When the Red Wolf Hunts (The Red Wolf Trilogy Book 2) Page 3
“Let me go!” the girl growls.
“Tell me,” I ask, “did Easton Wells put you up to throwing the dodgeball at my face that day?”
“Help!” Ashley cries. “Somebody, please—“
I press my hand over her mouth and continue with, “I bet he did, didn’t he? You’d do anything for a pretty boy like him. Maybe leave a threatening note? Write ‘SLUT’ on someone’s locker?”
“I said somebody—“
I relinquish my hold on her and take a step back.
She lifts a hand.
I dodge to the side.
She spins, ready to strike.
And I catch her fist in my hand.
For several long moments I simply stare at her, and she at me.
A short moment later, someone asks, “What is going on here?”
And Ashley is saying, “Mrs. Miller! Oh, thank God you’re here! This crazy bitch attacked me!”
“To the principal office, Oaklynn. Now.”
I relinquish my hold on Ashley Jones’ hand without pause.
It is only after Mrs. Miller turns and begins to lead me out of the girls’ bathroom that I snap back into reality.
All I can think is: what have I done?
“Wait a minute,” Jackson says not long after we make our way out of gym class. “Why can’t you walk home with me?”
“I have detention,” I reply.
“For what?”
Jackson merely stare at me in horror.
I, meanwhile, struggle to maintain eye contact with him, before simply saying, “I snapped on Ashley Jones.”
“You snapped on her?” he asks. “Oaklynn, what’re you—“
“Come on, Smith,” Mrs. Miller says. “To detention.”
Jackson stares—wide-eyed, mouth-agape. He then says, “But, Mrs. Miller—“
“Don’t get yourself added there too, Mr. Meadows.”
I follow without turning my head to look back at Jackson.
I hear someone chuckle nearby.
What’s so funny? I think, turning my head first toward Mrs. Miller, then away from her when I realize that she was not the one who laughed.
Your friend is stubborn, I hear the Wolf say.
I look down, only to find that the apparition is walking alongside me, its dark fur nearby transparent in the fluorescent light streaming down from above.
You’re the one who made me do that, I think, aren’t you?
The one and only, the Wolf replies.
Why?
Because how else are you going to get access to the football team?
What’re you— I start to say, then stop before I can finish.
I lift my eyes as we enter the spare room normally reserved for attention. Realization dawns on me not long after.
Oh, I think.
‘Oh’ is exactly right, the Wolf responds. Now, be a good girl, and do your time. But make sure you’re listening to what’s going on.
I enter the room behind Mrs. Miller, only to find that the room is dotted with people. Most are troublemakers—class clowns or juvenile delinquents who can’t seem to keep their heads on straight. Some, though, are football players. They in particular have been arranged so whoever’s monitoring the room can keep a better eye on them.
“Sit,” Mrs. Miller says.
I take a seat at the back of the room and press my hands flat against the desk.
“Now then,” Mrs. Miller says, “given that you’re all here for one reason or another, I’ve found that I can’t issue the same type of punishment for each of you. I can, however, keep you here for at least an hour.”
Several people groan.
Mrs. Miller snaps her eyes to the side. “Got a problem with that?” she asks. “As the saying goes: you do the crime, you do the time. Be lucky that I’m the one who’s here, and not someone like Mr. Rodgers.”
Several people visibly cringe. I, meanwhile, simply stare at the nearby window, and try my hardest not to respond.
“I’m going to step out for one moment,” she continues. “Now—be quiet, and think about what you’ve done.”
She exits a short moment later, and closes the door behind her in the process.
This, naturally, gives everyone free range to do whatever they want—especially the football players.
I lean back. Close my eyes. Take several long, deep breaths.
Then, I open my eyes and wait.
Naturally, the football players begin to banter amongst themselves—mainly about sports, the big game, girls. They don’t seem to pay particular notice to me, but it isn’t long before their whispers—so quiet that only the three of them can hear—begin to carry.
“Did you get Dalton’s new vape pen yet?” one of them asks.
“I told you,” the other footballer replies, “Easton was going to spot us.”
“A whole lot that’s going to do,” the third replies. “He’s currently housebound. Remember?”
“Fuckin’ stupid,” the first says. “I mean, God… we had this year in the bag before he decided to get that bug up his ass.”
“It’s over now,” the second player says. “Now, shut up and look at what I’m about to send you.”
The second player pulls his phone out.
I, naturally, lean forward, but tilt my head down, as if examining my books.
Fortunately for me, the Wolf can see all—
And what it sees haunts me to no end.
Typed—in bold letters, on the player’s phone—are none other than the words, We gotta take care of the tapes.
The tapes? I think. What are they—
Then it hits me.
The tapes.
From Mr. Meadows’ security camera.
But how could they get a hold of the tapes if they were in the police’s hands?
Unless, a part of me thinks, someone has access to the police department.
