the Poacher's Son (2010) (24 page)

Her eyes were so dark they looked black, but behind them something was going on. She was tougher and smarter than she seemed. And I was definitely dumber.

"I know who it was," she said at last.

I waited. "Well?"

"My old man."

"Truman? I don't believe it."

"He changed since you knew him. He had a bad accident in the woods, lost an eye. Then he moved to town. He didn't want to be near your dad anymore. They had--what do you call it?--a falling-out."

"Over you?"

She lowered her eyes again as if the subject shamed her. "Me--and other things."

"What other things?"

"It doesn't matter. What matters is he turned mean, even meaner than before. He rents a room over Vernon Tripp's barn. You know the Natanis Trading Post on Route 144? 'There's a big wooden Indian out front and another one up in the barn.' That's Tripp's joke."

Tripp was the guy the police originally suspected, the bald one from the Dead River Inn. "Was Vernon Tripp in on it? My dad seemed to think there might be more than one person involved. Some sort of conspiracy." In spite of myself, I felt a surging hopefulness.

"Maybe. All I know is he hates Wendigo."

"But why would Truman want to kill Jonathan Shipman?"

"His accident happened when he was working for Atlantic Pulp & Paper. He couldn't work for a while. Then, when he could work again, Wendigo bought the land and they wouldn't hire him on account of his disability."

"That's no reason to kill one of their vice presidents. Not to mention a sheriff's deputy."

"Money's a reason."

"So who hired him, then?"

"Pelletier."

"Russell Pelletier's not that stupid. He knew killing Jonathan Shipman wasn't going to stop Wendigo from evicting the lease holders. There's nothing gained by it."

"What else could he do? They're taking his whole life."

Sweat rolled down into my eyes. The room was insufferably hot, and I was having a hard time processing all the details. Brenda didn't seem sharp enough to spin such an elaborate lie. And yet I distrusted any theory that dovetailed so neatly with my own hopes. "I want to believe you, Brenda. But the detectives can't make a case without proof."

"All I know is my old man hasn't been out to Rum Pond in three years, and then the day before the murder I looked out the kitchen window and saw him behind the boathouse talking to Pelletier. If they weren't planning something, what was he doing all the way out there in the woods?"

"If you think Pelletier is a murderer, then why the hell are you going back there?"

"I need to get my stuff."

"You said my father had a beef with Pelletier. They used to be buddies. What happened between them?"

"A few years ago, Russ started coming on to me pretty regular. It was after him and his wife separated. One night he got drunk and tried to do something. Jack beat the shit out of him. He said if Russ didn't leave me alone, he'd kill him. After that, Pelletier's been too scared to fire him. He's left us alone, though."

"How old were you?"

"Seventeen."

She wasn't a whole lot older now. I couldn't exactly view my father's behavior in chivalrous terms, even if she did see him as Sir Lancelot. "And my dad waited until you turned eighteen? Is that it?"

Once again her face was distorted with anger--it happened in a heartbeat--but this time her eyes shined with tears. "Who are you to judge my life? You didn't grow up with a bunch of disgusting creeps calling you names. Jack's the only real man I've ever known."

It made sense that my dad wanted to protect her, but did she really need protecting, or was Brenda Dean a lot wilier than she let
on? "So what you're saying is that Pelletier and Truman conspired to kill Jonathan Shipman and Deputy Brodeur and frame my dad."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell Detective Soctomah this story?"

"It's not a story."

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"He wouldn't have believed me. Besides, Jack told me not to. They'd just cover it up, he said. If I told you, maybe you could convince the cops to look into it, being a warden and all."

Not for long, I thought. Not the way things were going.

She looked up, her eyes still shining. She was genuinely gorgeous, I thought, when the hardness passed from her expression. Under the circumstances, it made me uncomfortable to find her so attractive.

"You've got to do something," she said. "I'm afraid the cops are going to kill him if they get the chance."

"Not if he gives himself up. He told me he was in Canada. Did he ever take you anywhere remote up in Quebec, someplace he might use as a hideout?"

"No," she said with such firmness I suspected she was lying.

"All right," I said. "There's just one more thing I don't understand. If Pelletier nearly raped you, why did you stay there at the camp, working for him all these years? It doesn't make sense."

She shrugged. "Where else would I go? Rum Pond's the only home I've ever had since my mom died. Besides, with Jack I felt safe. He wouldn't let anyone hurt me anymore."

I was still trying to process that remark when I heard the echoing sound of footsteps coming quickly along the hall. The door opened behind me. Menario stood there, his face aglow. "Hey, Bowditch. Your sergeant is on the phone, and she's ripshit. How come you didn't tell us you were suspended?"

I
followed Menario back up the creaking stairs to the clerk's office. In the corner of the room, Charley Stevens was perched on a desk, sipping from a styrofoam cup of hot coffee, of all things. Soctomah, brow furrowed with annoyance, was holding a wireless phone to his ear. "He's here," he said to the person on the other end. He handed me the phone. It was slick from his sweaty hand.

"Kathy?" I said.

"You stupid piece of shit."

"I guess I deserve that."

"You are officially suspended. Appeal it with your union rep, if you want, but as of this moment you are prohibited from acting in any capacity as a warden until further notice." The static on the line told me she was using her cell.

"How did you track me down?"

"I went over to your house and when you weren't there, I called Sarah. She didn't know where you were, so I figured maybe you'd mixed yourself up with the homicide investigation again." She was quiet for a moment. "Jesus Christ, Mike. What the hell's happened to you?"

