Alaskan Wolf (2 page)

What an odd impression!

Maybe she would see the wolf again, closer, when she took her dogsled ride onto the glaciers with Patrick Worley.

Patrick. His face suddenly filled her mind, as if he were somewhere around here.

She almost laughed out loud at the ridiculous turns her imagination had taken.

“Getting what you need?” Nathan Kugan's voice startled her.

The captain had come from the bridge of his boat to join her on deck. Half a foot taller than her five-two, he was a local, of Aleutian descent, and the crispness of the fall air whipping across the deck apparently didn't bother him. He wore only a light sweater over his jeans and boots.

“I think so,” Mariah said, glad for the interruption to her absurd thoughts. She lowered her camera at his approach. “I'm recording what's happening, at least. Now I need to look more into what's causing it.”

“Did you get the whales?”

She frowned. “I haven't seen any whales. The only living sea animals I glimpsed were those otters.” She pointed.

His turn to frown, deepening the creases in his weathered face. Mariah had guessed him to be mid-fifties, but he looked ageless and could have been a lot older. “I had my acoustical equipment turned on—sonar, and the microphones I use to listen for fish. Before the noise from the glacier calving, I heard what sounded like orca calls. You didn't see any?”

Odd term, calving. She knew it, of course, since she had lived in Alaska for three years now, but she would have to explain it in her article for nonlocal readers. It described the tearing away of huge chunks of ice from the edges of glaciers nearest the water. As if the ice fields were happily producing
bouncing, enormous babies which, if large enough, were icebergs.

“No. I wish I had.” She took her camera and panned the bay, still using her telephoto setting in case something appeared in the distance. The sun had slid beneath the horizon, and the remaining light of day was following in its wake. Even in the growing darkness, the black-and-white irregular stripes found on killer whales would still be visible, giving away their location.

But she saw no orcas anywhere.

Nathan squinted and looked at the darkening water. “Strange. They sounded close. Should be surfacing by now to breathe.”

“Maybe they were heading out the mouth of the bay,” Mariah suggested.

“Could be. They're smart animals. They might have sensed the calving would occur and warned one another to leave.”

Mariah knew enough about orcas, members of the dolphin family, to accept their intelligence. What Nathan suggested was within the realm of possibility.

“You saw the glacier calving, didn't you?” she asked. The water was settling down, and Mariah let go of the ship's rail, though she still leaned against it for balance.

“Yes. It's maybe the eighth major calving I've seen in Tagoga Bay this week. Too many.”

“I'm surprised none of the scientists visiting the town are here now.”

Government, university and even private studies were being conducted in this area, in an attempt to determine the cause of the growing destruction of these glaciers. Was global warming acting this fast in Alaska?

That wasn't Mariah's focus, of course. The area's nature, including its wildlife, was what she would write about. Like the sluggish otters. And that solitary wolf, obviously upset by the glacier's tearing. But if she learned something else of interest, she would include it, too.

She thought again, incongruously, of Patrick Worley. What might he have thought about this particular glacier's calving? And why had she gotten that absurd sense of his presence?

“Thing is,” Nathan said, staring off toward the glacier field, “there's always calving. Small pieces, sometimes larger ones, every day. Cruise ships even entertain their passengers on occasion by blowing their whistles and getting ice to break off. But I've never seen anything on this scale before.”

“Any idea why?” Mariah asked.

He shook his head. “Nope. It's sad, though. You ready to go back to town?”

“Yes, thanks.” She had plans for the evening. She'd scheduled an interview that night with some of the visiting scientists conducting research.

Time to focus even more on her article.

And get good-looking dogsled mushers out of her mind until it was time for her ride.

F
iske's Hangout was an amazing place. Mariah had thought so when she had first come in here the previous afternoon. This evening, it still made one heck of an impression. It also had a convenience store and post office attached—truly an all-purpose place to serve this small town.

