by Paul Doiron
I couldn’t recall what the regulations were for the use of a service weapon in this situation. We were certainly permitted to practice with our guns as needed. And if it was necessary to get Jewett to speak with me, I doubted Colonel DeFord would mind my taking a turn with the targets. In truth, I’d always enjoyed shooting and wanted to disprove Jewett’s low opinion of me.
While Jewett attached a paper target to one of the retrievers and sent it whirring to the back of the barn, I unloaded one of the mags in my pocket and reloaded with his cartridges. The target was printed with a vaguely human silhouette. You scored extra points for head shots and bull’s-eyeing the center mass.
I barely had a chance to get my noise-canceling headset on before Jewett drew his pistol from the holster. The Glock 17 comes with a magazine that holds seventeen 9 x 19 mm Parabellum rounds (hence the name). Jewett’s shooting technique was the old-school power isosceles stance; he stood with his legs apart, his arms extended, making himself a human triangle.
Hot cartridges bounced down and rolled around the floor. Blue smoke wafted at me. As it cleared, I saw that he had shredded the heart out of the target. And he’d put one in the forehead in case I hadn’t gotten the message. Bruce Jewett was a deadeye marksman.
But I was too pissed to compliment his shooting. “You were supposed to tell me the range was hot,” I said, meaning that he had a pistol ready to fire.
“Oops.”
He hit a button and the paper target trolled back to us. Up close, his clustering was even more impressive. He’d brought me here to show that his skills were superior to mine. Insecure men were always quick to engage you in a topic or pursuit where they held an advantage. They needed these dominance displays to bolster their fragile egos.
“Now you.” He pulled off the ear protectors and hung them around his neck.
“No.”
“How’s that?”
His protective eyeglasses had slid down the bridge of his nose. He pushed them up with his middle finger. The yellow lenses lent a sinister quality to his unblinking gaze.
“If you want proof you’re a better shot than me, you’ll need to talk first.”
I knew I held the trump card because it would irritate him to death not knowing for sure that he was the superior marksman.
“What are you—afraid to be shown up?”
“As I understand it, you went duck hunting with Professor Chamberlain the morning he died.”
“Yeah, you’re chicken.” He ejected the empty magazine, lifted a loaded one from a pocket on his belt, and used the heel of his palm to slam it home at the base of the grip.
“You met him at his house at what time that morning?”
“At 0430 hours. We motored from his dock down to Gulf Island Pond and set a couple of strings of decoys, then drew the net over the boat. Birds came in, geese and mallards. We shot fourteen in all. Most were mine. Eben had acquired a tremor that gave him trouble leading his targets. I had a late morning appointment: dentist. He dropped me off at 0930. That was the last I saw of him. End of story.”
“What guns did you both use?”
“What does that matter?”
“Just curious.” I wanted to see if he remembered what he’d told Rivard.
“Remington Versa Max for me. Eben used that old punt gun of his. I call it a punt gun because the barrel of the Marlin 55 is so long. Your divers recovered it from the bottom of the river. I’m surprised the African Queen doesn’t have it displayed in the shrine she’s built to St. Eben of Stratford. Did I pass your test, Warden?”
“You did.”
“I’ve thought about that gun and the rest of Eben’s collection. He owned some beautiful shooting irons. I’m guessing the lesbienne sold the best of them to pay for drugs.”
“You’re referring to Bibi Chamberlain?”
“She goes by the house a couple times a week in that English go-cart of hers. Heads up the hill to score. You’d think she could find a dealer somewhere classier than a fucking trailer park. If Eben knew what a scheming bitch she is, he would have written her out of his will. The way that dyke played him.…”
“Played him how?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. She’s rich. End of story.”
“I’d like to hear more.”
“I’m sure you would! But I am going with a ‘no comment.’ What else do you want to know about the day Eben drowned? I wasn’t there when he died; I was in Lewiston getting a crown replaced. I don’t know how he went overboard but I can guess. The man was seventy-seven going on twenty-seven. I used to tell him he couldn’t do everything he did when he was young but he laughed and said, ‘Maybe you can’t.’”
“That sounds a little harsh.”
“No worse than the shit I gave him.”
“Could he have committed suicide?”
“The man loved himself too much to end it. He must have lost his balance and fallen, hooking the string of decoys. There’s no other explanation.”
“What did you two talk about that morning?” I asked.
“Our favorite Taylor Swift songs.”
“Be serious.”
“We talked about what we always talked about. Politics. How this country had a last chance to save itself and blew it, and now we’re all fucked. Eben was a moon bat, but he was a good debater who kept me on my toes, and at least he could admit when his arguments had holes in them, which was always.”
“So you argued that morning?”
He tilted his narrow hips and rested his hand on the grip of the Glock, as he had a habit of doing. “We debated. There’s a difference.”
“Did he ever remove his personal flotation device in your presence?”
“No, he did not.”
“In your experience did he ever remove his life vest when he was on the water?”
He cast a glance at the berm at the end of the barn. “Are we going to shoot or not? Because I’m running out of patience.”
I made a mental note that he hadn’t answered. “Have you ever met the witness who saw him alone in the boat and said he wasn’t wearing his PFD?”
