A Solitude of Wolverines: A Novel of Suspense

One

The wetlands dedication ceremony was a resounding success until the gunman showed up. Alex Carter had felt happy, blinking in the bright sunlight, gazing out over the green marshy area. The gold and scarlet of fall touched a handful of trees. Where the blue sky reflected in patches of visible water, a great blue heron stood vigil, gazing down for a glimpse of fish. It was sunny now, but huge cumulus clouds were building on the horizon, and she knew that a thunderstorm would descend over the city before the day was out.

Boston councilman Mike Stevens stood on a temporary stage, giving a speech to a gathering of outdoor enthusiasts who happily sampled the provided wine and cheese. From one corner of the stage, a perfectly coiffed TV reporter in a spotless white suit signaled to her cameraman to get sound bites. Her styled blond hair glowed around her pink face. Later, Alex had to do an interview with the woman, and nervousness churned in her stomach.

Alex looked down at her own outfit—worn jeans, a black thermal top under a black fleece jacket. Hiking boots covered in mud. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a quick ponytail. Alex couldn’t remember if she’d brushed it that morning, and suspected she hadn’t. While Alex’s best friend, Zoe, always insisted that eyeliner made Alex’s blue eyes pop, Alex had also neglected to apply any today. Ditto for any tinted moisturizer on her face, which she suspected was looking particularly pale and nervous.

Christine Mendoza, the founder of Save Our Wetlands Now, approached Alex, grinning as she tucked her wind-tossed hair behind her ear. She touched Alex’s elbow affectionately and whispered, Thanks for coming.

My pleasure.

Last year Christine had approached Alex, asking if she’d do a pro bono environmental impact assessment for the area. A development company had announced plans to build luxury condominiums and retail spaces on the spot, which would displace more than a hundred species of birds. For the last year, Alex had lived in downtown Boston, a far cry from the wild places her heart longed for. Helping to save a small corner of surviving wilderness was a delight.

After her report was submitted, the green-leaning community spoke its mind, attending town hall meetings and sending in petitions. In the end, the city designated the habitat a protected space and the development company withdrew its proposal.

And today was the big day of celebration.

Now she and Christine looked toward the mic, where Stevens was currently pontificating on civic responsibility, droning on about how providing open spaces for the public’s well-being was of utmost importance. Stevens had actually been one of the driving forces behind the condo project after getting a hefty kickback from the development company. Now he desperately tried to save face, pretending as if he’d been supportive of the wetlands protection from the start.

Can you believe this joker? Christine said quietly to Alex, nodding toward the councilman. He fought us all the way. Even sent me hate mail. Now he’s pretending like the whole plan to save the wetlands was his idea. She shook her head. Sheesh. I know who I’m not voting for next election.

Alex watched the man’s perma-grin. I wonder if he had to give back all that money.

Christine crossed her arms, her wavy brown hair framing her tawny face as she squinted into the bright sun. He was pretty mad when the development fell through.

A few more people had been upset, too, including the construction company who won the contract for the condos.

But now this beautiful place would be protected, providing sanctuary for wildlife and a place of reflection for residents. It wasn’t often that environmental issues swung this way, and Alex’s heart swelled.

After Stevens had droned on for ten minutes, Christine approached the councilman and looked at him meaningfully, signaling that he should wrap up his speech. Enjoy your new park! he announced to a smattering of applause, which grew more enthusiastic when they realized he was done talking.

As he left the stage, the reporter waved Christine over. Are you the biologist? I’m supposed to interview a biologist.

Christine pointed to Alex. That’s her.

Great, Alex thought. Thrown to the wolves. She forced a smile as the reporter gestured impatiently to her. You’re Carter? Come up here. I don’t want my heels to sink into that muck.

Alex stepped up onto the stage.

Right. Roll it, Fred. The cameraman clicked record and Alex found herself staring blankly at the camera. A few people lingered around the stage to listen to the interview.

A complete change took over the reporter, who went from surly to irrepressibly bubbly. This is Michelle Kramer, reporting from the dedication ceremony for the new wetlands park. She gestured around her. This area will be set aside as valuable habitat for wildlife. She turned toward Alex. Dr. Carter, your study was instrumental in gaining protections for this area. What kinds of wildlife will use this space?

