the Poacher's Son (2010) (13 page)

"What if they find him? You weren't up there, Kathy. Those Somerset guys are trigger-happy."

"He killed a cop, Mike. What the hell do you expect?"

"Nobody's proved he did it."

There was a silence on the other end. When she spoke again, her tone was hard-edged. "He beat up Twombley and took off. That's pretty close to an admission of guilt, in my book. Do you want me to check that trap for you or not?"

"No."

"OK, then. Call me if you catch a bear."

Half an hour later I pulled into the parking lot of the Square Deal Diner. I dropped some coins into the newspaper machine outside the door. Then I retreated to my truck and spread the pages across the steering wheel to read in the sunshine.

Just about the entire front page of
The Bangor Daily News
was devoted to the story.

Below was a grainy color photograph of the crash scene where Twombley's cruiser had gone off the road. There was also a picture of my father. It was the mug shot they'd taken the night of the bar fight two years ago. He looked drunk and defiant, like a man capable of violence.

The article identified Jack Bowditch as a fugitive wanted for assaulting a police officer and named him as the chief suspect in the murders of Deputy Sheriff Bill Brodeur and Wendigo Timberlands Director of Environmental Affairs Jonathan Shipman. There wasn't a whole lot else I didn't already know. Wendigo had announced a reward of fifty thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the killer. The article never mentioned Wallace Bickford or the standoff at his cabin.

Deeper in the newspaper was a companion piece to the lead article:

A photograph, taken at the meeting, showed a stocky man with a shaved head and a goatee--identified in the caption as Vernon Tripp of Flagstaff--standing in a crowded room shaking his fist at some unseen person.

It was the man from the Dead River Inn, the one my father spoke with the night the bikers beat the shit out of me. What had my dad called him--a "paranoid militia freak"? The paper reported he'd been thrown out of the public meeting after he threatened Shipman.

Tripp was identified in the article as the owner of the Natanis Trading Post. "We have someone from outside trying to dictate our lives and businesses," he was quoted as saying. "Everything we do now is controlled by them." The article noted that he was facing
charges of criminal trespass and theft of services for protesting a Wendigo checkpoint earlier in the summer.

As I looked closer at the photo, I noticed something else. Seated in the background was another face I knew. It was pretty blurry, but I definitely recognized the bowl haircut and dragoon mustache of Russell Pelletier, the man who ran Rum Pond Sporting Camps. Pelletier never mentioned that he'd been at that public meeting. As a leaseholder facing eviction, it made sense he was there, but still, seeing him in the photograph raised goose bumps along the back of my neck.

"You people think you can draw an iron curtain across the Maine North Woods," Tripp said before he was evicted from the meeting. "You're about to learn a hard lesson. Just wait and see."

No wonder they threw him out. I felt a surge of hopefulness. Surely, the detectives had looked at Tripp as a possible suspect. I reached for my cell phone to call Soctomah.

There was a tapping at my window that made me jump. It was apple-faced Dot Libby in her waitress outfit. "Ain't you coming in, Mike?"

"Not today, Dot."

She looked at me with surprise, as if we were actors in a theatrical performance and I'd just ad-libbed my lines. "No breakfast?"

"I just wanted to see the paper."

The look of concern hadn't left Dot's face. "We're all sorry about your father."

So the word was out in Sennebec about my connection to the cop killer. Why was I surprised? "Thanks," I said, starting the engine. "I appreciate it. I should probably get going."

"Wait a sec," she said, and hurried back inside before I could say a word.

I sat there with the engine idling, not sure what to do. In the diner windows I could see faces looking out at me through the sun-faded curtains.

A moment later Dot returned. She clutched something in a napkin. She pressed it to me through the open window. "You be sure to stop in for lunch," she said.

I told her that I would.

As I drove away, I wondered why I'd promised to return for lunch when I had no idea what the day would bring. Was it just to reassure Dot? In a small town like Sennebec, routine is such a precious thing--it's how people get to know and trust one another. I'd only been in town for eight months, but I was already becoming somewhat predictable to my neighbors. It was the first step to becoming one of them, part of their community. Maybe that was what I was afraid of happening.

Inside the napkin was one of Dot's homemade molasses doughnuts. My favorite.

On my radio I called in to the dispatcher to tell her I was 10-8, on duty and available to respond. Then I tried Detective Soctomah.

"What can I do for you, Mike?" he said, polite but not friendly.

"Remember I told you about that bald guy my dad knew at the Dead River Inn two years ago? Well, I just saw the Bangor paper and there was a picture from the public meeting. It's him, Vernon Tripp."

"We spoke with Mr. Tripp yesterday."

"So he's also a suspect?"

In his silence I sensed his disapproval as clearly as if I'd seen his face. "We'll keep you up to date, Mike--as events warrant." I thought he was going to hang up on me then, but instead he said, "Does the name Brenda Dean mean anything to you?"

"I don't think so. Who is she?"

"She works at Rum Pond Sporting Camps. She's says she's your dad's girlfriend."

"That's what she thinks. She's probably one of ten." I tried to sound lighthearted, but Soctomah wasn't in the mood for humor.

"Your father never mentioned her?"

"No. Do you think she's the woman I heard on my message machine?"

There was silence on the other end.

"Detective?" I said.

"We're all set here, Mike."

"I know the sheriff doesn't want me up there, but--"

"You don't have to call me again," said Soctomah. "Not unless you remember something else important that you left out of your statement."

"I understand."

"Good," said the detective.

