One Last Lie

by Paul Doiron

  “Did she have an accent?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Then what makes you say she seemed French?”

  “She was wearing makeup. The women up in the St. John Valley are all into cosmetics and dyeing their hair. Like the chicks in the bars in Québec City. You ever been there?”

  “I doubt you and I frequent the same drinking establishments. Did you tell Charley Stevens about this woman?”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t believe me. He was sure I’d stolen that badge or gotten it from someone who’d stolen it. Please, dude, my balls are turning into ice cubes here.”

  This, I believed. I started the engine and turned us toward shore.

  * * *

  A dozen or so units, local, county, and state, had responded to the report of the shooting. Smith was on his way to the jail in Houlton, handcuffed to the D ring on the floor of a deputy’s cruiser. Other deputies were engaged in executing a search warrant that had been granted before I could even change my socks. The district warden had been dispatched to the south end of the lake to tow back Smith’s boat, provided the aluminum hull hadn’t been pierced by the log it had struck.

  The officer in charge was a state police detective named Zanadakis, and he had some questions for me.

  He was a trim man with a tanning-booth tan who wore cologne purchased somewhere other than a drugstore. Beneath a navy trench coat, he wore a gray sharkskin suit that shone like silver and a tie with a houndstooth pattern. Forget about northern Maine, Nico Zanadakis would have been considered a dandy if he’d worked out of a precinct in Lower Manhattan’s Financial District.

  We stood beside his unmarked cruiser while I towel-dried my hair. I’d had a few minutes to change into a fresh set of clothes before Zanadakis arrived. We knew each other from a case long ago: Two drug dealers had gotten lost in the woods in a blizzard. Then things turned violent. Since we’d first met, I’d been promoted, and he’d been transferred. But our shared history didn’t mean he held warm feelings for me.

  “Why are you here exactly?”

  A yellow paste of wet pollen covered the top and hood of the cruiser. My hand came away looking like it was smeared with mustard. “I got a report that Smith was dealing illegal taxidermy—migratory birds.”

  “Isn’t that a matter for the feds?”

  “I didn’t want to bother the Fish and Wildlife Service agents with it until I could scope him out myself.”

  The lie had worked with Deputy Young, so why not again?

  He jotted something in his reporter’s notebook. “So your visit here was unofficial, then?”

  “Insofar as I’m not on the clock.”

  “So he took off out the back when you knocked on his door. But if you never spoke to him, how did he know you were law enforcement?”

  “Mr. Smith seems to fear individuals on both sides of the law.”

  “But you are 100 percent certain that he fired at you after you identified yourself as police.”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “That’s the key thing here. You understand that, right? The attorney general’s office won’t go for an attempted homicide charge if there’s any wiggle room.”

  “The neighbor, Glassman, heard the whole thing.”

  “Speaking of which, Mr. Glassman said you pushed him out of his own boat.”

  “Exigent circumstances required me to pursue Mr. Smith. I didn’t know his state of mind, and I realized I couldn’t put a bystander in harm’s way. Between you and me, how much trouble am I in with him?”

  “My guess is that the satisfaction of losing Mr. Smith as a neighbor will prevail over Mr. Glassman’s hurt pride. But if he talks to a lawyer, all bets are off.”

  One of the troopers on the scene called to Zanadakis. “Nico, you’ll want to have a look at what’s inside the garage. Remember the woman who reported all those fur coats stolen?”

  If this had happened in southern Maine, Trooper Dani Tate might have been the one to discover Smith’s loot. I had sent her an email that morning but hadn’t heard from her yet. Her range qualification was a two-day commitment, though. Maybe she’d been pressed for time and hadn’t had a moment to respond.

  The first rumble of thunder rolled up the lake. The clouds to the south looked oily, they were so black.

  Detective Zanadakis snapped his notebook shut. “Keep your phone on.”

  “I can’t promise I’ll have a signal where I’m headed.”

  “You wardens always use that as an excuse.”

  * * *

  East of Houlton, Interstate 95 crosses the border into New Brunswick and joins the Trans-Canada Highway system that connects St. John’s, Newfoundland, with Victoria, British Columbia. The crossing is one of the busiest land-based ports of entry in the United States. Hundreds of eighteen-wheelers, carrying thousands of tons of cargo, pass back and forth between the two countries every week.

  In a torrential downpour I left the interstate at the last exit and followed the cloverleaf down to a cluster of truck stops and fast-food franchises along Route 1.

  I figured I would have better cell service here—across the street from a Walmart—than in the woods of Island Falls, and I was right.

  “Grasshopper!” said Kathy Frost. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon, but I bet I know why you’re calling. It’s Dani, right? You’re calling for advice to the lovelorn.”

  “What’s wrong with Dani?”

  “There it is, right there—she misses you, man. You couldn’t have made time to see her since you’ve been home?”

  “She told me not to. She said she was busy.”

  “Oh, Mike. You’re so hopeless. Sometimes I think your wolf will be easier to domesticate than you.”

  “What am I missing?”

