“Those drunks,” amended Mabel with a chuckle. “They said they saw the wolf right in the middle of town, and this time the story just didn't go away.”
Lucinda nodded. “It was the TV that did it. Some news station really put Dunvegan on the map this time and I imagine we'll stay on it. Now we get all sorts of visitors coming here, asking questions about wolves. Why, there's been an investigator here for a week now, interviewing everyone he can find.”
“Really? He hasn't come by the newspaper office yet,” said Zoey. Strangeâit was the first thing she would have done as a reporter in a new town.
“Oh that's likely because Ted Biegel would string him up on sight. Ted's part of the Chamber of Commerce,” said Mabel. “The whole werewolf thing really steams them up. They don't want to be like that little town on the border that put in the UFO landing pad.”
Zoey's eyes widened. “They did
what
?”
“Some say it was foolish, but I think it was sharp as tacks,” said Lucinda, sitting on a park bench and tugging Zoey down beside her. “Some folks claimed to be seeing UFOs in the area. The Chamber there noticed that it brought a lot of business to their little town, so they built a big round concrete pad. Put up colored lights and signs to invite UFOs. They get all kinds of tourists now who want to get their picture taken standing on it. Local stores sell a lot of souvenirs. And you can bet when somebody claims to see a flying saucer, it makes their local newspaper.”
“Not like here. Ted wouldn't publish a story like that at gunpoint,” declared Mabel, folding her arms. “That one poor editor who wrote about the werewolves while Ted was on vacation? Fired on the spot. A shame, really.”
“So Dunvegan has its very own urban legend?” pressed Zoey.
“It's an
old
legend,” corrected Mabel. “Dates all the way back to before Dunvegan existed.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The museum on Third Avenue used to have an old diary on display, and cross my heart, it's got an entry about a man becoming a wolf.”
The other woman gasped. “Don't let Kathleen Summers hear you telling people that! She'll have a conniption if anyone comes asking about it. That diary's been under lock and key in the archives ever since that page got photographed and put in the paper.”
“She doesn't want people to know?” asked Zoey, trying not to smile at the wealth of information Lucinda had just blurted.
Lucinda shook her head. “Kathleen just doesn't want to lose her job. She likes running the museum. You seem to be good at your job too, and if you want to keep it, you ought to know that the town's of two minds. Half would like to cover up the wolf stories, and the other half knows better. I don't mind sharing the stories, but I don't want to see Kathleen in trouble.”
“So what do the stories say exactly? I promise I won't bother your friend.”
Zoey saw them exchange glances. Some unspoken agreement seemed to be reached and Mabel was the first to speak. “We've got some coffee in the van. It's too cool out here for such a long story.”
Â
Zoey's brain felt like a hamster in a wheel as she walked slowly back to the office where she'd parked her truck. Lucinda and Mabel had been eager to tell her everything they knew about the local werewolf legendsâwhich was considerableâstopping only when Mabel remembered it was movie night at the lodge. They'd left Zoey with plenty to think about, and a new understanding of Dunvegan. It made even more sense now why none of the village officials wanted to hear about her wolf encounter. No doubt about it, she'd have to write the story up as a dog attack if she wanted to stay here. Her goal was still to warn people, and she had cautioned the ladies before they'd left to be watchful for big aggressive dogs. They'd clucked over her bandaged leg, given her plenty of adviceâthen looked at her strangely. Surely they didn't suspect that she wasn't telling them the truth? She felt a twinge of guilt but Mabel had been right; if Zoey wanted to keep her job, she had to step carefully.
Maybe Connor was stepping carefully too, only telling her about the most recent episode of the ongoing werewolf tale. He certainly hadn't mentioned that his own family was linked to the legend! According to her new friends, rumors had surrounded the Macleods since the family first homesteaded in the area over a century ago. Was that the real reason he didn't want her to write about the wolf? Maybe he had a vested interest in preventing the werewolf legends from surfacing again.
