The Wolf in Winter

  On the outskirts of Newark, a man in a dark coat watched fre trucks pass. The sleeve of his coat was torn, and he limped slightly as he walked, favoring his right leg. The lights of the trucks briefy illuminated his thin face, his dark, slickedback hair and the thin trickle of blood that ran from his scalp. They had come close to catching him this time, so very close . . .

  The Collector lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply as his house burned.

  2

  The wolf was a young male, alone and in pain. His ribs stood out beneath his rust brown fur, and he limped as he drew closer to the town. The wolf's pack had been annihilated by the shores of the St Lawrence River, but by then the urge to roam had already taken him, and he had just begun moving south when the hunters came. His had not been a large pack: a dozen animals in all, led by the alpha female that was his mother. They were all gone now. He had escaped the slaughter by crossing the river on winter ice, finching at the sounds of gunfre. He came across a second, smaller group of men as he neared the Maine border, and sustained an injury to his left forepaw from a hunter's bullet. He had kept the wound clean, and no infection had set in, but there was damage to some of the nerves, and he would never be as strong or as fast as he once had been. The injury would bring death upon him, sooner or later. It was already slowing him down, and slow animals always became prey in the end. It was a wonder that he had come so far, but something – a kind of madness – had driven him ever onward, south, south.

  Now spring was approaching, and soon the slow melting of snow would commence. If he could just survive the remainder of winter, food would become more plentiful. For now, he was reduced to the status of a scavenger. He was weak from starvation, but that afternoon he had picked up the scent of a young deer, and its spoor had led him to the outskirts of the town. He smelled its fear and confusion. It was vulnerable. If he could get close enough to it, he might have enough strength and speed left to take it down.

  The wolf sniffed the air, and picked up movement among the trees to its right. The deer stood motionless in a thicket, its tail raised in warning and distress, but the wolf sensed that he was not the cause of it. He tested the air again. His tail moved between his legs, and he drew back, his ears pinned against his head. His pupils dilated, and he exposed his teeth.

  The two animals, predator and prey, stood united in fear for a moment, and then retreated, the wolf heading east, the deer, west. All thoughts of hunger and feeding had left the wolf. There was only the urge to run.

  But he was wounded, and tired, and winter was still upon him.

  A single light burned in Pearson's General Store & Gunsmithery. It illuminated a table around which sat four old men, each of them concentrating on his cards.

  'Jesus,' said Ben Pearson, 'this is the worst hand I've ever seen. I swear, if I hadn't watched it dealt myself, I'd never have believed it. I didn't even know cards went this low.'

  Everybody ignored him. Ben Pearson could have been holding four aces dealt by Christ Himself and he'd still have been bitching. It was his version of a poker face. He'd developed it as a way of distracting attention from his regular features, which were so expressive as to give away his every passing thought. Depending upon the story that one was telling, Ben could be the best or worst audience a man might wish for. He was almost childlike in his transparency, or so it seemed. Although now in his seventies, he still had a full head of white hair, and his face was comparatively unlined. It added to his air of youthfulness.

  Pearson's General Store & Gunsmithery had been in Ben's family for four generations in one form or another, and yet it wasn't even the oldest business in the town of Prosperous, Maine. An alehouse had stood on the site of what was now the Prosperous Tap since the eighteenth century, and Jenna Marley's Lady & Lace had been a clothing store since 1790. The names of the town's frst settlers still resounded around Prosperous in a way that few other such settlements could boast. Most had roots back in Durham and Northumberland, in the northeast of England, for that was where Prosperous's frst settlers had originally come from. There were Scotts and Nelsons and Liddells, Harpers and Emersons and Golightlys, along with other more singular names: Brantingham, Claxton, Stobbert, Pryerman, Joblin, Hudspeth . . .

