Massacre Pond: A Novel (Mike Bowditch Mysteries) (34 page)

“So you think Bard was right about Chubby?”

“It sure as hell looks that way.”

“But it doesn’t change the fact that he shot that boy.”

“Jeremy’s still in deep shit,” my sergeant said. “He’s going to have a hard time selling self-defense to the AG, but now at least there’s something to back him up about LeClair. Those rifles give him extenuating circumstances.”

“Come on, Mack,” I said. “He recklessly discharged his weapon, and a fourteen-year-old kid died.”

“He fucked up. But maybe his career isn’t totally in the shitter.”

I had a hard time summoning any good feelings toward Bard, who deserved to lose his badge, in my opinion, although I was hardly one to pass judgment on a fellow warden accused of carelessness. “Have you talked to him?”

“I tried his place. His girlfriend said he went out. Didn’t take his phone.”

I nearly swerved off the road. “What? He just got shot in the head!”

“It was just a scratch. You know how heavy a cut on the head bleeds. The ER docs sent him home last night in record time.”

So now Bard had gone off on a walkabout as well. When he returned home, he was going to find he’d won the lottery. And he wasn’t the only big winner this morning.

“Rivard must be relieved,” I said.

“Yeah, well, he’s still got half of Augusta calling for his ass on a platter. But you’ve got to figure this news has definitely brightened his day.”

“Has it occurred to anyone that the guns might have been dumped there last night?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“If the ballistic techs can match those guns to the bullets we dug out of the moose, then it’s case closed. Pretty convenient. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m still not following you, kid.”

“Everyone in the county must have heard about Chubby and that Indian kid. If you had shot those moose and were hanging on to those rifles, could you have come up with a better place to get rid of them than in the woods behind that camper?”

Mack disappeared into silence for a half a minute. When he returned, it was with a caustic laugh. “You really do have an overactive imagination. People have been telling me you’re all into riddles and conspiracies. I hate to tell you, Mikey, but sometimes life ain’t that complicated. Your number-one suspect is usually the one who did it.”

Dead leaves tumbled across the asphalt in front of my truck. “So I guess this means I’m free, then.”

“Free?”

“You don’t need my help with the investigation anymore.”

“Not unless Zanadakis needs you for something,” Mack said. “Why? Have you got other plans?”

A row of pines appeared alongside the road. All of the trees were the same height and sharply pointed, and together they reminded me of a turreted green wall. A wide lane led through a gap in the trees to a distant, unseen smokestack from which a column of white vapor was billowing into the cloudless sky. A sign loomed ahead:
SKILLEN LUMBER COMPANY: SINCE 1879
.

“I might,” I said.

37

I stopped at the gate and rolled down my window, letting in a blast of bitter air. An old guy with bifocals was perched atop a stool inside the gatehouse, doing crosswords. “Morning, Warden,” he said. “What seems to be the trouble?”

It was the same greeting he’d given me the last time I’d come here with Stacey.

I flashed a harmless smile. “I’m looking for Billy Cronk. His wife told me he had a job interview here this morning.”

“Can’t say I know the feller,” the gatekeeper said. “He’s not on my list anyway. And Mr. Skillen isn’t hiring at the moment. Are you sure you’ve got the right place?”

“This is where his wife said he’d be.”

He showed teeth that were heavily stained from coffee and cigarettes. “You don’t think he might have fibbed to the missus?”

“Is Mr. Skillen around today? Maybe he can shed some light on this.”

“I can call him, I guess.” The old man’s fingers hovered over the phone.

“Tell him it’s Warden Mike Bowditch,” I said.

He shrugged and made the call. With the window down, I could smell the familiar odor of the mill. The friction from the spinning blades chewing through logs caused the sawdust to give off the harsh smell of burning wood.

“He’s gonna come down,” the gatekeeper said, pointing at the lot. “Pull up over there next to that silver Tundra.”

He pushed a button and the gate rolled open on its wheels, sliding back into the tall mesh fence. I wasn’t sure why I’d asked to see Matt Skillen after vowing to avoid the man for the foreseeable future. He and Stacey were clearly in love, and the best thing I could do was wish them well. I would send a card when they got married in Bar Harbor or Bermuda or whatever fancy place they chose for the wedding. And then, hopefully, I would never see them again.

