Widowmaker

by Paul Doiron

  “I think she’s feeling a little lost,” I said. “She hasn’t figured out what comes next.”

  “Join the club.”

  “You thinking of retiring, Pulsifer? I thought you were serving a life sentence.”

  “Lauren wants me out. She’s tired of my being gone all the time, leaving her with the kids and the animals. And the union stuff is burning me out. I’m tired of hearing everyone’s sins. I never signed up to be the father confessor for the Warden Service. All right. You’ve stalled long enough. Why don’t you tell me what happened today.”

  He poured himself a fresh cup of cider and added a bigger splash of bourbon. When he offered the same to me, I shook him off.

  “You sure you want to hear all the gory details?” I said.

  “No, but tell me anyway.”

  It took me half an hour to tell the story. Lauren didn’t return to the kitchen, but sometimes I thought I heard a creaking at the top of the stairs, as if she might be standing at the banister listening.

  I left out only one important detail, and that was about Adam’s being my half brother. Pulsifer was an experienced investigator, and I could tell that he suspected I was deliberately concealing something. Hell, I would have been suspicious, listening to myself. How had Amber Langstrom managed to convince me to assist her in finding her fugitive son? After I had worked so hard to rehabilitate my career, why would I risk it for a total stranger? Something didn’t add up. I could see it in his eyes.

  “Amber certainly can be persuasive,” he said.

  The dogs were snoring at my feet. “I would call her persistent instead of persuasive.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first man she bewitched.”

  But I refused to bite on any of the baited hooks he was throwing me. “She appealed to my sense of chivalry.”

  “So what’s your theory?” he asked. I could hear the alcohol in his voice now.

  “My theory?”

  “What do you think happened to Langstrom? Don’t tell me you don’t have any ideas.”

  “I’d say that Adam was afraid of someone—someone specific. Amber said he had nothing but enemies, and I met a bunch of them today. Maybe it was someone who held a grudge against him from the rape.”

  “Davidson?”

  I pictured the delicate doe-eyed skier. “I doubt it, but who knows?”

  “It seems more likely another sex offender from Pariahville,” Pulsifer said.

  “What?”

  “That’s just my nickname for the place.”

  “It’s possible. It didn’t sound like Adam and Foss got along particularly well. But I keep thinking it was someone from outside. For instance, those guys who call themselves the Night Watchmen. At first, I thought they were just a bunch of old boozehounds. But there was something definitely creepy about them—how closely they were paying attention to me. It was as if they didn’t want me asking around about Adam.”

  Pulsifer seemed to find the idea hilarious. “You think the popcorn posse is a group of vigilantes?”

  “Torgerson seems like a tough old bastard. And the fact that he showed up at the scene—”

  “Torgerson was there because he’s a retired SEAL. A bloody truck is found outside the school. Of course someone is going to call him. Don’t tell me you’re one of those conspiracy theorists who think SERE is some sort of black-ops base.”

  The bourbon had brought out Pulsifer’s mocking side, and I wasn’t thrilled by its reemergence.

  “I’m not a conspiracy theorist,” I said. “What about the guy who lives down the road from Foss’s?”

  “Logan Dyer?”

  “He’s having trouble selling his house because no one wants to live near Pariahville. And I got a weird vibe off him when he looked at Mink.”

  “Mink!” The name made Pulsifer smile wide enough that I could see his canine teeth. “I should have realized you would’ve found a way to hook up with Nathan Minkowski in your travels.”

  “So what’s his story?”

  “No, no, no. We’re not done with you and Adam. What were you saying about Logan Dyer?”

  “Just that he seemed like bad news.”

  “I wouldn’t bark up that tree if I were you. The poor guy has had a rough life. First his mom and sister died in a car crash. Then his dad causes a fatal chairlift accident.”

  I couldn’t believe I was only now making the connection. “Logan is Scott Dyer’s son?”

  “How did you know Scott?”

  “Elderoy told me about him. He said Scott Dyer warned the Widowmaker owners that the lift was unsafe. And then, after it happened, they used him as a scapegoat to shift the blame off their business.”

