Howl You Gon’ Do Me Like That

Chapter 1 Cassidy

CASSIDY

The memorial hits me two miles outside Briar Ridge.

Weathered wood staked into the shoulder, half-buried in wildflowers gone brown at tips of the petals.

Someone's carved a name—Grady Nolan—but it's the gouges that stop my breath.

Four parallel slashes, deep enough the splinters curl outward.

Fresh daisies lean against the base, their petals still white.

I pull over. Gravel crunches under my tires.

The claw marks are too deliberate. Too clean. I've spent six years documenting predator behavior across three states, and defensive strikes don't look like this. I take three photos, check the metadata, and get back in the truck.

Briar Ridge announces itself with a faded population sign—842—and a main street that dead-ends at a mountain range so thick with pine it looks black.

Two diners, one hardware store, a post office with peeling paint.

The sheriff's station sits at the north end, squat brick with an American flag snapping in the wind.

I park and grab my field bag.

Inside smells like burnt coffee and old paper. A woman at the desk glances up, takes in my cargo pants and state wildlife jacket, and nods toward the hallway.

Sheriff Nolan Graves stands when I knock—mid-fifties, graying buzz cut, shoulders starting to round. His handshake is firm and brief.

"Dr. Ellis."

"Sheriff. Thanks for making time."

"Wish it was under better circumstances." He gestures to a chair. His desk is stacked with manila folders. "Coffee?"

"I'm good."

He slides a file across. "The autopsy came back this morning—we rushed the transport to Billings three days ago.

State police have been processing the ridge since the discovery, but we finally got the hard data.

Medical examiners out of Billings—she's seen her share of wildlife attacks. Says this one doesn't track."

I flip it open. The photos are clinical, well-lit. Grady Nolan, twenty-nine. What's left of his face tells the story.

"Crushing jaw trauma," I say. "Mandible fractured in three places. Bite pressure estimated at sixteen hundred PSI."

"That mean something to you?"

"Gray wolves top out around four hundred." I turn the photo, studying the wound pattern. "This is more than double. And the spacing's off—these canine impressions are too wide, too deep."

Graves leans back. "So we're looking at something bigger."

"Or something abnormal." I pull out my tablet, cross-reference the measurements. "Dire wolves went extinct eleven thousand years ago. Modern wolves don't get this big."

"You saying someone's breeding them?"

"I'm saying the data doesn't match known parameters." I meet his eyes. "Where was the body found?"

He pulls out a county map, taps a section shaded green. "Near the Blackmoore property line. State forest technically, but it butts right up against private land. Hiker went off-trail, probably trying to get a view of the ridge."

"Blackmoore."

"Old family. Own about fifteen thousand acres up the mountain. Keep to themselves, don't cause trouble." He folds his arms. "But folks around here know better than to push past their markers."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer right away.

"Stories," he finally says. "People go up there, they come back spooked. Or they don't come back at all."

"How many incidents?"

"This is the third mauling in six weeks. First was a camper. Second was a ranch hand who got too close to the tree line at dusk."

I write it down. "Same MO?"

"Close enough. Throat torn, excessive force. Medical examiner used the word overkill on the first two." He taps the file. "This one's different though. More public. Marcus was on a marked trail."

"Escalation."

"That's what I'm worried about." He grabs his jacket. "Crime scene's still active. State police have been out there since yesterday, but I figured you'd want a look before they clear it."

"I do."

The drive takes twenty minutes, winding up a forest service road that narrows the higher we climb. Graves drives. I watch the tree line thicken, shadows pooling deeper between trunks.

He parks near state police vehicles, their lights off but radios crackling. Yellow tape marks a perimeter thirty feet into the woods.

A trooper waves us through. Graves nods, then turns to me.

"Stay inside the tape. Don't touch anything the techs haven't cleared."

"Copy."

The forest swallows sound here. No birdsong, no rustle of underbrush. Just wind through the canopy and low voices ahead. I follow Graves down a narrow path, stepping over roots and moss-slick rocks.