She stood in the crowded bar/restaurant doorway now, hearing the roar of voices, looking for people she recognized—like anyone she had seen at the Great Glaciers Dogsled Ranch. Finding no one she had met there, she felt a small pang of disappointment, which was ludicrous. Her sled dog ride would take place
tomorrow. She could get her fix of seeing Patrick Worley then.

She nearly laughed at herself—especially after that silly notion of his presence somewhere nearby while she was on the boat, watching the glacier, the otters and the wolf.

She stepped farther in. It was time for her meeting with Dr. Emil Charteris, a noted glaciologist who had studied the melting of the ice in Antarctica and Greenland, and who now had a federal grant to study the glacial changes here. With him was his research team: his son-in-law, Jeremy Thaxton, a zoologist, and his daughter, Carrie Thaxton, a computer expert. Mariah was curious to hear Dr. Charteris's ideas of why the glaciers in this area were falling apart so quickly, but she particularly wanted to focus on Jeremy Thaxton's perspective of the possible climate change's effect on local wildlife.

Fiske's Hangout was the best location to meet anyone in this town. Mariah especially liked the charming wooden bar in its middle—a tall, hand-carved box, with winged maidens resembling figureheads at its corners. Gargoyles and pixies peered from center shelves holding bottles and glasses. Supposedly, the bar's first owner got bored during his first dark, cold Alaskan winter and spent otherwise idle hours carving this masterpiece. True or not, the place was incredible.

As she continued scanning the crowd, she recognized the people she sought from their online photos. Unlike most Hangout patrons, Dr. Charteris and his family members did not mill around the bar. Instead, they sat at one of the white spruce tables scattered haphazardly along the rest of the wood floor that was all but obscured by peanut shells. Mariah crunched her way toward them.

“Hello, Dr. Charteris.” She extended her hand. “I'm Mariah Garver.”

“Ah, yes. The nature writer.” His rising apparently signaled his daughter and son-in-law, who also stood. Emil Charteris was over six feet tall, and there was a well-worn cragginess to his long face. His deep brown hair was silvered at the temples. “Please join us,” he said, “and tell us more about the article you're researching. I'm not sure we can add much exciting information, but we'll certainly try.”

“I'd appreciate it.” Mariah smiled.

Carrie and Jeremy also introduced themselves as they resumed their seats. Carrie, known as a computer whiz and statistician, was willowy and tall, like her dad—attractive, and maybe a few years older than Mariah's age of thirty-one. Her snug red sweater hugged her slight bustline, making Mariah aware of her own, more substantial curviness.

Jeremy was about his wife's height, and he wore glasses. His forehead puckered in what appeared to
be perpetual concern. Mariah particularly focused on him, since he would have the most information pertinent to her article.

Almost immediately, a short, stocky woman wearing a heavy, patterned sweater and bucktoothed grin stood beside them, a pad and pen poised in her hands. “Okay, I know the professor, Carrie and Jeremy,” she said. “And you are…?” She looked expectantly at Mariah, who gave her name. “Case you can't guess,” the woman said, “I'm Thea Fiske. Fiske's Hangout is mine. You're welcome as long as you eat, drink and cause no trouble.” She winked beneath the crown of silvery braids that wrapped her head. “Got it?”

“Uh-oh.” Mariah pretended concern. “Okay, I'll have a mug of hot, spiked cider and…what would you recommend to eat?”

The choices unsurprisingly turned out to be mostly Alaskan style—primarily salmon and other seafood, and even moose steak. Mariah, who had fallen hard for Alaskan fare when she moved to Juneau a few years earlier, opted for the salmon, as did most of the others.

As soon as Thea left, Mariah explained that her article would be about local wildlife, especially on and around the glaciers, focusing on whether changes to the ice fields affected the animals. Then she started asking questions. “How long have you
been in Tagoga?” She looked expectantly at Emil, to her right.

The bar/restaurant's acoustics were surprisingly good. Despite the low roar of conversations from the large crowd and the background music played with zeal by a piano player in one corner, Mariah had no trouble hearing his response. She had, with consent, put a recorder on the table, but it wasn't the latest technology and she feared it wouldn't pick up everything.

