Aurendel - Strays

Kate had decided years ago that she was not one of those women who are taken with mysterious strangers--that is, mysterious male strangers. She prided herself on having better sense than that. So she told herself that her curiosity about this Harold Wolf was based on a sensible concern that he might not be quite on the up and up. The fact that Jack was not the sort of man to be easily conned she dismissed. She was determined to find out all about this young man.

The two of them sat in Jack’s living room, Harold sprawled on the sofa, Kate on the ottoman with her legs tucked up under her. He had offered her a seat beside him, but she had declined. Her tape of the soundtrack of City of Angels played quietly in the background, competing with the buzzing of the cicadas in the trees that surrounded the house. Kate noticed that Harold was surreptitiously staring at her, and she became uncomfortably aware that it was just the two of them, no one else for a good country mile. To shake off her discomfort, she launched herself into conversation.

“So, Harold,” she began, “when you’re not stepping in bear traps or getting hit by reckless drivers, what do you do for a living?”

He grinned at her and replied, “I’m a musician.”

“What instrument do you play?”

“Anything I can get my hands on.”

Although his tone was matter-of-fact, the remark struck Kate as arrogant. “Modest, aren’t you?”

He seemed abashed. “I don’t mean it that way. Just, I’ll try anything I get a chance at. That’s all,” he said apologetically. “Mainly I prefer stringed instruments, or occasionally percussion. Not winds, though--I can’t sing and play a flute or horn at the same time!”

After a pause, he asked, almost shyly, “Do you play any instruments, Kate?”

She squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, I did take a few guitar lessons, but I wasn’t really any good at it. I can sort of fake my way through ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ but that’s about it.”

“What kind of music do you usually play?” Kate asked.

“Mostly ballads. Traditional stuff.”

“Folk music?”

He gave her a look she couldn’t place, and nodded.

“Have you recorded any albums?”

“No. I just play. And sometimes teach.”

“Do you ever write your own songs?”

“Sometimes.” He stretched, then said, “I have a favor to ask.”

“What?” Kate stifled a touch of alarm.

“I’d like you to play your guitar for me before I go home.”

“But I told you, I’m really terrible.”

“Please?” He cocked his head at her, giving her his most appealingly wistful expression.

“OK, on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That you play one of your songs for me.”

“Deal!” He looked entirely too pleased with himself, and Kate wondered if she’d been had. She decided it was time to change the subject.

“You don’t strike me as a loner, Harold,” she remarked, and he shook his head emphatically. She continued, “Got any family, married, or whatever?” Maybe she shouldn’t have asked that. That question might imply a personal interest in his marital state, which of course wasn’t the case.

“Well, I do come from a close-knit family, but no, I’m not married.”

“Divorced?” Kate bit her tongue for letting that slip out.

Harold looked shocked. “Oh, no. We don’t do that.”

She raised an eyebrow. Religious objections, either strict Catholic or fundamentalist Protestant?

“Never married at your age? How old are you--if you don’t mind my asking?”

“No, I don’t mind. I’m twenty-seven.”

Four years younger than her own age. She’d never been interested in younger men.

As she got him to talking about himself and his family, Kate began to draw some conclusions about Jack’s guest. He described a close-knit, even clannish family group, that lived by its own rules and didn’t easily accept outsiders. That sounded familiar. Then, too, apparently Harold’s kin were viewed with suspicion and hostility by others. Add to that Harold’s ability to charm and manipulate. And his dark hair, fair skin, arched eyebrows, and crooked smile. To her way of thinking, it all added up. The Travelers. The Irish gypsies that migrated up and down the east coast, especially South Carolina. Con artists, working scams from town to town.

Admittedly, there were only a few family names shared by the Travelers, and she didn’t think Wolf was one. But it was obvious that Jack had concocted that pseudonym. He’d had to pause before introducing her, and the first time she addressed Harold he did a subtle doubletake that was a dead giveaway in hindsight. Satisfied with her theory, she decided that Jack did indeed know either Harold or his kin previously, possibly when he worked with the carnies, some of whom were Travelers. Maybe Jack had met the so-called Harold (or his kin) in Gibsonton-- a regular carnie headquarters.

Kate suddenly realized she wasn’t holding up her end of the conversation, and ‘Harold’ was staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

“What do you want from life?” he asked.

“I--” Kate paused.

“Are you happy with where you are, what you’re doing?” he persisted.

With some dignity, Kate replied, “I have work that is meaningful to me, I have a comfortable home. Yes, I’m happy.”

“Is that enough?”

“Shouldn’t it be?” she retorted bitterly.

He looked at her. She stared at the floor for a moment, then, raising her chin defiantly, asked, “What do you want from life?”

He grinned. “I want to be famous for my songs throughout all the lands,” he exclaimed, flinging his arms wide, eyes twinkling. “I want peace and prosperity for my family. And I want a mate of my own, and children.”

She thought about that. He was still young enough to have dreams. Lucky for him. “And what kind of woman would you want to marry?” Now, why on earth did she ask that?

