by Paul Doiron
He was the one person I’d told about the miscarriage. “It wasn’t anything yet.”
He stroked his large chin, waiting for me to say more, but I was done with that topic.
I found myself staring at the place mat. “I’ve been thinking about something Jill Westergaard told me. She said, ‘You never really know someone until your relationship with them is over.’ Do you believe that?”
He considered the question a while. “Ora and I are still together, and I think I know her fairly well,” he said. “She certainly knows all my sorrowful imperfections.”
“I never really knew my father,” I said.
He warmed his hands on the coffee cup. “Your old man was more of an enigma than most, but he wasn’t quite as mysterious as you make him out to be. If you search your memories, I bet you’ll find a trail of bread crumbs.”
A revelation landed hard on my head. “You knew he killed Brodeur and Shipman—you knew it the whole time we were searching for him. So why didn’t you just come out and tell me?”
His entire face wrinkled when he smiled. “An old philosopher once remarked, ‘You can’t teach a man anything. You can only help him find it within himself.’ Or something like that.”
“When did you ever read philosophy, Charley?”
“Oh, I never did, but Ora likes to quote that line to me when I’m lurching from one mishap to the next.” He raised his long index finger to catch Dot’s attention. “What’s this I hear about the J-Team suddenly getting cold feet?”
In the days following the shooting, Ozzie Bell and his cohorts had come out with full-throated calls that Jefferts be pardoned. The big newspapers issued editorials arguing that Maine’s most famous inmate should receive a new trial. It all seemed to be building to a scandal that would shake the foundations of power and bring the attorney general’s office crashing down. And then, like a balloon with a slow leak, the air seemed to go out of the story. I’d just heard on the radio that the J-Team had dropped its motion for a new trial. In fact, the group—with the notable exception of Lou Bates—was giving up the ghost.
“It sounds like Menario finally found a certain cell phone among Snow’s possessions,” Charley said.
“Sheriff Baker told me there’s going to be a news conference later today.”
“That was thoughtful of the sheriff to give you the heads-up.”
“Dudley’s a good man,” I said.
After we’d finished lunch, Charley shook my hand so hard, I thought my arm would pop out of its socket. I’d be back on patrol in no time, he said, and summer in the Maine woods was a balm to soothe even the most troubled of spirits. I accepted his well wishes and followed him out to his vehicle.
“One last thing,” he called to me through the window. “The Boss gave me a message for you. She said, ‘Tell him he should call his mother.’”
I promised I would.
* * *
In fact, I had already telephoned my mother at her winter home in Naples. My photograph had been all over the news again, and the media inevitably dredged up the bloody events at Rum Pond. If ever there was a chance to talk with my mom about my dad, this seemed to be it. I was hoping that she might share some insight into his misbegotten rage and loneliness. What caused her to forgive his cruelty and self-centeredness? I wondered. Was it her own guilt over their lost child?
But when I tried to broach these questions, she cut me off quickly. “We’ll be back in Scarborough at the end of the month,” she said. “Why don’t you and Sarah come down, and we’ll all have dinner? I’m going to play tennis with Jane Rittmeyer. I can’t wait to see you, Michael.”
Denial has deep talons, I thought.
The front door was ajar when I arrived home. I found Sarah at the kitchen counter, with a pen in hand. She was dressed to go out; she wore boots over leggings, a cashmere top, and the expensive new leather jacket her parents had given her for her birthday. Her complexion was radiant, her hair perfect. I couldn’t remember her looking more beautiful, although I knew her stomach was still bruised.
“I was just leaving you a note,” she said. “Melissa and Nicole invited me out for sushi in Rockland. They thought I needed a girl’s night out.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’ll make a sandwich.”
“I won’t be late.” She kissed me on the cheek.
“Sarah, I need to talk with you about something.”
“Mike, I have to go.”
“I know you do.”
She paused in the doorway with the keys in her hand, and then she came back and sat down on the sofa. She patted the cushion, indicating I should join her. I couldn’t look at that couch without thinking of Stanley Snow attacking me there, but I took a seat. She put a hand on my knee.
“What would have happened if we hadn’t lost the baby?” I asked her.