  “She was going to stay over at my house last night, since I live close to the practice range, but she didn’t want me to catch her bug. Your girl is seriously sick.”

  “Do you think it’s bad?”

  “When was the last time you remember that little badass admitting she was ill?”

  I couldn’t recall a single instance.

  Rain drummed on the roof. The windows began to steam.

  “So if it’s not Dani,” Kathy asked, “what do you need?”

  “Who says I need something?”

  “It’s the only time you ever call me, my friend.”

  Kathy’s last days as a Maine game warden, after she had been shot and nearly killed, were spent sitting in a cubicle in our Augusta headquarters compiling an official history of the Maine Warden Service. The higher-ups would not permit her to return to the field due to the severity of her injuries, and for once, I had been in agreement with my so-called superiors.

  It had taken two weeks for everyone to realize that Kathy Frost was not cut out for office life. And the history remained unfinished. I had no idea how far she’d gotten, but I was hoping.

  “I found an old warden badge from an antiques dealer, and I want to know whose it was.”

  I hated lying to her, but it didn’t stop me. I was committed to protecting Charley at all costs to my other relationships.

  “How old?” she asked.

  “Not sure, but it’s shaped like the current badges. Smaller, with the district number stamped on the bottom. The number is 113.”

  “Offhand, that doesn’t ring a bell. If you want to hang on a minute, I can look it up in my files.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to leave those files behind when you retired?”

  She gave one of her hearty laughs. “Everyone takes something when they leave. I’ll call you back in five minutes with what I’ve found.”

  While I waited, I struggled with whether to come clean with Kathy. She had saved my career when I was set on blowing it to pieces, and I trusted her with my life. If my investigation had involved anyone else but Charley, I would have already spilled my guts to her.

  “A few guys had that number over the years,” she said when she called back. “
But I’m guessing the badge you found belonged to a warden named Duke Dupree. That was his actual first name, before you ask. He worked out of Clayton Lake and Churchill Depot during the Depression.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “That’s no surprise. His service was, shall we say, abbreviated.”

  “Did he die in the line of duty?”

  “You’ve been to the memorial enough times. Do you remember seeing his name on it?” She meant the granite monument in Augusta on which were carved the names of every Maine police officer who had perished while carrying out his or her job. “Dupree fell asleep at the wheel and plowed his cruiser into a couple of sweethearts outside Ashland. Lucky for him, he lived in a time before social media. The Warden Service hushed it up. But Dupree lost his job. They must have let him keep his badge as a memento—policies weren’t so strict back then. I’m not surprised it ended up at a yard sale. Where did you find it?”

  I had to take a breath before I could lie again. “Presque Isle.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “I thought I’d do some fishing up in the Debouille reserve. I figured it would be cooler in the County. My mistake.”

  “Because there’s no more enjoyable time to land a few arctic char than peak blackfly season. Are you sure you want to stick with that story, Grasshopper?”

  “No, but I’m going to.”

  “Give my best to Chasse while you’re up there.”

  “Who?”

  “Remember Chasse Lamontaine? He’s the warden up that way. It’s a shame he’s such a Boy Scout. My God, what a handsome hunk he is. Good luck with the ‘fishing’!”

  Kathy knew me too well. We are always more transparent to our friends than we are to ourselves.

  18

  The summer solstice had just passed, the days were as long as they would ever be, but the thunderheads had brought a premature dusk with them. The pole lights outside the truck stop blazed brightly enough to illuminate a stadium. I decided to grab a meal at the diner before calling Ora with an update. She had been good about not messaging, but the silence on her end was ominous, too. It meant that she hadn’t heard anything from her missing husband.

  My phone rang as I crossed the puddled parking lot. I didn’t recognize the number, but the location of the caller was given as Indian Township.

  “Mike, it’s Nick Francis.”

  “Thanks for calling back.”

  “My granddaughter said you stopped by the house looking for me.” His Passamaquoddy accent was incredibly faint: noticeable in the dropping of g’s at the end of his present participles.

  “She said you were headed up to Houlton.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been dealing with my boy. Probably will be for a couple of days.”

  “Really? I’m in Houlton now. I am at the truck stop near the I-95 exit. Have you had supper?”

  “It’s four o’clock. I may be old, but I ain’t one of them early birds.”

  “I’ll pick up the tab.”

  “Whatever you want from me must be expensive.”

  “Just some background information about a personal case I’m working.”

  “Ain’t nothing more expensive than information.” His tone was light, but I could sense that he was debating accepting my invitation. “Look, I know you’re looking for Charley. I already told Ora to give the man some time. He’ll show up eventually—he always does.”

  “Then why not get a free meal out of me?”

  I heard him suck on a cigarette while he considered the offer.

  “I guess I could use a diversion from the family problems I been dealing with. I’m down at the hospital now. Should take me fifteen minutes to get there.”

  “The hospital? Are you all right?”

  He replied with a laugh tinged with sadness. “I’ll see you in fifteen.”

