Season of the Wolf Pt. 01

I scrape dirt away from the edges of what is definitely an old metal strong box. The box isn't much bigger than a shoebox, but it has been buried a very long time and the ground isn't willing to release its hold on the thing. I'm clawing at the corners and alternating with gauging at the borders of the hole with a stick to unearth the box. Dirt clings to my sweaty skin and the mosquitoes are having a field day with my ankles. My clothes are smudged with grass stains and grunge, but I don't pay any of it much attention. My mind is focused on the box and whatever secrets might be inside.

It's a good thing I'm not a superstitious person or a believer in the paranormal. Otherwise I would leave the box and its secrets buried in the grave where they belong. I think of King Tut's curse and mentally chastise myself. There is no such thing as a curse.

My hard work finally pays off and I work the box free from the hole. I don't look at what I might be beneath the box. I'm really not that interested at getting so up close and personal with a dead ancestor. Quickly, once I'm sure enough there's nothing else in the hole. I scoop in handfuls of dirt and fill the gauge I've left in the ground. Luckily, I don't think many people come up here and though my excavation is noticeable. I've done my best to cover things up and tamp down the clumps of grass.

I hold my breath and brace myself for the unveiling of what I'm certain is the truth, but the lid on the box won't budge. The hinges are rusted shut. There are curses and they come rushing out of my mouth with the flamboyancy of a drunken sailor on shore leave. I'm going to have to find someone to help me pry the box open. Asking Han is out of the question. I run through my mental list of possible accomplices and what a limited list it is. Only one person comes to mind. Coyote. He says he's the most honest person I know and I guess I'm about to find out whether or not that's true.

I've been so busy digging up the possible truth that I didn't notice how dim the woods have grown. It's nearly dark. My imagination is really getting the better of me. Being out here in a graveyard in the woods alone at nightfall. I imagine the sensation of countless pairs of eyes on my back and the hairs on my neck prickle in response. I tuck the box under one arm and balance the shovel on the saddle as I mount Ginger. Giving her a hard kick in the hindquarters she takes off at a trot just as eager to leave the woods and the graveyard behind as I am.

I make it to the barn just before dark settles in earnest. Relieved to see Han is nowhere to be found, I dismount and quickly pull the saddle off Ginger's back. With a sharp slap to her rump, I send her off to the pasture to rejoin her other four legged friends. I'm in the house and hunting for my keys and purse with the box tucked under my arm. I don't dare set it down. Right now, I'm not so certain that I trust myself let alone anyone I've met in the last week.

My keys and purse are right where I left them. If Han is home, he keeps to himself. That's a good thing. I'm still trying to shake off the feeling that I'm being watched and dismiss the eerie sensation as just a side effect of what amounts to pretty much as grave robbing. Without a care for the state of my clothing or the salty layer of dried sweat on my limbs, I grab the stash under my mattress and make a mad dash for the car. The sharp corner of the box digs into my forearm from how tightly I'm clinging to it. The box is real. The photos and the journal are real. There are no curses, no coincidences in life, and I'm going to prove it.

Chapter 25

Business is non-existent at the bar and I park out front. There's no need to be covert about where I am or to try to hide a thing from Han. If he comes looking for me it wouldn't take him too long to find me even if I did park in back. There's only so many places a person without any friends would go in a town this size. I have a fleeting thought that I should call Christine and clue her in and decide against it. To someone with an objective mind, everything I've found is nothing more than coincidence. Calling her will have to wait until I have something substantial to say.

Except for Coyote, the bar is free of patrons. It's not that late, just a hair past dark, but this is the kind of place where the sidewalks are rolled up and everyone is tucked into bed by dusk. Coyote sets down the rag he was using to wipe down the bar and shoots me an amused smile at my harried, disheveled state. I plop the box and the evidence I've gathered onto the bar and practically collapse onto a stool. He eyes the items and asks what I'll have as he reaches for a glass. "Answers," I reply.

His brown eyes twinkle mischievously and he raises a brow at my collection. He's reaching under the bar for his personal stash and pours a double shot into the glass before pouring one for himself. He downs the shot and pours another, downing it with ease. Coyote is pensive, mulling over his options of things to say. It's obvious he has the answers I want. His expression changes as he decides how much to tell me.

