the Poacher's Son (2010) (28 page)

"The police wanted me to talk to someone here in Flagstaff. They thought she might know where my dad is."

"Brenda Dean."

My reaction gave me away.

She laughed, a parched, whiskey-voiced laugh. "I bet you didn't have any luck, either. She must have loved talking with you, though."

"Why's that?"

"She likes giving every guy she meets a hard-on. The good-looking ones especially."

I let that comment go unremarked. "I heard she was here the night of the public meeting."

"She was here. She comes in by herself sometimes. Sits at the bar and lets guys buy her drinks. She gets hammered and then drives all the way back to Rum Pond. How far is that--forty miles? I tell her she's lucky she hasn't lost her license by now or crashed into a moose or something. I guess some people have more luck than they deserve."

"I think most people have less luck than they deserve."

"Another barroom philosopher. Just what we need around here." She raised her eyebrows as if she was about to say something, but at that second she was called away by a man at the other end of the room wanting to order a beer. When she'd poured it for him and taken his money, she returned to the spot in front of me and looked directly into my eyes again. "You know that deputy your old man murdered?"

"I'm not so sure he murdered anyone, actually. But that's just my opinion."

She bared her teeth in a smile. "Let me guess, the real killer was a one-armed man."

I kept my head down and sipped my drink. Where the hell was Charley?

"Let me tell you about that deputy," she continued.

"I knew Bill," I said quickly. I wasn't looking for a fight. "We went to the academy together."

"Then you knew he was a good kid. And a good cop. And he didn't deserve what happened to him." She filled a shot glass for herself. "If I had somebody in the bar--your friend Brenda, for instance--who was too shit-faced to get behind the wheel, I'd give him a call so he could set up his cruiser at the end of the road. Some people might say I shouldn't do that to my own customers, but I say you don't have a right to kill yourself or anyone else."

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them: "Maybe you should just tell your bartenders to stop serving drunks."

"That's cute," she said, giving me the blue glare again. "Another thing about Bill Brodeur is that he volunteered to drive Shipman back to Sugarloaf. He didn't have to do that. He didn't like what Wendigo is planning on doing--evicting the leaseholders. But he believed the guy had a right to be safe, and when the sheriff asked for someone to drive this asshole, Bill volunteered. That tells you the kind of cop he was. He put his life on the line for someone he didn't even like."

"He sounds like a good cop." I meant the praise to sound sincere, but she didn't take it that way.

"He died in the line of duty. I'd say that made him a good cop."

Charley, fortunately, picked that moment to return. He came, whistling, back to the bar as if all was right with the world.

Sally crossed her leathery arms. "I was just about to tell your young friend here what I was doing in Skowhegan today."

"What were you doing?" I asked, unable to stop myself from goading this woman who was so intent on goading me.

"Visiting my cousin in jail. Maybe you know the name--Wallace Bickford?"

"How is Wally?" Charley sensed something was amiss, I could tell from the caution in his voice.

"Scared, sick, confused. He doesn't even remember the night he
was arrested. He just woke up in jail with the dt's. And now he's facing felony charges for firing a gun at police officers." She was sneering at me now, not trying to hide her contempt anymore. "And you know the saddest part? That sweet, brain-injured man still thinks Jack Bowditch is his friend. The jerk who got him into this trouble and nearly got him killed."

I stood up suddenly. "I've got to take a leak."

In the bathroom I leaned against the wall over the urinal and wondered how this day could get worse. With my father on the run, I was the closest thing people had to a punching bag around here. Well, at least I was performing a public service.

One thing was certainly clear: No one appreciated my poking around the shootings. It was like something out of Agatha Christie. Maybe the whole damn town was in on Shipman's murder. I could almost picture the scenario: All of Dead River was involved in a conspiracy to drive off Wendigo Timber with Brodeur somehow getting shot in the crossfire. I laughed to myself at how fast the booze had gone to my imagination.

I found Charley waiting for me outside the door, hat on and ready to leave. I wasn't so eager to stick around myself. "You'll have to forgive Sally," he said.

"Why's that?"

"She sees your face, and all she thinks about is your dad."

"That's not my fault."

"It's not. But just so you know, it was her idea for Deputy Brodeur to drive his passenger out the back way from the inn. She feels responsible for what happened. She thinks they'd both be alive today if she'd never suggested the idea. And maybe she's right." He put a hand on my shoulder. "I just called Ora, and she said she'd be heartbroken if you didn't spend the night with us."

"All right." I couldn't imagine Sally Reynolds would ever rent me a room at this stage. And I dreaded the ride back south with Kathy Frost if my sergeant should ever find me.

"I thought you might reconsider."

In the parking lot I saw two teenagers making out, and the truth came to me in one bright bolt. "Sally and my dad had a thing, didn't they? That's one of the reasons she hates Brenda. That's why she's bothered by my face."

Charley didn't say a word in response, but he didn't have to, either.

A
t the boat launch on Flagstaff Pond Kathy Frost was waiting for us. She was seated in her green patrol truck, watching the lights come on in the distant cottages across the lake. Tied to the dock where we'd left it, Charley's little floatplane bobbed on the darkening waves.

We'd just dropped the old Plymouth off at Flint's garage, and I was having second thoughts about imposing myself on Charley and Ora. The bourbon had left my insides feeling scorched. Or maybe it was just an aftereffect of all the confrontations I'd endured that day. Seeing the brittle expression on my sergeant's face didn't make me feel any better. She hitched her thumbs in her gunbelt--her usual tough-gal pose--and spat a wad of chewing gum into the dirt.

