WILD Justice - Chapter 1
A gripping chapter from the WILD MYSTERY SERIES—when law fails, nature’s defender seeks justice
My friends, I’ve been working hard at some big, new, exciting projects with my production team, OUR DEMOCRACY COLLECTIVE[1] these past weeks, and it has taken me away from regularly writing essays for you. I expect to have another of my own distinctive brand of wild-minded essays after the Colorado Assembly this coming weekend.
Until then, as my gift, I’m sending you a chapter of my long short story WILD JUSTICE, one of the short stories in my bestselling, award-winning WILD Mystery Series. I will follow with the additional five chapters, mixed in with essays about what's going on in our world, over the weeks to come. These story chapters are my thanks for your patience and support.
This particular story is apropos for today. It features my sleuth, Resource Protection Agent Jamaica Wild—in a spot between a rock and a hard place, as they say... where she cannot find justice when the stakes for survival are high.
I was first inspired to write this short story at the behest of my fellow mystery author Lee Child, famous for his Jack Reacher[2] series. who suggested to a group of mystery authors that we tackle this subject, and then later produced an anthology of some of the stories for Mystery Writers of America.
And now, please enjoy Chapter One of WILD JUSTICE!
1: Almost
She was the last one, and he might have already killed her, too, if I hadn’t happened along when I did. She was bleeding, in pain, her eyes wild with fear. I raised my rifle, looked through the scope and slowly panned 360, making sure no one was watching. Satisfied that we were alone, I left the rifle on the ground by my Jeep, pulled the metal detector from the back, and—out of habit—touched my hand to the holster that held my Sig Sauer on my belt, like a gambler kisses the dice before a roll that can make or break him. I turned on the detector and crept slowly forward, listening for its alert, still panning my eyes across the landscape.
I wanted to move more quickly, but the killer had been known to set multiple traps in one place, and I wasn’t going to end up stepping in one if I could help it. And the last time I’d come upon one of his victims still alive, he’d shot her in the head with a high-powered rifle from some unseen location, just as I was attempting to disarm the trap.
Kewa, a new mother with babies born only three weeks before, lay helpless on the ground in front of me. One by one, all of the other pack members who normally would have provided for her and the cubs had been trapped, forcing Kewa to leave her babies to hunt. She was dreadfully thin, not a good sign. Although she had raised her head and watched me warily when I drove up and first got out of my Jeep, she now lay quietly, resigned to whatever fate awaited her. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and a pool of blood stained the carpet of pine needles beneath her ragged back leg. Fortunately, I’d gotten to her before she’d tried to chew it off. I hadn’t been so lucky with several of the other members of the now-nearly-extinct Pintado wolf pack.
Satisfied that there were no other traps around her, I set the detector on the ground, squatting down to put her more at ease. Kewa’s eyes followed me, but she did not raise her head again—she was probably too weak. I started to coo softly to her. “You’re going to be all right, girl. I’m going to help you. And if I can find your den, I’ll help your babies, too. I’m going to touch you now, okay? I just want you to see that I’m not going to hurt you so you’ll let me get you out of that trap.” I reached my hand forward, palm up, and brushed the tips of my fingers against the middle of her spine. She flinched at my touch, and her head came up slightly. But when she sensed that I wasn’t going to hurt her—or perhaps because she no longer had the strength to defend herself—she lowered her head once more. I continued to touch her back, first lightly, and then with more pressure, stroking to reassure her. I could feel every detail of her spine through her thick coat, no fat under the skin and precious little muscle. Still touching her with my left hand, I reached with my right and pulled the bandana from my back pocket. Holding it behind me so I wouldn’t alarm her, I shook the cloth square open, then held it up by one corner so that she could see it. I fluttered it a little, but she didn’t respond. That meant she was ready. I draped the cloth over her face, covering her head completely. She didn’t move. Now I could get her out of the trap, put a tourniquet on that leg, and get her into the back of my car and down to the wildlife rehabilitation center for emergency care. As I lifted her body and ran with her to the Jeep, she went limp in my arms, unconscious. She didn’t weigh much more than forty pounds, by my guess, but she had been tagged and weighed last summer at a healthy sixty-two. Starvation and hungry pups had taken her down to little more than skin and bones.
I raced down the rocky, rutted dirt trail, through snowmelt mud-bogs and over icy slickrock, all the way willing Kewa to hold on just a little while longer. A half-hour later, I was out of the mountains and within radio range. I thumbed the mike and alerted the dispatcher: “This is Jamaica Wild with the Bureau of Land Management. I have an injured wolf, code red. Need a triage team at the wildlife center, ETA twenty minutes from now.” When I blazed into the parking lot, a trio of techs in scrubs rushed out the door with a cart and med kits. I dashed around to the back of the Jeep and opened the hatch, fervently praying that Kewa wouldn’t be like all the other ones. As one medic huddled into the back and held a stethoscope to Kewa’s chest, I noticed I was holding my breath.
I feared the worst, but I had to know. My voice crackled with uncontrolled emotion as I spoke, “Did she make it?”[3]
I'll be back with a more typical essay soon! Until then, here's a cute photo of 11-month-old Zuni snoozing after a long day of hiking and play.
[1] Subscriptions to OUR DEMOCRACY COLLECTIVE on Substack are currently free. Please join our team of writers, video editors, media experts, and designers defending democracy at ourdemocracycollective.substack.com
[2] Since that time, my good friend Grant, a/k/a Andrew Child has taken over the series, which continues to top the bestseller lists. Grant has helped create some amazing voiceovers and videos for various projects I’ve been involved with over the years, including his portrayal of Churchill in Storm the Peaches, which I produced as part of an online Colorado FUNraiser GEORGIA ON OUR MINDS, to elect Jon Ossoff and Rev. Raphael Warnock to the Senate and flip it blue.
[3] WILD JUSTICE is available in print and e-book here: https://www.amazon.com/WILD-JUSTICE-Mystery-Short-Stories/dp/1733509925/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1LTWW13FYZYVR&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.66xKQM3BUaANa6OKSsXRTOgR88GMfzSKGh2hNHpIusUG43B99Dytu4GuATir5Xb6fB7SHGZXNME0CEGSg5ffcvVQgt-lKgngxSoLhN54pbbuftGa1IIipQwf4gicj9rB60rA2fLAqUEBcABRyzzL3A2Y_o7VfwjaYMWVbYUT5LJL5Cc-K2XZlm5ZLsXdJfR0IPA3benfk3e1ljWy01rgNg.7_5V8ooFQQ5mkWZ8YWCtEsBVi-zUqQc_ihb2vczyIko&dib_tag=se&keywords=wild+justice+BY+SANDI+AULT&qid=1774372904&sprefix=wild+justice+by+sandi+aul%2Caps%2C194&sr=8-1
What a great introduction to your Wild Justice short story. Thank you. The tension, anxiety, uncertainty, suspenseful hoping that we all "make it" is apropos to what is going on in today's world.