“About six weeks. Jeremy and Carrie joined me a month ago.” He waited while Thea plunked bread in front of them, then explained what he hoped to accomplish: collect as much data as he could on the extent of global warming's effects in this area, and on whether something else could be causing the extreme acceleration of the melting of the glaciers.

Definitely interesting, but Mariah wanted to learn more about effects than causes.

She was pleased when Jeremy dived into the conversation. “I've barely scratched the surface of researching native wildlife at Great Glaciers, and whether the glacial changes affect various species.” He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread. “But I'll be looking into it.”

“I was at the park earlier this evening on a boat,” Mariah said, “and saw a glacier calving. A huge piece broke off, and the captain says that's been happening
a lot more than normal even just this week. He described some orca sounds, though I didn't hear them. But I saw a couple of otters in the bay, and a wolf on the remaining part of the glacier.”

The scientists had been there, too, earlier that day, and hadn't seen that particular calving of Kaley Glacier, but they all compared notes. Mariah showed the photos on her digital camera, including the otters and wolf, and Jeremy expressed particular interest in following up on the creatures.

Learning that Carrie was compiling statistics on the calving and related issues, Mariah promised to provide any information she gathered, and was delighted when Carrie agreed to give her copies of her spreadsheets.

Mariah had just taken a sip of cider when the piano music in the corner stopped suddenly. So did most of the talking in the bar. Everyone seemed to glance in one direction—toward the door.

So did Mariah.

Just inside stood three tall men. Mariah didn't understand why there'd been such a reaction in Fiske's Hangout. They certainly weren't the only people to have entered the place since she had arrived.

And surely she was the only one around here whose heart momentarily stopped on seeing Patrick Worley, the one in the middle.

They all wore heavy jackets, but his was unzipped,
revealing a deep blue sweater. His eyes played around the room…and stopped when he saw her.

He didn't smile. In fact, he looked a little…displeased to see her. She wondered why.

Well, better that way. She seemed to be reacting all out of proportion to this man who clearly wanted nothing to do with her. She wasn't a fool. She needed his dogsledding services, and once he had fulfilled that purpose she would never need to see, or think about, him again.

A few loud chords sounded from the piano, and the musician began playing the old, appropriate song, “North to Alaska,” singing loudly. A few patrons joined in as the place seemed to relax, and people returned to their drinks. Mariah's tablemates resumed eating their dinners.

“You want another of those?” Thea hovered over their table as she did so often that evening. She pointed toward Mariah's almost empty glass of cider.

“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.” Her gaze automatically returned to the newcomers, who had found bar stools near the table where Mariah sat with her interviewees.

Thea leaned down and said conspiratorially in Mariah's ear, “Real hotties, aren't they?” She shrugged a hefty shoulder in the direction of the
new arrivals. “They all work at the Great Glaciers Dogsled Ranch.”

Not surprisingly, Mariah thought, although she hadn't met the other two.

“Why did everything go quiet when they came in?” she couldn't help asking.

Thea looked puzzled. “It did, didn't it?” Her round face scrunched into a pensive frown. “Coincidence, probably. No one planned it. But…” Her voice tapered off.

“But what?” Mariah asked curiously.

“It's the kind of thing that my mother used to say meant that even if no one realized it, they all heard an angel whispering and had to stop talking to listen…an angel of death.”

Mariah laughed uneasily. “My grandfather was superstitious and came up with things like that for nearly every occasion.”

“Don't just laugh it off,” Thea warned. She walked away and, watching her, Mariah found herself looking toward the bar.

Patrick stared right back.

And despite how far he was from her, and the fact the piano music blared again over loud conversations, she had the oddest sense that he had heard every word.

 

“Is that the lady you were talking about?” Shaun asked Patrick as they stood in the crowd at the bar.
Sgt. Shaun Bethune of the U.S. military's very special Ops unit Alpha Force, was assigned as chief aide to Lt. Patrick Worley, and both held jobs at the Great Glaciers Dogsled Ranch as part of their cover.

