Part 3
Caleb’s uniform was the first thing Victor Danner saw when the door opened. The greeting he had prepared faltered, then returned in a softer voice as he noticed the bedding.
“Owen, you could’ve saved yourself all this. I have a pen and people who know how to use it.”
Owen waited until Laura had the pup securely before rising. Danner remained on the mat, his fine waterproof coat shedding drops onto the floor. Caleb’s forearm rested against the doorframe, leaving no invitation to come farther.
“I’m still waiting on a witness to the incident you reported,” the trooper said.
“Go down to the sheds. Everybody knows about it.”
“Somebody who was there.”
Danner looked toward the stove. “There’s a wild predator in a residence. That’s the concern, isn’t it?”
“And she’s receiving emergency care,” Laura said. “The department has been informed from the beginning.”
“Good. Then let me help. We have facilities. You have an unfenced cottage.”
Owen could hear the account Danner would give in town. An armed veteran had brought a wolf into his house. There were four pups loose on his floor. Those statements would need no invention. Explaining the wounds, or the tag in Caleb’s evidence case, would take longer.
Flint rose over the litter when Danner reached for his phone. Laura stepped into his line of sight.
“No pictures. You’re making her defensive.”
“I’m keeping a record.”
“Outside,” Caleb said. “We can finish your report there.”
Danner’s attention settled on the case. He asked what the trooper had found. Caleb answered with a question about cooperative snowmachines at the weather station.
“In this weather? You expect me to account for every employee’s movements?” Danner adjusted his phone in his hand. Then his eyes moved to Owen. “With your record, I’d be careful about volunteering for another crisis.”
Owen felt his fingers close. Danner was within reach, and the calculation came quickly enough to shame him. Across the room, Flint turned at the sound of his breathing.
He spread his hand against his leg.
“Laura has the animals. Sutton has your complaint. There’s nothing here you need to take over.”
Danner waited, as if the useful part of Owen’s answer might still be coming. Then he slipped the phone away. Caleb accompanied him onto the porch and closed the door.
Ruth retrieved the cup near Owen’s chair.
“Never see him carrying anything into the chapel,” she said. “Unless someone’s holding a camera.”
Laura made a small, surprised sound. The pup shifted in her hand, and she bent over him again.
After Danner drove away, Caleb sent the first photographs and requested another patrol when the roads permitted. He returned to the station to document the tracks before they disappeared. Owen held the lamp for Laura, learning to draw back at the first tightening of Flint’s muzzle rather than waiting for a growl.
Soup heated on the stove through the afternoon. Ruth put a bowl beside him and, when Laura urged her to change her wet socks, gathered the empty sack for another load of blankets.
The chapel vestibule was cold enough to show Ruth’s breath. She unlocked the side door and stood listening to the building settle. Services were infrequent now, on holidays and whichever Sundays Father Dennis could manage. Most days she kept the place locked.
Walter’s stove occupied the inside corner. He had spent an entire evening getting its pipe precisely fitted while his supper went cold. She had complained then. Now she touched the wall beside the iron and kept walking.
Danner’s reference to Owen’s history had stayed with her. She had used nearly the same accusation for years. Yet all morning Owen had risen on his bad knee whenever Laura needed him, then lowered himself again beside an animal that might not survive.
Beneath the candle cupboard sat Walter’s box. Ruth had dusted it, moved it for cleaning, set it back. She had not opened it since packing his work things away.
She lowered it onto a bench and lifted out a water-marked notebook.
Finding the date was easy. Turning the fragile pages was harder. Near the bottom of one, Walter had noted an unreported departure by a cooperative boat. The main radio had failed. Owen had left on foot to reach the backup antenna.
A cramped addition ran along the margin: Owen’s out getting the link back. He’s not the one to blame.
Ruth held the page flat with two fingers. For eight years she had seen Owen sitting indoors while her husband called. She had furnished that room in her mind, placed him in a chair, given him time to answer. She couldn’t remember where anyone had told her those particulars.
Father Dennis found her on the bench when he came to check the shutters. She passed him the notebook and watched him read.
“His radio tapes,” he said. “Did you keep the recorder?”
She pointed to the cupboard. “It’s dead.”
“Let me see.”
Ruth wrapped the notebook in her scarf. She had promised Laura more dry bedding, and the smallest pup still needed watching. When she left, Dennis had the recorder open beside his tools.
At the cottage, Owen had managed only a few spoonfuls of cold soup when Flint got up. She worried the edge of her dressing, then pressed her nose against the door seam.
He opened it a hand’s width. Before he could shift the screen, she slipped past him.
Laura joined him at the threshold. Down the slope, Flint was moving toward the weather station. Behind them, all four pups remained on the blankets.
“I’ve got them,” Laura said. “Get Sutton on the phone.”
Ruth was coming through the gate with the sack. She stopped, followed the wolf with her eyes, then looked up at Owen.
“Don’t wait on us. Go.”
Caleb answered from the station road. Owen took his light and stepped into Flint’s tracks…
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