the Poacher's Son (2010) (21 page)

"Warden Stevens," I said.

He held out his hand for me to shake. "Call me Charley." He held my hand a long moment, looking straight into my eyes. His grip was like a blacksmith's vise. "You going outside?"

I nodded, hesitantly. "Yes."

"I'll come with you then, if you don't mind the company."

It had been a while since we'd seen each other; I knew that he and his wife lived somewhere near Flagstaff. I wondered if he'd driven the two hours to get here or whether he had flown his airplane across the miles of forests and lakes. According to Lieutenant Malcomb, Charley Stevens never drove anywhere when he could fly.

Outside, I fumbled for my sunglasses. Charley just turned his face to the sun and smiled. He must have been in his late sixties, but he had the vitality and physique of a backwoods farmer: strong hands, flat stomach, and no chest to speak of. His grizzled hair stood up like the bristles of a horse brush.

The honor guard was preparing to fire their rifles in the field across the parking lot.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he said casually.

"No?"

"Your dad isn't the most popular feller around now, is he?"

I felt my skin flush red. "I guess not."

"I told your lieutenant he'd give us the slip in those woods. I said Jack Bowditch is as woods-smart as they come."

Twenty-one rifles fired within seconds of each other. I felt my heart stop and resume beating. Silence rushed in to fill the vacuum created by the bullets.

Charley said: "Did you know Deputy Brodeur?"

"We were at the academy together."

"So you were friends?"

"Not really."

"Did he strike you as a good cop?"

"Yeah, sure. I mean, the man is dead. I'm not going to speak ill of him."

The crowd began breaking up. Other uniformed officers were moving their vehicles to line the procession route.

Charley squinted over my shoulder. "There's a familiar face. Hey, Russell!"

Russell Pelletier stood alone smoking a cigarette. He wore a corduroy jacket, too heavy for the weather, and a loud tie that didn't match his plaid shirt.

"How's it going, Charley?" Pelletier's voice was like a public service warning for throat cancer.

"It's a sad day. I guess I didn't realize you were acquainted with Deputy Brodeur."

"I saw him around. You know how it is."

Charley placed his big hand on my shoulder. "Do you remember this young man?"

"I remember." Pelletier didn't offer to shake hands. After our last phone conversation, where I practically accused him of framing my dad for murder, that was no surprise. He looked at Charley. "Any word about Jack?"

"We're still looking," said the old pilot. "The FBI thinks he's in Canada."

"But you don't?"

The pilot shrugged his shoulders.

"It's a damned tragedy," said Pelletier. "That son of a bitch really screwed up this time."

"So you think he's guilty then?" I said.

"He beat the snot out of Pete Twombley. Of course he's guilty."

What Charley said next took me by surprise: "I can't figure what his motive would be, though."

It was the first time anyone involved with the investigation had voiced even a little doubt about my father's guilt, and I didn't know what to make of it.

Pelletier blew out a mouthful of smoke. "Jack was just pissed off about what was happening with Wendigo and the leaseholders. He was already angry about the thought of me losing the camp and him out of a job. And he was drunk as always."

"What about Brenda Dean?" I asked.

"What about her?"

"Detective Soctomah thinks she's my dad's accomplice."

"I wouldn't put it past her."

"So I guess you're not bailing her out, then?" said Charley.

Pelletier laughed, but his eyes were dead serious. "As far as I'm concerned, that little bitch is on her own. I'm already looking for another cook."

"She's still in jail?" I wondered what Brenda had done to make him hate her this way.

"Far as I know."

Charley pulled on his long chin, probably considering how much to tell us. "Soctomah thinks she knows more than she's saying. But they don't have anything to hold her on, really. I expect they'll be letting her go today or tomorrow."

"I just hope the damn fool gives himself up soon." Pelletier
finished his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, and squashed it like a bug. "There's been enough killing already."

He didn't say good-bye, just walked away.

Charley looked at me. "Old Russ has never been much for the social graces."

"I worked for him, remember?"

"I guess you think your dad has been falsely accused."

"What I think doesn't much matter. Does it?"

He smiled and nodded, but I couldn't tell what the hell he was thinking. "Look," he said, lifting his chin. "There's your lieutenant."

Lieutenant Malcomb was coming toward us fast across the lawn. A mob of Somerset deputies hung back, waiting to see what would happen next. I saw Kathy Frost there, too.

"Look who I found," said Charley.

"So I see. Can you excuse Warden Bowditch and me, Charley?"

"Sure thing. Take care, young man."

"Good to see you again," I said.

"Same here!"

Malcomb waited until the old pilot had wandered away before he got in my face. "What the hell are you doing here? Didn't Frost tell you to stay home?"

"I just wanted to pay my respects."

"That's bullshit. You're not even in your dress uniform. Remove your sunglasses, Warden. Look me in the eye."

I did so.

He stepped even closer. His breath smelled of tobacco poorly masked by breath mints. "I've been blaming your bad decisions lately on what's going on with your father. And maybe I never should have brought you up to Dead River. But with every new, fucked-up thing you do, I've started to wonder about your judgment in general. Kathy told me about your behavior yesterday. What the hell were you thinking, confronting DeSalle again? And that crap with the bear? I'm surprised she didn't suspend you on the spot."

"If you'll just let me explain."

He tapped my chest with his index finger. "I don't want to hear it, Bowditch. Not now. But tomorrow morning you're going to come to my office, and you and I are going to have a conversation about your future as a Maine game warden. You might want to think about your answers beforehand--you've got a lot riding on them."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll see you in my office at eleven sharp. Now get the hell out of here before the entire Somerset County Sheriff's Department comes over to kick your ass."