Remembering what happened the last time I sampled Coyote's homebrew, I take a timid sip from the glass. He encourages me to drink deeply as he moves across the bar to flip the sign to closed and lock the door. Instead of going to his perch behind the bar, he slides onto the stool beside me. Reaching for the bottle, he pours himself another shot and downs it without hesitation.

I don't explain where I found the box. I think he already knows. I simply tell him that the hinges are rusted shut and the lid won't budge. Coyote is grateful to have something to do with his hands and studies the hinges before hopping off his stool and going into the back room to find something to use to open the box.

My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry. I get the sense that once this box is opened it'll be much like Pandora's box. I'm dreading what's inside, but I need to know. Coyote whistles a tune as he works with a screwdriver to pry the lid open. Unlike me though, he's not the least bit curious about what the box contains. He is too focused on the task of chipping away at the rusted hinges.

I sip my drink quietly, not wanting to disturb him while he's concentrating so intently. The lid finally yields with a sprinkling of rust onto the floor and a sigh from the reluctant hinges. Coyote sits the box on the bar and brushes off his hands. I lick a drop of whiskey from my bottom lip and reach for the box. He grabs my wrist and eyes me, gauging my expression. I don't know what he saw in my eyes or what the look on my face tells him, but he releases his hold and sits back.

I'm not surprised by the collection of gold coins and gemstones. They're dazzling and probably worth a small fortune, but they don't interest me nearly as much as the carefully folded paperwork that is crumbling at the edges from age. There are stock receipts and treasury records. The total sum of their worth, I can't begin to calculate in my head. Someone invested well and with the intention of having the investments pay off over the long haul. The money I've inherited must have come from the dividends of the stocks. At least, I know that much is legit. I lay the paperwork out across the bar and pull what I'm really interested in seeing out of the box.

In my hands is the deed to the house and the property. The ink on the original bill of sale is faded and the handwriting thin and spidery. I'm surprised that everything Han told me about the history of the land is true. The house was passed down from one generation of Galloways to the next, about every fifty or sixty years or so. But, as I'm staring at the paperwork, I realize the signatures are the same. The signing over of the house from generation to generation and the changing of the name on the deed was a formality to satisfy the gods of paper trails. This house never changed hands or was passed down to anybody until I came into the picture.

I reach for the journal and hold the deed next to one of the entries on a page. Of course, it's the same handwriting. My head spins and the surroundings of the bar tilt at a strange angle. I don't really need a calculator to do the math. My grandfather was over two hundred years old when he died. Coyote places a gentle hand on my shoulder and keeps me upright. My fingers open as he eases the papers out of my trembling grip. In his face is a mix of sympathy and grim determination. I asked for answers. He's going to give them to me. And I suddenly realize that I'm not sure I want to hear what he has to say.

"So, you've figured it out have you?" he asks. His voice is as gentle as his hold on my shoulder. Coyote releases me and thrusts the shot glass into my hand. I drink the contents in one swallow and gasp from the potent heat burning a path to my toes. He gingerly fingers his way through the box and pulls out a sheet of paper. This sheet is as old as everything else the box contains and he carefully unfolds it, laying it on the bar and commanding me to look with the tip of his index finger at the family tree written on the page. "Don't hate me," he cautions. "You asked for answers."

I study the entries. I really don't believe what I see. I am not the great granddaughter of Tecumseh by his first wife. Han can't possibly be the great, great, great, great grandson of Tecumseh by his second wife.

I look for Coyote's name on the family tree and realize I don't know his real name. Coyote is talking, but I'm not really hearing a word he says. I'm a Galloway because rather than having a Christian name assigned to him, my grandfather chose his own. I'm fumbling for the photographs and pull out the dagguerotype with the man who is presumably my grandfather and Han standing in front of the wooden frame of the house. Han was born in 1820 according to the family tree. He was nineteen when the picture was taken.

None of this makes any sense. My father and mother's names are written in that same careful handwriting and mine beneath theirs. In total there's so few names on the tree and it's easy to trace the branches and forks. Mine is the last entry on the page and the ink in which it's written is bold in comparison to the first name at the top of the list.