I had my head down and was checking the messages on my BlackBerry—nothing more from Neil—when a face appeared at my window. When I’d asked for “Mr. Skillen,” it hadn’t occurred to me that the gatekeeper might think I meant Merritt Skillen and not his son. I’d been under the impression that the father didn’t spend much time at the mill now that it had fallen on hard times, and yet here he was in all his kingly silver-haired eminence.

“What can I do for you, Warden?” he asked in a voice that was considerably deeper than his son’s. Everything about him, in fact, seemed more substantial than Matt. He was taller and bigger boned, with large, calloused hands, and he carried himself with none of his son’s natural looseness. His noble face was wrinkled around the mouth and eyes, as if he’d spent many years worrying over important matters.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Skillen,” I said. “I was expecting your son.”

“Matt’s not here today. Is there something I can do for you?”

I removed my sunglasses to be polite. “I’m looking for a man named Billy Cronk. His wife told me he came here for a job interview.”

“If he had, Earl would have just sent him on his way. We have no openings at present.” He peered in at me a bit closer, pursing his lips. “Do you and I know each other, young man?”

I saw no point in reminding him that I’d been the warden who’d asked Jeff Jordan for a .22 round that day at the checkpoint. “No, sir. I’m the warden in the next district over.”

“Is there anything else?”

I glanced around the crowded parking lot and saw quite a few pickups but no black Nissans.

“You wouldn’t be able to tell me if two of your employees are working today? A Todd Pelkey and a Lewis Beam? You must have a lot of people who work for you, so maybe you don’t know each of them personally.”

“I know
all
of my employees,” he said with a hint of offense. “What do you want with them?”

“They have information for me about some possible poaching activity,” I said with a deadpan expression.

He reached for a cell phone clipped to his belt. “I’ll find out for you.” He turned his broad back so I couldn’t overhear the whispered conversation. Unlike his son, the elder Skillen looked like a guy who had personally chopped down a fair number of trees in his life. I’d never met Matt’s mother, but from the evidence, I assumed she must be a slender, delicate-boned beauty. Merritt turned back to face me. “They’ve gone home sick, I’m afraid.”

“Both of them?” Men who worked at lumber mills did not, as a rule, leave work during their shifts except on ambulance gurneys.

“It would seem so.” He reattached the phone to his belt. “I trust you’re being honest with me, and Todd and Lewis are not in some sort of trouble.”

“I’d just like to talk with them,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Skillen.”

He stuck his hand through the open window. His palm was calloused, his grip like a vise. “Call me Merritt.”

*   *   *

Billy had lied to Aimee when he’d told her he was applying for a job at the sawmill. Either that or he had been waylaid before arriving at the gate. The two men he had named as potential suspects in the moose shootings had mysteriously gone home sick—both of them, at the same time. I didn’t know what to make of these coincidences except that they couldn’t possibly be coincidences. Billy was up to something.

The drive north from the mill to the wild woods of Talmadge took forty minutes. Along the way, I passed the gravel road that led to Plantation No. 21 and Chubby LeClair’s camper (assuming the state police hadn’t hauled it away). Later, I crossed the new bridge from Princeton into Indian Township and felt the usual despair I experienced driving through the reservation. I passed the shuttered pizzeria and the seedy brick houses—each built according to the same soulless architectural plan—arranged along the shore of Lewey Lake. Most of the homes had satellite dishes and clusters of vehicles parked out front, but wadded paper blew through the yards, and white shirts waved like flags of surrender from the clotheslines. The Passamaquoddy reservation was the most depressed place I knew in Maine, and I knew all of them.

The sparkling blue waters of the lake and the distant line of evergreens along Peter Dana Point seemed fraudulent in their bright beauty. I had entered a hall of mirrors in which I could no longer distinguish what was real from what was false.

North of the rez, I took a left off Route 1 onto the tributary roads that would bring me, eventually, to the mobile home where Pelkey and Beam lived. The woods crowded closer and closer around me as I drove up into the hills.

