by Paul Doiron
“He’s feisty!” said Bibi Chamberlain with delight.
“He’s on a tight schedule,” said Mariëtte. “The warden lieutenant who oversaw the search for my father-in-law always seemed pressed for time, too. I wondered what could be more important than locating Eben Chamberlain’s body.”
I settled against the leather headrest. “You’re referring to Warden Lieutenant Rivard.”
“I understand he was subsequently cashiered,” she said.
I kept my tone neutral. “Lieutenant Rivard is no longer with the Maine Warden Service.”
“Good! I’d like to think my official complaints contributed to his dismissal.” Mariëtte Chamberlain gripped her knees again. “I wrote to you, Warden Investigator Bowditch, because I read about your involvement in the arrests in Aroostook County last summer. You created quite a headache for your department! Your colonel resigned because of the scandals you brought to light.”
“I wouldn’t characterize it that way.”
Others did, however; many of my fellow wardens included.
“My impression of you, Warden Investigator, is of a man who refuses to toe the official line,” said Mariëtte. “My subsequent research confirmed as much. You are not afraid of making enemies. You must sleep with that sidearm under your pillow.”
“Do you?” asked Bibi, showing writerly curiosity.
“Mrs. Chamberlain, with all due respect—”
Mariëtte lifted an over-stuffed folder from the floor beside her. “Here is the complete file relating to my father-in-law’s death. You will see it has been augmented with my own research and assorted news clippings. Please review it, and then we will continue this conversation tomorrow.”
“Ma’am, I can’t do that.”
She brought the heavy folder to her lap. “Why ever not?”
“Because the Maine Warden Service conducted a thorough investigation. With the assistance of the attorney general’s office, it produced a report concluding no suspicious circumstances were indicated in the death of your father-in-law—as unfortunate as it was.”
“You’ve read the file then?”
“I have.”
“And what did it say—in your own words?”
The question was a test to determine if my visit was the hollow gesture she suspected.
“While returning from a morning of duck hunting,” I said, “Professor Eben Chamberlain removed his personal flotation device. He then either suffered a health event that affected his balance or fell out of his boat by accident, perhaps while retrieving decoys. He succumbed to hypothermia in the forty-nine-degree water and drowned in the current, measured that day at 1,200 cubic feet per second at the water-flow meter in Auburn. His corpse sank, floated downriver, and became trapped underwater above the Gulf Island Pond Dam. His remains were recovered six days later. The chief medical examiner determined that the bruises on his body occurred postmortem, and the presence of water in his lungs indicated death by drowning.”
Most of the water in the bucket atop the wood stove had evaporated, and now the spices began to steam.
“Mother has an alternate theory,” said Bibi.
“I understand your reluctance to accept these conclusions,” I said.
“Eben Chamberlain was murdered,” declared Mariëtte Chamberlain. “He never would have removed his flotation vest. He nearly drowned as a boy and always wore one when he was in a boat. Someone forced him to do it. He didn’t drown. He was drowned. Poor Plum here was also forced into the river. The person who killed the professor then returned to shore, relaunched the boat, and tossed the life preserver after it. A near-perfect crime.”
A burnt odor arose from the sizzling bucket. I wondered if either of them was going to add water.
“Do you have any proof of this?” I asked.
“Circumstantial proof—but the state’s theory is also built on circumstances and speculation.”
“I wish I could help you, Mrs. Chamberlain.”
The tall woman shot to her feet. “You’re not going to ask what the motive was?”
“I told you this was a bad idea, Mother,” said Bibi, punctuating the sentence with a stab of her e-cig.
“I know who the murderer is,” said Mariëtte. “And don’t tell me you’re not interested in hearing his name.”
“All right.”
“Bruce Jewett.”
I remembered the name from the report. Rivard had briefly investigated the man. “He was Professor Chamberlain’s regular hunting companion.”
“Among other things.”
“I don’t follow you,” I said.
“Bruce Jewett was my father-in-law’s lover.”
11
I feed the flames with boards pulled from inside the shack. With the missing wall, it is more like a lean-to than a proper shelter. But it provides cover against the wind which would likely extinguish my fire before I can get it burning. Sooner or later I will need to move the smoldering, flickering pile of wood, before it burns through the nominally inflammable insulation on which it sits.
A voice in my head tells me to let the blaze grow until it becomes a massive conflagration and consumes the structure: a beacon visible for miles around.
I have to remind myself to distrust my thoughts. Confusion is a well-observed symptom of hypothermia.
Burning down my only shelter is one of those ideas I should probably refrain from acting upon.
I remember another of my friend Charley’s maxims. The old geezer has one for every situation.
“When faced with a crisis, focus on one thing at time.”
For me the one thing is warming my core. I pull off my sweater and rip open the Velcro fasteners that hold my concealable body armor in place. Then I undress down to my merino long johns. When I remove my socks, I am shocked by the shriveled pastiness of my flash-frozen toes. I remove the anti-ballistic panels from my vest and hang the wet layers of clothing from nails and other makeshift hooks above the fire. Even damp, the wool items will retain their warming properties. My jeans are a lost cause unless I get them dry. I deserve to be pantless for wearing cotton this time of year.
