Dead by Dawn Page 16

  He snapped his fangs again, showing me he would not be won over so easily.

  My phone rang as I was standing there. The cell tower beyond the trailer park guaranteed that Pill Hill’s residents had excellent coverage at least. I glanced at the screen and cringed.

  The wind was loud enough that I had to cover my other ear to hear.

  “Well?” Marc Rivard said.

  “Well, what?”

  “What did Mrs. Chamberlain say about me?”

  “You gave me the impression that you considered this water under the bridge.”

  “It is!”

  “So why do you care about Mariëtte Chamberlain?”

  The question seemed to stump him. “I don’t like having my name dragged through the mud. I didn’t tell you she sent a complaint to the governor after I filed my report. Professor Chamberlain had been a big-money donor to his first campaign. Malcomb defended my investigation, but that was the beginning of the end. They were already looking for a reason to take away my bars. I hope you stood up for me at least. I think I deserve your support given everything I did for you.”

  Among the things Rivard had done for me, as my sergeant, was to release a live skunk in the trailer in which I was then living. He’d considered it a splendid prank. Even after months of scrubbing and shampooing, I had never been able to get the odor out.

  “I told Mrs. Chamberlain that the investigation had been thorough.”

  “It was fucking bulletproof. We didn’t miss a thing. Not one thing.”

  “Actually, Marc, you did.”

  “For fuck’s sake.”

  “Your witness, Burch—there’s a problem with his account. He told me that he glimpsed the professor from a distance of three hundred yards.”

  “You spoke with him?”

  “I’m standing outside his trailer now. It’s quite a lavish place.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s a shithole.”

  Like many people who had been born into humble circumstances, Rivard had become a snob the moment he received a paycheck bigger than his father’s. He viewed every mobile home as a twenty-first-century hovel.

  “You told me you were just going to humor the old lady,” he said. “Now you’re reinterviewing my witnesses? It’s a closed case, asshole.”

  “Burch claims Chamberlain wasn’t wearing a personal flotation device. But the professor was dressed head to toe in wetlands camouflage, and his life preserver was also camo-colored. There’s no way Burch could’ve seen definitively from that distance if he was wearing it or not. Why did Burch lie about it then? Why is he still lying about it?”

  “Misremembering isn’t a lie. Can you recall what you had for lunch last Tuesday?”

  “A roast beef sandwich with lettuce, tomato, and mustard. And a pickle.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Mariëtte Chamberlain swore up and down that the professor never ever took off his PFD because he’d nearly drowned as a kid.”

  “Maybe it came off when he fell overboard,” said Rivard. “That part doesn’t matter. What matters is Burch saw Chamberlain alone in the boat.”

  “But if he lied about one thing—”

  “I knew you were going to undermine me.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not enough that you sabotaged my career and helped get me fired, you want to strip me of my accomplishments, too. You’re going to go to DeFord and tell him that I fucked up the Chamberlain case. You don’t even need to prove anything. It’s enough for you to punch holes in my report. You’re a sadistic son of a bitch, Bowditch. Has anyone told you that?”

  Rivard was the first boss I’d ever had whom I truly hated. The experience had been hellish, but I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. Those miserable months had taught me an invaluable life lesson. They’d shown me how power can pervert a person.

  All of Rivard’s many character defects—his pettiness, his personal vanity, his paranoia—became magnified with his new station. All of the motives he was accusing me of were projections of how he himself would have behaved in my place. I could waste time trying to persuade him that he was wrong about me, but he would hear every word as confirmation of my dishonesty and disloyalty to my fellow officers.

  “I don’t suppose the name Lynda Lynch rings a bell? I didn’t see her mentioned in your report.”

  “Should it?”

  “She’s the matriarch up here on Pill Hill.”

  “That development was under construction when Chamberlain died. Aside from Burch there was only one other person living up there, some old trucker. He and the professor weren’t friends, but they knew each other from around. Both were serious duck hunters.”

