by Paul Doiron
“You’re right,” I said finally. “I don’t like Nissen. And I don’t know if he’s a murderer. What scares me is that Stacey might find out before we do.”
Pinkham had the same government-issue GPS unit mounted to his dash that I used in my truck. I saw Breakneck Ridge appear on the screen as a series of elevation lines. I peered out the window, looking for it. At first I couldn’t see anything. Then I became aware of an elongated hill looming above the treetops like the humped back of a sleeping animal.
The unmarked turnoff came on us quickly. Pinkham cornered too fast, and the force knocked the side of my head against the window. The dirt road climbed in switchbacks up the north face of the ridge.
Near the top, we came to a muddy field that had recently been a forest. The loggers had left some stumps and a few scraggly trees to comply with the state law against wholesale clear-cutting, but they had taken everything else. Torn pieces of bark and wood chips carpeted the dirt road. The treads of heavy machines crisscrossed the property like so many stitched wounds.
I surveyed the injured hillside with disgust. “Is this Nissen’s woodlot? It looks like it’s been scalped.”
“No, this is Dow land.”
“Wait a minute. The Dows live in Blanchard?”
“Not here,” said Pinkham. “Their compound is off the Barrows Falls Road. But the family owns land all over town. Across the line in Monson, too. The Dows settled this whole area back in the 1800s. Every generation sold off a bit more and a bit more. In a few years, they won’t even own the land under their own houses.”
When I had heard that Stacey had been spotted going to Blanchard, I’d jumped to the conclusion that she’d been headed to Nissen’s place. What if she’d been headed for the Dows’ backwoods stronghold? I didn’t dare say anything to Pinkham after he’d just warned me against letting my imagination whip up conspiracy theories.
Pinkham took his foot off the gas pedal and extinguished his headlights.
“I’m going to park here, and we can walk up,” he said.
We followed the road out of the clearing and into an uncut stand of softwoods whose branches interwove above us. One of the oaks decided to bounce an acorn off my head. Far away, I heard the cackle of crows leaving their roost.
Pinkham moved surprisingly softly. His jowls and beer belly had made me forget that he’d been a district warden before becoming an investigator. The man clearly knew how to find his way in the woods.
We emerged into another field, this one rolling and wide. Everywhere I looked I saw white boxes rising from asters, goldenrod, and ragweed. Nissen’s beehives. During daylight hours, the air must have been alive with buzzing, but the insects were asleep now in their wooden frames, waiting for the sun to clear the treetops. Then they would begin their incessant work of harvesting pollen.
Pinkham paused in the middle of the road. “Up there,” he whispered.
A log cabin squatted against the tree line. No lights shone in the windows. No smoke rose from the stainless-steel chimney pipe. In the gloom, I could distinguish an assortment of outbuildings—various sheds and workshops—but there was no sign of a human presence. I saw a bright orange Kubota tractor. Where was Stacey’s truck? Where was Nissen’s van?
There were tire marks on the ground—headed in and out. I knelt down and ran my fingers over the subtle ridges. The Warden Service had trained me to read treads the way fortune-tellers do palms. In the right conditions, I could tell what type of vehicles had driven along a dirt road, whether they had been heavily loaded, and when they had last been through. It was a good party trick to show off to my nonwarden friends. Most of the marks I saw had been left by the same vehicle—obviously Nissen’s van. But there was another set left by a pickup that had recently come and gone. It had to have been Stacey’s.
I took a step toward the darkened cabin, then another. Pinkham called my name as loudly as he dared. I kept walking, my eyes fixed on the ground, following the tracks she had left behind.
She had parked under an old apple tree from which Nissen had harvested the best fruit. In the spring, its blossoms must have trembled with hungry bees. A few misshapen apples still clung to the limbs and other rejects lay scattered about the grass. I kicked aside the rotting cores until an odd-shaped piece of plastic caught my eye. I dropped hard to my knees and cradled Stacey’s broken sunglasses in my hands.
32
Pinkham leaned over my shoulder. “You’re sure those are her sunglasses?”
“What are the odds that Nissen also wears emerald-green Maui Jims?”
The warden investigator studied the crushed patterns left in the grass by the truck. “It looks to me like she might have dropped them without realizing. I’d say they broke when she ran over them on her way out.”
“What if she left them for us as a sign?”
“A sign of what?”
“That she was taken against her will.”
“I know you’re upset,” he said, “but it’s a lot more likely that she was just careless. You said she tends to be forgetful. If Nissen forced her to go someplace, then why is his van gone, too?”
I didn’t have a ready answer for him. I glanced up at the cabin, which I could see better now that the sun was coming up. It appeared to be a new building; the logs were still orange and the green roof shingles hadn’t yet begun to warp or curl. I rose to my feet and handed Pinkham the shattered glasses.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going to have a look inside.”
“We can’t enter the cabin without a warrant. There are no exigent circumstances.”
A muscle twitched underneath my jaw. “A possible kidnapping isn’t reason enough to bust down the door?”
“There’s no sign of a struggle. And I’m not sure what we’d be looking for inside the house.”
“Jesus Christ! Can’t we just make something up?”
