HYBRID: A Thriller Read online

  Molly sauntered toward him, shaking her head. “You just ruined one fine reputation I set up for you with that pitiful performance, Joshua. I don’t think your cattle have anything to worry about. Neither do those cute little calves.”

  Josh Pendleton flaunted red hair and a beard a few shades darker that almost hid his dewlaps. “Never pretended to be a cowhand,” he mumbled.

  “I want you to meet the new vet in Colter,” she said.

  Pendleton shook Dieter’s hand with enthusiasm and a grin. “Molly told me a lot of good things about you, Doc. She don’t say such things about most people. Except maybe about me and the Judge.” He winked.

  Dieter couldn’t quite get a grip on a hand as big as a horse’s hoof.

  “You’re married to that good-lookin’ gal from the Blackfeet?” Josh asked.

  Dieter jolted back his head. “Oh, no. That’s Amy Little Bear. She’s been taking care of my two kids this summer.”

  “Wish I had a fine woman like that to take care of me one or two nights a week.”

  “Shut your mouth, Josh,” Molly said. “The Doc here’s a professional.” She pointed behind Josh to a llama with dingy cream wool meandering toward them. “Besides, you can always cuddle up with one of Rocko’s girl friends on chilly nights.” She jabbed Dieter in the side with her elbow.

  The llama’s banana ears pointed skyward from the top of a head that bore a half-comical expression. He studied Dieter with a haughty air, as if declaring his territory to a stranger. Josh patted the llama on the neck with one hand and held onto his back with the other. “You’re one handsome brute,” Josh said, as Rocko licked at his nose and cheek.

  “Say hello to our professional visitor here,” Josh said.

  Dieter reached out to stroke the animal’s neck, careful to avoid the head. The curly wool belied its look—soft, silky.

  “Rocko’s my master llama,” Josh said. “North American breed. Pure muscle and bone. No dainty Peruvian genes in this animal, I tell you.”

  “One of your guards?” Dieter asked.

  “You bet. Takes good care of the herd and watches over my sheep—Targhee and Suffolk mostly. Let me ask you something, Doc. What other animal do you know that could carry a baby on its back along a mountain pass but still bring down a five-point buck?”

  Dieter knew that llamas were unique farm animals. He’d treated a few in Pennsylvania and never understood why more farm families didn’t raise them. “How many you have?”

  “Thirty-two in the field.” Josh pointed toward Rocko. “No coyote or wolf is going to get within ten yards of my llamas or sheep what Rocko won’t be all over it like a rat after baloney. When he puts the full force of those four hundred pounds on his raised front legs, he’ll hammer any intruder to death in seconds.” Josh jabbed his fists in the air. “I don’t understand for the life of me how one of my prized studs was butchered by another animal, a damned wolf no doubt.”

  When Rocko discovered a clump of clover to munch on, Dieter thought of Megan lying on the lawn.

  “Let’s go take a look at the kill,” Josh said. “You’ll see for yourself what’s keeping me up at night.”

  FIVE

  When the clerk at the West Yellowstone Country Inn spotted Gus Parsons’ Arizona address on the registration, he eagerly struck up a conversation. It turned out that the clerk had moved to Idaho from Flagstaff sixteen years before. He recommended that if Parsons wanted wildlife photos, he should take the trail along the Madison, one of the country’s most celebrated fly-fishing streams. The clerk said that legions of fishermen followed that path over the years to seek wild German Brown or Rainbow. And plenty of big mammals hung out near the banks.

  “The Madison comes from the mating of two easy going rivers,” the clerk had said. “The Gibbon and the Firehole. When those two merge, they give the Madison one hell of a flow. And strangers to her can be easily fooled by her peaceful danger.”

  He spoke of how one fly-fisherman from Toledo met his death on the river the summer before. Tucked inside chest-high waders, the angler shuffled about in water above his waist. “Most likely he was battling a feisty Rainbow when he slipped on the moss-covered rocks and sank like a rock. That current is totally unforgiving, by God.”

  Parsons arrived mid-morning along the Madison River near Yellowstone’s western border. At his first stop he snapped telephoto shots of a trumpeter swan nesting in marshes. Later, he parked his white SUV—pearl white to reflect the Tucson sun—by the roadside and collected his gear.