  “Do you remember his name, this old trucker?”

  “I remember it was French.” He paused to use one of his mnemonic devices to retrieve the half-forgotten name. “Bazinet. Vic Bazinet.”

  “What do you remember about him?” I asked.

  “He didn’t have much use for the Warden Service. Our guys had pinched him a few times for exceeding his limit of geese. He was out on the river the same morning as Chamberlain and Jewett. But he came in before they did.”

  “So Bazinet was a witness?”

  “Only in the sense that he saw them together from afar. He didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know.”

  If I had been the primary on the case, you can be certain I would have made a notation that Vic Bazinet had been hunting in the vicinity the morning the professor disappeared.

  “He seems like someone I should talk with,” I said.

  “I’m done trying to have a polite conversation with you,” Rivard said. “So what are you going to do next? Are you going to petition the colonel to reopen the case on the basis of what Arlo Burch could and couldn’t have seen? Are you going to try to persuade the state police it was a possible homicide? I guess as long as it gives you a chance to smear me, it doesn’t matter. That’s all that you want, isn’t it?”

  I have always found that when I am angry, sad, or afraid, it helps to recenter myself in the natural world. I took a breath and looked around.

  The only signs of life were a dozen crows scouting the park perimeter. More had perched atop the fenced enclosure around the cell tower. Once again I remembered the huge roost nearby that Charley had told me about. In a little more than an hour, as the sky turned from blue to purple, they’d begin assembling from every direction: hundreds, possibly thousands of crows.

  I thought Rivard was about to hang up. But he came back with a question: “You said you were outside Burch’s trailer. Who are you going to interview next?”

  “Is there someone in particular you’d like me to avoid?”

  “I don’t remember you being a comedian, Bowditch.”

  “I’ve been working on my stand-up.”

  “Don’t quit your day job.”

  “I genuinely wish you and your family a happy holiday, Marc. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

  “Yeah? Well, I have two words for you, and they aren’t ‘Merry Christmas.’”

  * * *

  Number nineteen was another double-wide, but far less palatial than Burch’s. Dove-gray siding, black trim. The only addition to this one was a roofed porch that an amateur carpenter had tacked to the front. It was easy for me to imagine Grambo sitting in the shadows with a twelve-gauge across her lap.

  But not on a bone-chilling afternoon like this one.

  I was surprised, therefore, to see a woman hanging in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. She hadn’t bothered to put on a jacket against the cold. She wore a flannel shirt over ripped jeans. She was also a redhead, but unlike the Dillon sisters, she was tall, buxom, and wide-hipped. Her hair was tied in a horse tail, and her face was painfully red as if someone had scrubbed her skin with steel wool.

  “You’re the warden?” the new woman said in a voice that creaked.

  “I am.”

  She exhaled smoke through her nostrils. “You s
houldn’t be wandering around up here alone. You might be mistaken for a trespasser and shot on sight.”

  She made a hitchhiking motion with her thumb toward a POSTED sign nailed to the porch. Her hands were big and raw, too. It looked like she’d been washing dishes in boiling water.

  “You have a problem with trespassers up here?”

  Even her laugh was rasping. “What do you think?”

  “I think you settle your problems without calling the cops. My name is Mike Bowditch. I am a game warden investigator. I’m reviewing a case from four years ago. A man drowned on the river while duck hunting. Professor Eben Chamberlain. Is Mrs. Lynch home?”

  “What do you want to talk to her for?”

  “She called me. Are you her daughter?”

  “Granddaughter.”

  On cue, a voice bellowed from within, “Let the man in, Tina.”

  The big woman cast a peeved look into the darkened interior of the trailer.

  There were no fancy snowmobiles or Jet Skis in Grambo’s drive. The only vehicle was a salt-splashed Subaru Outback with studded snows. It was a modest home. A grandmother’s home.

