Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay, Gordon Carroll [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

of this knowledge sparked a nugget of doubt in the otherwise undaunted confidence in his powers and abilities and kept him from attacking.

Even so his internal makeup could not be completely denied. Twice, in the last week, the genetic impulse to rise through the ranks of the pack had surged through his blood and prepared him to strike. But both times the human moved out of position at exactly the right time costing Max the opportunity for a clear shot. It was frustrating and added to his trepidation of the Alpha.

Gil opened the back door of the Escalade and Max jumped up onto the seat. The instinctual thought of spinning and sinking his teeth into Gil’s throat flashed through his mind. But the instant his tail cleared the doorframe, the Alpha slammed the door closed. Gil sat in the front seat and started the car, his back to the dog. Max could have attacked; instead he slumped to the seat, confused at how another creature could guess his intent when he barely knew it himself.

The thrum and vibration of the car worked in unison to lull Max into a peaceful semi-doze. In the wild, when he was being hunted by farmers for killing their chickens and lambs, he ran when he had to and rested when he could, knowing instinctively there might not be time later.

Max and Pilgrim were very different creatures. Pilgrim would play and run and jump just for the fun of it. Max conserved his energy for more important things.

Survival — the hunt — the kill.

Reaching his destination, Gil stopped the car, leaving it running so the air conditioner could keep the car cool for Max.

Gil got out, closing the door behind him, leaving Max alone. Max sat up, gave the area a quick scan looking for possible danger, noting the best places to hide and from where to attack.

Max watched as the Alpha walked away from the car and crossed the street. He saw no immediate threat to the Alpha. The internal conflict continued. If there were danger to the Alpha, he would spring to his defense, fighting to the death if need be. The rule of the pack was to protect the leader, a genetic drive that could not be ignored nor refused. Max might attack Gil himself, to wrest control of the pack, but he would not allow another, outside of the pack, to do so.

Gil walked to the Franklin’s house and disappeared inside. Max lay down and slipped back into a light sleep. If the Alpha needed him, he would follow the dictates of his drives and respond, but for now there was no reason to waste his strength.

8

Gil

I’ve seen my share of typical burglaries… this was not one of them. Most times, when someone breaks into a house, it works in one of two ways. Either they know exactly what they’re going for, say electronics or jewelry or cash, or they’re just vandals bent on utter destruction.

What I saw at the Franklin house was different. It was a professional job, perhaps the most thorough I’d ever seen. Every drawer, cushion, closet, and room, along with pictures and mirrors and every possible hiding place, had been checked. The pillows were cut, the dishes, glasses, silverware, all shattered and lying helter-skelter on the floors and counters. The refrigerator and freezer were emptied, every jar and carton and container, opened and dumped on the kitchen floor. The couches were slashed, the entertainment center overturned. Every lamp smashed, the plants uprooted, vases broken, dirt scattered. The carnage was complete, and yet it had a certain symmetric design that, to a trained eye, said nothing had been done with malice, but rather with the goal of finding something — one thing — in particular.

I’d gone through the house twice already. In Lisa and Tom’s bedroom I found a picture album. The binder had been split and ripped open, but the pictures inside were untouched. I flipped through scores of family scenes: the Grand Canyon, Mt. Rushmore, the Alamo. I saw a picture of a smiling Shane on the steps of the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park with baby Amber on his lap sucking her thumb (some things never change). Shane was holding a copy of Stephen King’s book Doctor Sleep, the sequel to The Shining, in one hand, his other hand curled protectively around his sister’s side. Turning the page, I saw Shane as a boy of three playing in a swimming pool. The water looked blue and inviting, his light hair dripping. I wondered if back then his parents ever thought a day might come when their smiling little boy would cause them so much trouble. Better times. At the bottom of the page was a shot of Shane, Marshal, and Joseph playing in the backyard together. It was close to dusk, the sky blazing with reds and yellows and the sun’s rays breaking through the clouds in bright shafts. It hurt my heart.

Lisa was sitting on what was left of a kitchen chair, quietly sobbing into her hands while Amber sat in her lap playing with a doll.

The back door had been kicked in; one blow delivered expertly to the sweet spot next to the deadbolt. The impact splintered the doorframe, sending shards to the far side of the room.

“And you have no idea what they were looking for?” I asked.

She shook her head. “We had two computers, one for Tom and me, and the other for the two older boys. They’re both gone. Nothing else seems to be missing. It’s all just… destroyed.” She looked up with searching eyes. “Do you think this has something to do with Shane?”

It was a nice house in a quiet, upper-middle class neighborhood settled on the outskirts of Lakewood. Not an area vandals were likely to randomly strike.

I could see an old, seventeen-inch monitor on a small desk pushed up against a wall in the family room.

I avoided her question by asking, “Were the computers new or