Lone Wolf

alpha female can have a phantom pregnancy, he tells me.

I’m pretty sure this one’s real, I tell him, turning slightly in the hope I can find a comfortable position for my bulk. I can’t imagine wanting to fake this.

It puts every other wolf on his best behavior. They’re busy advertising themselves as potential nannies, or proving to the alpha that they’re still good at protecting the pack or diffusing the pack or whatever their jobs are that will make those pups safe and sound. And then, at the very end of it, when the alpha’s got everyone acting just the way she wants, she turns off the hormones that have been in her urine and her scent and says, Gotcha.

That’s pretty impressive, I say.

He cups his hands over my belly. You don’t know the half of it. Four or five months before she even comes into season, an alpha female knows the number of pups she is going to have, their gender, and if they’ll stay in her pack or be dispersed to form a new one, he says.

I laugh. I’d settle for knowing whether to buy blue or pink clothes.

It’s amazing, he whispers. These babies are part of the family before they even are conceived.

Now, I realize Cara is right. Luke may have been a singularly selfish, lousy husband, but he loved his children. He showed it the only way he knew how: by bringing them into the world he couldn’t live without. For Edward, that turned out to be a clash. For Cara, it was a delight.

I had defended Edward when he needed an advocate; I would do no less for Cara. I can’t be the guardian she wants me to be for her father, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help her. Resolved, I stand up. “Meet me in the car. We’ll have to take the twins with us, but they might fall asleep on the way…”

“Where are we going?” Cara asks.

“To track down Danny Boyle,” I tell her. “He’s going to find you a lawyer.”

The county attorney is not in his office, but as it turns out, old reporters don’t die-they just arrange playdates instead of secret meetings with sources, and wear homemade Play-Doh instead of pencil skirts. It only takes one call to a former colleague to find out that Boyle’s holding a press conference in the Beresford Grange Hall. An attempted murder charge in a small New England town-even a revoked one-is enough to merit a top story, and the county attorney isn’t one to let a golden opportunity pass him by.

By the time Cara and I arrive, the press conference is in full swing. The twins have fallen asleep in the car, and we’re each holding one, a damp, warm weight. Among the reporters and television crews we stick out, so even though we hover at the lacy edge of the crowd, I’m not surprised when I see Boyle’s eyes light on Cara, and he pauses just the slightest bit during his speech.

“I consider myself a champion of justice,” he says. “Which is why I will do whatever it takes to always make sure justice doesn’t get out of hand. We will not become a litigious society with trumped-up charges based on false evidence, if I have any say.”

It’s curious that he doesn’t mention that he is the one who let the charges get out of hand in the first place.

“What about the wolf guy in the hospital?” some reporter calls out, and beside me, I feel Cara flinch.

“Our thoughts and prayers continue to be with him and his family,” Boyle says soberly, and then he holds up a hand. “Sorry, folks, no more questions today.”

He pushes his way through the crowd until he reaches Cara, and grasps her upper arm. “What are you doing here?” he hisses.

“You owe me,” she says, lifting her chin.

Boyle looks around to see if anyone’s listening and then drags Cara into the Grange’s community kitchen. I follow them, clutching Jackson as he sleeps against my shoulder. “I owe you?” Boyle says, incredulous. “I ought to be putting you in jail.” He frowns, noticing me. “Who’s this?”

“My mom,” Cara says.

This makes Boyle tone down his attitude a little. After all, I’m a voter. “If I didn’t firmly believe that your whole scheme was a result of you being overwrought by your father’s condition, I would have indicted you myself. I don’t owe you anything; I’m cutting you a colossal break.”

“Well,” Cara replies, undaunted, “I need a lawyer.”

“I already told you I don’t try civil suits-”

“A temporary public guardian was appointed for my father. I don’t even know what that is, really. But there’s a court date on Thursday to pick a permanent guardian, and I have to let the judge know that I’m the only person who wants to keep my father alive.”

Watching Cara in action, I am impressed. She is a terrier with her teeth sunk into the mailman’s pants cuff. She may be the underdog in size and in scope, but she isn’t giving up without a fight.

Boyle looks from Cara to me. “Your kid,” he says, “is quite a piece of work.”

When he says that, I realize who Cara reminds me of at this moment.

Me, back when I was a reporter, and wouldn’t stop until I got the answer I wanted.

“Yes,” I say. “I couldn’t be more proud.”

Maybe Cara chose to live with Luke instead of Joe and me. Maybe she is willing to give up everything, now, to care for her father. Yet in spite of her infallible allegiance to Luke, it turns out she is very much her mother’s daughter.

Danny Boyle scribbles something on the back of one of his business cards. “This woman used to work for me. She practices law part-time now. I’ll call and tell her you’ll be in touch.” He hands the card to Cara. “And after that,” he says, “I never want to hear from you again.”

LUKE

There is a very real pecking order in a wolf pack, a fluid and constant test of dominance and respect. If a higher-ranking wolf comes toward me, I am supposed to move my weaponry-my teeth-from right to left, horizontally. If, on the other hand, I am passing by that wolf, I should not approach too quickly or I’ll find him stiffening and leaning forward, holding the position until I lower myself. Once he looks at me, making the eye contact to beckon me forward, I can inch closer-and even then, I have to pass on the side, avert my head and my teeth to greet him, proving that I am not a threat.

Needless to say, I didn’t know any of this at first. Instead, I was just my stupid human self with a true gift for getting in the way of wolves who ranked higher than me. The first time I tried to get too close to the beta without a formal invitation, he schooled me. We were in the clearing, and it had started to rain-a nasty, cold sleet. The beta had the good fortune to be positioned under the thickest cover of trees, and I thought there was plenty of room beside him. So the other young male wolf and I decided to share the space.

The beta’s eyes slitted and he growled, a low rumble, but I didn’t get the message. When I was about twenty feet away, he showed his teeth. The young male immediately ducked sideways, but when I didn’t, the beta growled again, deeper in his throat.

I still didn’t see this as a warning. After all, he’d been the one to engage me first, to invite me to travel with the pack. So you can imagine how my heart rate skyrocketed when, in an instant, he closed the distance between us and snapped at me, his teeth clamping centimeters away from my face.

I was rooted to the spot with fear. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The beta gripped me with his jaws, his teeth and breath sealing over my face. He roughly turned my head to the left and down, teaching me the correct response. Then he snapped at me, growled deeply, showed his teeth, and growled lightly, reversing the lesson.

Later that day I was sitting with my knees drawn up when the beta loped closer and suddenly lunged, grabbing my throat on the underside. I could feel his teeth sinking into my skin, and instinctively I rolled to my back, a position of utter subordination. He wanted to make sure I’d learned what he’d been trying to teach me earlier, I realized. He squeezed my neck harder, stealing my breath. You know what I am capable of, he was saying. And yet this is all I’m going to do to you. This is why you can trust me.