by Paul Doiron
“She calls herself Brenda now.” I kept an eye on the rifle in his hand, wishing like hell that Charley could talk him into putting it down. But the old game warden seemed surprisingly unconcerned. I remembered the night eight years ago when Truman had last pointed a loaded firearm in his direction. “I just finished talking with her an hour ago,” I continued.
“So?”
“I guess you two had a falling-out. She didn’t say why, but I’m figuring it was over my father. You didn’t like her being his girlfriend, right?”
He didn’t speak, just waited for me to continue, his good eye as blank as a cow’s. There’s a peculiar challenge that comes from interrogating a slow person-all the tics you try to pick up on aren’t there half the time. Either their lies are so obvious they slap you in the face, or there’s just this generalized confusion that makes the emotional state impossible to read.
Charley sensed it, too. “If it were my friend messing around with my little girl, I’d sure as hell be pissed off.”
Truman rubbed his lips with his free hand. “What did she say about me?”
I decided subtlety was going to be wasted on Truman Dellis. “She said you and Russell Pelletier killed Jonathan Shipman and Deputy Brodeur.”
He shook his head so vigorously that his hair swung. “No.”
“She said you killed those men and then tried to frame my father.”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“So why did she say those things?”
A sheen of sweat stood out along Truman’s brow. “I don’t know.”
“She claimed she saw you out at Rum Pond the day before the shooting. Is that true?”
“No.”
“She said she saw you talking with Pelletier behind the boathouse.”
“I wasn’t there!”
“So why is she saying these things about you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your own daughter is going around saying you’re a murderer, Truman. Why is that?”
“Because she’s a whore!” The barrel of the rifle began to shake in Truman’s hands.
As wired as I was on adrenaline, I was beginning to have second thoughts about the wisdom of confronting him like this. “All right,” I said, holding my hands up. “Let’s just calm down here.”
Charley didn’t seem to hear me. “Truman,” he said, “what really happened to your face?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. It certainly caught me off guard. He touched the stitched red line on his cheek. “My face?”
“How’d you really get that scar?”
I had no idea what Charley was getting at. But I was afraid to look away from Truman.
“Chainsaw broke on me. Got me across the face.”
“I don’t think that’s what happened.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Charley,” I said.
“This is my house!”
Charley didn’t speak. He remained absolutely still.
Truman raised the barrel of the rifle until it was pointed at the old warden’s sternum. “Who the fuck are you, calling me a liar in my house!”
“We’re leaving.” I took hold of Charley’s biceps. The muscle felt like a steel cable. “Come on.”
“You’d better be careful who you point a gun at,” said Charley in his quiet voice.
“You ain’t a warden no more!” said Truman.
“No,” Charley said. “But this man is.”
Truman glanced in my direction. The barrel of the rifle wobbled.
I said, “Threatening an officer with a firearm is a felony. So why don’t you put that gun down?”
The rifle stayed where it was. “This is my house,” said Truman. “You’re trespassing. You get out of here.”
“All right,” said Charley finally.
“Go!”
I felt behind my back for the doorknob and got the door open. We backed through the lintel onto the staircase.
“We’ll talk again,” I said. But it was an empty threat.
Truman just slammed the door.
My heart was beating hard as we made our way down the stairs and back to the car. A faint breeze was blowing from the west. I felt it through my perspiration-soaked shirt. The muscles in Charley’s neck stood out like cords.
“What the hell was that?” I said.
“You’re the one who wanted to interrogate him. Did you hear what you wanted to hear?”
It was a good question. More than anything I was just shocked at how quickly I’d forgotten everything I knew as a law officer about keeping a situation from escalating out of control. Maybe Kathy Frost was right: My judgment these days really was fucked. “He might have shot us.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What was that you were saying about his scar? You think my dad gave it to him.”
“I’m not sure it has anything to do with what happened last week.”
“It sounded like you thought Truman might’ve actually done it. Killed those men, I mean.”
“He’s capable of murder.”
“So you think Brenda was telling the truth.”
“No,” he said, ending my half-second of hopefulness with a single word. “Just because Truman’s a dangerous man doesn’t mean he’s guilty of those particular crimes.”
We climbed back into the Plymouth, and Charley started the engine. I felt a growing heaviness in my limbs as the adrenaline left my bloodstream. “I didn’t like being in there without a pistol.”
“It would’ve been lots more dangerous if we’d been armed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Having the only firearm in that room made Truman feel like he was in control of the situation. I couldn’t have pushed him like that if we were also armed. He might’ve got spooked.”
“You mean you deliberately tried to piss him off?”
“Of course,” Charley said, smiling as he settled his shoulders back in the seat. “How was I supposed to learn anything useful otherwise?”
He turned the wheel, and we started back toward Flagstaff. The shadows of the trees had grown longer across the road. Dusk was coming fast.
“So what did you learn?”
He grinned. “That I’d better not piss him off again.”
“Do you deliberately provoke everyone you meet?”
“Everyone? No, not everyone. Just ninety percent or so.”
