by Paul Doiron
I spoke through my headset, “Would you mind taking me around the island quickly?”
“I thought you disdained this place.”
Charley banked the plane so that we began circling Maquoit clockwise. We passed first over the long harbor that ended in Dennettsville. But the Washburns were still out in their lobsterboats hauling their unauthorized traps or maybe even smuggling their illegal drugs. I remembered what Joy Juno had said about those outlaws taking over the island now that Harmon had become a shell of himself. Maybe it would happen, maybe it wouldn’t. But I knew that men such as Eli and Rudyard lacked the willpower to restrain themselves. Their day of reckoning would come because it always did.
The Cessna paralleled the black cliffs along the eastern shore of the island. In the warm months, gulls and cormorants nested in the safety of the high crevices, and every outcropping was marbled white with their guano.
Lost in thought, I missed seeing Shipwreck Beach or the famous lighthouse, but I did catch a view of Stormalong and the hermit’s sanctuary. Sheep scattered at the whine of our engine. What would become of Blake Markman now? Ariel said he’d confessed to having killed his wife, but how long would his newfound contrition last? Probably until two detectives from Los Angeles showed up to extradite him back home for trial. He would never see the inside of a jail cell, I predicted.
We turned to the northwest, and I had my first glimpse of the splendid Marsh Harbor mansions for which the island was famed.
The outer harbor was as full of boats as if a regatta were under way. Coast Guard Response Boats and the two Marine Patrol Protectors and a dozen lobsterboats were plumbing the depths for the island’s lost son. I saw Andrew Radcliffe’s ketch, the Lucky Penny, gliding among them.
Once more we were over the sea. Lines of whitecaps angled out of the northeast in evenly spaced ridges that had an almost agricultural aspect. I shivered as I gazed upon the water for I knew that it was even colder than it appeared.
I had desired this last look of Maquoit from above because I knew that I would never set eyes on the island again and because I am prone to bouts of nostalgia so acute they are almost painful. I wanted to preserve this sight forever in my memory, knowing that time would inevitably blur the details. I wanted to hang on to what this place had been in my life: the site of my first hunting homicide investigation.
And I had solved it.
Although I had never met the Wights, I realized with a smile.
“About Stacey,” Charley began.
My smile was short-lived. “I got an email from her the other night,” I said over the intercom.
“Yes, I know. She called her mother after she sent it. They were both in tears.”
“It was never what I wanted, Charley. I hope you know that.”
“I do, son.”
“You told me something a long time ago, when we first met. I think about it a lot. You said, ‘If you live in the past, you just miss out on the present.’”
“That sounds like one of my pearls of wisdom.”
Now it was his turn to go quiet. We didn’t speak again for the remainder of the short flight.
Only as we were coming in for a landing did he mutter, “Looks like you’re not the only one with an investigative bent.”
“What is it?”
“It’s not a what. It’s a who. I’m going to have to take my own medicine about not living in the past.”
His body was blocking my view. The Hancock County–Bar Harbor Airport was small, and the runway was close to the road. The small terminal and the parking lot were within shouting distance of the place the Cessna finally came to a stop.
“I’ll grab those bags of yours,” my friend said with an air of sad resignation. “You go say hello.”
Somehow he managed a smile that was altogether kind and genuine.
Mystified, I removed my headset and climbed out of the aircraft. I made a wide circuit of the still-rotating propeller. A powder-blue Ford Interceptor SUV was parked near the terminal. A short woman in a trooper’s uniform stood beside the police vehicle. The mountains of Acadia National Park loomed behind her. Dani Tate had driven halfway across the state to meet my plane.
“Welcome back!” she shouted across the tarmac.
“It’s good to be back!”
I caught sight of my shadowy reflection in the gleaming fuselage of the plane. How many days had I been on Maquoit? It seemed like weeks, even months. Long enough to recognize myself again.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In writing this book I was helped by Richard Nelson’s Heart and Blood: Living with Deer in America, a book that grows more topical every year. I also relied on Blood on the Leaves: Real Hunting Accident Investigations—and Lessons in Hunter Safety by Rod Slings, Mike Van Durme, and B. Keith Byers.
No book, of course, can substitute for first-hand experience. For that reason and for so many others, I am deeply grateful to Troy and Jeri Ripley for welcoming me into their home and sharing with a stranger the meaningful life and untimely death of their daughter Megan who was killed by a hunter in December of 2006. I continue to find inspiration in the Ripleys’ courage, compassion, and commitment to toughening Maine’s still inadequate laws pertaining to hunting homicides.
Lieutenant Dan Scott and Corporal John MacDonald, both of the Maine Warden Service, filled in many gaps in my knowledge. I hope they will forgive the great liberties I took in describing how a hunting homicide investigation is handled in Maine.
Also at the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife, thanks to biologists Judy Camuso and Keel Kemper for sharing their stories of hapless islands dealing (or more often, not dealing) with too many deer.
Maquoit Island has little in common with its famous cousin, Monhegan, where over the course of twenty years and dozens of visits, I have learned a great deal about the secret lives of offshore communities. I won’t violate any confidences by naming the people who told me their stories—with one exception. Thank you Matt Weber, lobsterman, craft brewer, and Monhegan constable: Matt, you are no Andrew Radcliffe.
Bruce Coffin, Portland police sergeant (retired), friend, and fellow crime writer, I appreciate your walking me through a figurative death scene.
Mapmaker Jane Crosen and designer Barbara Tedesco, thank you for helping to bring Maquoit to life.
To all the folks at Minotaur Books—especially Charlie Spicer, Andy Martin, Sarah Melnyk, Paul Hochman, and April Osborn—you have my deepest thanks.
Last but far from least, I want to thank my family: specifically Erin and Sander Van Otterloo for “Niceness,” David Henderson for proofreading, and my wife, Kristen, who inspires and sustains me.
ALSO BY PAUL DOIRON
Knife Creek
Widowmaker
The Precipice
The Bone Orchard
Massacre Pond
Bad Little Falls
Trespasser
The Poacher’s Son
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PAUL DOIRON, a native of Maine, is the New York Times bestselling author of the Mike Bowditch mysteries. He attended Yale University, where he graduated with a degree in English. The Poacher’s Son, the first book in the series, won the Barry Award and the Strand Award for best first novel, and was nominated for the Edgar, Anthony, and Macavity awards in the same category. He is a Registered Maine Guide specializing in fly fishing and lives on a trout stream in coastal Maine with his wife, Kristen Lindquist.
Visit Paul Doiron’s website at www.pauldoiron.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Noti
ce
Dedication
Epigraph
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Author’s Note
Also by Paul Doiron
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
STAY HIDDEN. Copyright © 2018 by Paul Doiron. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photograph of boat © Parry Maher/Archangel
Map of Maquoit Island © 2018 Paul Doiron, Illustration by Jane Crosen, Mapmaker
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Doiron, Paul, author.
Title: Stay hidden / Paul Doiron.
Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2018. | Series: Mike Bowditch mysteries
Identifiers: LCCN 2018004439 | ISBN 9781250102386 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250102409 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Game wardens—Fiction. | Wilderness areas—Maine—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3604.O37 S73 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018004439
eISBN 9781250102409
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First Edition: July 2018
