by Paul Doiron
I needed to talk to someone.
I tried Kathy first, but I got a voice-mail message. She had become an early riser in her late middle age.
I wanted to give Charley and Ora space.
Call Pulsifer? No way.
I scrolled through the list of recent calls and touched the name of Captain DeFord. It was as if my finger acted of its own accord. The phone began to ring.
“Mike?” he said. “What’s going on?”
“There was a helicopter crash up near the Allagash. Did you hear about it?”
Why had I called DeFord, of all people? This man I was talking to was the captain of the Warden Service, not a chaplain or a grief counselor. He was my superior officer, and I barely even knew him.
“I was just on the phone with St. Pierre. He’s coordinating the recovery operation. What a tragedy.”
I tried to keep emotion out of my voice. “The initial reports were that Stacey Stevens was on that helicopter. But it turns out she wasn’t.”
DeFord knew Stacey was my girlfriend. He was also well acquainted with her parents. “Have you had a chance to talk with her?”
“A while ago.”
“How is she doing?”
“About as well as you’d expect.”
He paused. “How are you doing?”
The reason I had called DeFord, I now realized, was in the hope that he would ask me that question.
“Not great.”
“You’ve had a hell of week, haven’t you?” he said quietly. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk with Deb Davies?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. Stacey was supposed to be on that chopper, but she was too sick to fly. It was dumb luck that saved her.”
The same way dumb luck had saved me from Carrie Michaud’s knife, I thought.
“I am not so sure,” DeFord said. “I am one of those people who believe things happen for a reason. We just don’t know what it is until later. Sometimes we never know. But we have to believe there was one. Otherwise, how do we keep going?”
I found myself chuckling.
“What did I say?” DeFord asked, sounding a little irked.
“No offense, but the Reverend Davies is in no danger of losing her job to you.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you laugh,” DeFord said, and I could detect a smile in his voice. “How are your shoulder and arm?”
“Healing.”
“Even with all the running around you’ve been doing up around Rangeley?”
The television flickered from a beer ad back to the game. “You heard about that?”
“Pulsifer told me.”
I should have figured he would rat me out. Damn him.
DeFord went on: “Gary said you’ve been assisting Jim Clegg with information about that missing sex offender.”
“His name is Adam Langstrom.”
“How do you know him?”
I took a moment to consider my words. “I don’t, really.”
DeFord had to mull over my unexpected answer. “So what made you take an interest in him?”
“Langstrom comes from a town where I lived when I was a kid. His background seemed so familiar to me. And I hadn’t been back in those mountains since my dad died.” None of these statements was an actual lie, strictly speaking. “I wanted something to keep my mind occupied, and crossword puzzles aren’t my thing. So I decided to drive up there.”
“Nearly dying is a traumatic experience. Everyone reacts differently to it. When I saw you in the hospital, I was worried about you.”
“Because of my history? I can’t say I blame you.”
The captain paused. “Am I going to receive a complaint about you? Is that why you’re calling?”
“What did Pulsifer say?”
“He said you’re a pain in the ass but a hell of a good investigator.”
“Really?”
“He said you’re wasting your talents, and I should assign you to the Wildlife Crimes Investigative Division.”
I was dumbfounded. Not in my wildest imaginings would I have expected Gary Pulsifer, of all people, to have vouched for me, especially after the way our day had started.
“I told him I agreed,” continued DeFord. “But if we’re going to get the colonel on board, you’re going to need to promise me something first.”
“Anything.”
“Stay out of trouble for a while.”
“I can’t do that, Captain. It doesn’t seem to be in my nature. But I won’t knowingly violate any rules or regulations.”
“Or laws? It would be helpful if you didn’t break any of those.” I sensed a smile in his voice again.
“Or laws,” I said.
He sighed. “I guess that will have to do.”
On the television, the New England Patriots had marched down the field to score a touchdown.
“There’s one more thing,” I added quickly.
He laughed. “There’s always one more thing with you.”
“I want to go back to work. It’s only ten stitches, and they’re healing fast. Can you clear me to return to duty?”
“You’ll need to see a doctor first.”
“But I really do feel fine.”
“And if the doctor agrees, you can discuss the matter with your sergeant. Good night, Mike. Don’t take this the wrong way, but this has been one of the more unusual conversations I have had in my career.”
When I hung up the phone, I realized the agitation I had felt before was gone. I no longer wanted to pull out my hair or scratch off my skin.
Using a package of frozen moose meat from the freezer, I made chili while I listened to the television in the next room. Even the obnoxious announcers no longer bothered me. The Patriots were moving on to the next round of the championships. It felt good to hear other people celebrating.
* * *
Stacey never called back that night, and I couldn’t say it surprised me. She had never been forced by her superiors to see a counselor in the aftermath of a fatality or a traumatic event. No one had ever encouraged her to give voice to her grief and guilt. As a result, she maintained her heart as a sort of Pandora’s box. Keep everything locked inside, and it will all be fine. The problem was that sooner or later, that box was going to open, and that was when her demons would come flying out.