I slowed the truck half a mile from the trailer. My loose belt was wailing like a banshee again, and I had the strong feeling it might be better not to announce my arrival in such strident terms. Better to scope out the scene first. I removed my orange safety vest and unearthed the camouflage coat I kept behind the seat, then swapped my black baseball cap for one with a Realtree pattern. I hung my new Nikon binoculars around my neck. For a minute, I considered taking the shotgun, too, but I didn’t want to appear unduly provocative. Pelkey and Beam were already wary of me.

I closed the truck door until it clicked and started on foot up the dirt road. With most of the leaves down, I could see far into the gray-brown forest on either side of me. Whatever color that remained was near the ground now: yellow carpets of leaves beneath the maples, bloody sumacs turning to rust, the same way drying blood does. Of the hardwoods, only the oaks had retained their shabby foliage. It felt comforting to have so much visibility.

As I neared the mobile home and caught the first flash of metal, I raised my binoculars. I adjusted the dial on the top until a vehicle sprang into focus. It was a blue F150 pickup.

I knew, without having to read the plate, that the truck belonged to Billy Cronk.

I felt my lungs almost fully deflate. I had resisted the idea that I might find him here. Now the only remaining question was why.

I raised the binoculars again and zoomed in on the yard. Two identical Nissan Titans were parked on the other side of Billy’s truck. I didn’t see Tiffany’s crappy little Cavalier. Evidently, she hadn’t yet come down with her boyfriends’ malady.

For a split second, I considered returning to my truck for the shotgun. I would have felt more confident having the pump-action Mossberg in my hands, but I wasn’t sure what I was even witnessing. No crime was being committed, not unless lying to your wife or playing hooky from your job had been reclassified as misdemeanors. My suspicion that Pelkey and Beam were very bad men didn’t give me cause to go stomping onto their property loaded for bear.

Still, I needed to sort this out. I stepped off the road and began carefully picking my way through the naked trees. The openness in the forest understory now put me at a disadvantage. I had almost no cover, except to crouch behind the Christmas tree–size balsams or the trunks of the larger oaks. The curled and drying leaves under my boots turned every step into an overloud rustle. What had Charley told me?
Heel first and then toe.
I wished the expert woodsman was with me right now.

When you stalk a deer, the trick is to imagine the slowest you can move—and then force yourself to move even slower than that. Breathe evenly. Pause with every step. Will yourself to become invisible.

Foot by foot, I drew closer to the ancient trailer. It was roughly the shape and size of a boxcar. Over the years, the sun had faded the orange paint until it was the color of human skin. It might have taken me twenty minutes—maybe longer—to cover a hundred yards. I tried to approach from an angle that didn’t put me in the line of sight of any of the windows or doors, so that only someone pressing their nose to the glass could have spotted me.

Pelkey and Beam had stacked about four cords of hardwood neatly behind the mobile home. The pile provided me with excellent cover when I was finally able to reach it. Peering over the logs, I saw one of those teardrop trailers you use to haul snowmobiles. Beside it, an overturned bass boat had been chained to a tree trunk to protect it from thieves. Two Polaris ATVs sat under an elevated crossbeam the hunters utilized to hoist dead carcasses into the air so that the blood would run out onto the ground. Pelkey and Beam must have been saving their pennies to buy those new Nissans, I thought, because everything else on their property was a piece of shit.

There were blankets and towels over the windows of the trailer. The occupants were either too poor or too cheap to buy actual curtains. The place reminded me of a cave. The thought of two men living inside with a young girl turned my stomach. I wondered whether Bard’s cousin Tiffany had chosen her role as their shared playmate or whether she had been cajoled by her boyfriend into sucking his buddy’s cock and then one thing led to another.

I crawled forward on my elbows and knees until I could hide behind the snowmobile hauler. As I was sitting against it, with my legs drawn up to keep them from jutting into view, I noticed a white cigarette butt lying in the dirt beside me. I reached into a leather holster on my belt and removed a single latex glove. I slid it onto my right hand. The cigarette butt came from a Salem, the same brand we’d recovered from the kill sites on Morse’s estate. I wrapped the glove carefully around the filter to protect whatever trace DNA might still be on it and slid the wad into my pocket.