Weekend of the Wolf

CHAPTER 3-2

Shannon giggled and Paul frowned. He knew nothing about jewelry and wouldn’t be able to tell a full carat from a piece of broken glass. Despite their high-end price tags, he figured the locked-up gems were somewhere closer to the latter, sold to unsuspecting pike fishermen who felt guilty about leaving their wives at home while they stalked about in the great outdoors.

“Maybe when we’re finished talking to Mr. Gleckman,” said Shannon.

“Of course,” agreed Tom, his expression turning downcast. “He might be able to get you a better price. I need the full commission. He doesn’t. But sir, if I were you, I’d get a ring on her finger as soon as I could.”

Both Paul and Shannon smiled, then turned toward the steps. Paul knew it would be good for a laugh later on, but now he needed to be serious. He needed to think about what he would ask Brian Gleckman. Still, he couldn’t help but smile, and he noticed Shannon doing the same.

Just before he was fully turned to head downstairs, Paul noticed several bright and shiny gold coins in the far corner of the display. He might not be an expert in fine jewelry, but he could recognize a genuine Krugerrand when he saw one. The one-ounce fine gold piece from South Africa was a staple for gold collectors, worldwide. He wondered why gold coins were for sale in a sporting goods store in Ely, but didn’t have time to pursue it.

The lower level was filled mostly with outdoor sporting goods. An entire wall was lined with fishing rods. Paul and Shannon walked through two different aisles devoted exclusively to assorted tackle and other fishing paraphernalia.

Brian Gleckman looked like someone who belonged in such a department. He was a large man with broad shoulders, and the trace of too much beer around the belly. Dressed in the various outdoor garb sold in the lower section of his store, he stood near another thick glass casing, only this one held various firearms instead of jewelry. Gleckman’s toothy grin could be seen all the way through his dark and imposing beard as he chatted about the merits of a red and white striped fishing lure with a prospective customer. Paul waited for the customer to leave before approaching with Shannon.

“Mr. Gleckman? Hi, my name’s Paul Westover and this is my friend Shannon Mottler.”

“The name’s Brian,” said Gleckman, again flashing his grin and reaching out a beefy hand to shake with Paul. Up close, the man appeared almost as large as the bears printed on the T-shirts upstairs. “What can I do ya for?”

Paul couldn’t help but return the smile. The man who gripped his hand radiated magnetic charisma one would not expect from a good ol’ boy in Ely. His eyes sparkled with depth and perception, which sharpened to a twinkle when they looked over at Shannon.

At first impression, Gleckman did not seem as out of place as Tom, the man upstairs who had tried to sell them a diamond. Gleckman fit the image of an Ely woodsman, the beard, the outdoor clothing. But Paul had seen this type of man before, always on rare occasions. He was not some full of himself country hick whose over inflated ego pumped up his posture. Brian Gleckman was a leader. A leader of men.

“I’m up here in Ely covering a story on wolves for the Associated Press,” said Paul, unknowingly broadening his own shoulders. It was a subconscious habit he always enacted in the presence of powerful auras. “Actually, I’m doing mostly research. The

real story’s in Yellowstone.”

“The politics are in Yellowstone,” said Gleckman. “Ranchers and fanatics are in Yellowstone. The wolves are here in Ely.”

“Right,” agreed Paul. “Anyway, I’m here on a completely different matter.” It was unethical to be anything but up front about pretenses. Paul taught an extension course at UCLA on journalistic ethics. He taught them, and he practiced them, because he believed in them. “I crossed paths with a couple of men in the woods about three o’clock this morning. They didn’t see me, so they just went on about their way. I understand pairs of men like this are seen from time to time out in the woods up here.”

“I’m sure they are,” said Gleckman. “They were probably trappers or scouts, figuring out where the deer might be come fall.”

“Probably,” said Paul. “But the wolf researchers we’ve been working with say these guys are out there all the time, and they don’t seem to have a specific purpose.”

“So, what brings you to me?” asked Gleckman. “I can’t answer for all the men who wander through the woods up here, now can I?”

The man’s voice remained constant, as did his powerful presence and charm, but Paul detected the slightest change. It was perhaps the most subtle stiffening of the man’s shoulders. Paul had seen it hundreds of times during his years covering news. It always raised an internal red flag.

“I spoke with an old trapper this morning who knew about these mysterious travelers,” said Paul. “He says he used to see you out there on occasion.”

“Well, I do hunt during the deer season,” nodded Gleckman. “Hell, I’ve seen half of Ely out there at one time or another.”

“He says he’s never seen them carrying rifles, or the types of weapons you’d expect to see with hunters,” said Paul.

“Well, now that I think about it, I used to belong to this group of hardcore survivalist types,” said Gleckman, nodding with sudden recollection. “But hell, it was years ago.”