He waited for me to cross the parking lot, his presence serving as a deterrent from any ass kicking on the part of the Somerset deputies. I tried to remember where I'd parked my vehicle, but all the patrol trucks looked the same until I looked at the license plates. It took me a full minute to remember that I had come in my own Jeep and that it was parked halfway across campus.

I
spent the rest of the day of Brodeur's memorial service washing my patrol truck and completing the last of the paperwork I still owed the Warden Service. In the morning I would report to Lieutenant Malcomb's office, and unless I convinced him otherwise, he would almost certainly suspend me until a disciplinary hearing could be held concerning my recent behavior. Between the incidents with DeSalle, my confrontation with Bud Thompson, and my attendance at the funeral, I'd pretty well pushed the boundaries of acceptable conduct by an officer as far as they could go. If I still wanted a career as a Maine game warden, I'd need to throw myself on the lieutenant's mercy and hope for the best.

I said a prayer and turned in early.

But just after I dozed off, I awoke with the terrified conviction that the escaped Nazi POW was standing over my bed in the pitch blackness. Heart hammering, I fumbled for the lamp. But, of course, no one was there.

The phone rang while I was getting dressed for my meeting with Lieutenant Malcomb. I expected it might be Kathy Frost, warning me not to be late, but instead it was Detective Soctomah.

"Mike, we need you to come up to Flagstaff and talk with your father's girlfriend, Brenda Dean."

"Me? What for?"

"We've been holding her as a material witness, but the A.G. says we don't have enough evidence to make anything stick, so we're kicking her loose. She claims she was with your father at Rum Pond at the time of the shootings and says she doesn't know anything about his current whereabouts."

"But you think she's lying?"

"Pretty much."

I'd been looking for some way, any way, to participate in the investigation, and now, out of the blue, Soctomah was offering me exactly what I'd wished for. There had to be some sort of catch. "What makes you think she'll talk to me?"

"She says she trusts you."

"But I don't even know her."

"That's not the way she makes it sound."

Did Soctomah think I was lying, too? If he suspected me now, I wondered what he'd think if he learned of the phone call my dad made to me. In all likelihood that clandestine conversation would be the final nail in the coffin I was building for my career.

His offer raised another problem. If I went to Flagstaff, there would be no way I could make my mandatory meeting with Lieutenant Malcomb at eleven. So this was the decision before me: Meet with Malcomb and lose my last opportunity to help my father before some hotheaded deputy gunned him down, or go to Flagstaff and kiss my career good-bye.

I made my choice.

"I'll do it," I said to Soctomah. "But it's going to take me four hours to drive up there."

There was a pause on the other end, and I heard murmuring in the background. After a few seconds Soctomah came back on: "Charley Stevens says he'll fly down to get you."

"Can I speak with him?"

I waited for the phone to be passed along. "Hello, there!" said the old pilot.

"You don't have to fly all the way down here."

"It's no trouble," he said. "Besides, I thought you and I might have a chance to catch up a bit on the ride up. Now where should I meet you?"

"What about the Owl's Head airport?"

"Don't need an airport. All I need is a little calm water to put her down. Where might that be in relation to you?"

"There's the public boat landing over at Indian Pond."

"And I'll have you back in time for supper." He paused, and I heard more background whispering. "Seems the detective wants another word."

Soctomah came back on the phone. "Mike? There's one more thing. Don't wear your uniform. We want Brenda Dean to feel like she's talking to a friend, not an officer of the law."

As I hung up, I wondered how many opportunities I'd have after today to wear the warden's green.

An hour later I was standing at the public boat landing at Indian Pond wondering if Anthony DeSalle and his muscle-bound buddy were going to drive up when I heard a faint drone that grew louder and louder. Suddenly, a white-and-red floatplane appeared over the trees. It banked hard and began a tight circle over the pond. Two canoe paddles were lashed to its pontoon cross braces. The plane appeared to be the same little Piper Super Cub I had seen Charley Stevens set down on Rum Pond eight summers ago.

The airplane sent spray shooting off the lake as it touched down on the water. I watched it turn and taxi in my direction. Then the propeller sputtered to a stop, and the plane drifted in the rest of the way to the ramp. The door swung open, and Charley Stevens stepped onto a pontoon. Being retired, he wasn't wearing a warden's uniform,
but his outfit still gave him a semiofficial authority--he had on a pair of green Dickies and a matching T-shirt. Cocked at an angle on his head was a green baseball cap with the Maine Inland Fisheries and Wildlife logo.

"I heard somebody here needed a ride," he said.

"That would be me."

"Then climb aboard, young man." He jumped off into the shallow water and turned the plane slightly so its nose was facing deeper water. Then he held it steady by one of the braces like a groom holding the reins of a horse.

Using a strut to pull myself up, I climbed onto the pontoon. The Super Cub was a little two-seater--about seven feet tall by twenty feet long--and it seemed about as rugged as a child's kite.

"What's this thing made out of--balsa wood?"

Charley laughed. "Might as well be."

I ducked my head and climbed into the cockpit's cramped rear seat. As I fastened the shoulder harness, I wondered what possible good it would do in a crash.

Charley waded around to the rear of the plane and gave it a shove toward deep water. Then he leaped after it, landed on the pontoon, and walked on it like a river driver walking on a log. He swung into the cockpit and belted himself in, saying over his shoulder, "It gets kind of noisy in here with the engine going, so you'll need to use that intercom to talk."