To occupy myself I decided to check the culvert trap. I followed the rutted dirt road down through the hemlocks and cedars to the old cellar hole at the edge of the swamp. As I neared the trailer, I saw that the trapdoor had fallen shut. Because of the liquid shadows beneath the trees I couldn't see what, if anything, might be caught inside.

The sound of an animal thrashing about was the first thing I heard when I got out. I moved slowly, but the animal heard me coming and fell silent at once. Slowly I circled around to the gateend of the trap to have a look.

"For Christ's sake," I said aloud.

Inside the trap was the fattest raccoon I'd ever seen. Fat like a furred basketball. A stomach swollen with doughnuts and bacon. Heavy enough to trigger the door when it clawed at the bait bag.

I opened the door and stood aside, waiting for the raccoon to come out, but it seemed content to huddle at the gate-end, as if it had decided to take up residency inside the trap. Finally, I had to go around to the opposite end and poke a stick at it through the grate to get it to move. The gluttonous animal edged out of the culvert and plopped heavily to earth.

I came around the side of the trailer. The coon glanced over its shoulder with an expression that showed its disdain for me and then waddled down the dirt road toward the swamp. As it wobbled away, I was reminded of a very drunk man making a last shaky effort to preserve what remained of his battered dignity. I knew exactly how it felt.

T
he only thing I could do was work, so that's what I did. I patrolled my district from end to end. I checked fishing licenses and boating registrations. I responded to a call about a possibly rabid fox that had disappeared into some cattails by the time I arrived on the scene. The day got hotter and hotter until every road was shimmering with mirages.

Somehow I managed to miss lunch at the Square Deal.

The call finally came late in the afternoon. It was Lieutenant Malcomb. I pulled over onto a sand shoulder to speak with him. He said, "They found the ATV. It was hidden outside a camp in Eustis. The owner claims the place was broken into sometime last night. She says lots of stuff was missing--camping supplies, food, a rifle. She says your dad stole a car, too."

"So he could be anywhere," I said, trying not to sound relieved.

"We have an APB out on the vehicle. The Canadians say he hasn't tried to cross the border today, but I doubt he'd try Coburn Gore or Jackman. He'd cross on foot in the woods."

"Are they still holding Wally Bickford?"

"Yeah, they've got him over at Skowhegan, awaiting a bail hearing."

I didn't answer.

"Stay away from this, Bowditch," he said. "You've got the sheriff pissed off enough as it is. Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Focus on doing your job. It'll get you through this. It always does."

His advice was easier said than done. The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I chased my thoughts down every back road in the district and accomplished exactly nothing.

If I were my dad, where would I run? He'd already managed to slip past the roadblocks, and with the kind of head start he'd had, he might be in New Hampshire, Vermont, or even Massachusetts by now. The town of Eustis was less than thirty miles from Canada, but there was no chance he'd risk the official border crossing at Coburn Gore. He'd ditch the car soon, knowing it would be reported stolen. Which meant he'd have to find another vehicle or at least a secure hiding place.

By the time I turned toward home, the light had softened to a shade of almost purple, and the fireflies had begun their slow dance in the fields along the road. I switched on my headlights for the drive back to my rented house on the tidal creek.

Sarah was waiting for me when I got there. Coming up the dirt drive through the pines, I saw her little red Subaru parked beside my Jeep. It was all I could do not to pull a U-turn.

On the June day when Sarah moved out we'd both told ourselves it was for the best. She was on the edge of tears that whole rainy afternoon, and if her sister Amy hadn't come along to help, she might even have changed her mind. But Amy was resolute. She was convinced her gorgeous little sister could do better than a loner like me. And she was certainly right.

Now, after nearly two months of giving Sarah the space she'd said she wanted, I found her sitting on the back steps of the house we'd once shared. She was looking out at the tidal creek slowly dissolving into the dusk. She was wearing shorts and a baggy green
T-shirt, and she'd taken off her sandals and set them beside her bare feet.

She slapped her leg, flattening a blood-swollen mosquito. She looked at her hand in disgust. "One thing I certainly don't miss about this place is the bugs."

"Just let them bite you. That's what I do."

"Always the stoic." She stood up, appraising me, uncertain at first whether to attempt a hug and then deciding no. "You weren't going to call me, were you?"

"No."

"That's what I figured." Her short blond hair was cut even shorter since the last time I'd last seen her. "Have you heard anything about your dad?"

"They're still looking for him."

I motioned to the door. "Do you want a beer or something?"

A big smile broke over her face. "God, yes."

We went inside and sat down at the kitchen table. She glanced around at dust-covered countertops, and the bare walls stripped of all those bright paintings she loved. "This place looks worse than I imagined," she said. "It's pretty pathetic, even for you."

"Let's not get into my cleaning habits."

"All right. I thought you were going to offer me a beer."

I opened a bottle for her, then excused myself to go change clothes. She called after me: "You're really strict about that, aren't you? Not drinking in uniform, I mean."

"It's the law."

"You're in your own house!"

I came back, barefoot, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. "How's summer school?"

"They're little monsters, but I love them."

Sitting across the table, she studied me as she sipped her beer. "You look tired."

"Yesterday was a long day."

"When I saw your dad's face on the news I felt like somebody had punched me. It still doesn't seem real." She leaned forward across the table. "Mike, what the hell is going on?"

Sarah never made a secret of her curiosity; she thought nothing of asking total strangers the most direct, personal questions. Usually, during our conversations, she acted the role of irresistible force. I was the immovable object.