In addition to year-round species, many migratory birds use this as a stopover area after flying hundreds of miles.

Michelle gave a very fake-sounding giggle. Hundreds of miles! I hope their kids aren’t in the back seat, asking, ‘Are we there yet?’

Alex was taken aback, momentarily derailed. She managed a little chuckle.

The reporter glanced down at some notes on her phone. So we understand, Dr. Carter, that in addition to protecting areas like this, we can do other things to help our local birds.

Alex smiled and nodded, feeling herself grow numb with nervousness, but she plowed on. Many people don’t know that migratory birds actually use the stars to navigate.

Oooh! I love stars. The birds must have a stargazing app like the one I have on my phone. She tittered again.

More of the crowd had moved over toward the stage, listening in on the interview.

While I’m sure that would be convenient, unfortunately, they rely on having dark skies to see the North Star, Alex said lamely, trying to keep on target. But with so much light pollution in our cities, birds are struggling. You can help by turning off your porch light at night or installing a simple motion detector to turn the light on only when you need it. A light that snaps on when someone approaches is a better alert system, too, than one that burns constantly.

Michelle laughed. Well, why don’t we just do some remodeling and rewiring while we’re at it? She grinned at the camera and cut Alex off. And that’s our report from the field. Be sure to come out, Bostonians, and enjoy your new park. Then she lowered the mic and Fred turned off the camera.

A murmur spread through the crowd, and Alex noticed that most people had turned and were looking in the opposite direction from the stage. People began backing away, staring at someone moving among them. Then a woman screamed and a man turned and sprinted away, fear on his face. He left the firm ground and splashed into the water, tripping and going down hard in the mud.

Then everyone got eerily quiet and backed away from the stage. A man strode forward, shoving two startled people out of the way. His hand, thrust toward Alex, held a gun.

Alex froze as he leveled the gun at her, stopping at the edge of the stage. She recognized him—had seen him at some of the community meetings. His construction company had won the bid to build the condos. Her mind raced through the possibilities. Should she dive down? Run? Try to tackle the guy? He waved the gun around, pointing it at the councilman, then at Christine, then back to Alex.

You people ruined my life! he shouted, spinning and pointing the gun into the crowd. People cried out and ran toward the back, pushing through the crowd to get away. And you’re out here celebrating?

The gunman pivoted back, aiming at Alex. The reporter signaled for the cameraman to get a close-up, and the gunman turned on her, eyes ignited with rage. You’re filming this? You think this is entertainment? he boomed.

The gun went off so suddenly that Alex jumped backward, her ears ringing. Red bloomed in the stomach of the reporter’s pristine white suit, and the woman stood for a moment in shock, mouth hanging open, before she crumpled forward. The cameraman flung his equipment down and rushed to her side, bending over her. He whipped out his phone and called 911.

People screamed and ran, and the gunman spun, firing off several rounds into the crowd. They scattered, and Alex couldn’t tell if anyone had been hit. A few people dove down on the ground and cowered there, looking frantically over their shoulders. One man in a black cap ran off at a fast clip, managing to reach the nearest clump of trees.

The councilman, who’d been standing in shock next to Christine, looked on, his eyes wide and unblinking. Then he spoke. David, I’m sorry the project didn’t go through. But there’ll be other jobs.

What difference would that make? David spat. I already lost my company! Went bankrupt when this didn’t go through. My wife left me for some rich-ass golf pro.

I’m sorry to hear that, the councilman said, but these good people didn’t do anything to hurt you.

Alex just wanted to slink down and away, take cover behind the stage, but was worried the sudden movement might draw his fire. But she was beginning to like Mr. Two-Faced Politician. At least he was brave enough to confront the man.

Are you fucking kidding me? David fumed. These are exactly the people who did this to me. They get all worked up over a bunch of fucking birds. My business was ruined! His gun hand shook with rage.

Not me, the councilman assured him. I wanted the development to go through. I fought very hard for it.

And now he’s back to saving his own ass, Alex thought.