  Taking deep breaths as he strolled, he began the hike along the trail that followed the river. The crisp mountain air smelled of meadow grass. The flowing water surged around granite boulders and rippled like a melody over rocks and gravel in the shallows. In a field by the river a pair of great blue heron stabbed their long bills into the weeds as they foraged for insects. A red-winged blackbird dive-bombed the male, targeting the bright onyx head feathers.

  He quickly knelt to switch to a 400-millimeter lens when a bull moose appeared through a thicket of aspen. Planted in a pool at the river’s edge the huge mammal chomped on moss that waved like a field of wheat just below the surface. The golden brown antlers spanned at least five feet.

  Parsons plucked a clump of dry field grass and tossed it high. The blades fluttered down and drifted back toward him. Good.

  A shadow of another creature streaked through the tall grass to his left but moved too fast to make out.

  Whoosh.

  A coal-black raven landed on the branch of a hemlock above. Two others landed nearby. Wings flapping, they jockeyed for space. When the moose turned his way, Parsons ducked and then slowly rose and peered through his field binoculars. A dog-like figure that was much too large for a coyote crept toward the moose from the rear. The moose resumed grazing, unaware of the impending danger.

  The intruder inched forward but stayed low in the grass. Its fur was a burnished black like the feathers of the ravens surrounding him. Although much larger than he’d been led to believe, the humongous animal could only be a wolf. It stopped and twisted its head about as if surveying the area.

  Parsons ducked again, now breathing faster. A wolf attacking a moose is the action shot of a lifetime. He pulled his shoulder straps with the Nikon camera and gear around to his side. Crouching low, he shuffled through the scrub oak and weeds in the direction of the expected action. More ravens swarmed overhead and cast haunting shadows dizzily around him. As if on command they flew directly down, cackling with wings swishing and settled onto tree branches.

  The hullaballoo distracted from the morning peace. He stopped to stifle a sneeze, then stood tall to stretch his aching back.

  Where the hell is the wolf?

  Another pitfall of wildlife photography. As quickly as the midnight black wolf had arrived, it disappeared. But the bull moose stood in full view, chomping on the underwater moss. He quickly set up his tripod and pushed the canvas camo hat away from his face. His eyes itched from the ragweed pollen, and he wiped at the stinging tears with the back of his wrist. He pressed his cheek against the camera, framed an overhanging branch through the viewfinder, and held his breath. Then he squeezed the shutter release and snapped a rapid series of shots while he gave special attention to the moose’s eyes. He’d learned over the years to go for that split second when a single ray of sunlight reflected off a pupil.

  A commotion arose in the scrub oak some fifty yards to his right. The moose raised its head to stare in the direction of the sound then moved briskly into thicker foliage.

  A raven burst from a tree and cawed. Three others surged from the cover of the tall pines and circled above. More flew in from behind and shrieked while those on nearby trees seemed to answer. One raven, with a wingspan the size of a broom, folded its wings and dived at him, landing only a few feet away with a rasping honk as if to berate him. He grabbed a stick and swatted at the damn bird then hurled the makeshift weapon at another roosting on a higher branch.

  The clam
oring flock flew away.

  There was a sudden cemetery quiet, a stillness like he’d never known in the outdoors, as if no life of any sort existed around him. The only sounds were air rushing in and out through his nose and the ringing in his ears. When he turned to move back down the path, a rumble erupted from the brush. He jerked around.

  The ebony black creature galloped straight for him.

  It’s not possible! Wolves don’t attack people.

  The wolf’s lunge struck him like a sledgehammer. He threw up his arms to protect his face and gasped for breath as he tumbled into the shallow water at the river’s edge. His skull smashed against the gravel and his tailbone slammed into the sharp edge of a rock. Lying on his back, he tried to move his arms to wrap them around his head, but only one arm feebly responded. When he attempted to pull in his knees, a streak of pain shot through his body as if a pitchfork had pierced his backbone.