And maybe she had more in common with Connor Macleod than she had thought. After all, she knew only too well what it was like to have your family considered
different
. Or strange. And to be tarred with the same brush.
Chapter Six
Z
oey's thoughts were interrupted as she found it increasingly difficult to walk. The bite wound had begun throbbing and burning horribly. Had she overdone it, used her leg too much, too soon?
Dear God, please don't let it be infected.
Suddenly a grizzled old drunk in a torn plaid shirt rounded the corner, almost colliding with her. “Just the gal I'm looking for!” he bellowed into her face, stinging her eyes with the reek of alcohol on his breath. His face was a mass of nasty cuts and scabs, interspersed with several days' growth of scraggly white beard. Zoey dodged him as he made a grab for her.
“I got somethin' for your little newspaper,” he yelled and made another unsuccessful swipe. He was neither quick enough nor coordinated enough to catch her. Instead he fell sprawling to the sidewalk. Zoey hurried away as fast as her injured leg would let her, gritting her teeth against the pain, leaning one hand on the storefronts as she made her way down the street. The man got up and staggered after her, shouting, swearing, and raving about a story he had to tell her, something he wanted to show her.
“For Pete's sake,” she muttered. She wasn't scared, just annoyed. The old coot obviously recognized herâone of the drawbacks to working for the mediaâand even if she managed to put some distance between them and get off his radar now, it was likely he'd show up in her office sometime in the future.
There's one or two in every community. . . .
“Where the hell's the Neighborhood Patrol when I need them?” Although she'd almost be embarrassed to call for help. The man was far too drunk to catch her, and even if he did, she imagined she would have little trouble defending herself. He already looked like he'd been on the losing end of a fight. Meanwhile, the slow-motion chase would no doubt make great YouTube materialâ
the gimpy victim fleeing the staggering boozehound
. Or perhaps a
zombie footrace
, a little humor for a low-budget horror movie.
Finally making it to her Bronco, she risked a look back. The drunk was still following her, but was better than half a block away now. She pulled the door open and grabbed her phone off the seat just as he launched into a fresh tirade, his gravelly voice echoing down the deserted street.
“That damn vet thinks he can tell me
what to do
,” he confided loudly to his reflection in the dark store windows. “Macleod thinks he's so goddamn perfect, but he's just like me. Just like me.” He suddenly fell to his knees, his hands over his face, groaning and sobbing loudly. “It wasn't s'posed to work like that. It wasn't s'posed to
be
like that. It should have been you, ya fucking bastard! Damn you, Connor Macleod!”
Zoey had the cell phone to her ear, but froze at the mention of the vet's name.
The drunk staggered to his feet, his rage returned. He shook both fists at the empty street. “You hear me, Macleod? But you're not so smart. You wait, Macleod. I called him, told him. Hear me? I told him fucking everything and he knows what you are!” His tirade was suddenly redirected as a patrol car swung lazily around the corner as if on cue and stopped in front of him. “It's about time you showed up!” he hollered.
“Looks like you got an early start tonight, Bernie.” A young officer got out and opened the back door for him, stood patiently as the old man staggered over, still complaining loudly. “How's that face feeling today? Maybe we could get Doc Miller to come by the station and check it out for you.”
The man stiffened and straightened. Zoey gasped as he swung a hand around and pointed directly at her. “That newspaper bitch wouldn't listen to me. I got something to show her, and she wouldn't listen. You ought to do your damn job and arrest
her
!” He clambered clumsily into the back of the patrol car, continuing his rants.
The officer closed the door with obvious relief and walked over to Zoey.“Are you all right? Has he been bothering you?”
“I'm fine. He just yelled at me.” Up close, this guy looked even younger than the one who had questioned her about the animal attack.
“He does a lot of that. He'll be doing it all night too, I imagine. You can press charges, you know. You don't have to put up with harassment.”
She laughed. “I'm in the newspaper business. Getting yelled at is sometimes part of the job. No harm done. But can you tell me who he is?”