His tone was patient, without a trace of condescension. “I know you’re worried about her, Mike. I am, too. Stacey’s one of our people. Her old man and I go way back. But if something bad happened to her, you’re going to be glad we followed the letter of the law. The last thing we want is to give a judge reason to toss a case out of court.”
“You worry about the legal stuff. I have other concerns right now.”
Pinkham kept his gaze on mine, refusing to let me inside his head. He handed me back the sunglasses. “Why don’t you call Charley and tell him what you found? He can look for her truck and Nissen’s van from the air.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t think a judge would have a problem with me peeking in the windows.”
“I want to go with you.”
“With all due respect, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to break a window?”
He didn’t answer, but his expression said yes. Desperation was causing me to revert back to my old self. I was going to suggest he call Fitzpatrick and have the state police issue a BOLO—the police acronym for “Be on the lookout”—for Nissen’s vehicle. But again, there was no cause. I had never felt so impotent.
I watched Pinkham proceed carefully up the front steps of the cabin. Nissen didn’t strike me as the sort of paranoid who would booby-trap his place against intruders, but it paid to be careful. The investigator studied each board on the porch before he stepped on it. He shaded his eyes with his hands to look in the windows but was careful not to touch the glass.
“Anything?” I called.
Pinkham shook his balding head and checked the next window.
I knew Stacey had a permit to carry a concealed weapon because she’d shown it to me when we’d gone shooting together at a gravel pit: a steep-walled excavation outside of Grand Lake Stream littered with broken beer bottles and spent cartridges, where she’d put five rounds in a target the size of a pie plate from fifty feet. I hoped to God that she was carrying that lethal Ruger .38 on her person.
I
reached Charley in the air, and as usual we had to shout at each other for him to hear above the noise of his plane engine. He said he was north of Bangor, less than fifteen minutes out. He asked if there had been any new developments since the night before. I did my best to keep emotion out of my voice as I told my tale, but I was undone by my mouth, which had chosen to stop producing saliva.
“You say this Nissen is an ex-con?” he asked.
“He did a stint in the federal pen for cooking meth. There’s no history of violence in his jacket, though.”
It didn’t sound like much of a consolation.
“A white van should be easy to spot from the air,” he said. “Not many of those hippie wagons still around.”
I paused to get my salivary glands working. “Listen, Charley, do you know if Stacey is carrying her Ruger?”
“Son, I didn’t even know she had a permit.”
Stacey and her secrets.
Pinkham returned with his hands in his pockets and his brow furrowed. I told Charley I needed to go. He said that I should see his Cessna soon. He’d call me with an update in an hour.
“Anything?” I asked Pinkham again.
“I saw some papers and books scattered on the table. Also two mugs, which suggests he had company. It seems strange that he would have invited her inside for tea. Even stranger that she would have accepted the invitation.”
“You don’t know Stacey,” I said. “She’s fearless—not always in a good way.”
“I’m not sure what more we can do here, unless you think it makes sense to wait until Nissen returns.”
“No.” Despite having no idea where to go, I wanted to keep moving. I needed to burn the nervous energy out of my system.
“How about I take you to get your truck?” Pinkham said.
“It’s in the garage, remember? My tires were slashed.”
“You said it’s at Monson Automotive?”
“Yeah. Why?”
He removed his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “How choosy are you about tires?”
“As long as they’re not flat, I don’t care.”
“Let’s see if I can expedite your repair. You can thank me by not doing anything foolish.”
I wanted to tell the warden investigator that my foolish days were over, but I doubted he would believe me, especially when I didn’t even believe it myself.
* * *
On our way down the ridge, Charley’s Cessna appeared against the rising sun. The old pilot must have seen Pinkham’s truck, as well. He waggled his wings in greeting. Usually, the gesture made me smile, but not today.
We retraced our route back to Monson but turned south on Route 15. Before I saw the sign for Monson Automotive, I saw the heaps of discarded tires piled behind the garage. That was why Pinkham had asked if I was choosy about what went on my truck, I realized. In the interest of time, I was getting used treads. I supposed I was fortunate the GMC Sierra was such a popular model in this neck of the woods.
The big man who’d towed my pickup earlier came out through the bay door as we pulled up. He was holding an impact wrench in one hand and covering a yawn with the other. I could see my truck on the lift behind him.
“Hey, Jasper, thanks for bumping my friend to the head of the line,” said Pinkham.
“What’s the rush on this?”
The investigator hitched a thumb inside his belt and smiled. “The usual thing. Police business.”
The big man shook his round head. He had a grease smudge under his eye like football players do and speckles of dandruff on his shoulders. “You frigging game wardens. Everything’s a goddamned secret. There’s coffee in the office. I should be done in half an hour.”
In the waiting room, I filled two Styrofoam cups from the coffee machine while Pinkham inspected the hunting and bikini magazines on the table.
“I guess Jasper doesn’t get a lot of female customers,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
“Thanks for doing this, Pinkham.”
“Maybe I’m just tired of chauffeuring you around.”
“In any case, I owe you.”
“No, you owe Jasper. I hope you brought your credit card.”
