Another thing I’d learned—if I opened the front door in plain view of town, word got around I was open for business, so I snuck around to the rear.
I smelled like a duchess, and not the Downton Abbey kind, so I scrubbed up in the sink, I was too tired to do more, donned my idea of pajamas—pale green scrubs dotted with dancing dogs—then crawled into my bed, a daybed that served as both couch and sleeping area. The red numbers on the digital alarm atop the end table read 8:14. If I was lucky I’d be able to catch a few hours’ siesta before Jeremy arrived.
I’d trained myself in college to fall asleep quickly and pretty much anywhere—night or day, dark or light. A talent perfected by med students, mothers, and soldiers everywhere. When the only sleep you got was sleep you took, you adjusted or you lost your marbles.
My ability to sleep quickly and deeply was augmented by my ability to wake up and function within seconds as well. Lucky for me.
The long, low wail of a wolf, closer than a wolf should be, woke me, confused me. Wolves didn’t often howl at the sun.
I opened my eyes an instant before the pillow smashed down on my face.
*
Owen was lucky that a duck hunter from Waunakee had rented one of the cottages at Stone Lake, then slipped on freakishly early ice and broken his wrist. Which equaled no hunting for him and an empty cottage for Owen. He even received a discount since said Waunakee hunter had canceled too late to get his deposit back. Sucked for that guy.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying,” he told the fellow behind the bar, which, from the papers and the laptop spread all over it, doubled as the front desk. Since a sign announcing OFFICE had been hung directly beneath the one that read STONE LAKE TAVERN that made sense.
“This is the last week of duck hunting,” said the man, whom Owen decided was the owner since the pocket of his bowling shirt read KRAZY KYLE, and the business registration certificate on the wall read KYLE KRASINSKY. “Next week I’m empty.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Except for that guy.”
Owen followed the wobble of the man’s two chins toward a table in the rear. As it was daytime, none of the lights were on in the tavern except for those above the bar, and the area was wreathed in shadows.
There was someone there, but Owen couldn’t see whom. Then a door-shaped swath of daylight highlighted a tall, cadaver-thin, impossibly old man wearing a bandolier of bullets and more guns than Owen had ever seen draped over a single person, even in Afghanistan.
The door closed, eliminating the sunshine and the man. Krazy let out a relieved breath. “I’m glad he left. He makes me nervous.”
“Can’t imagine why. What’s up with him?”
“He said he’s hunting wolves.”
Owen doubted the fellow had been hunting them with the pistols at his hips, but he’d also carried a rifle and a shotgun. “That legal?”
“Gotta have a permit, and they ain’t easy to get, but yeah.”
“It’s wolf-hunting season?” Seemed early but what did Owen know? He’d never hunted anything but terrorists.
“Mid-October to February. Though if the quota’s met, they end it early.”
“You get a lot of wolf hunters in here?”
“He’s the first.” From the twist of his lips, Krazy hoped he was the last.
“You don’t approve of wolf hunting?” Owen asked.
“I don’t know. They say there are too many now. They’ve been protected so long. But around here I’ve only seen one. Black as the ace of spades.”
Owen must have started because Krazy’s gaze flicked from his perusal of the back door to Owen. “You’ve seen her too?” He didn’t wait for a response. “She’s beautiful, and she doesn’t seem to be bothering anyone.”
She’d bothered Owen, and Reggie too for that matter.
“They say wolves steal small dogs, cats, chickens, calves. Sometimes an old horse or cow. But I’ve never heard of any being lost around here.”
Apparently the “lost” animals that had been found in Owen’s house had not been widely reported. Which was odd considering every stray cat was usually cause for a bulletin. Three should have been front-page news.
“Wolves are hard to find,” Owen said. “I’ve heard that wolf hunters have to bait them, like bears.”
“True,” Krazy agreed.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“There’s something about that guy…” He shook his head. “Weird smells coming from his cabin.”
“Probably sauerkraut.”
“I know what sauerkraut smells like.”
“Kielbasa?”
“It was more metallic.”
“He was cooking metal?”
“I don’t know, dude.”
“You didn’t ask him?”
“He said he was making his own bullets.”
“That would explain the metal.”
“I’ve smelled melting lead. This wasn’t it.” Krazy shifted his shoulders, uneasy. “He creeps me out.”
He’d creeped Owen out too, and he’d only caught a glimpse of the guy.
“Well, if creepy were against the law, half the world would be in jail.”
“Preaching to the choir, brother.”