Kathy Reichs - Virals

The Loggerhead Island Research Institute. LIRI. But Loggerhead works just fine solo.

The island got its name from the sea turtles that nest on its eastern shore. Pirates were the first European inhabitants. Seeing it as a great spot to dodge colonial authorities, Blackbeard and his pals holed up and stored “inventory” between attacks on merchant ships. Or on other pirates. Or maybe they partied with other pirates. I’m not really sure.

Anyway, that phase didn’t last long. Eventually, the Brits rousted the pirates and some Lord Powderedwig built a cotton plantation. Slaves did the work, of course. Jerk. But one day they got him. Big lesson. If you’re a jackass who buys other people, don’t set up shop hours from help. Should your slaves object to the arrangement, you’re fish bait.

The military took Loggerhead next. Bases, guns, et cetera. After that, the island lay empty for several decades. In the seventies title was given to CU, and the university filled it with primates.

No kidding. Most of Loggerhead is now a monkey colony. Free-ranging rhesus monkeys. Hundreds of them, literally running wild in the trees and on the ground. It’s not like they can escape. Too far to swim elsewhere.

True, the research compound is fenced, but that’s to keep primates out, not in. The chain-link is only partly effective. Smart little buggers, they sneak through constantly. Like pocket ninjas.

The island truly is an amazing place. Wander into a simian clash and the sound is unbelievably loud. I mean, who wouldn’t want to hang out in a giant monkey cage once in a while?

To be clear, the institute does not conduct product testing or anything like that. The research is purely veterinary medicine or observational work, like behavioral studies. Otherwise, I wouldn’t go there. Or let Kit work there.

Pretty awesome, huh? There are only a few other places like this on the continent. Scientists come from everywhere. You need beaucoup shots and major clearance to get access.

Well, most people do. We just crash the party.

I stepped from the dock onto a narrow beach flanked by high, rocky promontories. Seagulls fluttered from our path, squawking in annoyance. I scanned my surroundings.

Loggerhead is shaped like a penguin with the “head” facing northwest. The penguin’s middle bulges slightly, making him appear well fed. The docks are located on the southern end, extending from the imaginary avian butt. From where I stood, features composing the penguin’s feet limited my view.

To the right, a conical peak sprouted from the island’s southeastern corner. Tern Point. To the left, a tree-choked plateau rose sharply to twenty-foot cliffs overlooking the sea. The small bay by which we’d entered lay cupped between the point and the plateau, its beach and dock completely shielded from rough seas.

No wonder pirates loved the place. Seclusion. A good place to stash a ship in a pinch. Yo ho ho!

The island’s northern end is marshland that peters out into a short tidal flat. You can’t walk the last hundred yards, too marshy-mushy. Not that you’d want to. Gator country. Snap, snap.

Though Loggerhead’s top and bottom are inhospitable, its sides are beautiful. Nothing but white sand. The long, narrow western stretch is named Chile Beach because of its shape, but old-timers call it Dead Cat. Hear the surf whining across the sandbars, just once, you’ll understand. The real prize lies on the eastern shore: Turtle Beach. Shorter and wider, it’s paradise. Best in the world.

That covers the perimeter. The island’s interior is all closely packed forest crisscrossed by creeks. Plus monkeys.

From the dock where we came ashore, a trail climbs northeast, up and over a steep rise that hides the LIRI buildings from sight. Hi was halfway along it.

“He’s useless on boats,” Ben said.

Agreed. Hi even got sick on the ferry.

“Let’s give him a second to . . . unwind,” I said.

“He’s looking for somewhere to puke.” Shelton was somewhat less delicate. “A man needs privacy in his weaker moments.”

No one argued with that. We’d all seen the Heaving Hi Show. Sequels always disappoint.

“You really want to find the dogs?” Shelton tugged his earlobe, a nervous tic. “They’re no joke, Tory. You got lucky last time. It was crazy.”

Half right. What I’d done was stupid. Wild canines can be unpredictable, even deadly. Especially wolfdogs. And I certainly had put myself in danger. But I don’t believe luck played a role.

Point of fact: I’ve never in my life felt threatened by a dog or wolf. For some reason, canines respond to me. It’s like we speak the same language. I can’t explain it.

The pack didn’t scare me; I was looking forward to seeing it. But I knew the others were uneasy with the idea of drawing too close.

“Shelton’s right,” Ben said. “Dog whisperer or not, you can’t take a risk like that again.” He skipped a pebble over the water. “I thought you were done. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t been there.”

“The whole scene was unreal,” Shelton agreed.

Here’s the story.

Some years back, a graduate student departing a research station in Montana found a half-dead female wolf cub buried in a snowdrift. Having no other option, and against all rules, he smuggled the puppy with him to his next posting—Loggerhead. Somehow he lost track of his ward. Upon completion of his project, unable to find the pup, he simply left.

Over time, the wolf pup became an unofficial pet for Loggerhead’s staff. Nicknamed Whisper, she moved like smoke, appearing silently for her meals, then disappearing into the woods.

Whisper grew and matured. Well-fed, she remained playful with people and unaggressive toward the monkeys. Though never officially sanctioned, Whisper was allowed to live where she chose and roam free on the island.

Roughly a year after Whisper’s arrival, a male German shepherd mysteriously entered the scene. No one knows how he got to Loggerhead. No matchmaker ever claimed responsibility.

Miss Whisper must have fancied the boy. The first wolfdog puppy was born a few months later. For a year the canines rolled as a trio. Then a second cub joined the family. I was first to notice the new addition, two months after my own arrival in November. I even named him.

How did we meet?

The gang and I were lounging on Turtle Beach when a splintering sound drifted from the woods. Intrigued, I snuck through the trees, expecting monkey mischief. Instead, I found the dogs circling a hole, whining and darting. A tiny cry was rising from somewhere below.

Hearing, perhaps smelling me, the pack froze. Six eyes locked on my chest.

I stopped dead, not moving a muscle.

Whisper stared in my direction, snout up and sniffing the air. She’s big, the pack leader. A full-blooded wolf. Upset. At me.

Yikes.

My sweat glands kicked into high gear.

A growl rumbled deep in Whisper’s throat. She stepped toward me, ears erect, fur bristling her spine.

A rational person would have retreated. But when it comes to dogs, I’m certifiable. Something in that hole needed my help, I was certain of it.

Slowly, I inched ahead, willing Whisper to understand.

Trust me. I’m not a threat .

Whisper’s eyes were so wide I could see the whites. Her lips curled, displaying gleaming incisors. The growl morphed to a snarl.

Second warning.

“Shhhh,” I cooed. “I’m a friend.” I inched forward. “Just one peek. I promise I mean no harm.”

Movement flickered in the corner of my eye. I stole a peek.

My friends, safely distant, watched with disbelieving eyes.

Ignoring them, I took another undersized step.

Whisper lunged, stopped two feet before me.