  The curl of the beast’s upper lip flashed red above ivory while the animal charged again and again. He gagged as the fangs knifed deep into his throat—twisting, yanking. Ripping at flesh, powerful jaws battered his head into the mud.

  After a brief eternity, it was over.

  No longer feeling attached to his quivering torso he glanced down at the blood gushing like a pulsing fountain from his neck.

  The wolf sat on its haunches and licked at its snout.

  A raven flew down and dug its claws into the side of Parsons’ face. It pecked away at the open wound in his throat, stabbing over and over and over. Another raven landed on his head and plucked the tender flesh from around his eyeballs before its beak plunged into the sockets.

  The searing pain was no longer bearable. Drifting on the edge of consciousness, Gus Parsons finally worked one shaky hand up to his face and wiped at the blood that dribbled down his cheek alongside the streaming tears.

  SIX

  Josh Pendleton tossed aside the canvas tarp that had covered the carcass of a llama. The animal’s broken body lay smashed against a twelve-foot section of the blood-splattered, split-rail fence. The beautiful animal’s distended neck that had buckled over the top rail was almost severed. Flies buzzed around the gaping hole where blood had oozed out, drenching the black and white wool coat. Except for the head, the body was surprisingly intact.

  “Ever seen anything like it, Doc?” Josh asked.

  “Not even close.”

  “Damn puzzling. It wasn’t only a male, but a flock leader. One of my liveliest and fastest.”

  “Have you spotted any tracks?” Dieter asked.

  “Can’t tell too much. I chased off a pack of coyotes with my shotgun twice already. They’ve managed to mess up the area pretty good.” Josh waved his hand in dismissal. “The only scat I’ve found is fresh stuff from those coyotes. But no damn doubt in my mind—it’s a wolf kill.”

  Dieter walked closer to the carcass and stooped down. He brushed back the fur with his fingertips until he found the impression of a bite just below the neck where the sharp upper cuspids must have penetrated. Making a fist, he straightened out his forefinger and little finger to form goalposts. He held it up to the bite marks and then displayed the measurement for Josh.

  “That looks like three inches, Doc. Can you picture the size of the jaws?”

  Rusty barked from Molly’s truck bed and wagged his tail. A brown pickup with the logo of the US National Park Service wended its way toward them.

  “Well, waddaya know,” Josh said. “Look who finally made it.”

  “I can’t believe the pull Josh Pendleton has,” Molly whispered to Dieter.

  The pickup stopped only ten yards away and two men in park ranger uniforms and Smokey Bear hats stepped out. It wasn’t hard to make out who was in charge. With a royal-like stroll, the head honcho flaunted well-tanned, angular features and a chin held too high. When Josh and Molly exchanged greetings with him, there was a sudden undercurrent, as if present among feuding cousins at the annual family picnic.

  Josh gestured toward him. “Chief Corey, meet the new vet in town. Dr. Peter Hammond.”

  Dieter held out his hand. “That’s Harmon, Dieter Harmon. Pleased to meet you, Chief.”

  Yellowstone’s chief park ranger explored Dieter’s face. He didn’t smile as he held out his hand to shake, a forceful grasp that lasted too long.

  Jack Corey introduced his fellow ranger as Bantz Montgomery, who politely touched the brim of his hat, nodded and stepped back as if he knew his place.

  “We’ll take a look at what you got,” Corey said. “But I’ll remind you again, Joshua. We don’t have any jurisdiction here. ADC should be on this. They’re responsible for any wolf kills outside park boundaries.”

  “We haven’t found the animal control folks particularly quick to respond,” Josh replied. “Billings is too damn far away.”

  Corey adjusted his hat and looked toward the carcass, walking to it as he spoke. “I’ll be happy to give you my humble opinion. We’re just trying to reach out to you ranchers, like we promised.”

  Josh pointed but didn’t move from the spot where he’d anchored. “That’s another victim of your folly.”

  Corey stooped to look, ignoring the putrid odor. “You’re not talking about my wolves now, are you?”

  “You bet I am.”

  Corey grinned like a politician and pulled a pair of plastic gloves from his back pocket. “They’re America’s wolves, Joshua. They belong to everybody.”

  “You can tell America to come take ‘em back.”