  As I came up the stairs, a scrawny dog shot out of the house and past me. It was tawny, sharp-eared, with ribs showing, and a tail that curled toward its spine. It reminded me of the street dogs I’d seen in photos of desert bazaars: half-tame mongrels that no longer possessed the characteristics we associate with domestic breeds.

  I could tell the little mutt had caught the scent of the wolf on me because he screeched to a halt, bared his teeth, and snarled.

  “Kick him if he tries to bite you,” said the woman named Tina. “It’s the only way he’ll learn. Treasure told me you were prowling around up here, asking questions.”

  “You’re her mom?”

  “Uh huh.” The breeze blew the smoke from her cigarette into her eyes. “She said you were looking for Arlo. You must have met my cousins. What did Tori and Tiff have to say for themselves?”

  “They were very gracious.”

  “I bet! Too bad Arlo was home. The twins might have shown you a good time.”

  Given their hostility toward me, that would have been unlikely, even if I’d been amenable.

  The old voice bellowed again from inside the house. “Let the man in, Tina!”

  With a groan, the red-haired woman flicked her cigarette down into a patch of snow littered with butts. It sizzled a second, then went out.

  We passed from the porch into an improvised mudroom, created by walls of quilts and blankets nailed to the ceiling to prevent drafts from creeping inside. Tina peeled up the edge of a down comforter and slipped beneath it. I heard music through the hanging bedclothes.

  The air smelled resinous from fresh fir garlands draped across every table and shelf, strung up along the lintels, and sagging from the ceiling. As if that wasn’t enough balsam, a pine-scented candle flickered beside a display of miniature Santa Clauses engaged in comically offbeat activities: Santa riding a moose, Santa in a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, Santa seated in an outhouse making his list that unspooled at his feet.

  The music was some orchestral Christmas staple I recognized but whose name escaped me.

  A muscular woman, somewhere between forty and fifty, with a torso like a keg of beer, occupied the seat of honor. Her features were surprisingly delicate in contrast to her physique. I suspected she had been pretty once. Even now her dark curls didn’t appear to have been dyed but had retained their youthful color. She was wearing a University of Maine sweatshirt promoting the 1999 national champion ice hockey team, gray sweatpants, and fleece socks that extended beyond the toes like elf slippers. She wore reading glasses and had her face in one of those oversized cell phones the size of an eBook reader. She was texting—thumbs typing with scary speed—and did not look up as I entered.

  “Mrs. Lynch? I’m Mike Bowditch. I’m with the—”

  “I know who you are.” She had a small, bow-shaped mouth made larger with lipstick. “My granddaughter Tori says you were asking her boyfriend about that fag Chamberlain’s death.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why can’t you people let the dead rest?”

  I took the question to be rhetorical and remained silent.

  Lynda Lynch possessed not one freckle, nor a single strand of red hair. The odds against this olive-skinned woman being the biological grandmother of the Dillon twins, or cousin Tina, seemed astronomically high.

  The recliner was a model fitted with its own cup-holder. This one held a pint glass of what looked like white wine and ice cubes. She reached for her drink without removing her gaze from the screen of her phone.

  “Turn up the volume, Tina. This is the Russian dance.”

  My first serious girlfriend had adored The Nutcracker and played it all the time around the holidays. She’d tried to drag me to a performance down in Portland, but at twenty-two I had been too insecure to attend a ballet.

  “I don’t see why you can’t get an Alexa,” said Tina.

  “And have Jeff Bezos eavesdropping on me all day long? You don’t think those tech companies are recording everyone’s conversations?”

  She had a strong Maine accent: the variety I associated with the lobstering islands Down East. In my experience accents tend to linger within families, being passed down to children and grandchildren. They can be stubborn, only fading over the course of generations.

  The Dillons had no such accent, nor even the hint of one. That, too, struck me as odd.

  Lynda Lynch fell silent as her cell phone chimed. She squinted to read the illuminated screen. Finally she raised her head to meet my gaze. Her irises were the syrupy color of motor oil.

  “You wanted to speak with me,” I reminded her.