  * * *

  When they were young men, Nick and Charley had worked investigations together, on and around Down East tribal lands, including several cases that Charley refused to discuss with me. One involved the notorious gang rape and murder of a Passamaquoddy girl at Pleasant Point. The five alleged perpetrators—local white men—were never arrested or brought to trial, but I gathered that their identities had been all but confirmed.

  “It was a different era,” Charley had said. “There were different standards of law for whites and Indians in Washington County.”

  He refused to say more—which had only increased my interest.

  Researching the case, I had learned that both the gang’s ringleader and his sidekick had died when their fishing boat had sunk in Cobscook Bay. The Coast Guard and Maine law enforcement agencies had conducted an investigation that had lasted months—just about every Indian in Pleasant Point seemed to have been interrogated—but had come up empty.

  Charley wouldn’t have been a party to murder, but Nick Francis? I wasn’t so sure.

  I was on the verge of ordering supper when in through the diner door came a squat but handsome man in his seventies. Despite his age, his full head of hair was still a dark, blackish brown, and he had a face that must have been boyish before wrinkles and weathered skin had finally given it gravitas. His hair and shoulders were wet. It must have started raining again.

  He wore a loose linen shirt—probably to conceal a gun tucked inside his waistband—chinos, and loafers. The only item that hinted at his tribal identity was a bead bracelet worn on the same wrist as a battered old Timex. On his forehead, a hemophilic bandage covered what, I guessed, were no less than a dozen new stitches.

  Everyone I met these days had been battered, one way or another.

  “Nick.”

  “Mike.”

  The hand I shook was hard with calluses. The fingertips were stained yellow from nicotine. He settled into the booth across from me, hands hidden beneath the tabletop.

  I had always felt uncomfortable around Nick Francis. He seemed to blink less than normal people, seemed always to be staring. But it was his perpetual smile that weirded me out. When his face was at rest, the corners of his broad mouth remained upturned, giving him a catlike expression.

  More than other Native Americans I had met, he made me aware of the vast distance between our life experiences.

  Don’t presume to know me, those hard black eyes seemed to state.

  I tried to affect more ease than I felt. “I have to ask about the bandage.”

  “The boy and me had a difference of opinion. I shouldn’t have let it escalate.”

  “Your son did that?”

  The waitress appeared with coffee, which I eagerly accepted. Nick ordered a Pepsi, no ice.

  “I’ll cut to the chase,” I said. “I’m concerned about Charley.”

  “Have you contacted the FAA?”

  “He didn’t take his plane.”

  “That ain’t good.”

  “It gets worse. He left me a note telling me not to come looking for him.”

  “Seems like maybe you should honor his wishes. Charley has reasons for the things he does. They don’t always make sense to anyone but him, but you need to respect his choices.”

  “I would if not for Ora—”

  “Charley understood the worry it would cause her. Maybe he reckoned she’d be even more worried if she knew where he was going. It ain’t your business in any case, and you’re smart enough to know that, kid.”

  Two Border Patrol agents came in and whispered to the hostess. She guided them to seats in a corner booth. They sat beside each other so each had a clear view of the room. Cops of all stripes have an aversion to sitting with their backs to doors. When I was younger, I had sat against plenty of walls. But after so many close encounters with death, I knew I wasn’t going to die like Wild Bill Hickok, shot by some loser coming through a door with a pistol blasting.

  I returned my attention to Nick Francis. “Have you ever heard of a game warden named Duke Dupree? He was a warden back during the Depression.”

  “I’m old, kid, but not that old.�
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  “This Dupree’s badge showed up at the pop-up flea market at the Machias Dike. I’m positive it’s the reason for Charley’s strange behavior, that badge.”

  He rested his left hand on the laminated menu before him. Only then did I see he was missing the ring finger. “You’re going to keep working it no matter what I say.”

  “You know I will.”

  I half expected him to get up and leave. Instead he cracked the first real smile he’d shown me since he’d sat down. “Then we’d better order food so you can start telling the story.”

  * * *

  “You going to talk to that college girl tomorrow?” he asked when I’d finished.

  “If I can find her.”

  “What street did you say she lives on?”

  I told him. I thought he might offer his assistance, but he didn’t.

  “You’ve known Charley a long time,” I said. “In his note to me, he mentioned the ‘worst mistake a man can make.’ What do you think he meant by that?”

  “Killing someone,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “That was my thought, too.”

  Suddenly, Nick tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Killing the wrong someone.”

  “That’s the worst mistake a man can make?”

  “For Charley it would be.”

  “But he never killed anyone—not after Vietnam, I mean.”

  Nick’s reaction was to glance at the corner booth where the two Border Patrol agents were finishing their meals with strawberry shortcake and cups of coffee.

  “Is that what he told you?” he asked.

  “You’re saying he lied to me?”

  “I’m not sure why you think Charley owed you the story of his life.”

  A thought occurred to me; I couldn’t have explained why. I reached into my pocket and brought out the snapshot Ora had found in Charley’s cigar box, the picture of the bear-faced man. I pushed it across the glass-topped table.