I roll up my Levi’s like I would a sleeping bag to squeeze out as much water as possible. I swing my socks over my head to dry them using centrifugal force. I hang everything so close to the licking flames I smell burning fabric. I’d rather have singed clothes than wet clothes.
The boots are the hardest. I strip out the insoles and prop them beside the orange embers. But the leather uppers are soaked through. I can warm up the exteriors, but the insides will stay damp even if I bake the boots all night long.
The flames spit. The fir sticks blacken and burn, faster than the hardwood pieces.
I feel like I was run over by a snowplow. The struggle to escape the Jeep stretched a few ligaments and twisted a few muscles past their natural limits. My core is so cold it feels as if my heart and lungs are a solid block of ice. And yet my frostbitten fingers sting as if I’d burnt them on a stove. Even my mandible hurts from my teeth chattering.
I examine my injured hand in the brightening light.
Shadow’s claws have torn furrows between my wrist and knuckles. When I emerged from the river, the wound was frozen into icy clots, but blood is leaking from the scratches again.
Charley speaks to me again, this time more insistently: “When faced with a crisis, focus on one thing at time!”
My sole priority needs to be reheating my core.
I rummage through the litter until I find an empty can of Foster’s Lager. I try shaking it out but the dregs at the bottom are frozen. I bring it down to the river and fill my makeshift cup. Cigarette butts boil out of the top. I keep dunking until the water runs clean.
Back in the shack, I stick the bottom of the can in the embers of my campfire. The aluminum blackens. The paint scorches.
I watch my wristwatch for five slow minutes while snow drifts in through the missing wall. My first drink is lukewarm and tastes of tobacco. I wedge t
he can in the coals to boil. The water will heat me from the inside out. When you are hypothermic in the wilderness, you can’t warm up externally. You need to feed your internal engine with hot water and food if you have it. Then wrap yourself in something to trap your body heat between your skin and the outer insulation. What I wouldn’t give for a two-dollar space blanket.
My chief worry is a condition called after-drop. As my frozen arms and legs warm, they will inevitably send chilled blood to my already-stressed heart. The shock can be fatal. People have died of after-drop.
I make a point of taking a piss because I remember that the body has to work extra-hard to heat a full bladder. Then I make another barefoot trip to the river to refill the can. I hunch over the fire while the water heats.
For the first time since I went into the river, I have a chance to reflect.
The people I need to focus on are the ones I interviewed earlier, starting with Mariëtte’s prime suspect. Who else could have laid that trap for me but Bruce Jewett? The man had been a welder, for Christ’s sake.
In my mind’s eye I see the spiked objects laid across the road. Leave it to a student of military history, like Jewett, to use caltrops. The Navy vet knew there was only one way down from Pill Hill. I was bound to run over those spikes. Either I’d die in a fiery crash or drown in the freezing river.
Does he think I’m dead? Or will he come looking for me?
There are bridges, up and downstream, where he can cross. He doesn’t even need a truck. A snowmobile, with the throttle open, could skip across a frozen stretch of the Androscoggin without having to detour more than a thousand yards.
I don’t dare stay here any longer, I decide. I will cut inland to the road that runs parallel to the east side of the river. It won’t be easy in the dark, but I prefer my chances in the woods to sitting motionless in the firelight, waiting for a sniper’s bullet to find me.
I begin gathering up my steaming clothes. It is then that I see the wolf. I glance out into the trees, and there he is, looming at the edge of the shadows. The reflective lining behind his retinas glows with a yellowy phosphorescence.
My first reaction is to reach for the knife. But I stop my hand before I do.
I love and care for this animal, I feel a spiritual bond with him. I am ashamed of my fear of the wolf.
“Hey, big guy it’s good to see you.” There’s a quaver in my voice. “I was worried about you, Shadow. Why don’t you come inside, get warm? You can lie down by the fire.”
Having a predator stare at you is one of the most unnerving experiences you can have. Being singled out from the herd. Realizing you are now his prime target. His next meal.
The fear that skitters up my spine is primal.
As he takes a tentative step toward me, I fight the urge to grab the knife. Like any wet dog, his body seems strangely shaped with his fur matted. His ice-clumped coat looks burdensome.
I have to remind myself there was a time when this ferocious creature lived among people.
The man from Montana who’d weaned him had fed him Puppy Chow from a bowl. Even the Maine drug addicts, who obtained him illegally and were his last “owners,” had kept him indoors, locked in their foul basement.
I had never planned on keeping Shadow. I told people that the wolf had escaped, but it was just as accurate to say I’d let him go. The distinction didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d begun a new life in the high timber of western Maine. He’d hunted and scavenged in the wild, and he’d thrived. Occasionally, someone would spot him, often in the company of another large canine, thought to be one of the occasional wild wolves that make their way down from Canada. State wildlife biologists denied the existence of Shadow and his female companion. “There are no wild wolves in Maine,” was the official line.
Then an idiot shot him with a crossbow. And through a twist of fate, I’d become his protector once more.
God seemed to want the wolf in my life. For what purpose, I still cannot imagine.
What am I to him though?
