I’m fortunate to be surrounded by people who make me look much smarter than I am, all of whom contributed to the research for this book. In the medical field, I am indebted to Dr. James Bernat, who spent hours with me discussing potential traumatic brain injuries and was always available to field an email with yet more questions from me. Thanks to social workers Nancy Trottier and Jane Stephenson, as well as Sean Fitzpatrick and Karen Lord of the New England Organ Bank. Jon Skinner provided me with detailed medical care costs in New Hampshire. Lise Iwon, Lise Gescheidt, Maureen McBrien, and Janet Gilligan are my legal wizards; Jennifer Sargent not only found wonderful legal wrinkles for me to iron out but connected me with people like Elizabeth Stanton, who could help me navigate them. Thanks to Doug Irwin for letting me use the line about the difference between dreams and goals.

If we’re counting blessings, I have to give credit to the publishing company that has been my home for over a decade (mostly because the people inside it are amazing): Carolyn Reidy, Judith Curr, Sarah Branham, Kate Cetrulo, Caroline Porter, Chris Lloreda, Jeanne Lee, Gary Urda, Lisa Keim, Rachel Zugschwert, Michael Selleck, and the many others who have quite literally made me the author I am. The publicity machine behind me is a force to be reckoned with: David Brown, Ariele Fredman, Camille McDuffie, and Kathleen Carter Zrelak—wow. Just wow. And Emily Bestler—after all this time I hardly know
how to thank you for all you’ve done. Luckily we have reached the point where we can read each other’s mind.

Laura Gross is the second-longest relationship in my life, after my husband. As an agent, she’s formidable. As a friend, she’s unforgettable. Thanks for letting me steal your line about the table and the stool.

To my mom, Jane Picoult: maybe all moms feel underappreciated (God knows I do sometimes). But here is public proof that you’re not. If we had our choice of moms, I would have picked you. Thanks for being my first reader, my unflaggable cheerleader, and for telling me that Dad couldn’t put down the wolf sections on the plane.

A special thanks goes out to Shaun Ellis. When I created the character of Luke Warren, a man who lives among wolves in order to know them better, I didn’t realize that someone like that already existed in the real world. Shaun has written a memoir,
The Man Who Lives with Wolves,
which I encourage you all to read. He and his wife, Dr. Isla Fishburn, a conservation biologist, welcomed me to Devon to meet his captive packs, to share his life experience and his vast knowledge of these amazing animals, and to let me borrow bits and pieces of the incredible life he has led to flesh out my fictional character. Kerry Hood, my British publicist, kindly chauffeured my son Jake and me to Combe Martin. I will never forget how Shaun taught the three of us to howl . . . and what it sounded like when the other packs answered our call. He is a wonderful human spokesman for his wolf brethren, and more information about The Wolf Centre, where Shaun is an integral part of the team, can be found at the end of this book.

Finally, as always, I have to thank my own pack: my husband, Tim; my children, Kyle, Jake, and Samantha. As is the case with wolves—I’d be nothing without all of you.

For Josh, Alex, and Matthew Picoult
Your aunt loves you. Lots.

PROLOGUE

All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel. . . . Think about it. There’s escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.

—Margaret Atwood,
The Blind Assassin
(2000)

LUKE

In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have freed the tiger.

The others were easy enough: the lumbering, grateful pair of elephants; the angry capuchin monkey that spit at my feet when I jimmied the lock; the snowy Arabian horses whose breath hung in the space between us like unanswered questions. Nobody gives animals enough credit, least of all circus trainers, but I knew the minute they saw me in the shadows outside their cages they would understand, which is why even the noisiest bunch—the parrots that had been bullied into riding on the ridiculous cumulus-cloud heads of poodles—beat their wings like a single heart while making their escape.

I was nine years old, and Vladistav’s Amazing Tent of Wonders had come to Beresford, New Hampshire—which was a miracle in its own right, since nothing ever came to Beresford, New Hampshire, except for skiers who were lost, and reporters during presidential primaries who stopped off to get coffee at Ham’s General Store or to take a leak at the Gas’n’Go. Almost every kid I knew had tried to squeeze through the holes in the temporary fencing that had been erected by the circus carnies so that we could watch the show without having to pay for a
ticket. And in fact that was how I first saw the circus, hiding underneath the bleachers and peering through the feet of paying customers with my best friend, Louis.

The inside of the tent was painted with stars. It seemed like something city people would do, because they hadn’t realized that if they just took down the tent, they could see real stars instead. Me, I’d grown up with the outdoors. You couldn’t live where I did—on the edge of the White Mountain National Forest—and not have spent your fair share of nights camping and looking up at the night sky. If you let your eyes adjust, it looked like a bowl of glitter that had been turned over, like the view from inside a snow globe. It made me feel sorry for these circus folks, who had to improvise with stencils instead.

I will admit that, at first, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the red sequined topcoat of the ringmaster and the endless legs of the girl on the tightrope. When she did a split in the air and landed with her legs veed around the wire, Louis let out the breath he’d been holding. Lucky rope, he said.

BOOK: Lone Wolf A Novel

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