"It's my dad, Kathy. I have to do this."

"So you're just flushing your career down the shitter?"

"That's for the lieutenant to decide."

"Don't put this on Malcomb. He was just going to send you to a counselor, give you time to get your head together. I can't believe you would just blow him off like that."

I didn't have an answer that would satisfy her, so I didn't bother responding. "So what happens now?"

"I'm driving up there."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm your friend as well as your supervisor, and I'm not going to let you do this to yourself. You're a good warden, or at least you used to be. Besides, I've invested too much time training you. You'll plead temporary insanity to Malcomb. Maybe we can still get you off with a suspension."

I listened to my sergeant with mixed emotions. On the one hand I felt like I didn't deserve the support she was giving me. On the other, I resented her meddling in my personal life. "You spoke with Sarah?"

"Yeah, and she's even more pissed with you than I am, if that's possible."

"You shouldn't have called her."

"Cry me a river. I'm on the road now. I should be there in a few hours. If you're not there, I'm going to hunt you down and cut your balls off." And with that, she hung up.

As I handed Soctomah his phone back, he said, "You should have told us you had a meeting with Lieutenant Malcomb."

"If I had, you never would have brought me up here. And frankly, what's going on with my job isn't any of your business. Now do you want to hear what Brenda had to tell me or not?"

My boldness seemed to take him back a little. "Go ahead."

I told them everything Brenda had said--almost everything. I left out the part about my dad's secret midnight phone call and my being an accessory to his escape after the fact. Other than that, I related the entire conversation. "A lot of what she said makes sense," I concluded.

Menario snorted. Soctomah was gazing abstractedly at the window fan, the blades spinning round.

"All your evidence is circumstantial," I said, glancing across the room at Charley Stevens. "A tire track and a boot print? You can't get a conviction on that, and you know it."

If Soctomah was pissed off at the old warden for spilling the beans on an active investigation, he certainly didn't show it. He was as composed as ever.

Not Menario, though. "Goddamn it, Charley."

"I thought the young man deserved to know."

His face was purple, his neck swollen. He looked like a man who was in the process of being strangled by his own shirt. "It's an active investigation."

"From what Charley says, you don't even have enough to go to trial," I said.

"The guy's a fugitive. If he's so innocent, why'd he flee to Canada?"

"My dad knew you wouldn't believe him, given his record. Brenda says he was scared that Truman and Pelletier might try something against him."

"He wasn't afraid," Charley Stevens said softly.

"What's that, Charley?"

"Jack Bowditch wasn't afraid of those two. No way."

Soctomah scratched his chin contemplatively. Then he leveled his eyes at me. "Well, this was a waste of time."

I was dumbfounded. I'm sure my jaw dropped. "Aren't you going to check out her story? Talk to Dellis and Pelletier?"

"We've already conducted interviews with both of those individuals," he said in the same flat, impersonal voice I'd heard him use on television when briefing the press.

"But what about my father?"

"At the moment, he's still the chief suspect."

"Thanks for coming in," Menario said in his most sarcastic tone.

"If anything breaks, we'll let you know," said Soctomah. "Your sergeant has asked us to keep you here until she arrives, but we need to get going. I promised to bring Brenda Dean back to Rum Pond, and I'm not going to break my word."

I was speechless.

Soctomah looked at Charley Stevens. "Can you stay with Mike until Sergeant Frost arrives?"

"Oh, sure," said the old pilot. "I'll take care of him."

They took Brenda Dean out the front, and as she passed, we made eye contact. She looked terrified. Through the window I watched the unmarked cruiser and Twombley's patrol car pull away from the curb. "This is bullshit!" I said to Charley. "They're just going to blow this off. It doesn't matter what she says."

He shrugged. "The girl's not exactly trustworthy."

"Then they should prove she's lying."

"Soctomah knows what he's doing. You should have faith in him."

"I'm not just going to go back home with Kathy Frost and forget about this. No fucking way."

"So just what exactly are you going to do?" Charley looked at me with an expression that seemed to combine fascination and annoyance.

"I'm going to talk to Truman Dellis."

"I've been asked to babysit you until Sergeant Frost arrives."

"You can't keep me here, Charley, and you know it. I'm not under arrest for anything. And you have no authority with the Warden Service anymore."

"So you're just going to walk over to the Natanis Trading Post."

"That's right."

"It's ten miles down the road."

"I'll hitch a ride." I was beginning to get a sense of how foolish I sounded, like a rebellious teenager. "Look, I appreciate your bringing me up here, I really do. But I can take care of myself."

He was silent for a long moment, then his weathered face split into a wide smile. "Fair enough. But before we part ways, I could do with a bit of lunch. How about you?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Sure you are! Tell you what, Flint's Garage is right up the road. You're going to need a car to get down to Dead River. If you'll have lunch with me, I'll drive you wherever you want to go today. We can borrow one of Flint's old beaters."

"Soctomah isn't going to appreciate me fucking around with his investigation, and Kathy's going to be ripshit when she finds I'm not here. I don't want to get you in trouble, too."

"I've been in trouble since before you were born."

I remembered that Lieutenant Malcomb had said the same thing about his old friend. "You don't have to do this, Charley."

"I got nothing else scheduled. That's the nice thing about being an old geezer."

Part of me wanted to be alone, but another part thought he might be helpful when I confronted Truman. There was no question in my mind that this offer was just his way of keeping an eye on me. I wondered whether I was in danger of selling Charley Stevens short. How much of his jolliness was genuine and how much was a put-on? "I'm really not hungry, though."