“I don’t recall.”
“You don’t recall?”
“I’ve seen him in his new Rubicon often enough—this is the only road to the top. I’ve been behind him in line at the variety with those girls he supposedly lives with. It doesn’t mean we’re acquainted.”
His prior evasions had been more artful. “It sounds like you’ve forgotten his name?”
“Why should I remember it? All I know about the guy is he’s a meeks who lives with a couple of red-headed sluts on the hill.”
“What’s a meeks?”
“Pretty boy piece of shit. Forgive me for not giving a fuck about him.”
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Jewett.”
He removed his glasses and cleaned the gunpowder residue from the lenses with a crisp white handkerchief. It gave him a moment to focus on something other than my statement. “And why is that?”
“Because you’re too smart to have forgotten the name of the last man who saw your friend alive.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment? You don’t know the first thing about me, Warden.”
“I know you’re a Navy veteran. Submarines?”
“What gave it away? Oh, right. The hat. I bet you don’t even know what happened to the USS Thresher.”
“It sank with all hands somewhere off Cape Cod.” I had finally remembered the name and the incident. During the hottest days of the Cold War, a horrible malfunction led the Maine-built submarine to go down. Hundreds of sailors died in one of the worst ways imaginable.
“Am I supposed to be impressed?” said Jewett. “I could tell within two minutes of looking at you that you never served. Bone spurs?”
“I decided to serve my country by becoming a law-enforcement officer.”
“A fish cop! Good for you. But you went to college, first. I can tell from your diction. Where?”
There was no right answer to his q
uestion—a contempt for higher education rose off Jewett’s person like a foul odor—so I told the truth. “Colby.”
The mocking smile returned. “You’re the first game warden I’ve met with a fancy-pants degree. I bet that helps a ton when you’re ticketing some fisherman for exceeding his daily bag limit. Colby is one of the Little Ivies, right?”
“No one uses that term anymore.”
Jewett snorted and turned again to the ammunition locker. “I’m done answering questions. You’re going to shoot now.”
Whatever sympathy I’d had for him as a beleaguered son caring for a senile mother was gone.
He returned with a paper target which he clipped to the retriever. It wasn’t the same design as the one he’d used himself. This target depicted a cartoonish African-American mugger.
“Seriously?” I said.
“Shoot.”
“No.”
“Then I guess it’s time for you to leave.”
I ejected his shells from the magazine into the ammo can.
“You don’t even want to know what Mrs. Chamberlain told me—the reason why I’m here today?”
“She thinks I orchestrated Eben’s death for some inexplicable reason, despite that being impossible.”
Carefully I pushed my own bullets into the empty magazine. “She said you and Eben were more than friends.”
His face emptied of emotion. His eyes seemed to recede behind the protective lenses. Slowly they reemerged, but now the pupils had grown wide with anger. And his nostrils flared.
“That’s a disgusting lie.”
“Then tell me the truth. How would you characterize the nature of your relationship?”
His hand tightened around the grip of his Glock. “You come into my house and you accuse me of being a degenerate.”
I made no threatening movements but casually let my own hand wander into the vicinity of my reloaded SIG. “I am not accusing you of anything.”
“Butt buddies,” he said. “Fucking butt buddies?”
“Calm down, Mr. Jewett.”
“Get out of here. Get out of here now, or so help me—” With his left hand he pointed at a door. It was not the one through which we’d entered. I presumed it led outside.
“I’m sorry if what I said upset you.”
“Like hell you are. I can see through you, Bowditch. You put up a good front. But I know you’re a fraud.”
I felt for the doorknob behind me, gave it a twist, and felt it open outward. Cold air rushed in around my shoulders, making the hood of my parka flap. Keeping my gaze on the armed and angry man, I stepped backward.
“Ivy League fraud!” he said.
I closed the door.
Years earlier, I had watched Charley Stevens goad a dangerous man to anger. He claimed it was a strategy he used to trick information out of stonewalling suspects. I’d never seen anything more reckless.
“Do you deliberately provoke everyone you meet?” I’d asked him.
To which he’d answered, “Everyone? No, not everyone. Just 90 percent or so.”
It had taken years, but I’d finally come to appreciate the method behind Charley’s madness.
I had seen the truth in Jewett’s face, heard it in his voice. He and Eben Chamberlain had been lovers, as Mariëtte suspected.
17
I stagger through the trees, holding my left hand tight against my weeping leg. The makeshift bandage is already soaked through. In subzero temperatures blood flow can go from a flood to a trickle—it’s why you should ice a cut—but the process is insufficient to form a protective clot over a gunshot wound.
I’m making no effort to cover my tracks because I don’t have the energy or the time. No doubt I’m leaving drops of blood, too. A blind man could follow my trail.
The way through the woods is an obstacle course. Ice jams are annual occurrences along the Androscoggin. As the snow melts, freshets course down from the White Mountains and the river begins to rise against its banks, five feet, ten feet, sometimes higher. On occasion it overflows the entire floodplain, clearing out shrubs and saplings but leaving behind a tangle of deadwood through which I must now pass.