“Are you going to write about this? Because technically, I'm not supposed to give out that information.”
“What kind of story would it make?
Editor shouted at by drunk.
Yeah, that'll sell a lot of papers. I just like to know the names of the people who are upset with me. Helps me to avoid them.”
The young officer grinned. “Bernard Gervais. He's in a fantasy world most of the time, so I wouldn't worry about anything he says.” He touched his hat and returned to the cruiser and its irate passenger.
Gervais. Lucinda and Mabel had talked about a Gervais. Is that a French name?
Zoey could still hear the man in the backseat raving at full volume, even though all the car windows were closed. Saw the officer shaking his head as he drove away. “Glad I'm not you,” she murmured and climbed into her truck. She sat for several long minutes, grateful beyond words to be off her feet and especially off her injured leg. What could the drunken old geezer possibly have against Connor Macleod? Was the guy a farmer, had Connor treated his livestock? Maybe he was upset about the bill. . . .
She heaved an irritated sigh as she found herself wanting to defend the tall veterinarian. All that walking, all that work, and here she was thinking about Connor all over again. Exasperated, she looked over at her office window and resolutely climbed out of the truck. Maybe it was time to check out those newspaper articles that Lucinda and Mabel had mentioned. Her psychic gift was silent but her reporter's intuition was tingling, and she would bet money that the old drunk was involved in the wild story.
Â
The werewolf stories were surprisingly easy to find. Just over two years had passed since Barry Gordon, Bernard Gervais, and Jeb Luken had called the police and then the newspaper, claiming that a werewolf had chased them.
The men had left the Jersey Pub after last call and were winding their way on foot to Luken's house. “A great and enormous gray wolf came out of the shadows. It had green glowing eyes and was snarling like a pit bull,” Luken told the reporter. “Straight out of hell it was and no mistake it was going to attack us.”
Zoey sat down abruptly amid the piles of newspapers.
Green glowing eyes.
The wolf that attacked her also had strange eyes, demonic, as if lit from within. She still saw them in her dreams. Still heard that horrible throaty snarling. . . .
Cut that out, dammit!
With an effort she shoved the memories away and focused on the article. Luken and Gordon had scrambled into a Dumpster, holding down the metal lid with all the strength they could muster. They didn't know where Gervais had gone, didn't hear anything but growling as the monstrous creature had sniffed around the Dumpster. “The wolf jumped right on top of it, bold as brass,” Luken was quoted as saying. “We could hear him walking back and forth, pawing and scratching at the lid. Damn, I don't mind saying I was some scared. Scared shitless, both of us.”
Gervais claimed he had hidden inside the covered bed of a parked pickup. “I got separated from my buddies when the wolf showed up. It was every man for himself. I just dove for cover like everyone else.” A photo of the trio confirmed what Zoey already knew, thanks to the officer. Bernard Gervais was the drunk who had pursued her down Main Street.
The
Dunvegan Herald Weekly
had published the report on one of the inside pages and below the crease, no doubt hoping to bury the story. It hadn't worked. A veritable flood of letters followed in subsequent issues, some of them complaining about the press the men were getting for such a wild tale, but others claiming to have seen similar creatures.
Zoey scanned the letters. Enormous wolves in every color had been sighted at various times in the area, but never in town. Some people had sighted very large wolves running as a pack near Elk Point. All of the stories could be chalked up to ordinary sightings of ordinary wolves. After all, her own research had shown that wolves could reach 175 pounds or more. With so much wilderness to roam in and an abundance of game, it stood to reason that this part of northern Canada simply produced big wolves.
Reason didn't have an answer for the diary entry however. Just as Mabel and Lucinda had said, a page had been photographed and printed. The caption said the journal had belonged to one Jack Harrison, a schoolteacher who had homesteaded in the Spirit River area and established a ranch there. Zoey squinted to read the ornate scrawl.
February 28, 1904.