“One that’s smart, and strong, and likes music.” His eyes laughed at her. “She has to be able to put up with all my relatives, enjoy the outdoors, and be willing to have lots of children.”

“Lotsa luck. That’s a tall order.”

“And what do you look for in a mate?” he asked, looking intently at her.

She was appalled to hear herself say, “I’ve stopped looking. What I want doesn’t exist.” She must watch her tongue. It was far too easy to say too much to this handsome young man, and it would be foolish to trust a smooth-talking Irish gypsy.

Jack swatted irritably at a mosquito as he walked quietly through the woods. Fisher was just ahead of him, Taylor right behind him, also slapping skeeters--the nasty new Asian tiger ones, that hurt when they bit. Stupid bug repellent didn’t work worth a tinker’s damn, just made him feel that much stickier in the humidity. A carpet of pine and cypress needles kept the forest floor relatively clear of underbrush, save the occasional stubborn palmetto. It should have been hard to track the wolf through here. But it wasn’t. Seemed like it’d gone out of its way to be as obvious as possible, leading them on, so much so that Jack was positively insulted. Bits of fur clinging to palmetto thorns, signs of digging or scratching, scent marks . . . the wolf had done a thorough job of leaving a trail. Why not an arrow and a sign saying, “This way”? Hellfire and damnation. Jack was perfectly capable of tracking any animal that walked, crawled, or slithered without so much “help”. This was simply offensive.

Suddenly Taylor gasped, “There it is!” He swung his flashlight to shine its beam on gleaming eyes, reflecting redly. At the same moment, Fisher brought his own trank gun to point at the animal.

Jack snorted derisively. “That’s no wolf. That’s a deer. Or maybe a runaway goat.” Sure enough, as Taylor played the light across the fleeing creature, it showed the tawny flank and white tail of a chervine, not a lupine, shape. Fisher lowered his gun, looked disgustedly at Taylor.

“How’d you know, Jack?” Taylor asked, embarrassed.

“Easy. Elzey told us its eyes shined green. Deer’s are red, gators’ red or gold. Panthers’ and bobcats’ are green. Any fool oughta know that,” said Jack.

Taylor appeared about to take umbrage, but Fisher hastily intervened. “Now Jack, you know the sheriff doesn’t have time to hunt for pleasure. He’s got to serve and protect not just Okachula but this whole quarter of the county practically by himself.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but he realized that Fisher’s face-saver had mollified Taylor, so he bit back a remark about the sparse population and low crime rate not placing too many demands on the sheriff’s time. Instead, he just grunted and started walking. The other two followed.

The trail led them back to the county road. Since the wolf wasn’t trying to hide its tracks--far from it!--Jack crossed the road and looked for signs directly opposite the prints in the sand on the shoulder he’d just come from. Sure enough, he found corresponding marks. No surprises here.

A few feet into the trees off the roadside, Fisher ran across another indication the wolf had been there. At the warden’s feet were the remains of what had been an armadillo. Fisher knelt to examine the shell of the carcass. “Bring the light closer, will you, Vin?” he asked the sheriff. As Taylor complied, Fisher picked up a stick and poked at the remains, flipping the shell rightside up.

“Thought so,” he said.

Jack squatted next to Fisher and gave him a questioning look.

“Here, the outer plates are cracked badly. See? Looks like it was hit by a car, not killed immediately, crawled off the road,” Fisher explained. “The wolf found it, and it was too badly injured to curl up in a ball to protect itself. And the wolf gets an easy dinner.”

The two men stood back up, as Taylor muttered, “Well, I’ll be.”

“But how can you be sure it was a wolf, not a turkey vulture?” asked Taylor. “Those buzzards are the reason they call roadkill tv dinners.”

Jack picked up a bone fragment from the armadillo carcass and held it in the beam of the flashlight. “Look at the marks around that break. Those were teeth that made ‘em, not a beak. Had to be the wolf--no cat tracks, just wolf prints here.” He dropped the bone and wiped his hand on his jeans.

“That explains why the wolf wasn’t willing to risk chicken dinner in the face of Elzey and her Winchester,” Fisher added. “It simply wasn’t that hungry, if it’s been picking at roadkill armadillos--probably ‘possums, too.”

“Lord knows we can spare as many of those as it likes!” commented Taylor.

Fisher frowned. “I don’t like it bein’ in the road, though. It could easily get hit, bein’ lamed an’ all. We’ve got to find it soon.”

Jack’s moustache twitched as he stifled an ironic smile. “All right, boys, enough of this. Let’s go,” he ordered, and followed the trail back toward the lake.

“Say, Jack,” said Fisher, “isn’t this leading back by your place?”

“Nope.” Jack replied. “My house is more southwards. The wolf went more northeast.” He frowned.

“Um, Jack,” Taylor said, diffidently, “isn’t this the way to Kate’s house?”

Jack stared at Taylor for a moment, but made no answer, and, as Fisher was pressing on, he just kept walking.