Not hard enough. He pivoted, pointing the gun into the crowd. And now I’m going to take out as many of you assholes as I can.

The councilman leapt off the stage and sprinted away as the gunman pivoted and took aim at him. Christine froze in terror as the gun went off with a cacophonous boom, firing at the retreating politician. Stevens flinched and fell, then got up and kept running. The shot had missed. Christine trembled and stared at Alex, her face starting to crumple. Then she ran to Alex’s side. David tracked her movement and leveled his gun at them.

Alex dove behind the stage, pulling Christine with her. They fell hard, hunkering down beneath the minuscule eighteen inches of cover provided by the height of the small stage. She heard David’s boots step up onto the platform. He was coming toward them. Soon he’d be right over them, firing the gun downward.

Alex grabbed Christine’s hand and whispered, Run! From her belly, Alex got to her knees and took off for the nearest trees, which were more than a hundred yards away. Her hiking boots squished on the moist ground and she zigged and zagged, trying to make a difficult target. Tough clumps of grass threatened to trip her, and the ground sucked at her boots each time she planted a foot. Christine ran as well, and they were a third of the way to the trees when another deafening boom rang out.

Alex braced herself to feel pain, but none came. Christine ran on to the left of her, utter panic on her face. But she was unharmed. Another shot had gone wild.

Alex dared a glance back. The gunman was fast on their tracks, his hand extended, the gun bouncing erratically as he ran. But it was trained on Alex. She zagged to the right and pushed herself to run faster as another shot rang out. Bracing again to feel a bullet tear through her, she realized this gun had fired from much farther away than where David was.

Confused, she chanced another glance back to see David standing still, his body drooping as he grabbed his right arm in a tight clench. Blood seeped through his fingers, and his gun lay on the ground next to him. Had someone in the crowd shot him? It sounded too far away for that. The shot had been more distant than from the stage.

Christine paused, staring back in confusion, and Alex ran over to her, hurrying her toward the trees. Staring around angrily, the gunman picked up the weapon in his left hand, then started toward them again.

Alex’s heart thumped painfully. Now that she was closer to the trees, she saw they were too thin to offer much protection. He’d easily shoot them there. Panic rose within her as she surveyed the area for cover.

What do we do? Christine cried, realizing their dilemma.

Behind them, the gunman was closing fast. He bared his teeth against the pain, blood streaming down his right arm, which hung limply at his side. His left hand shook on the weapon, but she knew he’d have no problem killing them at close range. He staggered forward, rage driving him on.

She sped to the right, gesturing for Christine to go the other way, splitting them up. She was almost at the trees when she saw about an inch of standing water pooling at their bases. She splashed into it, weaving between trunks.

David stopped at the tree line. He lifted his weapon, taking his time to aim.

Alex was only feet away. Her boots sank into the mud, slowing her progress. Only a six-inch trunk stood between her and a bullet.

Another distant crack of a gun rang out. Alex looked on in horror as a wound the size of a grapefruit exploded out of David’s forehead. He slumped forward, splashing onto the sodden ground, lying immobile. Blood pooled into the brown water.

Alex forced her body to move. Christine stood about fifty feet away, crouched down behind some trees. Alex reached her, struggling for a breath.

Alex looked back. The gunman lay still. He’d been shot in the back of the skull, the exit wound devastating. There was no way he had survived. But she wasn’t about to go check on him, either. She crouched down next to Christine and whispered, There’s another shooter out there. From the angle of the gunman’s wound, Alex guessed the person was firing from the clump of trees on the far side of the stage, where the man in the black cap had vanished to. I think we better creep farther into the trees and lie down.

They did so until the view of the other section of trees was obscured. Then they waited. From their position, Alex could see that the crowd had all scattered, fleeing toward the road on the opposite side of the wetlands. The cameraman had lain down next to the reporter and was looking around, his eyes wide with fear.

Alex’s mind reeled as her breath came too fast. Who had fired the shot? A second gunman? Could it be the police? Had they been able to respond that quickly with a sniper?