  “That’s Elderoy’s version,” said Pulsifer. “Most of the people I know blamed Scott for negligence. The mountain had been doing fine before the crash. Then the accident happened and the whole economy went to crap.”

  I could easily imagine what life had been like for Logan Dyer; I also had a father who was widely considered a villain.

  Pulsifer seemed to be reading my thoughts. “I never told you this, but I hated your old man. The way he used to rub my nose in shit around here. And then, after he shot Shipman and Brodeur, and everyone was hunting for him, I remember praying, ‘Please, let me be the one who finds that son of a bitch.’ And I didn’t even believe in God back then.”

  My mouth had gone dry listening to him. I took a swig of cider but was repulsed by the taste of alcohol.

  While Pulsifer had been talking, a film had formed on his eyes, as if we were drifting backward into the past. Now that the room had fallen silent (but for the crackling fire in the stove), he seemed to return to the present. He blinked several times to clear his vision.

  “All I’m saying is that your father was a bad guy, too, and you turned out OK,” he said.

  “That seems to be a matter in dispute.”

  “Logan’s not the brightest bulb,” Pulsifer said defensively. “Look, the poor guy works as a snow shoveler. That’s the lowest man on the totem pole over at Widowmaker. And sure, he’s a little rough around the edges. He’s the kind of person Lauren calls a ‘sheep in wolf’s clothing.’” He seemed suddenly disgusted with me. “I would think you, of all people, would understand his situation.”

  “Which is what?”

  “You’ve both spent your lives trying to prove you’re not like your fathers.”

  And with that he tossed another birch log into the stove and said good night. I remained seated at the table a while longer. Pulsifer had drunk nearly all of the bourbon. I poured the rest out and took the empty bottle back to my room so his wife wouldn’t find it in the morning.

  21

  When I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I was surprised to find that the mirror over the sink had been shattered. Cracks spread out in a spiderweb pattern from one smashed spot. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but it appeared someone might have driven a fist into the glass.

  Accidents happen, I told myself. Especially in a house full of rowdy children.

  I spit into the bowl and rinsed my mouth under the tap. The Pulsifers’ well water tasted faintly of sulfur.

  After having sat for an hour in the heat of the kitchen, the guest room felt frigid. I touched the radiator and found it cold. I crawled fully dressed under the covers. The quilt was too thin, the blanket inadequate. When I exhaled, I could see my breath dissipate on the drafts moving about the half-dark room.

  I hadn’t felt so alone in a long time. I reached for my phone on the nightstand, not expecting to find a note from Stacey. But when I tapped the screen, there was a text message:

  I’m sick as a dog. Sinuses packed with snot. My ears felt like they were going to explode on the chopper ride. But I’m going up again tomorrow, even if it kills me.

  I am having trouble forgiving you.

  S.

  It was something at least: a reason not to give up hope. Tomorrow I would reach out to her again. I would make amends.

&n
bsp; I had just fallen asleep when the door nosed open and the two spaniels, Flotsam and Jetsam, came bounding onto the bed. I got up to let them out, but they refused to budge. I crawled back under the covers.

  It had been a long time since I had slept with dogs. My mother had been allergic, and so I had grown up with a series of cats, each more neurotic than the next. Nearly every warden I knew owned at least one dog, usually a hunting breed. Labrador retrievers were popular, as were Brittanies and English springer spaniels. Some of the wardens assigned to the K-9 search-and-rescue teams had German shepherds or Belgian Malinois.

  Why didn’t I own a dog? The reasoning I used, when anyone asked, was that I moved around too much. I lived alone, and my hours were erratic, and I couldn’t put myself in a position to have to hurry home from a stakeout to feed a pet. But these same excuses applied to other single wardens, and most of them had canine companions. What was I waiting for?