  Corey slipped on the gloves, carefully positioning each finger into place like a surgeon. He probed around the wound and with Montgomery’s help, rolled the carcass about to examine further.

  “When did this happen?” Corey asked, his eyes fixed on the fatal wound.

  “A couple of days ago at most,” Josh replied.

  Corey reached with his right hand over to his left and yanked the glove away, then stood and removed the other. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Joshua, but what you’ve got here is either an angry neighbor who was clumsy at wielding a dull axe or a cougar kill on your hands. This is certainly not the work of a wolf.”

  “How do you reach a cockeyed conclusion like that?” Josh asked.

  “Straightforward. No bites on the legs or hindquarters and—”

  “That don’t mean nothing.”

  “And its belly hasn’t been ripped open. The attacker went straight for the throat.”

  “That don’t mean a damn thing.”

  “Your big llama males can defend themselves from a lone coyote or wolf, Joshua. But they don’t have any chance with a cougar.”

  Josh unbuckled the sheath that hung from his belt and pulled out a hunting knife. He shuffled in Corey’s direction.

  Jesus! Dieter stood and quickly backed away. Corey had a side arm holstered on his hip and Dieter waited for him to draw.

  The chief park ranger held his ground as Josh bent down and cut deep into the neck of the carcass, peeling away tissue to reveal bone. “Take a look at this.” He pointed with the tip of the blade where he’d carved.

  Corey lifted his chin and set it. The joints of his jaw twitched and he scratched the back of his neck. Dieter moved forward and crouched to get a better view.

  “You see any puncture marks here?” Josh asked. “I’ve seen plenty of cougar kills in my day, Mr. Corey. Even watched them sneak up on their prey and attack. Cougars, just like their cousins, the lions and tigers, go for the nape of the neck—not for the throat. It just ain’t their instinct.”

  Josh used his hands on his head to demonstrate. “They pierce the skull or spinal cord like a butcher knife. When have you ever heard or seen anything about a cougar grabbing a victim by the throat?”

  “They attack with the sole purpose of killing, don’t they?” Corey asked. “So what if they go for the nape of the neck or the throat or the crotch for that matter?” Corey was determined not to allow a jackass rancher get the best of an expert who’d studied wildlife throug
hout his career.

  Josh shook his head. “They attack from the rear ‘cause their inbred strategy is to blind-side their victim. These animals have a blueprint stored in their marrow. Nothing’s done helter-skelter in the wild, Mr. Corey. Nothing.” He shook the carcass with his fist buried deep in the fur over the backbone. “There’s no teeth marks on the back of this neck or the skull.” He pulled out a dirty plaid handkerchief and wiped off the blade, then looked hard at Corey. “This was no cougar kill and you damn well know it.”

  Dieter glanced at Molly. She returned a veiled smile, as if what they were witnessing was nothing but good entertainment.

  “If it was a wolf kill,” Corey said, “we’d see that llama torn to pieces by the pack.” The chief park ranger wasn’t going to be outdone by the likes of a trapper. “Why would we see a body with only its throat ripped open?”

  Josh shrugged and threw up his hands in exasperation. “Why would a cougar attack and just take off?”

  “They’re easily spooked. Much more so than a pack of wolves. The big cat could’ve made his kill and then got scared away.”

  His gut curled up in knots, Dieter couldn’t hold back any longer. He’d witnessed such stonewalling by law enforcement in Philadelphia. What progress had they made on finding Fran’s killer? What kind of priority was the PD giving the hunt for the beast?

  “Have there been other wolf kills reported outside park borders?” Dieter asked.

  Corey jerked his head toward him. “Yes, Dr. Harmon, there have been. When we do get valid claims, the ranchers are compensated.”

  “How so?”

  The look that Corey shot back at him was one of keep your mouth shut, asshole, this is none of your business. Corey paused before he answered, a pause calculated to relay that message. “Up to five hundred bucks per head. That is, if it’s proved to be a wolf kill.” He re-adjusted his hat and placed his thumbs back inside his belt. “And I’ll tell you this—there’ve been a lot more reported than confirmed.”

  “How many wolf packs are in the Park?” Dieter asked.