, in case he was bad news, she fumbled in her purse for her cell phone, yanked it out, then punched in the number for roadside service.

When the operator asked her location, Faith gave her the exit number off the highway.

"It'll be about an hour, ma'am," the woman said.

"Thanks, I'll be here." Unfortunately. Faith hung up when she saw movement near the right back door. She jerked her head around. In the dark of night, looking through tinted windows, Faith couldn't see who the person was who had come up behind her vehicle, but she heard the click as the individual yanked on the door handle. Locked.

Something pounced against the door. Her heart gave a little start. Large almond-shaped eyes, shining an eerie greenish orange color, peered in through the window.

Steeling her nerves, she made sure all the doors were locked again, and considered driving the mile into town on the bad tire.

What looked like a big white Samoyed, but not half as fuzzy, raced around the front of the car, her headlights illuminating him as he headed for the driver's side. She wondered if the dog was half Arctic wolf. His long muzzle was not Samoyed in appearance, but more wolf like. The person who'd tried the door handle wasn't in sight as the dog jumped against her door. Reflexively, she jerked away from it. The animal peered in at her with its shining eyes, its huge front paws resting on her window.