Dead by Dawn

by Paul Doiron

  Like Charley Stevens, I am being hunted. But for me, there is no hiding inside this frozen lodge.

  Nor can I reach the far shore before my pursuer catches me in his headlights.

  Having no other choice, I stagger back, slipping and sliding, to the unnamed island I thought I’d left behind.

  20

  The hills across the Androscoggin were low and mouse-brown, except for the white of the snow fields. Here and there, were also stands of pines, dark against the hillsides like the shadows made by heavy clouds. Swirls of smoke rose from houses hidden among the trees. I could see a crease in the woods where a road cut through, parallel to the river.

  Shadow was snoring again. The odor coming from his cage wasn’t entirely doggish. There was also a hint of earthiness that often put me in mind of his native North Woods. It was as if I could smell his essential wildness.

  The road entered a mixed thicket of pines and maples, and I saw a wide spot ahead where school buses and snowplows turned around. A single vehicle was parked in the pull-out, beneath the swaying branches. It was an ivory-colored Mini, the all-wheel drive model.

  Bibi Chamberlain was waiting for me.

  By reflex, I pulled in behind her the way police are taught to do when we conduct traffic stops. Positioning the front of your patrol truck—or cruiser—so that it juts into the road gives you cover as you approach the driver’s window. You’re not as likely to be struck by a careless passerby who refuses to pull into the opposite lane.

  Bibi had put on a man’s tweed topcoat that she might have picked up in a thrift shop. Her hat was a gray wool newsboy with the brim pulled low. Everything the woman wore seemed intended as an ironic statement. As usual, she had her e-cigarette pinched between the first two fingers of her left hand.

  I stepped from the Jeep, hitching up my belt. It always sagged under the weight of my service weapon.

  “So you talked to Bruce then?” she said.

  “I told you I was going to.”

  She took a hit off her Juul. “I don’t see any bullet holes in you, so that’s something.”

  “Why are you following me, Bibi?”

  “My mother is desperate to blame somebody for Grandfather’s death. I thought it would help if you understood why. They met in London, you see, and he was the one who introduced her to my dad. Eben was the father she never had, by which I mean he wasn’t a violent, displaced farmer from a country that no longer exists and never should have existed in the first place. So this wild-goose chase she’s sent you on—it’s not just about closure. My mother needs someone to be punished. The universe has been thrown out of balance by my grandfather’s dumb death. Mariëtte Chamberlain sees herself as an agent of cosmic justice.”

  I thought of the slanders Jewett had hurled at Bibi: that she had deceived her grandfather about her affections, that she was addicted to drugs, that she had come out of Chamberlain’s death with riches and a sweet living situation.

  “And what about you?” I asked. “What do you need?”

  “To have my mom back, the way she was before. I know it won’t happen. Life doesn’t move in reverse.”

  Just because Jewett was a crank and a bigot didn’t mean he was wrong about everything. Bibi might well be a liar who didn’t welcome anyone taking a fresh look at her grandfather’s death. I decided to test her.

  “I think there’s something else you haven’t told anyone,” I said, “and maybe it’s weighing you down.”

  In an unconscious imitation of her mother, she lifted her chin so that she seemed to be looking down her nose at me. “Where’d you get your degree in psychology, Warden?”

  “The usual place: a box of Crackerjacks. What’s on your mind, Bibi?”

  “Grandfather loaned Bruce money. I don’t know how much or why. Enough that it became a bone of contention.”

  “Is that why he asked for your opinion of Jewett, do you think?”

  “No, he never mentioned anything about a loan.” She sucked some nicotine from her little plastic stick. “I overheard a phone conversation when I was visiting the farm one day. Grandfather had a booming voice. He spoke loudly because he refused to wear his hearing aids.”

  “You’re sure it was Jewett on the other end?”

  “Grandfather called Bruce ‘Cap’n,’ even though he was never an officer. So, yes, I’m sure.”

  “Do you remember the specific words your grandfather used?”

  “‘I’m not your banker, Cap’n. I agreed to give you six months and I want my money.’”

  “Any idea what Jewett needed the funds for?”

  “His pistol range, maybe. Did Bruce take you down there? He likes to show off how well he can shoot. It makes him feel better about being a failure as a man. His marksmanship is something he doesn’t need to lie about.”

  “What does he lie about?”

  “Bruce Jewett never went to sea ever. He was a hull technician at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard. His area of expertise was marine sanitation. Boat toilets.”

  Maybe he’d built the heads on the Thresher, I thought. No, he was too young for that.

  “You mean he wasn’t second in command to Hyman Rickover?”

  “Who’s that? Some legendary submariner?”

  “Father of the nuclear navy.”

  I watched Bibi watching me through narrowed eyes. I hadn’t been studied this closely since the last time I’d played poker.

  “I’ve never been interested in history,” she said at last. “I mean, I get that those who forget the past are yadda, yadda, yadda. It just doesn’t seem to have anything to do with my life. How old are you anyway?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “You seem older. Your affect.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Rivard had made a crack about middle age that morning. And Dani had recently ribbed me about preferring to read a book rather than play Fortnite with her. Maybe the hard life I’d lived was aging me prematurely.