“Yeah, I saw her at the ranch talking to my dad and Patrick,” Wes Dawes said. “Too bad I'm not available to take her out for that ride she booked, you lucky SOB. She's hot.” Wes, a former marine, once had top security clearance. He didn't know exactly what Patrick and Shaun's mission was but was aware they were performing a covert operation for the military and was happy to assist by providing jobs for the two men.

Patrick bristled at Wes's description of Mariah. Sure, she was hot. He just didn't like to hear Wes say so, though he didn't know why he gave a damn. “Yeah, sure, I'm lucky. I'm taking her out on the glaciers. That's all.”

It wasn't all, though. She had been on that fishing boat in the bay, Patrick was certain. He had sensed her presence, even from that distance. And the people she was talking to now were of real interest to Patrick in fulfilling his assignment here. He hadn't yet found a way to get together with them and initiate a conversation. Until, perhaps, tonight.

And right now, he could continue eavesdropping on their answers to her questions about the glaciers.

“Your bad luck,” Shaun said. “So, bro, you're
drinking beer tonight?” He elbowed Patrick gently in the ribs as they reached the bar. “I thought you were on the wagon.” Of course, Shaun knew what was what. A few hours earlier, with Shaun keeping watch nearby, Patrick had drunk some of the highly classified and extremely potent Alpha Force elixir.

Combined with an artificial light he traveled with, the elixir allowed beings like him to shapeshift at will, not just under the full moon. Plus, it ensured that he kept all his human awareness and thinking abilities. Invaluable.

It had all but worn off now, but major alcohol consumption so close to that elixir wasn't a great idea.

Still, a bottle of beer could be nursed for a while. And part of Patrick's cover was to act like the itinerant drifter he was supposed to be. Someone in his position wouldn't hesitate to have a beer. Or two.

And maybe get a little outspoken as a result…

“Aw, leave him alone,” Wes said. He had no knowledge of what Patrick really was. To him, Patrick was to be treated mostly as another hired musher, despite being on an undisclosed military mission.

Major Drew Connell had been right. Patrick did have a great cover here. He liked working for Wes and his dad, Toby. Even more, he enjoyed working with dogs and had brought his own—well, his cover
dog, since theoretically Duke, one hell of a great shepherd-wolfhound mix and trained as a scent and security dog, belonged to Uncle Sam.

Once they had their beers, the guys elbowed their way from the bar again, Shaun in the lead. He was a good guy whose hobby happened to be wrestling, and he had the beefy, muscular physique of a winner.

They stopped at the edge of the crowd. Patrick took a stiff drink while pretending to look for an empty table—a useless task in this mass of people.

Instead, he was still listening. His senses, while he was in human form, were nearly as good as while he was wolfen, especially this soon after he'd changed. Despite the clinkety-clink piano music, the irritating yet soft sound of people stepping on peanut shells, the off-key singing, all the other background noise, he heard everything being said at Mariah's table. Nothing especially useful yet, but he would continue to listen. And to keep an eye on her. Not a hardship.

It grew easier to hear when the music stopped. He glanced toward the piano and saw that the other woman from the table, Carrie Thaxton—daughter of the man who was Patrick's objective tonight—approached the musician, handed him a tip. “Play ‘Jingle Bells' for me,” she said.

“Gladly.” Soon an enthusiastic rendition of that song reverberated throughout the bar, sung not only
by the pianist but by patrons in various stages of inebriation.

Great. This way, Patrick wouldn't learn anything much since conversations wouldn't flourish.

But he had an idea. As soon as the song was over, he picked up his beer bottle and went to the pianist himself.

The piano was an upright that had seen better days. Its light wood was scuffed. But it sounded all right. “Hey, your music is great,” he said to the guy who sat there. “I'm Patrick Worley. I'm new around here, work at the Great Glaciers Dogsled Ranch. What's your name?”