24
It was still afternoon, but just barely. The sun was still shining, but as soon as it dipped behind the mountains I knew it would be fully dark. The few houses we passed along the road had turned on their porch lights in anticipation of dusk.
I’d had my little chat with Truman Dellis, and now what was I going to do? I didn’t want to go home to Sennebec-and I certainly wasn’t going to ask Charley to fly me back now-but what could I accomplish staying here? All day long my anger had kept despair at bay. Now the adrenaline was draining out of me, and I felt as purposeless as a man can feel. Kathy Frost would be hunting for me, too, and she was one person I couldn’t bear to face.
“You can drop me at the inn,” I said.
“Say again?” Charley rolled up the window to hear me better.
“The Dead River Inn. I thought I’d get a room there for the night.”
“So you’re planning on sticking around, then?”
In my memory I saw Sarah speeding away from our old house. I remembered the look on Lieutenant Malcomb’s face at Brodeur’s funeral and the anger in Kathy’s voice on the phone. “I’ve got nothing to get back to.”
“Why don’t you stay over with us? The Boss is a fine cook and I know she’d enjoy making your acquaintance.”
“I can’t impose on you two like that.”
“It’s no imposition.”
“Thanks, anyway.”
He nodded, but he seemed genuinely disappointed. “The Dead River Inn it is. I’ve been wanting to talk with Sally Reynolds.”
The par
king lot was already half-filled with pickups, most with ATVs parked in their truck-beds after the local custom. There were also a few boat-sized Buicks and Oldsmobiles representing the summer cottagers from nearby Spring Lake. The early birds had arrived for dinner.
I followed Charley into the dimly lit tavern across from the dining room. Reflexively, I looked for the three bikers, but I didn’t see their ugly mugs among the crowd of locals. Behind the bar a silver-haired woman, wearing a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up over her tan arms, was pouring drinks. A lighted cigarette hung from her bottom lip in violation of Maine state law concerning smoking in bars and restaurants.
“Sally!” said Charley.
The woman glanced up at the sound of his voice. She had the weathered face of a person whose lifelong hobbies have been chain-smoking and sunbathing. Her hair was cut close, so it stood up like a wolf’s pelt. Two years ago in this same room she’d pointed a shotgun at my father’s head until the police came to arrest him.
“Charley Stevens,” she rasped. “I heard you were in today for lunch.”
“Donna made us some sandwiches. She’s a nice young woman.”
“She’s got a crush on you, too. You want something to drink?”
“A cup of coffee-if it’s not too much trouble.”
“What about your handsome young friend?”
“Jack Daniels.”
“Now there’s a man after my own heart.” She ground out the stub of her cigarette in a heavy ceramic ashtray filled with the stubs of about twenty others. “You look real familiar,” she said as she poured my shot. “Yeah, I remember. You were in a fight here. That was the night your dad nearly cut a guy’s throat.”
“I’ve still got a scar from that night.” I tapped my forehead at the hairline.
She fixed her eyes on mine, her gaze direct and unashamed. “I guess your old man never worried that you were really his kid-looking like you do.”
“Mike’s a game warden down on the midcoast. He’s helping us with our investigation.”
She set down the liquor bottle in the well. “Our investigation? And just how exactly are you involved in this?”
Charley raised his eyes from his coffee mug. “Oh, I’m just helping out. Doing a little flying for the state police. That sort of thing.”
“You’re supposed to be retired, Charley.”
“You know me. I can’t help sniffing around.”
“You should be home with that beautiful wife of yours instead of sniffing around here.”
“Home is the next stop.”
“Does Ora know what you’re up to?”
“You know I can’t put anything past that woman.”
“That’s because she’s smarter than you.”
“She is that.” He slid off his stool and winked at me. “I’d better give her a call now that Sally’s shamed me into it.”
I watched Charley disappear into the lobby in search of a pay phone. When I turned back, I found Sally staring at me hard with those icy blue eyes. She pointed a nail at my forehead. “That’s a honey of a scar.” There was an edge to her tone that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“It helps me remember a bad night.”
“I wouldn’t let your old man in here after that fight. It was the last straw.” She lighted a cigarette with a silver Zippo lighter identical to the one my dad brought back from Vietnam. “So how exactly are you helping the investigation?”
“The police wanted me to talk to someone here in Flagstaff. They thought she might know where my dad is.”
“Brenda Dean.”
My reaction gave me away.
She laughed, a parched, whiskey-voiced laugh. “I bet you didn’t have any luck, either. She must have loved talking with you, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“She likes giving every guy she meets a hard-on. The good-looking ones especially.”
I let that comment go unremarked. “I heard she was here the night of the public meeting.”
“She was here. She comes in by herself sometimes. Sits at the bar and lets guys buy her drinks. She gets hammered and then drives all the way back to Rum Pond. How far is that-forty miles? I tell her she’s lucky she hasn’t lost her license by now or crashed into a moose or something. I guess some people have more luck than they deserve.”
