by Paul Doiron
The plow had helpfully cleared a turnaround at the gate. I imagined the U-turn was well used by the locals who came here to gawk at the sex-offender colony. I began to reverse direction.
“What are you doing?” Mink asked in alarm.
“Leaving.”
“You don’t want to call that number?”
“I’m going to call it,” I said. “But first I’m going to drop you at home—or at the side of the road. I haven’t decided which.”
“But we’re already here!”
I had been planning on driving home after I had finished with Foss, but it was already getting late. With the snow piling up, the trip was bound to be a nightmare. My head ached, and my stitches ached, and the bruise on my back where Carrie Michaud had tried to impale me ached.
And Mink was right: I was already here.
I snatched my phone from the console and dialed the number visitors were instructed to call.
A recorded voice answered: “Please state your name and the purpose of your visit. If your business with us is legitimate, someone will be at the gate shortly to grant you admittance.”
“This is Mike Bowditch with the Maine Warden Service,” I said. “I would like to speak with Mr. Foss, please.”
I turned off the engine to wait.
“At least I got you here,” Mink said, picking his teeth with a fingernail. “You’ve got to admit you never would’ve found it without me.”
At first, the snow melted the instant it touched the windshield, but as the warmth ebbed from the truck, a sheer white sheet began to form over the glass.
I kept the phone in my hand, ready for a callback. But none came.
After a while, I turned on the engine again and let the wipers clear away some of the snow. I wanted to be able to see the gate.
“About freaking time,” said my passenger. “My nuggets were starting to go numb.”
I turned off the engine again.
“Oh, come on!” Mink said.
Fifteen minutes passed before we finally saw headlights arcing through the trees. Then an enormous Ford Super Duty came rumbling down the hill to the gate. The driver left the engine running and the headlights blazing as he climbed down out of his oversized vehicle. The glare made it hard to see him clearly, but he appeared to be very large and was wearing a brimmed hat. He also happened to be carrying a shotgun.
I began to reach for the door handle. Mink followed suit. I closed my hand around his collarbone.
“You’re staying here,” I told him, tightening my grip. “I’m done kidding around.”
He gave me the familiar exasperated sigh, but he didn’t resist.
I stepped out into the falling snow. As the afternoon had waned, the sky had gone from a dull white to a sort of a lavender gray. I walked slowly toward the gate with my arms at my sides.
“Mr. Foss?” I called.
“What can I do for you?” He had a deep and resonant voice.
“My name’s Mike Bowditch. I’m a Maine game warden.”
“That’s what you said in your message. What can I do for you?”
Don Foss was a big man in every way. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a big chest that merged seamlessly into a bigger belly. His head was the size and shape of a basketball. He probably could have throttled a horse with his hands. The only thing small about him was his wispy little mustache.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Adam Langstrom, if you don’t mind,” I said.
“He’s not here.”
“Yes, I know. His probation officer told me.”
“You spoke with Ms. Hawken, then?”
“She told me that Adam has been working for you since being released from prison,” I said. “I wonder if I can come in and you can answer some questions for me.”
“Such as?” The pump shotgun looked like a toy in his enormous hands.
“I’d like to know more about the nature of your facility.”
He let out a booming laugh. “I don’t offer tours of my property to strangers. I run a business, not a zoo. You identified yourself as a warden. In what capacity are you acting, exactly?”
“I’m not here as a law-enforcement officer,” I said. “Amber Langstrom is worried about her son and wants him to come back. She asked me to help find him, and I agreed to do so as a personal favor.”
I expected him to ask me for identification. The fact that he hadn’t seemed a bad sign.
“Langstrom is not a child in need of protection.” The man’s voice rolled out of him like distant thunder. “He is a man responsible for his own actions.”
“So you have no idea where he might have gone?”
“If I did, I would not tell you,” he said. “It was a condition of his release that he submit to regular searches and blood tests. I have made his room and his personal effects available to his probation officer. I have also answered all of Ms. Hawken’s appropriate questions. Beyond that, Langstrom has certain inalienable rights, which he did not forfeit upon his conviction. Unless I believe him to be a risk to himself or to others, I shall not violate those rights.”
The diesel engine of his truck chugged along, the only sound in the clearing.
“That’s quite a speech,” I said.
“I hope you are not mocking me, Warden.”
“I’ve just never heard anyone talk that way about a sex offender before.” I brushed snow off the bridge of my nose. “In my experience, even defense attorneys take hot showers after shaking their hands. And here you are, giving them jobs and welcoming them into your home. I’m curious to know why.”
“Are you a religious man, Warden?”
“It depends on how scared I am.”
“I am not a religious man,” Foss said proudly. “But sometimes I find it useful to quote the Bible to those who profess to believe in it: ‘Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law.’ I don’t believe in Jesus Christ, but I do believe in second chances.”
“That makes two of us,” I said. “I mean the part about believing in second chances. I’m here to stop Adam from throwing his away.”
“How well do you know Langstrom?”