"Now, how in the hell did you find us, Sergeant?" Charley asked with a delighted smile.

"I called your wife. She told me you were headed back this way."

"That's good detective work."

My sergeant was in no mood for the old pilot's jauntiness. "Jesus Christ, Charley. It's bad enough Mike's fucking up his career without your helping him. I told Malcomb I'd have him back to Sidney this afternoon. Where the hell were you two?"

"Mike wanted to see the scene of the crime."

"So you decided to play tour guide? It's a goddamned homicide investigation."

"It's not his fault," I said. "I told him I wasn't going to wait around for you. He came along to keep an eye on me."

She exhaled sharply and rubbed her nose, which was peeling from a recent sunburn. "Well, it doesn't matter, at this point. It's probably too late, but maybe we can still salvage your job." She gestured at her truck with her thumb as if hitchhiking a ride.

I stood still. "I'm not going, Kath."

"What?"

"I'm staying in Flagstaff."

She looked from me to Charley, found whatever confirmation she needed in his sheepish expression, then swung back around on me. "So you're just going to disobey Malcomb's order?"

"I guess so."

"You
guess
so?" She gaped at me as if she had never truly seen my true self before. "You ungrateful, turd-brained, son-of-a-bitch. You understand what this means?"

Her anger was creating an echo in me. You reach a point where you're just tired of people second-guessing even your worst decisions. "Do you want my resignation?"

"No! But I'm not going to stand for this insubordinate bullshit, either. Forget second chances. You've already had your third and fourth." She turned and paced away ten yards, trying to get a handle on her fury, than came back with fists clenched. "I don't know what kind of rescue fantasy you've got playing in your head," she went on, "but it's seriously twisted. Your old man's a fucking cop killer. And all you're doing with this crap is taking yourself down with him."

"Shut up, Kathy."

"Sarah said you inherited your dad's self-destructive gene. I guess she was right."

"Leave Sarah out of it. You had no business calling her, anyway."

"She still cares about you, even though you treated her like shit. God knows why." She stood close enough that I could smell the
bug repellent on her--the familiar sweetness of Avon Skin So Soft. "If you think throwing your life away is going to help your old man, then you're beyond hope. Give me your wallet."

"My
what
?"

"Your wallet."

I handed it to her without asking why. She removed my warden service identification card and stuck it in her breast pocket. "You don't have your badge on you, I'm assuming. And I hope to God you weren't so stupid as to bring your sidearm up here?"

"Everything's at home," I admitted.

"Lieutenant Malcomb will expect you to surrender the badge and pistol."

"So you're accepting my resignation?" My surprise surfaced in my voice. I thought we both understood my offer was just another bluff.

"It sure looks that way," she said. "But if you're any kind of man, you'll have the balls to tell Malcomb in person."

I stood there in disbelief as she got back into the truck. The engine roared, and the pickup backed up abruptly, brake lights shining. But she must have thought of one more thing because she stopped suddenly and rolled down the window. "It wasn't rabid, by the way."

"What?"

"Your bear. The tests came back, and there was no sign of rabies. But I suppose you don't care about that anymore."

Of all the things she'd said, that comment stung the most.

As we watched her taillights disappear through the trees, Charley said to me, "I'm sorry that I contributed to this situation."

Without a word to him, I turned and walked down to the end of the float and stared into the black water. I was thinking about the first time Kathy took me out to "work" night hunters. She'd staked out a Jeep trail in Burkettville, where poachers were reportedly jacklighting deer. We set up an artificial deer decoy by the side of
the road and hunkered down in some brush to wait. Then, just after nightfall, the skies opened up, and it began to pour. Kathy and I spent six hours crouched in the rain and never saw a single vehicle. The poachers had the good sense to remain indoors, but we were drenched to the skin. Afterward Kathy had only to say "Bucket-ville" and we'd both crack up laughing.

Now I was no longer a game warden. The realization just wouldn't sink in.

Sarah had called me self-destructive. The label certainly seemed to fit. In the past few days I'd lost a last chance with my former girlfriend, my career, and a friend I hadn't truly appreciated. And what had I gained?

I felt the dock sway beneath Charley's feet. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"You're sure Ora won't mind putting me up for the night?"

"When I was a game warden," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder, "I brought home injured coons, foxes, and bear cubs. If there's anything Ora's used to, it's me bringing home strays. As long as you don't start gnawing the furniture, we'll both be fine."

The floatplane skipped across the water, ten feet above the waves. Charley lifted the nose just enough to become airborne and then brought us down with a ducklike splash on the opposite side of the lake.

As we taxied toward shore, I saw a log cottage with a shingled boathouse at the water's edge and windows glowing gold through the pines. I felt my heart lift at the sight, as if I were returning to a place I'd once visited in childhood and then forgotten. It was a surprising sensation considering how depressed I was.

Charley brought the Super Cub up against the dock beside the boathouse, opened the door, and jumped out. He fastened the floatplane to cleats on the dock. I stepped down onto the riveted metal pontoon, holding on to one of the struts to keep my balance.

A dog came bounding from the cottage, a gray-and-brown German shorthaired pointer with a quick-wagging stub of a tail.

"Hey, Nimrod." Charley fell to his knees and let the dog lick his face.

I ran my hand along his coarse back while he sniffed my legs. "Good-looking dog."

"Dumb as a post." He slapped me on the back, trying to rouse some good cheer in me. "Come on, let's see what the Boss has got cooking."

A strip of rough tar paper ran down the center of the dock and led to a paved walkway that seemed out of place in such a rustic setting. The walk climbed in a switchback up the lawn to the cottage. A wooden ramp rose to the porch door.