Or, more aptly: was a cop’s kid.
Though the thought is enough to draw panic from deep within me, it also inspires dread.
There is no denying what has happened.
The Red Wolf High football team is, at least in part, responsible for my parents’ murders.
And everything leads back to Easton Wells.
All it takes is one additional message to pop up before my emotional barriers begin to collapse, and four words to shatter my existence.
Tonight, the message says. At Wolf Creek.
The Wolf inside me growls.
Chapter Five
The first words out of Jackson’s mouth are: “What the hell happened?”
I ignore him as I walk out of the school, both surprised and a bit bewildered that he managed to sit outside for the whole hour I was in detention. “Nothing,” I reply, casting his comment off as if it were little more than a casual question.
“Nothing?” he asks. “How did you get detention?”
“I grabbed Ashley Jones and told her off.”
“Wait. You grabbed her?”
“Okay. Maybe grabbed is a bit of an understatement.”
Jackson can only stare.
“Can you stop staring at me like that?”
“I’m just… trying to figure out how… why—“
“Let’s go,” I say, and then begin to make my way across the lawn.
He doesn’t speak as we make our way from the school. Rather, Jackson considers the smartphone in his hand—texting someone, likely his father, about our whereabouts. The whole while, I can only wonder, think, plan.
Plan, I then think, what’s going to happen next.
As we come to the old dirt road that branches off from the high school, Jackson spins to face me and asks, “What did you do?”
“She called me a freak. I grabbed her ponytail. Spun her around. Slammed her against the wall.”
“That doesn’t sound like you at all,” he offers.
I brush aside his comment and continue to make my way down the road. “A lot of things don’t seem like me,” I reply.
“I just wanted to make my position with her known.”
“That you’re… what? Crazy? And those would be her words, not mine.”
With a shake of my head, I turn to face Jackson, and say, “They know.”
“Who knows? And what do they know?”
“Some of the guys on the football team. About the tapes.”
“Tapes?” he frowns. A startled gasp then escapes him. “My dad’s tapes.”
“Yeah. They know about them—and, from what I surmise: they’re planning on trying to get rid of them.”
“You still haven’t said who.”
“Who do you think, Jackson? The guys who helped burn the house down. Who helped kill my parents.” I pause, then say: “The guys on the football team.”
He lowers his eyes and says, “Shit.”
“Yeah. Shit is right.”
I lift my eyes to look back at the school, which is really not that far in the distance, and wonder: when will they do this? Will they try and do it now that school is over? Or will they attempt to make it happen through one of their parents?
Desperate men do horrible things. They raise alarms, take up arms, intend to do small people harm. Worst yet: they try to squash any hope of justice.
Which means I have to do something.
Which means I have to stick my neck out.
Which means I have to counteract, and potentially do something horrible.
Horrible.
Like—
The thought that enters my head isn’t my own, and no matter how hard I try to fight it off, I know that the action may become necessary.
I shake my head in an effort to dispel it from my mind, but soon after, I am reminded of my dream.
The guys in the forest—
The Wolf mid-hunt—
The slaughter—
The desecration—
The blood—
I close my eyes in an attempt to fight off the swell of rage, but find it sinking ever deeper regardless.
Jackson—who has since stopped walking and is merely watching me succumb to my emotions—turns to face me, and says, “We have to do something.”
“Yeah. We do.”
“We have to go to the cops. Tell them what you know. Say that someone’s going to try and interfere with the investigation. Say—“
I lift my eyes to face him.
What Jackson sees in my gaze I can’t be sure, but regardless, it doesn’t matter. All I know is that it silences him before he can finish.
All he can say is, “No, Oaklynn.”
“We have to be the ones to act.”
“We shouldn’t be sticking our necks out at all,” he replies. “Can you even hear what you sound like?”
“I—“
“You’re starting to sound like… like—“
“What?”
“Like… you let something bad inside you.”
Instead of responding, I merely start forward once more.
“Oaklynn—“
“They’re going to get away with it if I don’t do something,” I say, pounding up the road, my feet falling so hard that I fear I may split the earth in two. “And if they get away with it… and my parents aren’t offered justice… then…”
“Then… what?” Jackson asks.
“I don’t know what I’ll do.”
A sigh escapes Jackson’s lips as he moves to pursue me.
The moment his hand falls on my shoulder is the moment I feel as though everything will come crumbling down.
My life—
My sanity—
My need and will to survive—
A part of me wishes to simply break down, but another knows that doing so will only put me in harm’s way.
And I can’t be in harm’s way, I think. Not now. Not with everything I have to consider.
And plan, I think. I have to remember that.
As Jackson comes to walk beside me—and as I imagine he ruminates on everything that I have just said—he exhales a breath he’s been holding, then lifts his eyes to the horizon and says, “What do you plan on doing?”
“I… I don’t know,” I reply. “At least, not yet.”