I sure as hell am not his owner. Or his “pet parent,” to use a term I disdain.
Am I the jailer who foiled his many escape attempts? Or the tormentor who put him in a box to be drugged and half-drowned?
His unblinking stare reveals nothing of his mind.
“Why don’t you come get warm?” I find myself saying again.
He hangs there at the ragged edge of the firelight. The patience of wolves.
And then, without warning, he trots toward me, leaps the threshold, and plops down at my feet.
With the campfire flickering and the wolf dog beside me, I feel like I’ve found myself in the most fucked-up Jack London story of all time.
Shadow begins to chew the painful chunks of ice from between his toes. One of his paw pads is bleeding. I move my hand in the direction of his injured foot. His lip curls and there is no missing the message.
“If you touch me, I’ll bite your fucking arm off.”
12
Mariëtte Chamberlain settled against the upholstered seat and gazed at me through her eyelashes. She knew she had my attention.
“His lover?” I said.
“I don’t think Professor Chamberlain understood his own predilections until late middle age. It wasn’t until after the birth of his sons that he came to his ‘great awakening,’ as Artie used to call it. Afterward, he began an exciting new phase of his life. The professor was a loving husband and father, and he had his dalliances, which Glenna accepted as his private business since he harmed no one by them. One of the virtues of the Chamberlains is their refusal to make petty personal judgments. I suppose I should use the past tense since Bibi is the last of the name and likely to remain so.”
“Thanks, Mother,” said Bibi. “But I haven’t ruled out marriage.”
“I’m speaking of procreation, dear.”
“Have you never heard the words in vitro?”
My chair creaked as I leaned forward. “Did you tell Lieutenant Rivard about this aspect of Professor Chamberlain’s life?”
“At the time it seemed immaterial.”
“But not now?”
“I’m getting to that,” she said. “When the professor retired here, to focus on his art and his horticultural research, he was still a vital man. He had a lifelong commitment to physical fitness. It was one of the things we shared. I assumed his robust physicality extended to his sexual life, but he and I never talked about those things.”
“Grandfather spoke with me about it,” said Bibi. “He was very open.”
Mariëtte shrugged. “Yes, well.”
“As fellow queers and all.”
“Bibi, the warden doesn’t know you well enough to appreciate your sense of humor.”
“I think he’s coming to appreciate it,” said the daughter, ripping another Juul.
The spaniel arose, did a 360-degree turn that only succeeded in raising a cloud of hair and a musty dog smell, before settling into her bed.
I thought of Shadow outside in the cramped quarters of his cold kennel. I prayed to God he hadn’t fully awakened.
Mariëtte ran a hand through her cropped hair. “In any event, the professor had a full life. He had his agricultural research and his wood carving. He was a lifelong Freemason because his role model, Benjamin Franklin, had been one. He volunteered at the polls each election. He took an interest in his community. And that is how he came to be associated with the man, Jewett.”
I had resisted the urge to reach for my notepad, not wanting to signal my growing interest. I hadn’t wanted to give Mariëtte that little victory. But the time had finally come. I clicked the button on my pen.
“You’re referring to the lover you mentioned—the person you’re accusing of murder.”
“Bruce Jewett,” she said, stressing the name’s internal rhyme.
I remembered him from Rivard’s report. “He’s the man who accompanied Professor Chamberlain for the first part of the hunting trip the day he died
? But I understand that your father-in-law dropped him ashore hours before he disappeared. Lieutenant Rivard interviewed Mr. Jewett on several occasions, and his alibi for the afternoon was airtight. Now you’re telling me that he and your father-in-law were lovers?”
“No one knew about it at the time,” said Mrs. Chamberlain. “The idea was so unlikely, given their differences.”
“That’s not entirely true,” said Bibi.
Her mother grew red. “You knew and never told me?”
“I had suspicions, but it was no one else’s business. It still isn’t, if you ask me.”
“Bibi—”
I was concerned that if I didn’t interject now I would miss my chance. “What can you tell me about Mr. Jewett that isn’t in the file?”
Mariëtte smoothed her pants atop her thighs. The corduroy was worn there; she did this a lot. “He’s a retired Navy veteran who lives about a mile south of here. He’s one of those—what’s the word? Help me here, Bibi. Preppers? Survivalists?”
“Kooks,” said the daughter. “He believes the collapse of civilization is imminent and that the black and brown hordes will flee the inner cities to rape and pillage the good people of Stratford, Maine.”
Her Rhodesian mother cleared her throat. Bruce Jewett’s views on race relations were not what the self-proclaimed fugitive wanted to stress.
“I never understood what the professor saw in him, honestly, even as a hunting companion,” she said.
“Grandfather called Bruce ‘an acquired taste,’” said Bibi. “He told me, ‘If you can wait out his filibusters, Bruce can be quite insightful. He hides his intelligence behind a barbed-wire fence of SHTF nonsense.’”
“SHTF?” said Mariëtte.
“It stands for Shit Hits the Fan. The Second Civil War. The coming genocide of the white race.”
A dark expression passed over Mariëtte’s perfect face. She seemed to withdraw inside herself before slowly returning to the room. “Those things are not relevant. They are not part of the motive.”