I came home to a bunch of messages. There were the usual game warden calls: questions about obscure boating regulations and which fishing spots I’d recommend. And a message from Kathy Frost telling me she checked the culvert trap earlier that evening and it was empty. She’d check it again in the morning unless she heard from me. Bud Thompson called, drunk, wanting to know about the “status of my investigation concerning the bear.”
And then there was a message from Sarah. I was startled to hear her voice after weeks of not hearing it at all. “Mike, I heard about your dad-it’s so horrible, I still can’t believe it. I don’t know if you want to talk about it. But I was thinking of you there alone and… it’s all right to call me, if you want.”
I did want to, very much. But what was I going to say? That I missed her more than I’d ever imagined? She’d probably come over, if I asked. But what kind of prick would I be to take advantage of her kindheartedness-or pity or whatever it was-just because I was feeling so damned lonely? If we started up again, she’d just end up heartbroken like before. A month from now, I’d still be the same unresponsive bastard I’d always been and she’d be the one feeling lonesome.
I crawled into my empty bed and was asleep in minutes.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, I caught a glimpse of perfect blue sky-like an antique bottle held up to the sun. For half a minute I had that peaceful amnesia you feel when you first wake up. Then I remembered my father.
Before anything else, I called Kathy Frost.
“I just got off the phone with the lieutenant,” she told me. “He said they suspended the search after dark. They’ll be starting again soon, but everything’s been scaled back. Charley Stevens volunteered to go up again in his Super Cub, but I can’t say anyone’s feeling hopeful about finding your dad.”
“I’ve got to get back up there.”
“Forget about it. The lieutenant wants you back at work. Either that or take a sick day and stay home. The sheriff doesn’t want you at the incident scene.”
“What if they find him? You weren’t up there, Kathy. Those Somerset guys are trigger-happy.”
“He killed a cop, Mike. What the hell do you expect?”
“Nobody’s proved he did it.”
There was a silence on the other end. When she spoke again, her tone was hard-edged. “He beat up Twombley and took off. That’s pretty close to an admission of guilt, in my book. Do you want me to check that trap for you or not?”
“No.”
“OK, then. Call me if you catch a bear.”
Half an hour later I pulled into the parking lot of the Square Deal Diner. I dropped some coins into the newspaper machine outside the door. Then I retreated to my truck and spread the pages across the steering wheel to read in the sunshine.
Just about the entire front page of The Bangor Daily News was devoted to the story.
POLICE HUNT FOR SUSPECT IN NORTH WOODS SLAYINGS
Below was a grainy color photograph of the crash scene where Twombley’s cruiser had gone off the road. There was also a picture of my father. It was the mug shot they’d taken the night of the bar fight two years ago. He looked drunk and defiant, like a man capable of violence.
The article identified Jack Bowditch as a fugitive wanted for assaulting a police officer and named him as the chief suspect in the murders of Deputy Sheriff Bill Brodeur and Wendigo Timberlands Director of Environmental Affairs Jonathan Shipman. There wasn’t a whole lot else I didn’t already know. Wendigo had announced a reward of fifty thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the killer. The article never mentioned Wallace Bickford or the standoff at his cabin.
Deeper in the newspaper was a companion piece to the lead article:
PUBLIC MEETING PRELUDE TO MURDER
A photograph, taken at the meeting, showed a stocky man with a shaved head and a goatee-identified in the caption as Vernon Tripp of Flagstaff-standing in a crowded room shaking his fist at some unseen person.
It was the man from the Dead River Inn, the one my father spoke with the night the bikers beat the shit out of me. What had my dad called him-a “paranoid militia freak”? The paper reported he’d been thrown out of the public meeting after he threatened Shipman.
Tripp was identified in the article as the owner of the Natanis Trading Post. “We have someone from outside trying to dictate our lives and businesses,” he was quoted as saying. “Everything we do now is controlled by them.” The article noted that he was facing charges of criminal trespass and theft of services for protesting a Wendigo checkpoint earlier in the summer.
As I looked closer at the photo, I noticed something else. Seated in the background was another face I knew. It was pretty blurry, but I definitely recognized the bowl haircut and dragoon mustache of Russell Pelletier, the man who ran Rum Pond Sporting Camps. Pelletier never mentioned that he’d been at that public meeting. As a leaseholder facing eviction, it made sense he was there, but still, seeing him in the photograph raised goose bumps along the back of my neck.