All I knew for certain was that talking with Captain DeFord had helped me. I felt better for having asked for help.
Even so, the thought of having almost lost Stacey kept me awake late. My mind churned around and around, reliving those terrible minutes between my conversation with Charley, when I had feared she was dead, and the near coronary experience of having the phone ring and hearing her voice on the other end.
After a while, I gave up trying to sleep and got up before sunrise to make coffee.
The kitchen windows were so dark, I could see my reflected self moving from sink to fridge to table. Until the doctor cleared me to return to duty, I was still in limbo. I couldn’t engage in any work-related activities.
I sat down at my laptop while I ate my cereal and checked my e-mail. Nothing from Stacey, but there was a message from Pulsifer, dated the previous afternoon, that I had missed seeing:
Heads-up. DeFord might be giving you a call. I didn’t tattle, so you shouldn’t have any problems unless you go out of your way to piss him off.
Wait, that means you’re definitely going to have problems.
Talked to Jim Clegg, too. He had been expecting you to call him. What happened there? Anyway, he spoke with Amber himself and she told him about the gun.
Another piece of news. Clegg said someone in the crime lab owed him a favor and expedited the test on the blood recovered from the Ranger. The type was AB positive, same as Langstrom’s. That’s a rare blood type, too.
Jim is headed back to Pariahville tomorrow. He has a couple more questions for Foss.
I scrolled down the list of other e-mails, most of which were department-related, until I came to a second message from Puls
ifer posted later in the evening:
Just heard about the crash at Clayton Lake! How is it possible Stacey wasn’t on that chopper? Has she ever taken a sick day before?
I owe you an apology, too. Sorry I was so dickish this morning. I was mad at myself for slipping. It wasn’t you. I’d been building up to it for a while (ask Lauren). But I went to a meeting this evening and got my one day chip, which is the only one that ever matters.
I wasn’t ready yet to use the word friend to describe Gary Pulsifer. There was a dark side to the man that made me want to keep some distance between us. But he had made an effort at making amends, and I was grateful.
I checked out the Web sites of the Maine newspapers. The helicopter crash was the lead story on all of them, but there were no details in the reporting that I hadn’t already heard. The flying conditions had been close to ideal, so weather was unlikely to have been a factor. The pilot, Steve Cobb, was only fifty-six and had been flying since the Gulf War. His widow was quoted as saying he’d recently had a physical that showed his cholesterol was on the high side, but otherwise he was as physically fit as a middle-aged man could be.
At seven o’clock sharp, I called Stacey’s cell. There was no answer.
On a hunch, I tried the IF&W field office in Ashland, assuming that the crash investigation and recovery operations would mean someone was already in the office.
A woman with an unfamiliar voice answered. “Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife.”
“This is Warden Mike Bowditch. Can I speak with Stacey Stevens, please?”
“Oh, hello, Warden. Stacey isn’t here.”
“Can you leave a message for me?”
“She might not get it for a while. She took a snowmobile out to the crash scene last night.”
“What?”
It was sixty-some miles from Ashland to Clayton Lake along the infamous American Realty Road, a gravel thoroughfare maintained by loggers and nicknamed the “Reality Road” by locals because it leads through the wildest stretch of Maine.
“We tried to talk her out of it, but you know Stacey.”
“She’s going to catch pneumonia!”
“All I can tell you is that she radioed in when she arrived at Clayton Lake. So you don’t need to worry about that at least. If she radios us again, I’ll let her know you called.”
I thanked the unnamed woman and restrained myself from punching the nearest wall. Did Stacey honestly believe the recovery team and crash investigators needed her help? She could be so selfish in her recklessness.
As I put my cereal bowl in the sink, I caught sight of myself in the kitchen window again.
“Don’t even say it,” I told my glowering reflection.
28
As I thought about the day ahead, I realized there was something productive I could do that wouldn’t violate my agreement with DeFord to refrain from rule-bending activities. I would make it my personal mission to find someone willing to adopt Shadow.
I started researching what Maine state law had to say on the subject of wolf hybrids. Like most legal language, it resisted clear interpretation. Title 7, Section 3911 gave game wardens six days to dispose of a wolf hybrid at large before ownership of the animal was transferred to a shelter for it to be put down. Did that mean I was still the legal custodian of Shadow as the warden who had confiscated him? After five minutes of scratching my head, I pulled up Kathy’s number and hit the call button.
My former sergeant picked up on the second ring.
“Mike! I heard about that crash up in the Allagash. Did you know Stacey was not on board?”
“Not until she called. I thought I was talking to her ghost.”
“Jesus! Is she all right?”
“Not remotely. I just called the field office in Ashland and a woman there told me Stacey took a sled out to Clayton Lake because she wanted to ‘help.’ She practically has walking pneumonia as it is.”
“And what’s this I heard about you being on the sharp end of a knife?”
“That’s another long story, but the short version is that I am fine. I’ll tell you all the gory details later, but right now I have a question. Do you know anyone who would adopt a wolf dog?”
“So that animal you called me about really was a hybrid?”