  When I closed my eyes again, I pictured that wolf dog, Shadow, caged in a pen at the animal shelter. His intelligent yellow eyes seemed fixed on me with the predatory intensity you associate with large carnivores. Had the test results come back, proving his wild bloodline? Was his fate now sealed? Joanie Swette had said that the shelter would make every effort to place him with a licensed caregiver, or even arrange transport to some distant sanctuary, and yet I had heard the lack of optimism in her voice.

  I scratched the nerve bundle at the base of the cockers’ spines and listened to the contented thumping of their tails.

  No bed with a dog in it is ever cold or lonely.

  * * *

  The staccato pounding of children’s feet on the stairs woke me. It was still dark. The skin of my face had tightened from being exposed to the cold air. And the dogs had disappeared from my side in the night.

  I reached for my cell phone on the bedside table and saw that it was six o’clock. No new messages.

  I shuffled into the bathroom and studied my fractured reflection in the mirror. I splashed some cold water on my eyes to remove the crust. I rubbed a wet hand towel under my arms and applied a fresh coat of antiperspirant. Then I brushed my teeth.

  The kitchen was so raucous, I had trouble picking out individual voices as I made my way down the hall.

  Lauren Pulsifer stood at the woodstove, pouring pancake batter on a greased griddle. Her hair was wet, but she was fully dressed and ready for the day, as were the two small children seated at the table. The room felt as hot as a sauna.

  “Good morning! I hope the kids didn’t wake you.”

  “This is when I get up anyway.”

  “Kids, this is Warden Bowditch. He works with Daddy. Mike, this is Jacob and this is Isabella.”

  The boy looked to be about seven. The girl might have been four. They both had their father’s fox-colored hair. They grunted hellos and returned to their project of getting maple syrup all over their faces.

  “Gary’s out feeding the animals,” she said. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Thank you.”

  She seemed in better spirits than she had the night before. I had expected her to be angry with me for smuggling booze into the house, where it was obviously not welcome.

  The windows had begun to fill with an indigo light as the sun crept closer to the eastern horizon. Lauren put a plate of pancakes in front of me. “The syrup’s from our sugar house. We try to grow what we eat here. It’s a lot of work, but Gary says it helps him with his recovery.”

  Pulsifer had never told me he attended Alcoholics Anonymous. If he had, I definitely wouldn’t have offered him bourbon. Even worse, I realized, Lauren’s cheerful manner meant that she didn’t know Gary had gotten drunk the night before. Somehow he had managed to hide it from her. I felt assailed by guilt—for tempting Pulsifer into breaking his pledge, and for my silent complicity in concealing his slip from his wife.

  “Gary says you’re dating one of the Stevens girls,” she said.

  “Stacey,” I said.

  Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “The pretty one.”

  It should have registered with me that Lauren would have known Charley and Ora Stevens and their daughters. For years, the Stevenses had owned a camp just across Flagstaff Pond. And Charley and Gary must have worked plenty of cases together before my old mentor retired from the Warden Service.

  Lauren hovered with a dishrag behind her children, watchful of messes. “How are Charley and Ora doing?” she asked. “We miss them so much here. So many good people left the area when Wendigo canceled their leases. That company is as close as you can come to pure evil. Gary says they bulldozed every decent deer yard between Eustis and the Kennebec River. Their plan is to take all the good wood and then develop the waterfront properties for real estate. Maybe sell it to some billionaire to create his own North Woods Kingdom. Don’t you hate it when your predictions come true?”

  “Only the bad ones,” I said.

  She had an unconvincing laugh. “I guess it’s been a long time since I was an optimist.”

  “What’s an optimist?” the boy, Jacob, asked.

  “It’s someone who thinks good thoughts,” Lauren said.

  I ate quietly while Lauren did her mother thing, and we all waited for Gary. The kids seemed well behaved—loud as most kids, but well behaved. Eventually, she cleared them out of the kitchen with instructions to finish getting ready for school. Almost anyplace else, twenty inches of fresh snow would have meant canceled classes, but not in Maine, where natives consider anything less than four feet to be a dusting.

  She removed my empty plate and poured coffee for the both of us. Then she sat down heavily across from me. It was as if she hadn’t wanted her children to see how bone-tired she was.