A few minutes later, she heard police sirens in the distance. She looked out to see the councilman at the road waving police cruisers over. Two pulled up next to him and he pointed toward the body of the gunman. Then the police were running toward the man’s body cautiously, talking into their shoulder radios.

A man and a woman met them partway and pointed at the distant trees, to where Alex thought the other gunman had fired from. The police talked some more into their radios, then continued to move forward. Two officers escorted the man and woman back to the road.

Alex watched as the first two responding officers ran in a low crouch. One moved toward the gunman, and another ran along the tree line toward them. In a minute, he was crouching down over Alex and Christine, his comforting hand on Alex’s back. His name tag read Scott. He looked them both over. Are you hurt?

Alex shook her head, and Christine managed to whisper, No.

The other officer reached the body of the gunman and checked his carotid. He turned to his partner and shook his head.

For an indeterminable amount of time, Alex lay belly down in the wet mud, feeling like any minute a sniper’s bullet might tear right through her. Finally the officers announced an all clear. Alex and Christine struggled to their feet, shivering from the wet cold.

Paramedics rushed in to help the reporter, loading her onto a gurney. As they hurried toward the ambulance, the cameraman ran alongside them. The policemen escorted Alex and Christine out of the trees and back to the stage. Alex couldn’t help looking over at the dead gunman, such an average Joe with his thinning hair and beer gut, red T-shirt and faded jeans. She couldn’t stop staring at him. The police moved around her seemingly in slow motion. Her thoughts were hazy and sounds were muffled, as if her head were stuffed with cotton. More officers arrived, and Alex stood there shaking, her heart still pounding.

Christine moved next to her and grabbed her hand, and for a few minutes they sat side by side on the stage, trembling and trying to take it all in. At the far periphery of the wetlands, city life went on as usual. Cars honked. People shouted at one another. Planes and helicopters droned overhead. The stench of car exhaust reached her even out here.

As she sat there, holding Christine’s cold hand, this person she barely knew but had experienced a traumatic event with, Alex wondered what she was still doing in this city. After finishing her PhD in wildlife biology, she’d come here to be with her boyfriend and fill a postdoc research position on the northern parula, a small migratory warbler. But she and Brad had broken up two months ago, and her research job had ended even before that.

Before this ceremony, she’d considered staying here, but now, shocked and horrified in this tiny pocket of wild surrounded by a teeming city of humans waiting to do violence to one another, she knew it was time to move on.

They each gave a statement to the police. Crime scene techs arrived with the press, and Alex watched as the police taped off the area. Finally the first two responding officers walked her and Christine back to their cars, saying they’d contact them if they had other questions. As Alex got into her car, she looked up at Officer Scott. Do they know what happened? she asked him. Who the other shooter was?

Scott shook his head. I can’t discuss it. I’m sorry. But I’m sure it’ll be all over the papers when we find out.

She started up her car. All she wanted to do was go home, get a hot cup of tea, and curl up on her couch. But as she drove across the city and arrived at her apartment building, she realized Scott wasn’t kidding. A gaggle of press awaited her there, and they were already crowding around her car before she’d even parked.

Above them, the storm finally unleashed its fury, lashing the city with rain.

Two

Reporters pressed against Alex’s car door, shouting questions. She couldn’t get it open. Did the gunman threaten you? How did you feel witnessing a shooting like that? Did you personally feel in danger?

She crawled across to the passenger side and managed to squeeze out. Cameras flashed in her face, reporters jostling her all the way to the door of her building. Please, she said, no comment. I just want to go home. Her legs shook as she pushed through the swarm.

The reporters crowded around her, still throwing out their questions. Do you think the victim will survive? Did you see the second shooter?

She managed to unlock the main door and slip inside, and still the press continued to film her and yell questions through the glass. Her flat was on the top floor, and she started wearily up the stairs.

She could hear her landline ringing from inside her flat as she unlocked the door. Once inside, she hurried to the phone, hoping it was her friend Zoe. She could use a friendly voice about now.

But instead it was a persistent reporter. Do you have cell phone footage of the shooting that you’d be willing to sell? he asked her.

Alex hung up, only to have the phone immediately ring again. She picked up, this time hearing a whiny voice on the other end. This is WBSR news. We’d like to invite you onto our news hour tonight to describe the shooting.