“Survivalists?” asked Paul. The term always conjured up images of paranoid fanatics who relentlessly prepared for the day when the bombs finally began to fall, ultimately turning survivors into savages. The only true survivors would be those in the backcountry who had made the effort to be well stocked and well protected.

“Not in the truest sense, no,” said Gleckman. “It was just an informal club, really. A bunch of guys who learned how to take care of themselves in the woods. Once we were trained, we’d get taken blindfolded out into the middle of nowhere, with no food, no supplies, no nothing. Just a compass. Then we’d have to find our way back. It was really a rugged experience. I’d have to say I enjoyed it, but man oh man, it was a long time ago.”

Paul nodded, then stuck his notebook into his back pocket. The story was exactly what he had expected. Nothing exciting. Still, he got the impression there was much more to it, which he doubted he would get out of Brian Gleckman.

“Is the club still around?” asked Paul.

“I doubt it,” said Gleckman. “It was just a bunch of guys.”

“The trapper said these guys acted like wolves,” said Paul. “Did you do that, too?”

“We didn’t want to be seen by people,” said Gleckman. “We just avoided everyone, because if you ended up talking with someone, the guy might accidentally tell you where you were and ruin the whole adventure.”

“Hey, thanks for your time,” said Paul “I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” said Gleckman. “I wish I could’ve been more of a help. And what was the trapper’s name again? I probably know him. Hell, he knows me, I must know him.”

“I left his name back at the lodge,” lied Paul. He could never burn a source.

“It was probably Norm Dillman, cagey old bastard,” laughed Gleckman. “Pardon the language, miss. He’s always out there getting into some darn trouble or another.”

“Well anyway, thanks again,” said Paul. “You’ve been a big help by clearing everything up for me.”

“Not at all,” said Gleckman. “I hope you enjoy your stay here in Ely. In fact, you can probably make it much more memorable if you stop upstairs on your way out and buy the lady a nice ring.”

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The reporter from the Associated Press had barely left the store when Brian Gleckman stepped into his office and picked up the phone. He quickly dialed a number with the area code from north of the border in the state of Ontario.

“Russ? Hello, this is your old friend from Ely,” Gleckman said in a loud, friendly voice. While the parties at both ends frequently scanned for wiretaps, it was customary to assume all conversations were being monitored.

“Brian, you old fool,” Russ Steger belted on the other end. “Have you gotten a job yet? Or are you still hawking T-shirts for a living?”

“Still a bum, my friend,” said Gleckman. “Still a bum. In fact, tourism is down because of all the bad weather. The fishermen don’t come up when it’s raining.”

“So, they don’t buy your rotten bait then,” said Steger.

“No. They’re not here, so they don’t buy,” said Gleckman. “I did have one interesting visitor though.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. A reporter from the Associated Press. He’s up here doing a story on wolves, of all things.”

“You certainly have a lot of timber wolves in Ely,” said Steger.

Gleckman nodded to himself. Steger had gotten the message and was inquiring about the details. Gleckman would have to be very careful how he worded his response.

“He told me he was out in the woods when he came upon a couple fellas wandering around in the middle of the night,” said Gleckman. “Wondered if I knew anything. I said, ‘hell, I can’t keep track of myself, let alone everyone else who wanders through these parts.’”

“Did you sell him a T-shirt?” asked Steger.

“I sold him,” said Gleckman. “You wouldn’t believe all he bought.”

“Well, good for you,” said Steger. “I’ve always said you could sell a boiler room to the devil himself.”

“We may have to, my friend,” said Gleckman.

“Don’t worry,” said Steger. “Wolves are a protected species. Remember?”

“Of course,” said Gleckman. “But speaking of predators, I need to message an overseas friend who is quite the shark in business.”

“Perhaps he will have some tips for your sagging T-shirt market,” laughed Steger, but there was nothing funny about the conversation, and both of them knew it.

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Shannon couldn’t believe the conversation which had just taken place between Paul Westover and Brian Gleckman. The reporter from the Associated Press had unknowingly crossed over into very dangerous terrain. If he indeed was searching for a story about wolves, he had just stuck his nose inside the den of an entirely different breed, a breed that didn’t take kindly to sheep like Westover mewling around.

She watched Paul as he walked down the soggy Minnesota street toward the Ely post office. He was rocking his head back and forth to stretch his neck as he walked, and if he had any clue of how dangerous his world had become, he did not show it.

Shannon had told him she was going to check out another souvenir store while he was gone, but instead walked around the facade of an ice cream parlor on the corner of the main street. Shannon couldn’t imagine how an ice cream parlor could survive in the abysmal weather of Minnesota. She pulled out her cell and hit the first number on her recent call list.