  “I want to know what you’re up to!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Don’t play games with me! You’ve invaded our privacy here. And you’re pestering my family with personal questions without saying what’s behind them. What is it you’re trying to find out, Warden Bowditch?”

  “It’s one of my jobs to review closed cases, to ensure that all official protocols were followed.”

  “As if!”

  “Your granddaughter Tori said you had information about the death of Professor Eben Chamberlain.”

  She became quiet, and I could sense her cold calculations.

  “Maybe I do,” she said, nodding toward a rocking chair. “Tina, go make the warden a cup of coffee. Use those good Dunkin’ Donuts pods, not the cheap stuff from Marden’s. And get me another Bartles & Jaymes while you’re in the kitchen, dear.”

  She pronounced the last word dee-ah.

  Tina bit her chapped lip. “Sure thing, Gram.”

  27

  It’s a three-legged race. Tori Dillon is lame in one quad from a knife cut, while I am limping from a bullet wound. We have only two functioning legs between us, and we’re both staggering as fast as we can toward her snowmobile.

  I crash out onto the frozen channel, slip, and land awkwardly on the shotgun. More bruises if I survive the night.

  When I raise my snow-dusted face, I see something so uncanny I can hardly believe it.

  Tori Dillon has beaten me to the channel. She would have made it to her sled easily if not for the black monster blocking her way. The wolf has reemerged from the far trees.

  Was he returning to the island to find me?

  He stands there, long legs apart, huge head lowered, hackles raised. Tori meanwhile is paused in mid-step as if she doesn’t dare move a muscle. Shadow has to be the largest canine she’s ever seen, as big as a young bear.

  Run away, you stupid animal.

  Rising to my knees, I turn the flashlight on her. She has a red hand clamped to her wounded thigh. She’s shed her balaclava, and her pale eyes are huge with fear. It’s not every day you meet the big bad wolf.

  I have a thousand questions for her, but the sound of the approaching sleds makes my
priority clear.

  “Throw me the keys!”

  “Go to hell!”

  “He’s going to attack you if you move, provided I don’t shoot you first. Either way you’re going to be dead unless you give me the keys.”

  “You won’t do it.”

  I begin limping toward her. “I can’t control what he does, Tori. He’s a wild animal.”

  She considers this and reaches into a zipped pocket on her jacket.

  “Don’t be stupid and try something cute,” I say.

  She cocks her arm. I don’t like the look of her wind-up.

  “Underhand!”

  Tori’s expression changes in the snow-fuzzed light. The fear passes, and the old belligerence returns. She’s clever and I know she’s trying to think of a way to prolong the stalemate. She needs to stall long enough for Tiff and the rest of their associates to come racing to the rescue. I am sure she considers making a break. But the wolf is an unknown quantity. Maybe fleeing will trigger his predatory impulses.

  “Shadow!”

  As if the wolf will obey my command.

  Tori tosses the keys. She makes sure to miss me. I follow the trajectory with the flashlight because I can’t afford to lose them in the snow.

  I steady myself with the butt of the gun and drop to one knee and swipe a hand through the snow until I feel the set of keys, beneath the fresh powder.

  As I push myself to my feet, I hear the first sled coming around the top of the island. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shadow bounding again toward the mainland. So much for my guard dog. I wonder if, during his years in the wild, he was pursued by someone on a snowmobile. Somehow he knows to tear ass, in any case.

  Tori does, too. She takes off toward the beaver lodge, moving better on her injured leg than I do on mine.

  Again I have my chance. My attempted murderer has turned her back to me. Her head, spinal column, and heart and lungs are all easy targets. But I made a decision long ago never to become my father’s son.

  With the shotgun slung over my shoulder, I step one foot onto the running board of the Arctic Cat. The engine is still radiating heat. I turn the key in the ignition and brace my legs. Then I grip the pull-start with both hands. I don’t pause because I know how much this motion is going to hurt. I grunt and yank the cord, and the engine roars to life.