by Paul Doiron
For the first time, the faintest trace of a smile appeared on the boy’s pimply face.
“Yes, suh,” he said on his way out the door.
Mandelbaum waited until the boy was out of earshot before laying into us. “You lied to me,” he said. “You came in here and you lied. You told me Barney wasn’t a suspect in any crimes.”
“Those weren’t the exact words we used,” Rivard said. “What I said was, we wanted him to help us out with some information.”
“That’s-sophistry! You have no right to bully my students. These are good kids here. Yes, some of them have some problems. There’s poverty and addiction. But just because Barney Beal comes from a broken family-just because he has a tattoo-doesn’t mean you can treat him like a thug. Not without evidence.”
“How long have you worked here, Mr. Mandelbaum?” Rivard asked.
“This is my second year. Why?”
“That’s what I thought.”
“So because I’m not a Maine native, I’m a second-class citizen who will never understand this place?”
“Basically, yes.”
“We apologize for the intrusion, Mr. Mandelbaum.” I pulled my gloves from my coat pockets. “I’ll be outside when you’re ready to hit the road, Sergeant.”
I could feel Rivard’s eyes boring into my back as I left the room.
I’d never missed Kathy Frost so much in my life.
When I was in high school, I was the straightest of straight arrows. All my teachers adored me, and the football coach made me a team captain despite my limitations as a tight end and linebacker.
The only serious trouble I ever got into was a single fistfight. After school one day, I came across a kid who looked almost exactly like Barney Beal bullying a nerdy freshman, and I ordered him to knock it off. When the bully told me where I could shove my advice, I coldcocked him in the nose. Our fight was long and vicious, and by the time the phys ed coach pulled us apart, we both needed stitches.
Afterward, the vice principal had confronted me in her plush office, not so much with anger as with hurt and disbelief. It was as if I had broken her heart in some way. I was such a great kid, she said. Out of what dark place had this violence suddenly come?
“I don’t know,” I said, lying.
The truth was that rage was twisted into my genetic code. It was my father’s enduring birthright. Every day I fought to deny the existence of my simmering anger, to push it back inside my dark heart.
At the hospital, my mother looked at my fierce eyes and wounded jaw with horror, fearful that I had begun some lycanthropic transformation. Her greatest worry was that I was destined to become a bloodthirsty creature like her ex-husband. After the divorce, she did everything she could to keep me away from my dad. She’d moved us from the North Woods to the Portland suburbs. She discouraged me from talking to him on the phone. She even frowned on my own hunting and fishing pursuits, worried I was becoming increasingly like my old man.
My mother now spent her winters in Naples, Florida, and we spoke less and less. My choice of a dangerous profession had seemingly confirmed her worst fears, and I think she fully expected that some night the telephone would ring and it would be Colonel Harkavy, telling her that I had been shot in the head by a Down East poacher. It was better not to think of me in that case, to pretend her doomed son no longer existed, to protect herself from future grief.
I waited for Rivard in the frigid parking lot, literally blowing off steam. Every shimmer of breath was visible in the air for several seconds before being swept away on the breeze. If anything, the sky looked even more ominous than when we’d arrived, but perhaps it was just my miserable mood.
My sergeant didn’t speak until we were on the road again. “You could have backed me up in there.”
“Mandelbaum was right. You lied to him.”
“The guy’s living in a dream world. Beal is the one who robbed those cabins. Him and his buddies. Did you see his pupils? They were microscopic. The kid was high on Oxy or God knows what.”
“If you’re so sure he’s robbing cabins to buy drugs,” I said, “you should turn your evidence over to the sheriff’s office or the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency. It’s their job to investigate that shit, not ours.”
Rivard kept his eyes on the road, but he rolled his head around on his neck as if it were crimped. “I was trying to send that punk a message.”
“I think you failed, Marc.”
He turned his head, and once again I was confronted by my distorted reflection in his sunglasses. The anger I saw in my features stopped me cold. I felt like Henry Jekyll looking into the face of his other self.
“You’ve got a lot to learn,” Rivard said.
“So you keep telling me.”
He flicked on the windshield wipers.