Got a big black wolf in my trapp today, biggest I ever saw. Had a white star on its chest and white on its nose and tail like a dog. Thought it were a bear at first until it puts its ears up and looked at me. Rifle jammed up and then there was no wolf in the trapp, just a young man. Snow was deep but he had no coate or boots. Asked him where my wolf was because I wanted that pelt, but he shook his head. Then he opened the trapp with his bare hands. Knew he must be one of the wolf people my dad told me about because two good men aren't strong enough to open that trapp without the key. He pulled his leg out and it was bleeding bad but then it stopped right quick. I tried to unjam the rifle in case he might want to kill me but he just walked away and headed west to Macleod's land.
“Omigod,” breathed Zoey. Connor's family was actually named. And guilt by association undoubtedly followed. Sure enough, a small letter made it to print in the very next issue of the newspaper, pointing to the Macleods as the cause of all the trouble.
It's about time someone called a spade a spade, and revealed the creatures who think to live among us undetected. Families like the Macleods have blurred the line between man and beast for decades, intermingling with humans and converting them to their kind. They look like us on the outside but underneath they're all teeth and claws, just waiting for a chance to use them.
The bizarre letter was signed by Roderick Harrison. Good grief, was he a descendant of the man who wrote the diary?
It's almost like a feud,
thought Zoey. Harrisons and Macleods instead of Hatfields and McCoys. She empathized with Connor. No wonder he hadn't wanted the werewolf stories to resurface. Just look at the craziness he'd have to deal withâsomething Zoey could certainly relate to.
She shook her head, trying to get back to business. Harrison's letter should never have been publishedâany newspaper that printed such a personal attack was opening itself up to a lawsuit. Maybe it wasn't so surprising that Ted had fired the editor responsible. Most of the publications Zoey had worked for would have done the same simply as damage control.
Subsequent editorials were allegedly devoted to quelling the “mass hysteria” yet special feature articles appeared on the myths and legends surrounding
werewolves
. So-called experts flew in from all over, and
The Herald
dutifully interviewed most of them. Even the one who insisted the U.S. government was conducting the top secret testing of a breed of superwolves in the Canadian north,
and
the one who claimed that aliens were masquerading on this planet as wildlife. Zoey rolled her eyes and wondered how the reporter had managed to keep a straight face.
To her surprise, the story died out abruptly only eight issues laterânot a very long run for such a sensational event. Zoey scanned all the issues up to the present, but no further mention of wolves,
were
or otherwise, was ever made. Undoubtedly, her hot-tempered publisher had killed the story the moment he returned to the office. She had little trouble picturing Ted Biegel's wrath descending on the parties responsible. She smiled as she remembered Mabel Rainier's words. Zoey only had to check the issue following the last werewolf update to see a change in the editor's name!
No wonder the village officials had been rude. She supposed she might even have to do some sort of damage control herself, to make certain she didn't become affiliated with the werewolf stories in any way. But it rankled. She had never hesitated to take a stand with a story, no matter how unpopular it might be. As a professor had once told her, the concept of journalistic impartiality was a myth the public made up. No reporter could write without taking sides at least a little.
But this was different. There was no lone citizen taking on city hall, no one's rights to be defended, no issues to be brought to light and championed. Just a bite from an animal she couldn't prove was a wolf and reports of werewolves from the local drunks. No doubt Larry, Moe, and Curly would have more credibility than that trio. And as a stranger in town, her own credibility wouldn't be much better.
It was long past midnight when Zoey finally drove home. She was going to feel like dirt in the morning, but thank heavens it would be a Sunday. She shook her head as she limped up the stairs to her apartment.
Werewolves
, for God's sake. She'd stayed up all night researching werewolves. Who'd have thought? She hadn't read anything to make her believe in the creatures, but the description given by Jeb Luken and some of the letter-writers matched what she herself had seen only a few days before. A wolf, a
real
wolf, obviously roamed this area. And it wasn't afraid of people. The fact that it had wandered right into town made it every bit as dangerous as a garbage-eating bear. She had the proof of that on her very own leg.