“Afraid so. I’ve been looking at the law book, and I think I have six days to find a home for him before he’s euthanized. Am I reading that right?”
“I never had to deal with that situation, but I’m guessing the language is vague enough that, unless the department formally transferred ownership to the shelter, you can take him around to people who might consider adopting him. It won’t be easy. Most of the wolf dogs I’ve met have been holy terrors, especially those with the higher wolf content. What’s your guess about this one?”
“I don’t have to guess. He came from Montana, and the state had him listed in its registry. He’s ninety percent wolf.”
“Ninety percent!” Kathy said. “That’s a wild animal, Mike. That’s not a pet.”
“I was hoping you might consider taking him.”
“No.”
“Please, Kathy. You have a permit, and you’re so good with dogs. Pluto has been gone nearly two years and—”
“Mike, you need to stop right there.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
It had been rude of me to try to foist Shadow onto my friend. When Kathy was ready to adopt another dog, she would no doubt want an animal bred for search-and-rescue operations, one she could train. Wolf hybrids were probably the worst-possible animals for the work she did.
“What about some sort of sanctuary?” I asked.
She gave the question some thought. “Well, there’s nothing in Maine.”
“There used to be one in New Hampshire, but I heard it closed.”
“Fenris Unchained didn’t close,” she said. “That was just a rumor because the guy who runs the place had a heart attack, and they thought he was going to die. Somehow, he recovered and is back to taking wolf dogs. I don’t know if he’s accepting new animals, though. More and more states are banning wolf hybrids.”
“Where’s it located?”
“Just across the border in the White Mountains. I’ve never been there, but I heard it’s a funky place. Do you want me to make a call for you?”
“Yes! Thank you, Kathy.”
“What is it about this particular animal that’s gotten to you?”
“I feel responsible for him.”
“There’s got to be more to it than that.”
“I can’t explain it. If you saw him, you would understand, I think.”
After we’d signed off, I pondered the matter some more.
Being a game warden means dealing daily with dying and dead animals. In the course of a shift, you might be called upon to shoot a rabid fox or kill a moose whose brain has been turned into Swiss cheese by parasitic worms. The thrash-metal band Megadeth once put out an album titled Killing Is My Business … and Business Is Good. I hated the music but thought often of the title. In the course of your career, you see hundreds of dead deer, bears, moose, geese, ducks, turkeys, coyotes. The list goes on.
Game wardens couldn’t afford to be sentimental about wild animals. Those feelings were a luxury that belonged to first-world people who no longer had to think about the cycle of predator and prey—people who could afford to remain ignorant of how life actually played out on planet Earth.
* * *
One of the perks of being a warden is that the department allows you to use your patrol truck on your days off, provided you reimburse the state for your mileage.
I put on civilian clothes over my long underwear—L. L. Bean boots, jeans, wool shirt, and Carhartt coat—and went out into the freezing garage.
Most days, I lived out of my patrol truck. A warden’s pickup is the closest thing he or she has to an office and supply shed. Most of the gear I carried was standard from season to season: binoculars,
an old-fashioned pager to receive messages when I was miles from the nearest cell tower, a camouflage jacket and pants, a spotting scope, a first-aid kit, a Mossberg 510A1 tactical shotgun, a Windham Weaponry AR-15 rifle, boxes of all kinds of ammo, evidence bags and body bags, a come-along, multiple thicknesses of rope, a sleeping bag, a GPS, a camera, crime-scene tape, flares, safety cones, et cetera.
I didn’t normally travel with an animal carrier or catch pole, but I knew I would need the carrier at least on this trip. The department had just given us new talonproof gloves that extended up the arm to the elbow. They were comparable to the bite sleeves worn by dogcatchers. I threw my new gloves onto the passenger seat.
As I got behind the wheel, I saw my father’s dog tags dangling from the rearview mirror. I’d forgotten that I had hung them there. I could hear Amber’s last words in my head as clearly as if I were back in that smoky room again. I thought you were a good person. I thought you were loyal. But you’re just as much of a heartless bastard as Jack was. What kind of asshole son doesn’t even claim his dead father’s ashes?
A son who had been utterly betrayed by his father?
I had no idea what had become of my father’s ashes. I assumed that the state of Maine had some protocol for dealing with the unwanted remains of the indigent and outcast. I figured there must be a twenty-first-century equivalent to the old potter’s field. But I wasn’t entirely sure where to begin looking for it.
I flicked the dog tags so that they jingled, then backed out of the garage.
* * *
The Lakes Region Animal Shelter was located in a nondescript building along busy Route 302, which is the main road from Portland into the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It was one of those long, low rural structures that had probably been half a dozen things over the years—day-care center, dentist’s office, travel agency, beauty salon—but which was now the temporary home for wayward cats and dogs waiting to be returned to their owners or in need of new ones.
From the icy parking lot, I couldn’t see the pens at the back of the building, but I could hear the barking of dogs, large and small, let outside into the open air. At least the people who ran the shelter had had the courtesy to choose a headquarters far from the nearest residences. There was an auto-body shop across the highway, but otherwise nothing but white pines in either direction.
