Mom shook her head and pulled a compact out of her purse. “I never said that. That sounds like your father.” She flipped down the visor to look at herself in the small, lighted mirror. “I would’ve said Libertarian.”
I slowed to a crawl. The truck — it was turning out to be a truck with one of those tall caps over the bed, the kind that you probably have to show ID proving you’re over fifty to buy — looked like it probably belonged to a drunk who’d stopped to puke.
“What would we do, anyway? We can’t … change a tire.” I struggled to think of what would make someone pull over, other than puking.
“There’s a cop,” Mom said. Sure enough, I saw that a cop car was parked by the side of the road as well; its lights had been blocked by the hulking truck. She added casually, “They might need medical assistance.”
Mom lived in hope of someone needing medical assistance. She was always very eager for someone to get hurt on the playground when I was little. She eyed line cooks at fast-food restaurants, waiting for a kitchen disaster to strike. In California, she used to stop at accidents all the time. As a superhero, her line was: “DOES ANYONE NEED A DOCTOR? I AM A DOCTOR!” My father told me once that I needed to go easy on her; she’d had a hard time getting her degree because of family issues, and she just liked the novelty of being able to tell people she was a doctor. Okay, fine, self-actualize yourself, but really, I thought she’d gotten over it.
Sighing, I pulled in behind the truck. I did a better job than him of getting my vehicle off the road, but that wasn’t saying much. My mother deftly leaped from the SUV, and I followed her more slowly. There were three stickers on the back of the truck: GO ARMY, HANG UP AND DRIVE, and, inexplicably, I’D RATHER BE IN MINNESOTA.
On the other side of the truck, a cop was talking to a red-haired man who was wearing a white T-shirt and suspenders because he had a belly and no ass. More interestingly, I could see a handgun sitting on the driver’s seat through the open door of the truck.
“Dr. Culpeper,” said the officer warmly.
My mother adopted her caramel voice — the one that oozed richly about you so slowly you didn’t realize you were possibly being suffocated. “Officer Heifort. I just stopped to see if you needed me.”
“Well, that’s decent of you, for sure,” Heifort said. He had his fingers linked in his gun belt. “This your daughter? She’s pretty as you, Doc.” My mother demurred. Heifort insisted. The red-haired man shifted his weight from foot to foot. They spoke briefly about the mosquitoes this time of year. The red-haired man said that they weren’t near as bad as they were going to be. He called them “skeeters.”
“What’s the gun for?” I asked.
They all looked at me.
I shrugged. “Just wondering.”
Heifort said, “Well. Seems Mr. Lundgren here decided to take the wolf hunt into his own hands and do a bit of spotlighting.”
The red-haired Mr. Lundgren protested, “Well, now, Officer, you know that’s not what went down. I just happened upon it and shot from my truck. That’s not quite the same.”
“I suppose not,” Heifort said. “But there is a dead animal here and no one’s supposed to be shooting much of anything after sundown. Much less with a.38 revolver. I know you know better, Mr. Lundgren.”
“Wait,” I said. “You killed a wolf?” I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket. Even though it wasn’t that cold, I shivered.
Heifort gestured over toward the front of the truck, shaking his head.
“My husband told me no one was allowed to hunt them until the aerial hunt,” my mother said, her caramel voice a bit harder. “To keep from scaring them into hiding.”
“That’s the truth,” Heifort said.
I moved away from them to the ditch where Heifort had gestured, aware that the red-haired man was watching me dolefully. Now I could see a ridge of fur from an animal lying on its side in the grass.
Dear God and possibly Saint Anthony, I know I ask for a lot of stupid things, but this one is important: Please don’t let that be Grace.
Even though I knew that she was supposed to be safe with Sam and Cole, I sucked in a breath and stepped closer. The ticked fur ruffled in the breeze. There was a small bloody hole in its thigh, another in its shoulder, and finally, one just behind the skull. The top of its head was a little gross where the bullet had come out the other side. If I wanted to see if the eyes were familiar, I would have to kneel, but I didn’t bother checking.
“This is a coyote,” I said accusingly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Heifort replied, genial. “Big one, right?”
I let out my breath. Even a city girl like myself could tell the difference between a wolf and a coyote. I was back to assuming Mr. Lundgren had had one too many or just really wanted to try out his new handgun.
“You haven’t had too much trouble like this, have you?” Mom was asking Heifort. She was asking it in that way she did when she wanted to know something for my father rather than for herself. “People taking matters into their own hands? You’re keeping it under wraps?”
“We’re doing the best we can,” Heifort said. “Most people are being real good about it. They don’t want to spoil things for those helos. But I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a mishap or two before the real deal. Boys will be boys.” This was with a gesture toward Mr. Lundgren, as if he were deaf. “Like I said, doing the best we can.”
My mother looked less than satisfied. Her tone was a bit chilly when she said, “That’s what I tell my patients, too.” She frowned at me. “Isabel, don’t touch that.”
As if I was anywhere near it. I climbed back up through the grass to join her.
“You haven’t been drinking tonight, have you, Doc?” Heifort asked, as Mom turned to go. He and Mom both wore matching looks. Candy-coated hostility.
My mother flashed him a large smile. “Oh, yes.” She paused to let him consider this. “But Isabel’s driving. Come on, Isabel.”
When we got back into the car, no sooner had the door slammed than my mother said, “Hicks. I hate that man. This may have cured me of my philanthropic nature for good.”
I didn’t believe it for a second. Next time she thought she might be able to help, she’d be jumping out of the car again before it stopped rolling. Whether or not they wanted her.