by Paul Doiron
“Has the mother been in contact with you?”
“Mariëtte sent me a thank-you note.”
It was an actual stationery card, the kind you mail someone who’s given you a present off your wedding registry. There was a letter folded inside.
Dear Warden Bowditch,
Thank you for helping me bring Bruce Jewett to justice. It is no compensation for the loss of Professor Chamberlain, both to his family and the world. I have heard that you were injured by his accomplices. For your suffering and the good work you did, I have made a five thousand dollar donation in your name to _________.”
The beneficiary of my largess was an animal rights organization that was engaged in a strategic campaign to outlaw hunting in Maine, piece by piece. I could only imagine how wardens would react if they saw my name on its list of donors, among the Hollywood stars and Manhattan socialites.
Billy and I spent a quiet minute watching his family. The room was toasty from the wood stove, and the entire house smelled of the pumpkin pie Aimee was baking for the next day’s supper.
“You sure I can’t come with you to the river?” my friend asked again.
“No, but thank you. Maybe another morning. I am not going to rest until I find him, Billy.”
“He’s a survivor. Like you.”
“Once maybe, but he suffered a lot of damage from that crossbow bolt. I saw how awkwardly he ran across the ice. He might be able to fend for himself for a while. But his days of chasing deer are over. He won’t make it out there alone.”
“I’m thinking of getting a dog,” said Billy, out of nowhere.
“Because there’s not enough chaos in your life?”
“I’ve always had them. I’m thinking of a Chessie I could use sea-duck hunting. It would be good for the kids to have a dog again.” He sipped some rum. “You need to find that wolf, Mike. He’s depending on you.”
“I know.”
Later, as I was bundling up to limp the mile home—the exercise would hurt, but I wanted to keep my joints loose—Billy said, “Are you ever going to get around to decorating your house for Christmas?”
“It’s too late for that,” I said. “Besides, it’s only going to be me there tomorrow.”
“No Dani?”
“No Dani.”
The house was dark and cold when I got home. I couldn’t sleep.
* * *
Now I carry a frozen deer haunch down to the river.
Since the morning of the 23rd, I have been putting out food on both sides of the river: venison quarters, hog’s heads, beef bones red with marrow. My offerings have been greatly appreciated by the resident coyotes, foxes, eagles, and especially the omnipresent crows. The black birds watch me from the pines while I search in vain for wolf prints, waiting to swoop down the moment I leave.
I trudge on snowshoes up and down the banks and even across the channel to the island where I ambushed Tori. I make a pilgrimage to the ice fishing shack where I regained my life, then almost lost it again.
The snow is a map of the past. I see where a flock of turkeys crossed after the storm, followed by a bobcat. Later, shrews tunneled beneath the surface. Everywhere are the tiny, busy feet of mice, always moving from cover to cover.
But I find no trace of the wolf.
The day is short and passes quickly. As the sun sets, the western sky glows with colors so beautiful I feel a lump form in my throat: butter yellow, blush red, and a streak of salmon orange that you only see in winter. Against this radiant backdrop, the crows begin to gather and move in ragged clouds to their roost.
I nearly fail to notice the raven. He is bigger than his cousins, with a ruffed throat and a wedge-shaped tail, and he beats his wings in a rowing motion. This one is strangely quiet for his kind.
Ravens and wolves have evolved to have a symbiotic relationship. The birds alert the canines to injured animals or carcasses not yet scavenged. Then they wait until the wolves make their kills or finish their meals. The bills of ravens are not sharp enough to open the thick skins of deer and moose, and so they rely on their furry partners to do the butchering.
As I have said, I try not to locate signs and omens in the natural world, but the unexpected appearance of the raven intrigues me—as a naturalist.
I grow more excited when I realize he is soaring over the beaver lodge where I’d last seen Shadow.
In the purple dusk I tramp up the channel, and it is here that I finally find his tracks.
He must have ventured out of the woods in the vain hope he would find beavers inside the abandoned house. But he lacked the strength to open a hole between the logs, and even if he had, it would have done him no good. Two of his paws were bleeding, probably from ice chunks like broken glass between his toes.
Standing there, in the failing light, I call his name. My voice doesn’t echo. The raven, however, responds with an inscrutable, “Quork!”
The breeze whips up little clouds of powder from the surface of the snow. I listen to the trembling of the dead leaves still attached to the oaks. Brown prayer flags in the wind.
I call again, louder.
Still no response.