“Probably the same thing,” she said. “It would have just taken us longer to get to this place, and it would have been a whole lot more painful for all of us.”
“I know I should have listened to you,” I said. “You kept trying to talk to me, and I was never there.”
“You were trying to solve a crime. You did solve a crime.”
“I keep thinking I could have done something differently.”
She shook her head and met my eyes, and I realized she would probably never look at me this intimately again. “We’re just not meant for this. I don’t want to be a nagging, resentful person; that’s not who I am. At least I hope I’m not.”
I gave her a playful nudge. “I didn’t make it easy for you, did I?”
“You saved my life.”
“That’s a nice way of saying I nearly got you killed.”
“No, it means you’re a hero. You just don’t believe it, for some reason. I hope someday you will.”
She stood up and began removing her jacket.
“What are you doing that for?” I asked.
“I feel like I should pack.”
“It can wait,” I said. “Go have dinner with Melissa and Nicole.”
“It doesn’t feel right to just leave you here alone.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
Sarah protested awhile longer, but eventually I persuaded her that she needed the company of her friends. There was no rush now that we both understood what needed to happen. Before she left, she kissed me on the lips. I stood in the open door until her little white Subaru disappeared through the trees.
It was a glorious afternoon. The river was high in the tidal marsh, and I could hear the sound of rushing water through the budding alders and the leafing poplars. The beautiful liquid song of a brown creeper carried down to me from one of the pines.
I closed the door, went into the kitchen, and took a jelly glass from the cupboard. I filled it halfway full of whiskey, then added a splash more. Outside, the tide was rising, and a sea breeze drifted in through the open window. The late-afternoon sun caught the amber light of the whiskey as I raised the glass. I saw my beautiful marsh refracted through the tawny color of the alcohol before I dumped it down the drain.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It would have been very difficult to live in Maine for the past two decades and not have heard of the Dennis Dechaine case. In 1989, the Bowdoinham farmer was convicted of the rape and murder of twelve-year-old babysitter Sarah Cherry. Since that time, Dechaine’s supporters have fought to free him from prison, contending that scientific evidence proves he could not possibly have committed the homicide. While I drew inspiration from the Dechaine case—and learned much about the state’s legal and correctional systems from James P. Moore’s book about it, Human Sacrifice: On the Altar of Injustice—this novel is not meant as my commentary upon the investigation or trial. Trespasser is entirely a work of fiction, and none of the characters, organizations, or events depicted have real-life counterparts.
I am grateful to Maine Warden Service Corporal John MacDonald, Warden Joe Lefebvre, and Warden Service Pilot Dan Default for
answering my many nitpicking questions about their difficult work, and to Knox County Sheriff Donna Dennison for sharing her time and expertise. I also appreciate the help of Baxter State Park Ranger and fireman Andrew Vietze for his information on the difficulty of fighting rural house fires. As is always the case, mistakes of fact in this novel are my responsibility alone, although I will admit to taking dramatic liberties when they served the story.
Thanks to the early readers of the manuscript—Monica Wood, Cynthia Anderson, and especially my wife, Kristen Lindquist—for their wise suggestions on how to improve the book. I owe a debt, too, to my colleagues at Down East for supporting my sideline writing novels, and to my family for their unflagging encouragement.
Finally, I would like to thank my editor, Charlie Spicer, who thoughtfully guided me through several revisions, and to the team at Minotaur Books, including Andrew Martin, Matthew Shear, Matthew Baldacci, Hector DeJean, and Allison Strobel, who have demonstrated such faith in me and my work. Last, I extend my gratitude to Ann Rittenberg, the best agent a novelist could hope for.
ALSO BY PAUL DOIRON
The Poacher’s Son
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.
TRESPASSER. Copyright © 2011 by Paul Doiron. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Doiron, Paul.
Trespasser / Paul Doiron.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-55847-5
1. Game wardens—Fiction. 2. Traffic accidents—Fiction. 3. Missing persons—Fiction. 4. Young women—Crimes against—Fiction. 5. Lobster fishers—Fiction. 6. False imprisonment—Fiction. 7. Maine—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3604.O37T74 2011
813'.6—dc22
2011005292
First Edition: June 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-7025-9
First Minotaur Books eBook Edition: June 2011