  “The older I get, the more I seem to hate change,” she said. “Don’t you find that’s true? Even when it’s good change, like with Gary. I have a hard time trusting things will be better in the future. I keep waiting for the sky to fall.”

  I thought of that empty bottle of bourbon in my duffel. “Stacey says I’m the same way.”

  She gave me another of her wrinkly smiles. “I remember her when she was a little girl. What a tomboy! And just as fearless as her dad.”

  “She still is,” I said.

  “They’re such a wonderful family. Charley helped Gary out of so many scrapes. He could have let my husband self-destruct.” She caught herself, as if she had suddenly remembered I was a relative stranger in her house. “You’re easy to talk to, Mike. You have a comfortable way about you. And those blue eyes don’t hurt, either. They must be your secret weapon with women.”

  “I wish that were true.”

  “I’m sure people must tell you that you have your father’s eyes,” she said. “I knew him, of course. Everyone around here did. And Gary was obsessed with him because he was so blatant about all the deer and moose he was poaching. He used to come home so, so angry. I know it was one reason he drank. Gary’s sponsor says alcoholics drink because they have a spiritual disease. But I blame your father for a lot of the bad times we had. I am sorry, but that’s just how I feel.”

  A door opened down the hall and a gust of cold air rushed into the kitchen before the door shut again and the finger paintings stopped flapping on the walls. Flotsam and Jetsam barreled into the room, their coats matted with snow, their nails clicking on the floorboards. I heard Pulsifer stomping his boots.

  Lauren flushed, as if with embarrassment, and stood up from the table, as if she feared being caught with me in a compromising position. Living on an isolated farm in the woods, cooped up with four kids and a husband with a history of alcohol abuse, she probably had no one to talk to about her own problems. We both knew that she had confided far more than she had intended in me.

  “Charley Stevens used to be the district warden here before he became a warden pilot,” she began, as if in the middle of a conversation. “I remember when I was in elementary school he came to talk to my class and brought a three-legged raccoon with him on a leash
. They probably wouldn’t allow that now.”

  “I highly doubt it,” I said.

  “Highly doubt what?” Pulsifer was wearing his winter uniform: black parka and snowmobile pants.

  “We were just talking about some of Charley Stevens’s escapades,” Lauren said.

  “Those could fill a book.” Pulsifer filled a glass of water from the sink and drank it down in one gulp, then did it all over again. “You used to be able to get away with a lot more in the old days.” His voice sounded parched. “There was one state cop—I won’t say who—who had three women he used to visit while their husbands were at work at the same mill. All three husbands worked different shifts, so there was always one open bed.”

  “That’s not funny, Gary,” Lauren said.

  He hadn’t yet made eye contact with me. “When I started, no one ever knew where I was or what I was doing. As long as I kept my picture out of the paper and wrote my quota of tickets, the colonel didn’t care.”

  “It’s a brand-new day,” I said.

  “And a cold one, too,” said Lauren. “Thermometer read five below this morning, and the wind’s out of the northwest. It must be one of those Alberta clippers the weathermen always go on about.”

  I hadn’t yet decided what I was going to do. On my way south, I could stop at the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department and see how the examination of Adam’s truck was coming along. Maybe I’d run into Clegg there, and I could tell him about the handgun the missing felon had taken from his mother’s apartment.

  “I should probably get on the road,” I told my hosts.

  Pulsifer put an apple in his pocket for later. “I’ll show you around the farm before you go.”

  “I just need to grab my duffel.”

  The dogs followed me into the chilly guest room and then decided it was too cold for them, leaving me alone to strip the bed. I piled the sheets, blanket, and quilt at the bottom of the bed and sat down on the bare mattress.

  I suspected that Pulsifer’s “tour of the farm” would be an excuse to talk about the previous evening. I dreaded the conversation on all sorts of levels. Would he be contrite, or would he make excuses? Did he blame me for leading him into temptation, or had he decided I was going to be his secret new drinking buddy?