Coyote asks me with a bitter smile if I'm starting to get it. I nod though it's not entirely true. He raises a brow and acknowledges my response. "Immortals," I croak out.

He laughs as if that's the funniest thing he's heard all day. "I wish," he scoffs. "The graveyard is a pretty good indication to the contrary. Don't you think? No, we're not immortal. Sorry to disappoint you."

I pour my own shot from the bottle sitting on the bar and down half of it in one gulp. I need the liquid courage to ask the question. "We?"

Coyote nods and points to the family tree. "My mom and dad," he says tracing a line, "and me." I'm hesitant but I look following the straight line of his index finger to the entry on the page. At least, he was born in the twentieth century, a couple of decades before I was. I glance up at his face. He looks younger than me by a year or so. But, if the date on the page is to be believed, he's almost sixty. "Coyote is a nickname. But, I don't mind. I'd rather be called Coyote than Franklin. Wouldn't you?"

The shot glass slips from my grip and shatters into a thousand tiny shards scattering across the wooden floor. Coyote is up and fetching a broom and dust pan while I sit on the barstool stupidly watching. He says we're not immortal. That's reassuring, but he doesn't exactly say what we are. The question is out of my mouth before I can stop the flow of words. "What am I?"

Coyote looks up at me from his crouch on the floor. He has swept up the glass and has a tidy pile in the dustpan. The expression on his face is pitying and regretful. "Sweetness, there are some things you have to figure out for yourself," he answers as he dumps the pan into the trash. "Does the what matter as much as the who?"

"Yes," I answer.

"Well then, I can't help you."

I'm on my feet and gathering up what bits of proof I have. Coyote wasn't as helpful as I'd hoped. He did answer some of my questions, but as far as putting my feet on the right path. He failed. He's hiding something. Han is hiding something. This whole damn town is hiding something. I'm shaking with barely containable rage. Coyote's nostrils flare as he sniffs the air and his eyes flicker with a strange golden light. He grins and the curve of his lips and the flash of his teeth are almost predatory.

Like the gentleman he isn't, he unlocks the lock and holds the door open for me. He gently grabs my bicep and spins me to face him. His searches my eyes with an imploring gaze. I'm furious and shake off his grip. "Don't be too hard on Han. In his own way, not that I agree with his methods, mind you. But, he's only trying to help," Coyote says.

"Help," I scoff.

More serious than I've ever seen him, Coyote nods. "Han has suffered greatly. More than you can ever begin to realize, little girl. He has waited a very long time for you. Now that you're here, there is no going back, not for him, or you, or any of us. This is how things are and you, like it or not, are a part of it. The one thing I'm not is a liar. Believe me when I say there isn't anything Han wouldn't do for you. Nothing."

"Except for tell me the truth." I spit out my reply and step over the threshold.

Coyote stands in the doorway watching me fumble with the burden in my arms. "Han realized something I hadn't, till now."

"What's that?" I'm practically shouting and definitely disturbing the peace in this quiet little town. I'm at the car and stuffing my evidence in the passenger side seat. I don't realize it, but Coyote has moved out of the doorway and is standing behind me. My hand is on the car door and his fingers close over mine as I slam the door.

"That you're not ready for the truth yet."

I'm so rattled that I sit with the car idling watching him through the plate glass windows as he closes down the bar for the night. My instincts tell me that if I'm going to run. Now is the time to do it. But, I can't. Not when there are so many secrets unrevealed. One thing is evident and had I had the foresight to heed Han's warning. I would have turned around and driven back to California as fast as my car would go. He predicted this place would get to me and it has. I can't turn back and I have to uncover the truth, no matter what it might be.

Chapter 26

I'm shook up and a little terrified by what Coyote has alluded to. What are the people in this town? I'm parked at the gas station with my car idling at the payphone. I need to talk to someone who is one hundred percent team Grace. Out of all the people in the world there has to be at least one on my side. Coyote says the what that I am doesn't matter as much as the who that I am on the inside. The hell it doesn't. I'm frightened out of my wits by what might be lurking inside of me. I toy with my credit card, reading the embossed name on the plastic over and over. I am Grace Klein and that's the only thing I'm absolutely certain of.