  The breeze came up and rustled the pine boughs. I heard a blue jay chortle in the distance. This late in December, most of his kind had left for warmer climes. Mainers didn’t realize that our local jays migrate and are replaced by jays from the north. To most modern people a bird is a bird is a bird.

  Spoken like an old man, I thought.

  “I want to get back to the conversation you overheard between your grandfather and Jewett,” I said. “Did it sound like there was some animosity there? Like maybe the professor had run out of patience?”

  “That was my impression.”

  “You don’t know how much money it was, I take it.”

  “Enough that Grandfather minded. He was a generous man by nature. But he didn’t appreciate being jerked around.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Lieutenant Rivard or the state police detective assigned to the case about the rift over the money Jewett owed?”

  “Because it had nothing to do with Grandfather’s death!”

  “That wasn’t for you to determine, Bibi.”

  She hadn’t minded my using her first name before, but it seemed to get under her skin now. “I didn’t say anything about the money for the same reason I didn’t mention Grandfather and Bruce hooking up. It was no one else’s business.”

  “The police might have disagreed.”

  “I don’t know anything about cops, but I’m a writer, and I know a shitload about the power of narratives.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “My grandfather drowned because he was careless. He wasn’t murdered by a closeted lover who owed him money. Of those two stories, which one do you think people would be most interested in?”

  “So you lied to protect Bruce Jewett?”

  “I omitted information I considered unimportant. And it wasn’t like I was under oath. Besides, that Lieutenant Rivard barely gave me five minutes. Not a fan of the non-conforming community, that man.”

  She was right there.

  “Why tell me this now?” I said. “If you be
lieve Jewett had nothing to do with your grandfather’s death, why did you come chasing after me?”

  “I looked you up on the InterWebs after you left the house. Your life would make a great graphic novel if you’re ever in need of a ghostwriter.” She winked at me to be cute. “One of the things that came through in the articles was how relentless you are. I knew you’d catch Bruce in a lie or something.”

  I wondered if she knew that the man she was defending considered her the human equivalent of something you found stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

  She actually put away her hookah pen to make her final appeal. “The best thing for everyone—Mother most of all—is for you to let this drop and go home. That’ll be the end of it, and we can all get on with our lives.”

  The wind, rushing down the river valley, pushed snow from the boughs. It fell around our heads like glitter.

  “What can you tell me about Arlo Burch?” I said.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Really?”

  “I can’t put this case aside until I have a conversation with the last man to see your grandfather alive.”

  The sound of an engine straining to climb the hill made us both pause and wait for the vehicle to appear. It turned out to be a growling Pontiac Grand Prix, one of the last of the V8s. The once-white body was pockmarked with rust like the worst case of acne you’ve ever seen. There were at least two people inside, both women, maybe a kid in the backseat.

  The driver slowed to have a look at us as they passed. The female passenger scowled and made a comment that I didn’t need to be a lip reader to decipher.

  “Do you know who that was?” I asked, after the Grand Prix had roared out of sight.

  “Not by name. Half the people living up there moved in over the past year. They’re all related, my friend Felice says. And they’re no fans of cops. The worst of them—the one to watch out for—is the old lady they call ‘Grambo.’”

  “Grambo!”

  “I don’t know what her real name is. She’s an old hillbilly who sits on her porch with a shotgun. Sometimes she aims it at passing cars if she doesn’t like your looks.”

  “Is this another story you heard or something you’ve actually experienced?”

  “It was a rumor going around town, and I figured it had to be bullshit because it’s such a caricature, right? Then I went up there to visit Felice—I don’t know how she stands it—and I saw Grambo on her porch. I never believed in the evil eye until that old crone looked at me.”

  She illustrated the baleful gesture by pulling down her lower eyelid with her index finger.

  “Grambo sounds like someone else I should meet.”

  Bibi threw her hands in the air. “It’s like everything I say to persuade you to leave has the opposite effect.”

  “You never answered my question about how well you know Burch.”

  “My friend Felice lives up there, like I said. I don’t know why she stays in that shithole, but I guess it’s because she’s worried about her dad. He has a gambling problem. Anyway, she introduced me to Arlo at the bar where he works. So he’s not a stranger exactly, but we’re barely acquaintances. I couldn’t even tell you which trailer is his.”

  “But Felice would know?”

  “You’re seriously going up there alone to confront those people.” She added an eye roll for effect. “I know you’ve got a gun and all, but the deputies who get called to the hill won’t even go without a backup. It’s always two cop cars, at least. Every weekend, I see them race by the house with their lights flashing.”

  “Lucky for me it’s not nighttime.”

  “Yeah, but it’s December, and it’s going to get dark faster than you think. I wouldn’t get caught up there after nightfall if I were you.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time someone slashed my tires.”

  “There are worse fates.” She took a step toward her Mini, then turned. “How long have you been a game warden?”

  “Eight years since I entered the academy.”

  “You must have made lots of enemies in that time.”