I decided to trudge back to my personal vehicle, the International Harvester Scout, to fetch the grocery store turkey. It’s the last item left in the cooler. I plan on placing the frozen bird atop the lodge where, hopefully, Shadow’s sensitive nose will locate its scent on the wind.
But as I limp my way up the boat launch a feeling comes over me. Tempest Dow might have called it a vibration.
I turn slowly, and there he is, fifty feet down the ramp, looking gaunt and ragged. The hairs on his muzzle are white with frost. He shows no sign of aggression; he hasn’t raised the hackles along his neck. But his sulfur eyes are as unknowable as ever.
“Hey, big guy.”
He remains so motionless he might as well be a stuffed exhibit in a diorama at a natural history museum.
“I hate it to break it to you, but you look terrible. I know you’re hungry. You might even be thinking of eating me at the moment. I’d rather you didn’t, but to be honest, it would be a fitting end to the week we’ve both had.”
His tail twitches. A plume rises from his panting mouth into the bitter air.
“I’ve got food for you in the truck. I know turkey’s not your favorite, but it’s better than the mice or whatever you’ve been catching.”
He lowers his head to sniff an odor blowing past.
“I’ll come back with the turkey. If you feel like taking off, I’ll leave it for you. I promise it’s not a trick.”
And with that, I turn slowly and keep walking on scraping snowshoes to my parked truck. I don’t pause or glance over my shoulder. I am sincerely afraid to look in case he’s vanished.
When I arrive at the Scout, I raise the door on the cap over the bed, then lower the gate. I wrestle out the massive Yeti cooler that weighs a ton and pull the rubber latches free. Even wrapped in a brace my sprained wrist complains. I reach inside with both hands to lift out the thawing Butterball.
Shadow has followed me halfway up the ramp. He freezes as I turn, watching me with that same hyper-alert posture: front legs spread, ears pointed, eyes on mine.
It hurts like hell, but I squat to place the turkey on the frozen gravel. “I’ll leave this here.”
He doesn’t trust me. He gives a glance in the direction of the woods. I am afraid he’s about to bolt.
Slowly, I straighten up again, feeling the effort in my thighs, especially the left one, and my back.
“Or we can go home,” I say.
His gaze reveals nothing.
“I haven’t had a chance to buy another kennel. I bet you’ll never get inside one of those again. I wouldn’t either if I were you. So you’d have to ride in back. I don’t mind if you want to eat while I drive.”
He takes a tentative step forward. My heart begins to swell.
“I’ll let you hang your head out the window if you want to pretend you’re a golden
retriever. We might scare a few drivers off the road, but what the hell.” I retrieve the turkey and place it in the rear of the Scout.
Wolves and dogs are closely related, but humans have spent millennia learning to communicate with our so-called best friends. I can yammer at this big, black creature all I want. Maybe he understands me; maybe he doesn’t. He is and always will be a wild animal.
“Take your time. I need to get these snowshoes off.”
I take a big-footed step toward the driver’s door, worried again that I am moving too fast for him.
But as I approach the side mirror, I see his reflection, trotting forward, tail wagging.
Without another word from me, he vaults into the rear of the truck.
By the time I circle around, he is lying on his stomach, beside the cooler. He gnaws the frozen turkey, taking scraping bites. I hesitate to close the gate on him, but I take the chance. He keeps right on eating.
* * *
The drive home is surreal. Despite the turkey being a block of ice, Shadow manages to polish it off. I resort to tossing him granola bars from my personal stash in the glove compartment. These, he swallows whole.
I am dying to call someone, anyone, with the good news. But the situation inside the moving vehicle seems too delicate. I don’t want to speak, let alone stop in case it unnerves the wolf. That’s all I need: him going haywire.
I have lost so many things in my life that I have forgotten what it’s like to receive a gift this precious.
After half an hour on the road, Shadow clambers into the backseat, ripping my leather upholstery with his claws in the process, but so what? His big body stretches from door to door. He lets out a sigh and seems to fall asleep. But when I tilt the rearview mirror to get an angle on him, one brimstone eye opens.
Despite my misgivings about stopping, I slow down as I pass the Cronk place. I expect to see a line of vehicles from Aimee’s visiting family, but the windows are dark, and the Tahoe isn’t in the driveway. Aimee’s parents and sister live Down East. Maybe the Cronks changed their plans and drove to Washington County instead of hosting supper here?
When I turn down the drive to my house, Shadow rouses himself.
“I’m assuming you want to stay at your place. But you’re welcome to crash with me. It’ll be a lot warmer.”