  A genealogist might have spent many a proftable day scouring the town's register of births and deaths, and some had indeed journeyed this far north to investigate the history of the settlement. They were received courteously, and some cooperation was offered, but they invariably left feeling slightly dissatisfed. Gaps in the town's annals prevented full and thorough research, and making connections between the settlers of Prosperous and their ancestors back in England proved more diffcult than might frst have been expected, for it seemed those families that departed for the shores of the New World had done so in their entirety, leaving few, if any, stray branches behind.

  Of course, such obstacles were hardly unfamiliar to historians either amateur or professional, but they were frustrating nonetheless, and eventually the town of Prosperous came to be regarded as a dead end, genealogically speaking, which perfectly suited the inhabitants. In that part of the world they were not unusual in preferring to be left untroubled by strangers. It was one of the reasons why their forefathers had traveled so far into the interior to begin with, negotiating treaties with the natives that tended to hold more often than not, giving Prosperous a reputation as a town blessed by the Lord, even if its inhabitants declined to allow others to share in their perceived good fortune, divinely ordained or otherwise. Prosperous did not invite, nor welcome, new settlers without specifc connections to the northeast of England, and marriages outside the primary bloodlines were frowned upon until the late nineteenth century. Something of that original pioneering, self-suffcient spirit had transmitted itself down the generations to the present population of the town.

  Now, in Pearson's General Store, cards were exchanged and bets were placed. This was nickel-and-dime poker in its most literal sense, and it was a rare evening when any man went home with his pockets more than a dollar or two lighter or heavier. Still, bragging rights for the rest of the week could be gained from a good run of cards, and there had been times when Ben Pearson's fellow players had chosen to avoid his store for a couple of days in order to let Ben's triumphalism cool a little.

  'I'll raise you a dime,' said Calder Ayton.

  Calder had worked alongside Ben Pearson for the best part of half a century, and envied him his hair. He owned a small share in the store, a consequence of a brief period of fnancial strife back in the middle of the last century when some of the townsfolk had allowed their attention to wander, what with the war and all, and old, careful habits had been set aside for a time in the hope that they might eventually be abandoned entirely. But they'd learned the foolishness of that way of thinking, and the older inhabitants had not forgotten the lesson.

  Thomas Souleby pursed his lips and gave Calder the cold eye. Calder rarely went above a nickel unless he had a straight at least, and he'd fipped his dime so fast that Thomas was certain he was holding a fush or better. They always played with one-eyed royals as wild cards, and Thomas had caught a glimpse of Calamity Jane squinting at him from Calder's hand – Thomas not viewing it as cheating if someone was careless enough to display his hand to all and sundry. It was what had made him a good businessman in his day, back when he was working in corporate acquisitions. You took whatever advantage came your way, and you milked it for all it was worth.

  'I'm out,' said Luke Joblin.

  At sixty he was the youngest of the quartet, but also the most infuential. His family had been in real estate ever since one caveman had looked at another and thought, 'You know, his cave is much bigger than mine. I wonder if he'd see his way to moving out. And if he doesn't see his way to moving out, I'll just kill him and take his cave anyway.' At which point some ancient seed of the Joblin clan had spotted an opportunity to make a percentage on the deal, and perhaps prevent some bloodshed along the way.

  Now Luke Joblin made su
re that real estate in Prosperous stayed in the right hands, just as his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had done before him. Luke Joblin knew the state's zoning and land use regulations backwards – not surprising, given that he'd helped to write most of them – and his eldest son was Prosperous's Code Enforcement Offcer. More than any other family, the Joblins had ensured that Prosperous retained its unique character and identity.

  'The hell do you mean, you're out?' said Ben Pearson. 'You barely looked at those cards before you dropped them like they was poisoned.'

  'I got nothing but a hand of culch,' said Luke.

  'You got nearly a dollar of mine from the last eight hands,' said Thomas. 'Least you can do is give a man a chance to win his money back.'

  'What do you want me to do, just hand your money over to you? I got no cards. This is a game of strategy: you gamble when you're strong, you fold when you're weak.'