We sat down to wait, but I couldn’t stop checking my watch every other minute. After a while, I got up to use the grimy bathroom. The toilet refused to flush unless the plunger in the tank was lifted manually. I washed my hands for a solid three minutes and still didn’t feel as if I’d killed all the germs.
Jasper was standing behind the register when I came out, gabbing with Pinkham.
“Bob Nissen? Of course I know Bob,” the big man said. “Replaced the transmission on his van this spring. You don’t see many of those old VWs around anymore. What did he do?”
“We’re just looking for him is all,” said Pinkham.
“Do you know if he has any friends or family in the area?” I asked.
Jasper scratched his scalp, loosing a flurry of dandruff on his shoulders. “I couldn’t tell you. Nissen mostly keeps to himself. The only time I ever see him around is at the store. You should talk to Pearlene. I think she buys honey from him to sell. Candles, too.”
The gas station truly was the center of everything that happened in the village.
When I reviewed my bill, I saw that Jasper had tacked an extra charge of fifty dollars on for the rush job. I wasn’t going to argue about it. I was just glad to be mobile again.
I loaded my bag of guns into the cab of the Sierra and fired up the engine. Pinkham knocked on my window.
“I’ll follow you over there,” he said.
“Afraid I’m going to do something rash unless you’re there to stop me?”
“I was thinking my clogged arteries could use a breakfast sandwich.”
The general store was as bustling as ever. Every gas pump was in use. Men in coveralls hurried in and out with cups of coffee and bagged lunches to take to their job sites. The smell of hot grease wafted through a vent.
Toby Dow’s overturned bucket waited in its usual spot for its owner to return. The arrangement was probably easier for his family than baby-sitting him all day. As I turned off my engine, an image came into my head of the boy sitting on his makeshift stool, and I experienced a curious sensation I couldn’t quite define. I felt a tingle of anxiety, as if the apparition was a warning of some sort, which was a ridiculous thing to think. What did I have to fear from a teen with Down syndrome?
Pinkham pulled his truck up next to mine, and we both got out.
Inside the store, a line stretched from the checkout counter to the beer cooler. Pearlene stood behind the register, rushing to ring up purchases. She was wearing her usual baggy smock and a hairnet pulled down to her eyebrows. Sweat streamed down the side of her face and an unlighted cigarette dangled from her painted lips.
“Morning, Pearlene,” Pinkham said. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full this morning.”
“I’m too busy for small talk, Wes. If you want to buy something, get in line.”
“There’s something we need to talk with you about. It’s kind of delicate.”
“Can’t you see I’m working?”
“Please, Pearlene. This is important.” He turned toward the line of customers, each of whom had the expression of someone waiting for a bathroom. “I’m sure these good folks can spare a few extra minutes.”
Pearlene scowled at us as we approached. She pushed aside some of the objects cluttering the counter—her cell phone and a can of Diet Coke—in order to lean over it. “You’re costing me money, Wes.”
He smiled and lowered his voice. “But it’s for a good cause. Do you know Warden Bowditch?”
“We’ve met,” she said with no hint of warmth. “If it’s about Benton again, I don’t want to hear it. We got fined last month because he sold cigarettes to a teenage girl. I told him if it happened again, I was going to shitcan him. So tell me the bad news.”
“Actually, we’re looking for Bob Nissen.”
“He lives out
in Blanchard, on Breakneck Ridge. You should try out there.” With her tongue, she moved the cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other. “Why? What did he do?”
“We were at his cabin earlier. He’s not there,” I said. “Jasper, at the garage, told us you were friendly with him.”
“Friendly!” She let out a witch’s cackle. “I buy honey and candles from the man. We’re not bosom buddies, for Christ’s sake.”
“Is there anything you can tell us about him?” Pinkham asked. “Anything that might help us track him down?”
“You still haven’t told me what he did.”
“Please, Pearlene.”
“You probably know about his speed record,” she said. “He hiked the AT faster than anyone. I guess he’s a celebrity among the thru-hikers, which is kind of comical, if you ask me. Some of them come in asking for directions to his place. They want to make a pilgrimage out there while they’re in the area, but I tell them Bob isn’t the type who welcomes visitors. He’s chased more than a few of those kids off his property, according to Benton.”
“Do you know if he attends church services over at the Lake of the Woods Tabernacle?” Pinkham asked.
“You should go ask that horse’s ass, Brother John.”
“You don’t like the pastor?”
“If he’s a real pastor, I’m the Queen of Sheba.” Her gaze went to her milling customers.
The detective made eye contact with me, as if to say, Well, this was a dead end.
I leaned against the counter and accidentally overturned a tray of disposable lighters. Some fell to the floor.
“Goddamn it!” Pearlene said.
“I’m sorry.”
I began picking up the scattered Bics and putting them back into their display case like pegs in a pegboard. Pinkham stooped to help me. When I touched the case of lighters, the back end slid across the counter and knocked Pearlene’s cell phone to her feet.
“Are you always this graceful?” she asked as she bent down to retrieve it.
“I’m sorry.”
When she set the phone beside the register again, I saw that it was one of those oversized models, nearly the size of a small paperback. Cracks spiderwebbed the glass screen. I reached for it without thinking.