I thought back to the photograph I had seen of him taken at his trial: the familiar face filled with the familiar anger. “Well enough.”
“Then you should give him the courtesy of assuming he knows his own mind and is responsible for his own actions.” He lifted the barrel of his shotgun. “Who is that with you?”
I swung around and saw Mink standing behind me in the snow. I had to hand it to the little guy. He was as stealthy as his namesake weasel.
“Get back in the truck, Mink,” I said.
“I’m just getting some air.”
I turned back to Foss. “He’s just someone I’m giving a ride to. I picked him up hitchhiking.”
“I know who Mink is.” In the headlights shining behind him, his steaming breath made a wreath around his head. “I’m sure you understand that my men and myself are the subject of frequent threats.”
“That’s because they’re a bunch of creeps,” muttered Mink.
Foss seemed to ignore him. “This place is a sanctuary for men in need. I have given them my word that they will be safe here as long as they abide by my rules.”
I gestured to the gate. “Your sign says that you have cameras monitoring this entrance twenty-four hours a day.”
“That’s correct.”
“So you know when Adam left here on a Thursday night two weeks ago?”
For the first time, the big man seemed to falter in his confidence. “I do, but I am not going to tell you.”
“He was last seen driving a pickup truck, but no vehicles are registered in his name. You wouldn’t know whose that was?”
“As I have explained, I was Langstrom’s employer, not his keeper. My men are free to come and go as they please so long as they abide by the orders of their probation and the agreement they signed with me.”
“May I see that agreement?’
>
“You may not.” Foss removed his fedora and whacked it against his thigh to remove the snow from the brim. “Please express my sympathies to Langstrom’s mother. Tell her that I will welcome her son back if he chooses to return, but it is unlikely the state will give him that option now.”
“Is that piece of trash Dudson still hiding in there?” Mink shouted.
Foss let out another of his thunderous laughs. I had the sense that he didn’t take my passenger seriously. Nor did he extend his exagerratedly formal courtesy to him.
Mink surged forward. “You’ve got a funny sense of right and wrong, buddy!”
“Good night, Warden,” Foss said, returning to his truck.
I couldn’t really be mad at Mink for his outburst. Foss was obviously well practiced at resisting inquiries about his operation and about the ex-cons he sheltered. As I had feared, I had come all this way only to run into a steel gate.
16
The farmhouse at the base of the hill was still dark. The HOME FOR SALE sign in the snowbound yard had taken on added poignancy now that I understood the circumstances. No wonder the poor owner can’t unload his house, I thought. Living down the road from a bunch of sex offenders was not unlike living beside a toxic-waste dump.
Mink and I had almost reached Moose Alley again when we saw headlights headed in our direction. The road here was narrow, especially given the snowbanks, with no place to pull aside to let another driver pass.
I stopped.
The driver of the oncoming vehicle stopped. He turned on his high beams.
With our headlights focused on each other, neither of us could see the other one.
Mink pressed his chest to the dash. “What’s this mook’s problem?”
For me to back up would have meant negotiating a hundred yards of turns—in reverse—into the woods. The driver of the other vehicle had only to scoot back fifty feet to the highway. But he didn’t budge.
I drummed my fingers on the wheel. The height of the headlamps told me we were facing a truck, but I had no clue what kind. All I knew was that the driver was a jerk. The way the day had gone already, I shouldn’t have been surprised to find myself engaged in a meaningless Mexican standoff.
“Honk your horn,” said Mink.
“I’m not going to honk my horn.” I unfastened my seat belt and made ready to get out to confront the unseen person behind the wheel. “Don’t pull any shit this time, or you’ll be walking home.”
“We’ll both be walking if this mook doesn’t back up.”
Half-blinded by the glare, I saw movement as the driver’s door opened. The silhouette of a man appeared, clinging close to his vehicle. He moved toward us. I had a flashback to that damn video again, one cop after another being gunned down as they made what should have been a routine traffic stop.
I leaned across Mink’s lap and got another big whiff of his cologne as I opened the glove compartment. The Walther pistol was hidden under a stack of auto-service receipts. I checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber.
“What do you need that for?” Mink asked.
“It’s my Binky.”
“Some Binky!”
The man stepped into the headlights finally, giving me the look I had been waiting for. He had brown hair that needed cutting and a stubble beard that needed shaving. He wore a ripped long underwear shirt beneath a black snowmobile suit unzipped nearly to his navel. His mouth was thin and drawn as taut as a garrote.
“Oh shit,” said Mink.
“Why? Who is he? Do you know him?”
The driver advanced toward my door. I tucked the gun between my legs, keeping my right hand tightened around the textured grip, my finger close to the trigger. With my left hand, I rolled down my window.
The man leaned his body weight against my side mirror and stared at me.
“Hey, I know this vehicle.” He seemed to have a speech impediment: a difficulty hearing or a problem fully manipulating his tongue. “This is a ’76 Scout, right? Nice ride. I saw you up on the mountain this afternoon.”
He was the young man Elderoy had been speaking with, I realized. The man with the hounds.