  'You could try bluffng,' said Thomas. 'You could at least make some kind of effort.'

  It was always like this between them. They liked each other well enough, but the pleasure each derived from the other's company was directly proportionate to the degree of pickle they could give over the course of an evening.

  'I brought the whisky,' Luke pointed out. 'It wasn't for me, you'd be drinking Old Crow.'

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  'Ayuh, this one's a sippa,' said Calder, laying on the accent with a trowel. 'Wicked good.'

  Each man took it in turn to provide a bottle for the weekly poker night, although it usually suffced for two evenings, and it was a point of pride to bring along something that satisfed all tastes to a degree. Luke Joblin knew Scotch better than any of them, and that night they were drinking an eighteen-year-old from Talisker, the only distillery on the Isle of Skye. It was a little spicy for Thomas's palate, but he had to admit that it was far superior to The Glenlivet, which had been his selection some weeks earlier. Then again, Thomas had never been one for hard liquor, and preferred wine. He gave the whisky a second swirl out of habit, and took a small mouthful. He was starting to like it more and more. It certainly grew on a fella.

  'Maybe I'll let you off this once,' said Thomas.

  'That's generous of you,' said Luke.

  In the end, Calder took the pot with a fush, just as Thomas had anticipated. Thomas was taking a mauling that night. If things kept going the way they were, he'd have to break another dollar.

  By unspoken consent they rested for a while. Talk turned to local matters: business dealings, rumors of romances and problems in the town that needed to be addressed. Tree roots were just about coming through the sidewalk on Main Street, and the town offce needed a new boiler. A dispute had also arisen over the old Palmer house, with three families seeking to acquire it for their children. The Palmers, a private couple even by the standards of the town, had died without issue, and represented the end of their line in Prosperous. The proceeds of their estate were to be dispersed between various charities, with a portion going also to the town's central fund. But living space was at a premium in Prosperous, and the Palmer house, although small and in need of some repair, was much coveted. In any ordinary community, market forces would have been allowed to prevail, and the house would have gone to the highest bidder. Prosperous, though, did not operate that way. The decision on the sale of the house would be made according to who was owed it, who had the best claim upon it. Discussions would be held, and a consensus reached. The family that eventually acquired the house would make some reparation to the others. Luke Joblin would get his commission, of course, but he would earn it.

  In effect, the poker night functioned as an unoffcial meeting of most of the board of selectmen. Only Calder Ayton did not contribute to the discourse. Meetings bored him, and whatever Ben Pearson decided was always fne with him. Old Kinley Nowell, meanwhile, was absent on this occasion, laid up in hospital with pneumonia. There was a general feeling that Kinley didn't have long left on this earth. Possible replacements had to be considered, and Ben now raised the matter with his fellow selectmen. After some back and forth, it was decided that some younger blood wouldn't hurt them, and the elder Walker girl, Stacey, should be approached, once the frst selectman had given her consent. Hayley Conyer – she didn't care to be called a selectwoman, didn't approve of that kind of nonsense – was not one for poker games or whisky evenings. Ben Pearson said that he would talk to Hayley in the morning and sound her out, but he told the others that he didn't anticipate any refusal, or any problems with the nomination. Stacey Walker was a clever girl, and a good lawyer, and it never hurt to have lawyers on call.

  Thomas Souleby wasn't so sure. He felt sure that Hayley Conyer would object, and she retained a rarely used power of veto when it came to nominations for the board. Conyer was a strong woman who preferred the company of men, and had no particular sense of obligation to others of her sex who might be a threat to her position. She wouldn't welcome the arrival of someone as young and vibrant as Stacey Walker, and Thomas believed that, in the case of the Walker girl, Conyer might well have a point. He had his own ambitions to lead the board once Conyer was gone, whenever that might be, and had worked long and hard to ensure that he would have as little competition as possible. Stacey Walker was a just a mite too clever, and too ambitious, for Thomas's liking. While he frequently clashed with Conyer, he would not object to her using her veto to shoot down the Walker nomination. Someone more suitable could be found; someone more substantial, more experienced.

