Chapter 3

The storm that night was not bad -- at least over their part of the forest. The internet reported that in the areas to the south, there was a lot of lightning and heavy rain. As usual, Meredith woke first, about five minutes before her son began to stir. This time she took the few minutes required to cover her nekkid behind with pink bikini underwear. Seth, from his perch on the bed, whistled at her.

“No time to make big-chief-in-the-pants happy this morning,” she smiled over her shoulder. “Strongbow is going to be awake in a few seconds.”

“How do you know that?” he asked. He always asked, even though he knew what her answer was going to be.

“It’s a mom thing. Do I ask how you talk to the wolves?”

“Not anymore,” he admitted, thinking of the thousand and one times she’d asked when she first met him. “By the way, I thought that Axe, Hunter, and Dodi would be good names for the pups. Axe for ‘Sharptooth’, Hunter for the ‘Hungry’ one, and Dodi for the ‘Drowsy’ little girl.”

“That’s nice,” Meredith said slipping a long-sleeved T over her head. It was clear she wasn’t really interested in wolf-pup names. “I want a music room. A place where I can play my cello. I don’t get to Syracuse often enough anymore. I miss it. I can’t survive on the classical music radio station and Chuck E. Cheese.”

“Sure ... okay. Music room.” He rolled back over and tried to go to sleep again. He failed.

Strongbow wandered into the room and simply raised his arms -- to be picked up by his mommy. It was an instinctive move. You come into a room. You want mommy. You put your arms in the air. Mommy always picks you up. Isn’t that the way the world should work?

The newly named Axe, Hunter, and Dodi followed on his heels. Each was the size of a large partridge; they padded about on large wolf-sized feet. It made them look like they were wearing dad’s shoes and, in a sense, they were. If mommy-Meredith had looked down the hall, she would have seen mommy-Kola sitting, watching.

When Strongbow was picked up, the pups started to make little yipping noises. About then, Strongbow saw the lump that was Seth under the blankets on the bed. “DaddyDaddyDaddy!” he started. So mommy, being the ever thoughtful mommy she was, placed the toddler on the end of the bed and let nature take its course.

It did. The boy crawled over and climbed the mountain under the covers until he reached Seth’s face. Then he began pummeling it with his widdle fists. “DaddyDaddyDaddy!” the pummeler exclaimed. And daddy, being the ever thoughtful daddy he was, did not throw his punisher against the wall, but threw over the blanket, encasing the little boy. He began giggling – the boy, that is, not the dad.

Seth, naked as a jaybird, grabbed the squealing boy and carried him into the hallway, the pups were around his feet. “Here,” he said. “You watch him. I gotta pee.” He unceremoniously dumped the boy amid the pups at Meredith’s feet and walked into the bathroom.

He was hard with the need to tap a kidney. “Careful with that thing,” she cautioned, mock seriously, gesturing at his member. “You’ll put out his eye with it.”

The bathroom door snicked shut.

An hour later, at about 7:30, Seth opened the back door and found Ellie there, just sitting on the ground, near the Jeep. As he opened the jeep door for his wolf companion, he threw a short request back over his shoulder toward the open kitchen door: “Can you look after Chock today?” Chock was short for Chockatee Nelstom – his horse. The name meant Long Walker.

Meredith answered, “Yeah, sure.” But he was already starting the Jeep, Ellie parked comfortably on the passenger seat. Seth buckled his seatbelt; the passenger belt was buckled behind the wolf. She looked out the window at the passing scene. It provided a never-ending, ever-changing panorama of the Pennsylvania woods.

He headed down Old Cross Fork Road to the little hamlet of Cross Fork, where he picked up County 144, heading south. He only had about six miles to go to Kettle Creek Lake, but it would take him 20 minutes: the road wasn’t the best.

Seth fired up his radio, set to the State Police alternate frequency. “Anybody awake this morning?”

Maxwell answered almost immediately: “What kept you? I’ve been on this roadblock since sunup.”

S: “What roadblock is that?”

M: “The Sinnamahoning roadblock – where else would I be?”

S: “Me just dumb Indian. Me not understand white man’s police tactics. Especially the advanced techniques for capturing fugitives.”

M: “Right ... Any word about the possible?”

S: “Nothing. I’m on Montour Road now.”

M: “Montour? Where the hell is that?”

S: “It’s on the other side of the mountain from First Fork Road. That’s S.R. 872 to you white men. Someday you gotta learn the names of the roads. I’ll hit Highway 120 about five miles east of where you are. I’ll stop there and see if I can make contact.”

M: “Copy.” He clicked off his radio. “Fuckin’ voodoo,” he mumbled to himself. “ ... He’s gonna make contact with some bird ... that’s following a cold trail ... that’s a day old ... from a diesel truck ... after a storm that blew through here last night ... I don’t believe this shit.”

An hour and a quarter later, Seth was sitting on a rock by the side of Renovo Road, a.k.a. S.R. 120. He reached out and contacted Skree.