  It was the exact same thing Rivard had said to me. The coincidence was uncanny, but that’s the nature of coincidences. We never notice the millions of times they don’t occur.

  “I’ve encountered some dangerous people. The worst of them are off the board.”

  “But the ones who aren’t—don’t you worry that they’ll come looking for you?”

  “If you’re asking do I spend my life looking over my shoulder, the answer is no.”

  She reached for the door handle. “Maybe you should.”

  * * *

  When I opened the Jeep door, an odor rushed out: nose-burning, industrial-strength ammonia. The wolf had pissed himself. Lizzie Holman had lined the kennel with absorbent pads against this eventuality, but they had made no difference.

  The phone rang as I turned the key in the ignition. Charley’s face appeared on the screen. The old man was one of the only people in my life with whom I engaged in video chats. It gave him such obvious pleasure to see me that I indulged his whim. I enjoyed seeing him, too, I had to admit. He had a weathered face and a chin like the toe of a boot. His head of white hair had grown back after he’d shaved himself bald for an unsanctioned investigation, in June.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time, young feller?”

  “Never.”

  “You wouldn’t tell me if I had. I’ll cut right to the chase then and ask if you’ve given any more thought to Christmas supper? If you’re free, Ora and I would like you and Dani to join us. Stacey will be here, of course. The Boss says that might be a dealbreaker for you.”

  It was his affectionate nickname for his wife, Ora. No man of my generation could get away with using it for his spouse.

  “Things are still up in the air,” I said.

  Charley was my mentor and my closest confidant in the world. But now was not the time to tell him that according to Nicole Tate, Dani and I were no longer a couple.

  “We understand if you have to decline,” Charley said. “But we’d dearly like you to join us, son. The holiday won’t be the same without you.”

  For half a dozen years, I hadn’t missed Christmas supper at the Stevens house. But that was before Dani and I had gotten serious.

  “I hope to have an answer for you tonight.”

  “Good enough,” said the old pilot. “So what are you up to on this fine December day?”

  “I had to bring Shadow to the vet in Pennacook.”

  “You got the werewolf into a kennel? How’d you manage that feat?”

  “I started putting an electric blanket inside the crate to get him used to sleeping there.”

  “That’s a nifty trick!”

  “Honestly, I think he chose to go of his own free will. He’s smarter than any dog I’ve ever known.”

  “How is the old boy?”

  “Dozing at the moment. Dr. Holman shot him full of drugs. But he’s healthier than he has any right to be.”

  “Good to hear! So you’re about to head home then?”

  The man’s curiosity was as bad as my own. “I had to make a few stops in Stratford.”

  “Stratford! I won’t ask what mischief brings you to that Podunk.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You should keep your eyes open for a crow roost while you’re there. Used to be a big one nearby. At dusk, the sky would turn black with thousands and thousands of birds. Crows roost up in winter for warmth and safety. Otherwise they’re easy picking for owls, you know.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “What mischief brings you to Stratford?”

  I knew the old busybody couldn’t stop himself from prying.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over Christmas supper.”

  It was only after I’d gotten off the call that I realized the promise I’d made to him.

  21

  I crouch behind a crooked cedar, listening. Sounds travel strangely in the woods at night—espec
ially when the wind is up—and I can’t be sure if the snowmobile is following the main channel or coming around the island.

  I don’t have long to wait. The engine grows louder. The rider must have the throttle wide open. Then I see headlights, shining down the ice. The blowing snow is thick in the beams.

  With luck, my pursuer is traveling too fast. He will miss the impressions left by my boots as I staggered back to the island.

  But the beaver lodge is too obvious a point of interest. The twin cones of light turn toward the heap of weathered wood. The sled slows and stops before the abandoned den.

  Game wardens learn to identify snow machines and all-terrain vehicles with the same expertise that state troopers memorize the makes and models of street cars and trucks. This one is a chartreuse Arctic Cat ZR 6000: a fast and furious ride. But not super-maneuverable in dense cover. It’s a flashy sled that doesn’t suit Jewett, but I wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn’t misjudged him once. He will, in any case, have trouble navigating the twists and turns of my private island if he attempts to follow me here on his ZR.

  He’s wearing a black jacket over gray snow pants: a unisex outfit. The helmet concealing his face has a visor, a spoiler, and an opaque shield. A shotgun is slung over his shoulder.

  That voice in my head, the one that sounds like Charley, speaks again.

  What if it’s not Jewett?

  The height and build seem close, but I can’t be certain. But who else can it be?

  Jewett climbs off his idling machine, and I duck my head.

  When I dare take another peek, I see him circling the beaver lodge. There is a tactical flashlight mounted to the black barrel of the twelve-gauge. The gun is likely a Remington 870 or a Mossberg 590: a combat weapon. To search for tracks he points the muzzle at the ice as if preparing to blast it into smithereens.

  The circle of illumination lingers on a patch of snow on my side of the beaver lodge. Suddenly Jewett straightens. The light follows my windblown path back to the island. Once more, I retreat behind the cedar.