The blood starts ten feet in.

Dried now, dark against pine needles. Drag marks score the soil, wide and erratic. I crouch, pull out my measuring tape.

"Paw prints." I stretch the tape across the largest impression. "Seven inches across. Maybe seven from heel to claw tip."

Graves crouches beside me. "How big?"

"Largest documented gray wolf print is five and a half inches. This is significantly bigger."

"Could it be a bear?"

"Wrong shape. Bears have five toes, visible claw marks offset from the pad. This is canine—four toes, symmetrical." I take three photos, then pull out my soil core sampler. "Depth suggests an animal over two hundred pounds. Maybe closer to two-fifty."

Graves swears under his breath.

I follow the prints toward the tree line, documenting each one. They're spaced wide—loping gait. Controlled. Not a chase.

The drag marks stop at a line of iron stakes, half-buried and rusted. Each one's topped with a faded sign: Private Land—No Trespassing.

"Blackmoore boundary," Graves says.

I stand, brushing dirt off my knees. The forest past the stakes looks darker. Thicker.

"Notice the branches?" I point to a pine just past the boundary. The branch is snapped clean, bark stripped away. "Six feet up. And there. Same height, same pattern."

"Could've been wind."

"Wind doesn't break branches at shoulder height in a straight line." I move along the perimeter, counting. Four more breaks, all within ten feet. All facing inward. "Something big moved through here. Something taller than any wolf I've documented."

"You're saying it came from their property."

"The evidence suggests that direction." I crouch again near the stakes. More prints here, layered. Fresh enough that moisture still beads in the deepest impressions. "These are from last night. Maybe early this morning."

A voice cuts through the trees. "Sheriff, we're wrapping up the grid search. Didn't find anything else."

Graves nods at the trooper, then looks back at me. "What do you need?"

"Access to the previous attack sites. Witness statements if you have them. Somewhere to set up base—close to the tree line."

"There's a cabin for rent just out of town. Backs up to the forest." He pulls out his phone. "Lady who owns it is a friend. I'll make a call."

"I appreciate it."

He pockets the phone, glances past me toward the boundary stakes. "You're gonna push into Blackmoore land, aren't you."

It's not a question.

"If the pattern suggests the predator's denning there, yes."

"Dr. Ellis—"

"I'm not asking permission, Sheriff. I'm telling you what the investigation requires." I meet his eyes. "Three people are dead. If this animal's territory includes private land, that's where I need to be."

He doesn't argue. Just shakes his head and starts back toward the cruiser.

I stay a moment longer, studying the tree line. Somewhere deep in those woods, something is watching.

I take one last photo and follow Graves out.

The cabin sits away from the main road and everything—town behind me, forest ahead, and a gravel drive that's more pothole than road.

It's small, functional. A main living space anchored by a woodstove, with a small partitioned study tucked into the back corner.

A kitchenette that's seen better decades, and windows that face the tree line. Perfect.

I'm unloading field equipment when boots crunch on gravel behind me.

"You the biologist?"

I turn. The man's sixty, maybe older, with a weathered face and Carhartt jacket stained at the elbows. He carries a canvas bag slung over one shoulder, heavy enough it pulls at the strap.

"Dr. Ellis." I set down my case. "Cassidy."

"Roy Pritchard. I own the property two miles west." He nods toward the forest. "Got traps set out here. Mostly coyote, some fox. You planning on hiking?"

"That's the job."

"Then stay on the trails. Some of my traps are camouflaged pretty good—you step wrong, you'll know it." He shifts the bag higher. "Just a courtesy heads-up."

"Noted. Thank you."

He doesn't leave. Just stands there, eyes drifting past me toward the mountains.

I follow his gaze. The tree line rises dark against the fading afternoon light, dense enough I can't see more than twenty feet in.

"You looking at Blackmoore land?" he asks.

"I’m considering it."

"Don't."

I turn back to him. "Why?"