“I think most people have less luck than they deserve.”
“Another barroom philosopher. Just what we need around here.” She raised her eyebrows as if she was about to say something, but at that second she was called away by a man at the other end of the room wanting to order a beer. When she’d poured it for him and taken his money, she returned to the spot in front of me and looked directly into my eyes again. “You know that deputy your old man murdered?”
“I’m not so sure he murdered anyone, actually. But that’s just my opinion.”
She bared her teeth in a smile. “Let me guess, the real killer was a one-armed man.”
I kept my head down and sipped my drink. Where the hell was Charley?
“Let me tell you about that deputy,” she continued.
“I knew Bill,” I said quickly. I wasn’t looking for a fight. “We went to the academy together.”
“Then you knew he was a good kid. And a good cop. And he didn’t deserve what happened to him.” She filled a shot glass for herself. “If I had somebody in the bar-your friend Brenda, for instance-who was too shit-faced to get behind the wheel, I’d give him a call so he could set up his cruiser at the end of the road. Some people might say I shouldn’t do that to my own customers, but I say you don’t have a right to kill yourself or anyone else.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them: “Maybe you should just tell your bartenders to stop serving drunks.”
“That’s cute,” she said, giving me the blue glare again. “Another thing about Bill Brodeur is that he volunteered to drive Shipman back to Sugarloaf. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t like what Wendigo is planning on doing-evicting the leaseholders. But he believed the guy had a right to be safe, and when the sheriff asked for someone to drive this asshole, Bill volunteered. That tells you the kind of cop he was. He put his life on the line for someone he didn’t even like.”
“He sounds like a good cop.” I meant the praise to sound sincere, but she didn’t take it that way.
“He died in the line of duty. I’d say that made him a good cop.”
Charley, fortunately, picked that moment to return. He came, whistling, back to the bar as if all was right with the world.
Sally crossed her leathery arms. “I was just about to tell your young friend here what I was doing in Skowhegan today.”
“What were you doing?” I asked, unable to stop myself from goading this woman who was so intent on goading me.
“Visiting my cousin in jail. Maybe you know the name-Wallace Bickford?”
“How is Wally?” Charley sensed something was amiss, I could tell from the caution in his voice.
“Scared, sick, confused. He doesn’t even remember the night he was arrested. He just woke up in jail with the dt’s. And now he’s facing felony charges for firing a gun at police officers.” She was sneering at me now, not trying to hide her contempt anymore. “And you know the saddest part? That sweet, brain-injured man still thinks Jack Bowditch is his friend. The jerk who got him into this trouble and nearly got him killed.”
I stood up suddenly. “I’ve got to take a leak.”
In the bathroom I leaned against the wall over the urinal and wondered how this day could get worse. With my father on the run, I was the closest thing people had to a punching bag around here. Well, at least I was performing a public service.
One thing was certainly clear: No one appreciated my poking around the shootings. It was like something out of Agatha Christie. Maybe the whole damn town was in on Shipman’s murder. I could almost picture the scenario: All of Dead River was involved in a conspiracy to drive off Wendigo Timber with Brodeur somehow ge
tting shot in the crossfire. I laughed to myself at how fast the booze had gone to my imagination.
I found Charley waiting for me outside the door, hat on and ready to leave. I wasn’t so eager to stick around myself. “You’ll have to forgive Sally,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“She sees your face, and all she thinks about is your dad.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“It’s not. But just so you know, it was her idea for Deputy Brodeur to drive his passenger out the back way from the inn. She feels responsible for what happened. She thinks they’d both be alive today if she’d never suggested the idea. And maybe she’s right.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I just called Ora, and she said she’d be heartbroken if you didn’t spend the night with us.”
“All right.” I couldn’t imagine Sally Reynolds would ever rent me a room at this stage. And I dreaded the ride back south with Kathy Frost if my sergeant should ever find me.
“I thought you might reconsider.”
In the parking lot I saw two teenagers making out, and the truth came to me in one bright bolt. “Sally and my dad had a thing, didn’t they? That’s one of the reasons she hates Brenda. That’s why she’s bothered by my face.”
Charley didn’t say a word in response, but he didn’t have to, either.
25
At the boat launch on Flagstaff Pond Kathy Frost was waiting for us. She was seated in her green patrol truck, watching the lights come on in the distant cottages across the lake. Tied to the dock where we’d left it, Charley’s little floatplane bobbed on the darkening waves.
We’d just dropped the old Plymouth off at Flint’s garage, and I was having second thoughts about imposing myself on Charley and Ora. The bourbon had left my insides feeling scorched. Or maybe it was just an aftereffect of all the confrontations I’d endured that day. Seeing the brittle expression on my sergeant’s face didn’t make me feel any better. She hitched her thumbs in her gunbelt-her usual tough-gal pose-and spat a wad of chewing gum into the dirt.
“Now, how in the hell did you find us, Sergeant?” Charley asked with a delighted smile.
“I called your wife. She told me you were headed back this way.”