Jackson lifts his eyes to look at me.
Though I see doubt in their focus, I know for a fact that I only have so much time to prepare for what is to come.
“Oaklynn,” Jackson says after a moment’s quiet. “What’re you thinking?”
“Nothing,” I reply, and quicken my pace. “Don’t worry about it.”
The young man doesn’t respond.
He just gives chase.
“What took you so long to get home?” Zachariah Meadows asks.
“I already told you,” Jackson replies. “Oaklynn had study group.”
Study group? I think, and frown.
Was that really what he told his dad? To keep me from getting in trouble?
Zachariah Meadows looks on at me with an unsure gaze, but simply nods and says, “That makes sense, given that there’s a test coming up.”
“Yeah,” Jackson replies. “A test.”
I nudge Jackson’s ribs with my elbow as Zachariah turns and makes his way into the kitchen. Thankfully, the man hasn’t seen what I’ve done. Otherwise, warning bells would’ve gone off in his head.
I shoot a glare Jackson’s way before stepping into the kitchen after his father. “Sir,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Can I… can I go to J’vonte’s house tonight?”
“You’re eighteen,” he says, “so, as far as I’m concerned, you can do whatever you like.”
“All right.”
“Is there a reason you’re asking?” the man replies.
“I just… thought I’d ask… because… well…” I frown. “I didn’t want you to think I was being disrespectful.”
“I don’t, Oaklynn. And besides—“ Zachariah turns his head to look behind me. “Jackson could use a good influence.”
Jackson snorts, but doesn’t reply to his father. Instead, he says, “Oaklynn,” then takes hold of my arm before saying, “can I ask you something?”
“You can,” I reply.
“Outside?”
Zachariah lowers his eyes.
Jackson smiles, but tugs me toward, then out the door.
As we come to stand on the old dirt road, he turns to face me, then whispers, “What are you thinking?”
“Don’t try to stop me,” I reply. “I’m going to J’vonte’s tonight.”
“You and I both know that you’re not—“
I press a finger to his lips and gesture him toward the road.
“What?” he asks as I take a few steps away from the home. “Too afraid to say it?”
“I need to know if it was them, Jackson.”
“You said you did know.”
“But I need to get it on tape.” He frowns as he considers me. “You said your dad picked me up a new phone while we were at school today?”
“Yeah. He did.”
“Is it charged? Fully-updated?”
“I would assume so,” Jackson replies. “But, Oaklynn—“
“What?”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit risky to… well… follow them? Especially if you’re trying to get dirt on them?”
“I—“
“If they went so far as to burn your house down,” he says, “then think of what they might do to you.”
“They’re not stupid. They wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Desperate people do desperate things.”
I don’t reply.
Sighing, Jackson reaches up to run a hand through his hair, then says, “I know I can’t stop you.”
“You can’t.”
“But at least tell me where they’re going—or, at least, where you’ll be going. So I know where you are.”
“It’s none of your concern,” I reply.
“But—“
I shake my head and turn back toward the house.
“Oaklynn,” Jackson begs. “Please.”
I don’t bother to respond.
Instead, I step up to the front door, let myself in, then make my way down to my room.
Inside, I see the smartphone lying on the old desk that rests in the corner near the closet. A quick check is enough to show that, while charged, it is currently on factory settings—no customization, no information, nothing.
Good, I think.
If I can get confirmation that they’re going to destroy the tapes on camera, then I won’t have to worry about a thing.
I can take it to the police, and then they can do their jobs.
And me? Well… I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing what truly went wrong.
With that in mind, I turn and begin to prepare.
Wolf Creek is located only a few short miles away from where the Meadows family home stands. Snarled within the forest on the outskirts of town, and nestled within a nook where campers and gatherers can go to relax or hike, it is the perfect place to go when you want to get away from the world—or, in the football team’s case: want to plan something highly illegal.
As I slide my phone into my pocket, and check to ensure that my state of dress is appropriate for the rapidly-cooling weather outside, I come to a halt beside the door, only to sense a presence behind me.
“Jackson,” I say.
“Please,” he says, for what is undoubtedly the tenth time of the night. “Don’t do this.”
“You’re not going to stop me,” I reply, reaching for my spare house key, which as only just recently been made.
“At least let me go with you.”
“I don’t need you to go with me.”
“But what if something happens?” he asks. “What if they find out you’re snooping around and—and—“
“And… what?” I ask, spinning to face him. “Kill me?”
Jackson lowers his eyes.
I shake my head and turn back toward the door. “I’ll be back later,” I say, thankful, now, more than ever, that Jackson’s dad had gone to bed early this night. “Just remember: don’t say anything.”
“I… I won’t.”
He doesn’t bother to say anything more, giving me ample time to slip out into the cool autumn air.
Though I expect I’ll have to turn and lock the door behind me, I hear it click into place, thereby signaling that Jackson is likely not to follow.