"People go up there, they come back different." His voice is flat. Matter-of-fact. "If they come back at all."

It's the second time I've heard that today. "Different how?"

He shrugs. "Spooked. Won't talk about what they saw.

One guy—logger, worked these mountains his whole life—went up there on a dare five years back.

Came down two days later, wouldn't go near the woods again.

Sold his equipment, moved to Billings." He meets my eyes.

"Whatever's up there, it doesn't want company. "

"I'll keep that under advisement."

Roy studies me a moment longer, then nods. "Your funeral." He tips his head and walks back toward the road, gravel crunching under his boots.

I watch until he's out of sight, then turn back to the tree line.

The light's already starting to fade.

I spend the next two hours hiking the perimeter, logging GPS coordinates every hundred yards.

The terrain shifts fast here—soft soil near the road, rocky outcrops closer to the forest, dense underbrush that tangles at shin height.

I sketch it as I go, marking elevation changes and natural choke points.

The pattern emerges within the first mile.

Attack site one: eastern edge, near a hiking trail. Attack site two: southern border, ranching land. Attack site three: northern access road. I plot them on my tablet, overlay topography, and the clustering is unmistakable. The predator isn't ranging wide—it's circling. Deliberate. Controlled.

I stop at the boundary stakes Graves showed me earlier. The iron's rusted but solid, driven deep. Beyond them, the forest looks darker. Thicker. The kind of quiet that presses against your ears.

I take three more photos, mark the coordinates, and head back.

By the time I reach the cabin, the sun's slipping behind the ridge. I spread my maps across the small table, overlay the attack data, and trace the pattern with my finger.

Tight clustering. All within two miles of the Blackmoore boundary.

None deeper than a quarter mile into town.

It's territorial behavior—but wolves don't operate like this.

They follow prey migration, water sources, and denning sites.

They don't circle human settlements unless something's forcing them out of their natural range.

Or unless they're protecting something.

I sit back, chewing the inside of my cheek.

The sun's almost gone now, just a sliver of orange bleeding through the pines. I glance at the window. The tree line's already lost to shadow.

If I wait until morning, I'll lose another day. Another chance for the pattern to shift. For the predator to move.

I stand, grab my pack, and start loading gear.

Headlamp. Night vision binoculars. Emergency beacon. Water purification tablets. Tent stakes and tarp. Bear spray—though if the autopsy photos are accurate, bear spray won't do much. I pack it anyway.

My satellite phone goes in last, fully charged.

I strap the pack on, adjust the weight, and test the headlamp. The beam cuts clean through the cabin, reflecting off the window glass.

Outside, the temperature's already dropping. I zip my jacket to the throat and lock the cabin door behind me.

The trail into the woods is narrow, barely visible in the failing light. I switch on the headlamp and follow it north, toward the boundary stakes.

The forest closes in fast.

No birdsong now. No wind. Just the crunch of my boots on pine needles and the steady rhythm of my breath. I keep the headlamp low, sweeping side to side, watching for roots and deadfall.

The boundary stakes appear after twenty minutes, their rusted tops catching the light. I stop, pull out my GPS, and mark the location.

Beyond the stakes, the forest looks the same—but the air feels different. Heavier. Like stepping into a room where someone just stopped talking.

I set up camp thirty feet back from the line. Close enough to cross at first light, far enough to stay technically legal. The tarp goes up fast, staked low and tight. I don't bother with a fire—too visible, and I don't need the attention.

Instead, I sit on my pack, pull out the night vision binoculars, and scan the tree line.

Nothing moves.

I lower the binoculars, check my watch. Eight-fifteen. Sunrise is at six-forty. Ten hours.

I settle back against a tree trunk, arms folded, pack between my knees.

The forest stays quiet.

Too quiet.

I close my eyes, just for a moment, and listen. Somewhere deep in the woods, a branch snaps. I open my eyes, headlamp off, and wait.

Nothing.

I count my breaths, slow and steady, and keep my hand on the bear spray.

The night stretches long.