Alex couldn’t hang up fast enough. But the phone immediately rang again. Leave me the hell alone! she shouted into it.

Are you okay? Zoe asked from the other end.

Alex breathed a sigh of relief. Zoe! It’s so good to hear your voice. The press is hounding me. Yes, I’m fine. A little shaken up, considering.

I’ll say! Zoe huffed. I kept checking the Boston feeds for your interview, and when I saw that a gunman had shown up, I about had a heart attack. I tried your cell, but it kept going straight to voicemail.

Alex fished her phone out of her pocket. I forgot I turned it off before I did my interview. She powered it on now. She could feel the stress flowing out of her body just hearing Zoe’s voice, knowing that she had such a solid friend. She’d met Zoe Lindquist in college when Alex had dusted off the oboe she’d played in high school and joined the pit orchestra of a college production of Man of La Mancha. Zoe had been cast as Dulcinea, and between cast parties and disastrous rehearsals that went late into the night, they’d become close, never losing contact, even when Alex went on to grad school and Zoe went on to make her mark in Hollywood.

It was pretty terrifying, Alex told her.

So you were there? I mean, right when it happened?

Yes. And it’s an experience I’d like to un-have.

I’ll bet. Are you okay? Did they catch the second gunman?

Alex pulled a kitchen stool closer and sat down. Through her open window, she could still hear the press clamoring below. I don’t know. Outside, a terrific peal of thunder rattled her windows.

I’d have been scared out of my mind.

The numb feeling she’d been carrying around since the shooting had started to wear off. Alex shifted her weight on the stool, leaning one elbow on the counter and running a hand over her face. She felt so tired. I was. It was crazy. She exhaled. Zoe, I don’t even know what I’m doing in this city anymore.

Things with Brad still not right? Zoe asked.

Things with Brad aren’t happening at all. She and Brad had said it was a temporary separation while they worked things out. Since then, they’d played phone tag and sent a text message now and again, but Alex had the feeling that they both knew it was over. They’d broken up once before, after a bad experience at her first job as a postdoc, but that time they managed to reconcile. She didn’t think it would happen this time.

Are you happy or sad about that?

Weary, I guess, more than anything else, Alex told her.

Zoe went silent for a minute, and Alex could hear a saw going in the background, then someone shouting about lighting. Are you on set?

Yes, endlessly sitting around while people make adjustments, forget their lines, eat way too many mini-bagels off the craft services table.

Zoe was complaining, but Alex knew she loved being an actor.

What’s the project this time? Alex asked her.

It’s a thriller, a noir kind of thing, period and everything. You should see my hair right now. If I have to pick a lock, I’ll certainly have enough bobby pins. And this tweed suit! Talk about itchy!

Period sounds fun. You get to dress up.

That’s true. But it also means there are five times more things that can go wrong on the set. Hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait. The director’s always yelling things like ‘Oh, that shot was beautiful except that Corolla just drove by in the background.’ Or ‘I thought I told you to take off that digital watch!’ I got here at six A.M. and haven’t shot a single line yet.

It’s a hard life.

Zoe laughed. It is! They ran out of blueberry cream cheese two hours ago.

My god, how are you able to survive in such harsh conditions? Besides, I thought you weren’t eating berries. Zoe was always on some strange diet or another, seeking out ways to hold on to her youth, which at thirty she already thought was fading.

I’m back on berries now. Trying this diet where I drink two glasses of water, eat a single egg, then wait four hours and have a handful of unsalted peanuts and blueberries.

What a feast. Unlike Alex, Zoe loved to eat, so she knew it must be torture for her friend. Alex saw eating as a necessity, something to do when required, preferably with as little fuss as possible.

It’s supposed to tighten the skin around the jawline, Zoe explained. Though I don’t see how. Still, it’s worth a try.

Alex felt sorry for Zoe, for the enormous pressure Hollywood put on female actors to be eternally youthful, a standard they didn’t apply to male actors, which meant that as women aged, many got less and less work. Zoe lived in constant fear of this, even though she was still getting fantastic roles. This was due in no small part to her outstanding ability to network and make people feel good about themselves, and her almost preternatural ability to flatter the right people, even when she found them to be toady and insufferable.