“You people think you can draw an iron curtain across the Maine North Woods,” Tripp said before he was evicted from the meeting. “You’re about to learn a hard lesson. Just wait and see.”
No wonder they threw him out. I felt a surge of hopefulness. Surely, the detectives had looked at Tripp as a possible suspect. I reached for my cell phone to call Soctomah.
There was a tapping at my window that made me jump. It was apple-faced Dot Libby in her waitress outfit. “Ain’t you coming in, Mike?”
“Not today, Dot.”
She looked at me with surprise, as if we were actors in a theatrical performance and I’d just ad-libbed my lines. “No breakfast?”
“I just wanted to see the paper.”
The look of concern hadn’t left Dot’s face. “We’re all sorry about your father.”
So the word was out in Sennebec about my connection to the cop killer. Why was I surprised? “Thanks,” I said, starting the engine. “I appreciate it. I should probably get going.”
“Wait a sec,” she said, and hurried back inside before I could say a word.
I sat there with the engine idling, not sure what to do. In the diner windows I could see faces looking out at me through the sun-faded curtains.
A moment later Dot returned. She clutched something in a napkin. She pressed it to me through the open window. “You be sure to stop in for lunch,” she said.
I told her that I would.
As I drove away, I wondered why I’d promised to return for lunch when I had no idea what the day would bring. Was it just to reassure Dot? In a small town like Sennebec, routine is such a precious thing-it’s how people get to know and trust one another. I’d only been in town for eight months, but I was already becoming somewhat predictable to my neighbors. It was the first step to becoming one of them, part of their community. Maybe that was what I was afraid of happening.
Inside the napkin was one of Dot’s homemade molasses doughnuts. My favorite.
On my radio I called in to the dispatcher to tell her I was 10-8, on duty and available to respond. Then I tried Detective Soctomah.
“What can I do for you, Mike?” he said, polite but not friendly.
“Remember I told you about that bald guy my dad knew at the Dead River Inn two years ago? Well, I just saw the Bangor paper and there was a picture from the public meeting. It’s him, Vernon Tripp.”
“We spoke with Mr. Tripp yesterday.”
“So he’s also a suspect?”
In his silence I sensed his disapproval as clearly as if I’d seen his face. “We’ll keep you up to date, Mike-as events warrant.” I thought he was going to hang up on me then, but instead he said, “Does the name Brenda Dean mean anything to you?”
“I don’t think so. Who is she?”
“She works at Rum Pond Sporting Camps. She’s says she’s your dad’s girlfriend.”
“That’s what she thinks. She’s probably one of ten.” I tried to sound lighthearted, but Soctomah wasn’t in the mood for humor.
“Your father never mentioned her?”
“No. Do you think she’s the woman I heard on my message machine?”
There was silence on the other end.
“Detective?” I said.
“We’re all set here, Mike.”
“I know the sheriff doesn’t want me up there, but-”
“You don’t have to call me again,” said Soctomah. “Not unless you remember something else important that you left out of your statement.”
“I understand.”
“Good,” said the detective.
To occupy myself I decided to check the culvert trap. I followed the rutted dirt road down through the hemlocks and cedars to the old cellar hole at the edge of the swamp. As I neared the trailer, I saw that the trapdoor had fallen shut. Because of the liquid shadows beneath the trees I couldn’t see what, if anything, might be caught inside.
The sound of an animal thrashing about was the first thing I heard when I got out. I moved slowly, but the animal heard me coming and fell silent at once. Slowly I circled around to the gateend of the trap to have a look.
“For Christ’s sake,” I said aloud.
Inside the trap was the fattest raccoon I’d ever seen. Fat like a furred basketball. A stomach swollen with doughnuts and bacon. Heavy enough to trigger the door when it clawed at the bait bag.
I opened the door and stood aside, waiting for the raccoon to come out, but it seemed content to huddle at the gate-end, as if it had decided to take up residency inside the trap. Finally, I had to go around to the opposite end and poke a stick at it through the grate to get it to move. The gluttonous animal edged out of the culvert and plopped heavily to earth.
I came around the side of the trailer. The coon glanced over its shoulder with an expression that showed its disdain for me and then waddled down the dirt road toward the swamp. As it wobbled away, I was reminded of a very drunk man making a last shaky effort to preserve what remained of his battered dignity. I knew exactly how it felt.