“Who’s that with you?” he asked, peering past me. “Is that Mink?”
“Hey, Logan,” said my passenger in a tone that went out of its way to cover up the fear he seemed to be feeling.
The driver, Logan, said to me, “Can you back up, so I can get by?”
Technically, it was a question, but it felt more like a demand. He seemed to have the drained complexion and sunken eyes of an insomniac, although it might have been a trick of the light.
“I could,” I said. “But it would be easier if you did it. The highway’s just right there behind your truck.”
Without glancing back, he said, “Yeah, it is. You been up at Foss’s just now?”
“That’s right,” I said.
I couldn’t see hearing aids in his ears, but there was definitely something off about his voice that made him hard to understand.
“One of the perverts get loose or something?” he asked.
“Or something.” I kept my handgun between my thighs. “I take it you live in the house for sale back there.”
“You want to buy it? Make me an offer. I’m willing to let it go cheap.”
“Your name’s Logan?”
“That’s right. Logan Dyer.”
“You work over at Widowmaker with Elderoy?” I said.
The snow melted almost immediately when it touched his head. “He’s my boss. I shovel snow. He said you’re a game warden. Is this Twenty Questions we’re playing?”
Suddenly, a loud, unearthly noise started up inside his truck—the baying of hounds.
“Yikes!” said Mink.
“I noticed your dogs at Widowmaker before,” I said. “They’re beautiful. What breed are they?”
“Plott hounds.” He kept his eyes locked on mine, but I had a prickly feeling he had noticed I was hiding my gun hand. “You ever heard of those before?”
“No.”
“They’re from down south, bred for wild boars. I use them for bobcats and coyotes mainly. Sometimes bears.” He swung his head around to his idling truck and baying hounds. “Shut the fuck up!”
The dogs went instantly quiet.
“You want to show me your hunting license, Logan?” I asked in a soft voice.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Carefully, I removed my badge from my parka pocket with my left hand and held it out, making sure not to lose the grip on my gun.
“I know who you are,” he said. “You’re the big hero. I saw you in the news. You were getting medals.”
I had been honored by the Warden Service a couple of years earlier for apprehending the man who had ended Kathy Frost’s career. I received the Meritorious Service Award for conduct above and beyond the call of duty at a danger to my own life, and, to the surprise of nearly everyone in the room, Warden of the Year honors. I had gone from zero to hero in the span of a single awards banquet.
“What’s it like to get a medal?” he asked. “You got it on you now?”
I ignored the question and held out my left hand. “Now, how about showing me your license?”
Dyer looked me over without haste, as if he was taking his time making an important decision. Eventually, he produced a folded piece of paper. His hunting license said his name was Logan Dyer and that he was twenty-eight years old. I would have guessed thirty-eight, but hard living can age a man well past his actual years. He had purchased special permits to hunt every big-game species in Maine in every manner possible.
I was aware of how Mink seemed to be trying to make himself as small as possible in the seat beside me.
“Are we cool?” he asked, taking the paper back.
“There’s just one more thing,” I said. “You said you work at Widowmaker?”
His tongue seemed to flail around words. “You saw me working there, didn’t you?”
“And you live in that house back there?”
“I already said I did.”
I reached into my shirt pocket for the picture of Adam. “Does this guy look familiar at all?”
While Dyer examined the photograph, I watched his eyes, but there wasn’t the faintest flicker of recognition.
“Who is he?” he asked. “What did he do?”
“Do you remember seeing him driving in or out of here? He might have been in a pickup.”
He scratched his ear. “What kind of pickup?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sorry.” He stretched out his arm, holding the picture clamped between two fingers. For an instant, I thought he might be planning to drop it as a joke. But he didn’t. “Who is he?”
“No one important,” I said. “How about moving your truck for me, Mr. Dyer?”
“Right. Sorry.” Dyer waved at my passenger with just his fingers. “Toodle-loo, Mink. See you on the trails.”
He stepped back away from my door slowly with his hands slightly raised, as if he feared to turn his back on me. I lost sight of him in the glare of his headlights again but heard the door slam. Then the truck went roaring backward.
“So I take it you know that guy?” I asked Mink.
“I know him.”
“Not the friendliest person.”
“No.”
I barely tapped the gas until we had reached the intersection of Moose Alley. My headlights lit up the side of Dyer’s vehicle. It was an old Toyota Tacoma, more rust and Bondo than steel. The windows were all fogged up, as if two teenagers were going at it inside. But I knew the condensation came from the panting dogs.
“Which way?” I asked Mink.
“Left.”
I pressed the pedal and fishtailed all over the slick road before the tires caught. I watched the lights of Dyer’s truck grow smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror. Only then did I realize that I still had my hand clenched around the Walther.
“Are you going to tell me how you know Dyer?” I asked Mink.
“He’s just another asshat. Nothing special. He works over on the mountain, shoveling snow.”
“Does he have difficulty hearing? He seemed to have a speech impediment.”
“I heard he’s missing part of his tongue.”