So how are you doing, really? Zoe asked, her voice a little quieter. I mean about the shooter.

Freaked out, Alex told her honestly. A little shaky.

Did you think he was going to shoot you?

I sure as hell did. He got close, too. If it hadn’t been for that second gunman, you probably wouldn’t be talking to me right now.

Jesus, Alex. You got someone you can get a drink with?

You mean I should call Brad?

"I mean call anybody."

I’m okay, Alex assured her. Just need to curl up on the couch and shake for a while.

Just then a car laid on its horn, making Alex jump. Someone cursed on the street below. She heard the slam of a van door, probably another film crew arriving.

And I probably need to get out of this city.

How did the TV interview go beforehand? Zoe asked. I mean, do you think it did any good?

I don’t know. The reporter was a little . . . chatty. Alex felt bad even saying that, thinking of the woman in the hospital right now, probably undergoing surgery. I’m not even sure if they’ll air it now.

I’m sorry it didn’t go as you’d hoped. I know you were excited. A loud klaxon started sounding on Zoe’s end. Here we go. They need me on set.

Okay. Hang in there. Hopefully reinforcements will arrive with blueberry cream cheese.

If wishes were horses, her friend said. Not that I could eat it anyway. Berries, yes. Cheese, no. I’ll check in on you later.

Thanks. Alex hung up, and instantly the landline rang again.

Thinking naively that Zoe had forgotten to tell her something, Alex picked up. A rushed voice said, "This is Diane Schutz with the Boston View. Would you be willing to give me an exclusive on your experience witnessing the shooting today?"

No, I wouldn’t, Alex told her, and hung up. Her cell phone suddenly buzzed on the counter, startling her. She looked at the screen, seeing a blocked number, so she pressed ignore. It rang again, showing an unknown local number. Dreading talking to more reporters, she turned off her phone, took a shower, and changed, then slumped down on the couch.

What an afternoon. She didn’t even have the energy to make tea. She stared across at a collection of boxes that her ex-boyfriend Brad had packed up but never taken to his new place. Brad loved this city, thrived in it, but the more Alex was here, the less she seemed to understand it—how people worked, what they thought about, what they valued.

Finally she got up, made a cup of tea, and tried to reclaim her day. At the counter, she sipped from the hot mug and flipped on the TV, only to be confronted with endless coverage speculating on the shooting. The second shooter had eluded the police, and there were no updates on the condition of the reporter. She flipped it off.

She hadn’t eaten all day, too nervous about her interview to make breakfast this morning. At last she switched on her phone to order some takeout. Alerts from dozens of missed calls sprang up, mostly from blocked and unknown local numbers. But her dissertation adviser from Berkeley had called, leaving a message to call as soon as she could. She hadn’t heard from him in a year, not since she started her postdoc research in Boston.

She returned his call and he answered on the second ring. Philip! Dr. Philip Brightwell was a warm, gregarious man whom she’d been lucky enough to have as the head of her dissertation committee. He’d been a tireless champion of her work at the University of California at Berkeley, and she owed him a huge debt of gratitude. She could picture him now, sitting in his office with teetering stacks of papers on either side of him, his sepia face eyeing a stack of blue exam books.

Dr. Carter! he returned, always making a point to address her formally since she’d received her PhD. She had to admit she loved the sound of it.

How is California? she asked.

Oh, you know. Cursedly sunny and mild. What I’d give for a real rackingly good thunderstorm right about now.

Well, one’s brewing up here, if you want to borrow it. She missed California, the creative buzz in the air, the strange mixed-up seasons in which flowers bloomed in January, filling the myriad hidden stairways of San Francisco with exotic blooms. She hadn’t wanted to leave the Bay Area, but came across the country to be with Brad after he got a job at a prestigious law firm.

And how are things in Boston? Philip asked her.

Had quite a morning.

How so?

I went to a wetlands dedication ceremony, and a gunman showed up. Her voice shook as she said it, even though she was trying to keep her