Through the hemlocks I see lights coming from the house. It is unlike me to leave lamps on by mistake. Then I see that my entire trim is strung with Christmas lights. There are electric candles glowing in the windows, and a big wreath on the door.
The Cronks must have come by while I was away and decorated the place. No doubt this was at Emma’s insistence. I find myself wishing they had stayed. The occasion of Shadow’s return calls for celebration.
Unsure whether to drive into his enclosure or attempt to lure him indoors, I stop the truck outside my front steps. The key to the gate is hanging on a hook in my kitchen.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him.
He answers with a growl which I interpret, without evidence, as a sign that he wants to come inside rather than sleep another night in the cold.
“Let me pick up a few things first.”
I slip out of the Scout and drag myself up the steps and turn the key in the lock.
Suddenly there is a choral shout. “Surprise!”
Emma Cronk runs toward me, nearly tripping over her wizard robe, while the Cronklet boys emerge, grinning, from the living room, with Billy and Aimee behind them. Charley and Ora are next, followed by a slim woman with brown hair and jade-green eyes. I wrap my arms around Emma and some of the younger boys, and shake hands with the older ones. I give Billy a bro hug and have the air squeezed out of me by his wife. Charley claps his hand against my shoulderblade, as he always does, and I manage not to wince. I lean down to kiss Ora on the cheek, only to have her pull me down for a real hug.
Last is Stacey. She seems to hang in the middle of the room as if suspended. When I am finally free, she rushes forward, throws her arms around my waist and buries her face in my neck for the first time in three years.
“Merry Christmas, Mike Bowditch,” she says.
Author’s Note
There’s no one I am indebted to more for this book and all the others I have written than my wife and teammate Kristen Lindquist.
I am grateful as ever to my wonderful agent Ann Rittenberg and my insightful editor Charles Spicer who collaborate so well together to bring out the best in my writing—and in me. As always, my team at Minotaur Books—Andy Martin, Kelley Ragland, Sarah Melnyk, Paul Hochman, Joe Brosnan, and Sarah Grill—has been a delight to work with. David Rotstein, this might be my favorite of all the excellent covers you have done for my novels.
Certain people and certain books were of special importance to the writing of Dead by Dawn. Corporal John MacDonald of the Maine Warden Service is always my first call when I have an idea that promises to become the next chapter in the Mike Bowditch saga. Matt Weber, author of Making Tracks: How I Learned to Love Snowmobiling in Maine, provided invaluable assistance in educating me in the finer points of sledding. Maine artist and authority Eric Hopkins provided generous feedback. Mat and Nancy McConnel encouraged me and caught errors in the manuscript. My reading in preparation for writing this book included first and foremost Deep Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why by Laurence Gonzalez; Winter World: The Ingenuity of Animal Survival by Bernd Heinrich; Gunshot Wounds: Practical Aspects of Firearms, Ballistics, and Forensic Techniques by Vincent J. M. DiMaio, MD (always good for a little light reading); Snowmobile and ATV Accident Investigation and Reconstruction by Richard Hermance (same).
Lastly, I send my love and gratitude to my parents, Richard and Judy Doiron, my siblings, nieces, and nephews, and to the rest of my wicked bitchin’ family. You, too, Rooney.
Also by Paul Doiron
One Last Lie
Almost Midnight
Stay Hidden
Knife Creek
Widowmaker
The Precipice
The Bone Orchard
Massacre Pond
Bad Little Falls
Trespasser
The Poacher’s Son
About the Author
A native of Maine, bestselling author PAUL DOIRON attended Yale University, where he graduated with a degree in English. The Poacher’s Son, the first book in the Mike Bowditch series, won the Barry award, the Strand award for best first novel, and has been nominated for the Edgar, Anthony, and Macavity awards in the same category. He is a Registered Maine Guide specializing in fly fishing and lives on a trout stream in coastal Maine with his wife, Kristen Lindquist. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapte
r 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Author’s Note
Also by Paul Doiron
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DEAD BY DAWN. Copyright © 2021 by Paul Doiron. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover images: aerial view © Alexadru-Serban Paraschiv/Arcangel: snow © Swissdrone/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Doiron, Paul, author.
Title: Dead by dawn / Paul Doiron.
Description: First Edition.|New York: Minotaur Books, 2021.|Series: Mike bowditch mysteries; 12
Identifiers: LCCN 2020057549|ISBN 9781250235107 (hardcover)|ISBN 9781250235114 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3604.O37 D43 2021|DDC 813/.6—adc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020057549
eISBN 9781250235114
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: 2021