The concealable ballistic vest I wear under my clothes these days weighs only a fraction of the heavy-duty body armor I used to use as a patrol warden. But it feels as heavy now as a coat of chainmail.
After a few minutes, I take cover behind a boulder the size of a Volkswagen van. A glacier left the giant stone behind on its retreat north when the last Ice Age ended.
The silence worries me. I haven’t heard a gunshot since the two I believe were aimed at Shadow.
What if he was hit?
Jewett will be crossing the river soon. Whether by foot or using one of the bridges. My bet is he’ll take his vehicle. Why risk venturing onto the ice when he knows I’m on foot with no place to run? My guess is he’ll use the road to loop around and come at me from the east.
My only advantage is he doesn’t know I lost my gun. He has to assume I am still armed, and that means he must approach me with caution. And while Jewett might be a better marksman than I am, I know in my heart that I am the superior hunter.
The exertion has made me sweat. But whatever heat I feel from the exercise dissipates quickly as the perspiration cools. I start shivering again. There will be no more campfires tonight.
I lean my head against the cold, lichen-crusted rock and close my eyes, trying to formulate a plan. The pain in my leg—all those exposed nerves—is too intense.
Something cold touches my nose. I raise my face and open my eyes.
From my perspective, looking up through the tree branches, the sky seems woven of gauze. The snow, which has been as light as powdered sugar, is falling now in fat flakes.
Emma’s spell is working. She’s conjured up a White Christmas for everyone. The thought of the precious little girl makes me smile. Seeing her and her family again provides extra motivation to keep fighting. I will need it.
My night vision has improved since I left the firelight. But the snow in the air also reflects light, making it easier for me to make out my surroundings. An ancient oak tree looms over my boulder, creating a natural chokepoint. And sure enough, as I peer closer, I begin to make out deer tracks at my feet.
Maine deer almost never raise their eyes in the woods because they’re rarely attacked from above. I lean my head against the rock again. The branches above me are long, gnarled, and thick. Fifteen feet in the air, a man-made platform takes shape. I recognize the squared-off outline immediately—it’s a hunter’s deer stand.
Now my eyes search the trunk, and yes, I see it now: the ladder of rusty spikes the hunter has driven into the tree to ascend to his place of ambush. They resemble the iron steps a linemen hammers into a utility pole to climb up to the crossarms.
Some deer stands are big: platforms on which a kid could build a treehouse. This one seems more like a chair strapped to the trunk with nylon bands that have probably rotted in the sun and rain. I’m surprised a strong wind hasn’t dislodged it yet. Surely my weight would cause the seat to come crashing down.
I don’t have the energy to climb up there, anyway.
And while deer may not look up into the treetops, men do.
I’ve got to keep moving.
Following the deer path as best I can, I continue over a ridge that runs along an esker, parallel to the main channel of the river. Pushing through a clump of cedars, I trip and fall chest-first onto the frozen ground. The impact doesn’t do anything to alleviate the pain radiating from the gunshot wound in my leg.
But as I recover the energy to raise myself on hands and knees, I notice more deer prints, a dozen of them, all leading in the same direction.
Most hunters don’t realize that deer use different paths at different times for different reasons. Some nimrod, having discovered what looks like a well-traveled deer trail, will set up a stand overhead and wait. Eight hours later, he’ll walk out of the woods without having seen a mammal bigg
er than a squirrel. These disappointed hunters don’t understand that the deer are only using this road at night, when their only concern is avoiding coyotes and bobcats. They’ll switch to an entirely different trail when humans are out and about. And make no mistake: deer know exactly when legal hunting hours begin and end.
When you are a prey animal, you must devote your entire being to outwitting your pursuers.
It’s a lesson I am slowly relearning.
During my rookie years, Charley Stevens and I used to roam around different habitats—from leatherleaf bogs to heath alpine ridges—and he would give me a private Ph.D. seminar in the natural history of Maine. The old woodsman would point out a line through some cinnamon ferns, more like a crease than a path, and he’d say, “You’d never know it, but that there is a historic byway. The local deer have been using that skinny trail to cross coyote country for generations. It’s not just we humans who have heritage. Critters do, too.”
Charley taught me so much. I owe the man more than my life.
Will I ever see him again?
Or Ora?
Or—?
I stop myself before I can speak the name. Even so, a hot tear runs down my numb cheek.
You’re crying now, Bowditch?
So what if I am?
I am in pain and I am afraid. Mostly though, I am mad as hell for getting myself into this predicament.
Dangerous people have tried and failed to murder me, and always I have found a way to outwit them. I have walked away intact from traps and ambushes, gun battles and truck chases. I’ll be damned if I let myself die at the hands of a nobody like Bruce Jewett. In that moment I vow I will do whatever it takes to return alive to the people I love.
Rage can be a poison, but it can also be fuel.
Following the deer path in the snowy half-light, I slide over the ridgeback and find myself descending again. The subtle change in terrain worries me. By all I rights I should be continuing uphill, toward the paved road that runs along the eastern bank of the Androscoggin through Leeds and Greene.
Instead the ground levels out. I push through a copse of sumacs and find myself overlooking a flat white field. There is a pause in the snow, and I am surprised how well I can see.