  Someone more malleable.

  Thomas stretched and took in the old store, with its curious mix of expensive artisan products alongside the regular items that you could buy for half the price in a Hannaford or a Shaw's. Ben certainly wasn't shy with his pricing, Thomas would give him that, but there was also the matter of convenience, and exchanging gossip, and supporting local businesses to consider. It was important for the town that money stayed within its precincts wherever possible. Once cash started leaking out, Prosperous would be fnancially sound in name only. For the early settlers, the name had been part prayer, part aspiration. Now it was a refection of the reality of the town's situation: it had the highest per capita income in Maine, a fact that might not have been immediately apparent were a visitor to judge it on appearances alone. Prosperous maintained a low profle, and did not call attention to itself.

  The four men were seated at the western side of the store, where Calder had set up some tables beside a picture window that looked out on his yard and the woods beyond. In summer there were picnic benches at which to sit, but for now icy snow still lay on the grass, and the air was pierced by a damp chill that made an old man's bones hurt. To Thomas's left, a locked door led into the gun shop, and beyond that was the gunsmithery itself. A tattered and yellowed sign on the door advised that an upfront deposit of $30 was required for each weapon accepted for service, with a further $25 levied if the weapon was presented without the required magazine. Thomas didn't even know why the sign was still in place. The only people who presented Ben Pearson with weapons to be serviced were locals, and they were hardly likely to forget that they'd left them with Ben. Similarly, if they neglected to bring along the magazine, then they could just drop by with it later in the day.

  Thomas's wife Constance used Ben's services occasionally – she had been a competitive rife shooter for most of her life, and hadn't been far off Olympic standard as a young woman, although the gap between what she could do and what was required might as well have been as deep and wide as an abyss at that level – but she was one of the exceptions in Prosperous. Even allowing for those who hunted, the town had one of the lowest rates of gun ownership in the state. The gunsmith element of Ben Pearson's business was little more than a hobby for him. He kept only a small range of rifes and pistols for sale, mostly high-end stuff, but he seemed to enjoy the metalwork aspect of the job, the threading and futing and jeweling. He was also reputed to make very fne custom-built stocks, if that was what foated your boat.

/>   Thomas yawned and checked his watch. The whisky had gone to his head, and he was wishing for his bed. He glanced to his right. The light from their table illuminated only a few feet of snow on the yard outside. Beyond was darkness.

  Something pale fickered in the shadows. It looked like a moth. As Thomas watched, it grew larger and larger. It took on the form of a young woman wearing a stained white dress, the color of it nearly lost against the snow so that he thought he might almost have been dreaming her. Her feet were bare as she ran, and there were leaves caught in her dark hair. Closer and closer she came. Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but no words emerged. He rose from his chair just as the girl impacted against the glass, shaking it in its frame. Her fngernails were torn. They left trails of blood on the window.

  'Help me,' she cried. 'Please help me.'

  Her words turned to clouds on the air, and the wind snatched them and bore them into the listening woods.

  3

  Miles to the south, in the city of Portland, a homeless man was dying.

  His name was Jude – no second name, just Jude – and he was well known both to his fellow street people and to those in law enforcement. He was not a criminal, although there were some in Portland who seemed to regard being homeless as a criminal act, punishable by the withdrawal of services and support until death took care of the problem. No, Jude had always been law-abiding, but he had spent so long on the streets that he knew every nook and cranny of them, every crack in the sidewalk, every raised brick. He listened carefully to the reports from others of his kind – the appearance of strangers among them, men of vicious demeanor, or the news of abandoned properties that had previously provided some shelter and were now being used by dealers of narcotics – and traded that information with the police. He did not do so for his own beneft, although there were times when the nights were cold and he was offered the comfort of a cell in which to rest, or even a ride to South Portland or further afeld if a cop was feeling particularly generous or bored.