I'm debating calling Christine, just to hear a friendly voice. But, what would I say to her when none of this makes any sense to me? I can't get involved in Christine's latest drama when I can't begin to handle my own. I haven't been away from California that long, but I can feel every mile that separates me from my best friend. She's so far from me now and in so many ways has become a complete stranger.

I feel isolated and so alone. I wish my mom were here. She'd know exactly the right combination of words to say to ease my troubled mind. My dad, if I could just speak to him one more time. He was a man of logic and I know he'd be able to help me think this whole thing through. My parents are dead, but just thinking of them brings me a small measure of comfort and strength.

I wonder if they knew about any of this. I immediately put that idea out of my head. My parents were transparent as panes of glass. There were no secrets between us. We were fortunate to have found each other and to have had the years that we did together. That is the reality I cling to. Whatever there is of this clandestine surreal world that I've suddenly found myself in; I'll never discover the truth of it idling in a gas station parking lot. My mind is made up and my need to know has fortified my resolve. I'm going to confront Han and get to the bottom of this.

There's no traffic out on the highway and the gravel road leading to the house is deserted. It's creepy with the swath of light my headlights carve into the darkness and drying stalks of corn forming walls on either side of me. I drive slowly, bumping my way through the dark up the winding lane.

The woods are alive tonight and I have to slam on the brakes hard to avoid hitting a very large dog that bolted out of the dark in front of the car. Only I know by the flash of fur that what I saw it isn't a dog. It's a wolf. But, like everything else I've discovered so far, that too, sighting a wild wolf where there shouldn't be one, makes no sense.

The warm glow of lights from the study draws my eye. I didn't leave any lights on. Han must be back. He doesn't have any right to be in my house. I remind myself of that too. He can't be barging in whenever he feels like it. My anger with him is misplaced. This isn't about a simple case of intruding on my personal space or violating an unspoken boundary. If it were, he's guilty of nothing but being rude and assumptive. He's guilty of far more than that and it's time I found out what.

He has lied to me since our first phone conversation and I'm going to demand the truth. I know exactly how to make him talk. It's obvious he wants me here. All I have to do is threaten to leave for good and I'm certain that'll be all it takes to get the answers I want.

Armed with the clumsy bundle of proof, I park the car and make my way to the study. I've kept my keys and my purse instead of setting them on the kitchen table as a means to drive my point home. I will leave if I don't get what I want. I find Han exactly where I expect to, sitting rigidly straight in one of the twin wingback chairs facing the fireplace. He is holding a glass of amber colored liquid in his hand and raises it to his lips to take a sip. The room is practically vibrating with the intensity of his anger.

His eyes flick over me taking in my disheveled state before landing on the box and the papers clutched in my arms. He shoots me an accusatory glare and sniffs, drawing air deep into his nostrils. "I see you've had an eventful day." He says it as if his words are darts. I have nothing to say in reply and hang my head guiltily. I've done nothing to be guilty about, but Han makes me feel as if I have.

I don't know Han well, but his outrage is completely out of character from what I've learned so far about him. My fingers shuffle the keys clutched in my fist and wrap around the canister of pepper spray just in case. The pepper spray makes me brave and I stand my ground and nonchalantly shrug my shoulders.

Han is wearing a button down shirt with the tails untucked and the buttons open, leaving the edges loose to expose his muscular chest and abs. I can't help but look though I'd rather not. He hid the raw power of his true self from me behind a mask of good-natured friendliness and consideration. I can sense the danger he's capable of and move my feet shoulder width apart. His upper lip curls and his eyes narrow in an almost animalistic way before his features slide into a falsity of cool indifference. "So, you've been spending time with Coyote." His tone is scorching.

Even though Coyote didn't tell me everything I wanted to know. I don't want Han taking out this level of rage on him. Given the grave robbing, Han has plenty of reasons to be angry with me. Coyote hasn't done a thing and I feel a sudden need to protect him. "Yeah, I stopped by the bar for a drink." I smile weakly and set the box and the journals and collage of photographs on the desk as if they're of no great importance. "I just wanted to get out of the house for a bit. You know, blow off some steam."