I’d been so consumed with my grievances that I hadn’t noticed it was beginning to snow.
FEBRUARY 13
They sent us home early on account of the snow. Erick says there’s a big blizzard coming. The Storm of the Century, he says.
On the bus I kept thinking about the White Owl, wondering if she’d come to my window like she did the last time it snowed.
The bus came around the corner and I saw Randle’s new car in front of the house and I got a sick feeling in my stomach like I ate too much peanut brittle.
Ma’s van was there, too-but she don’t usually get home till after
2. That’s when her shift ends.
Randle’s always got some new car. This one’s a black Grand Am.
After the bus left, I wondered if Randle and Prester shot a coyote like they said they was going to. I wondered if they had it in the backseat.
All I did was look in the window!
Suddenly Randle came out the door, yelling F this and F that and telling me to get away from the car. His face was all weird and scary from his new tattoo.
He HIT me!
Right in the side of the head. I fell over and everything! My whole backpack spilled onto the ground. When I touched my head, there was BLOOD!
Ma came out screaming. Don’t touch him! Leave him alone!
She ain’t afraid of Randle. She gave him a shove, but he just pushed her into a snowbank. Then he called her the C word.
If you touch my son again, I’m gonna kill you! Ma said. I never seen her so mad.
F you, Jamie, Randle said. Come on, Prester.
Uncle P didn’t even try to help us up or anything. He just did what Randle told him to do, same as always.
Randle peeled rubber all the way up the road.
Ma helped me pick up my stuff. I’ll never let him hurt you again, Lucas, she told me.
I heard that one before.
She knew what I was thinking. I mean it this time, she said.
6
It scarcely seemed possible, but my day went downhill from there.
After Rivard dropped me at my trailer, I discovered that the baseboard heating had gone on the fritz. I checked the fuse box, but there were no spare fuses. That meant I would have to drive down to the hardware store in Machias before my pipes froze and burst. Either that or try heating the entire building with my propane stove.
I was lacing up my wet boots again when I remembered a dusty metal box under the kitchen sink. Inside were all sorts of orphan screws and random washers, along with a handful of new electrical fuses. I had to wait half an hour for the trailer to warm up again before I dared leave.
Out on the road, the visibility was already going to hell, and it wasn’t even midday.
I’d decided to visit a gun shop-people in these parts tended to run them as home businesses-to ask the owner about “George Magoon,” but I found the door padlocked and the barred windows dark. Instead, I drove over to Snake Lake to check ice-fishing licenses. As cold as it was, I expected a few fishermen to be sitting in the warmth of their brazier-heated shacks, enjoying hot coffee or more adult beverages. But all I found out on the ice was another ghost town. Everyone but me had
the good sense to hunker down inside and wait out the storm.
On the drive home to Whitney, I passed a convoy of ancient school buses inching along in the snow. The local kids were being sent home for the day. I decided to take a hint and do the same. I finished the paperwork I owed the Warden Service and watched the snowflakes fall from the tepid comfort of my trailer.
When I ventured out again for dinner, I found my personal vehicle-a 2005 Jeep Wrangler-hiding under a new white blanket. The storm had been gathering force all afternoon, and now with darkness descending, snow was both falling from the sky and being blown upward from the thickening drifts. I had outfitted my Jeep with new snow tires, but even with the studs digging into the snowpack, I was reluctant to push my luck. Creeping along at twenty-five miles per hour made me feel like a daredevil.
After I crossed into Township Nineteen, it occurred to me that I should’ve brought a gift of some sort. I had always relied on Sarah to take care of my manners. At twenty-six, I still had no feel for even the most basic social graces.
Even going slowly, I almost drove past Doc’s farm. His mailbox, already knocked off-kilter by a plow, sprang up like a ghostly apparition out of the frozen mist. I pressed the brake and felt the Jeep shudder and fishtail before it slid safely to a halt. When I looked again, the mailbox had disappeared into the gathering night. Peering through the flurries, I detected a fuzzy yellow glow on the hillside above me. It was Doc’s porch light. I turned the wheel and headed up what I hoped was the driveway-the paved way was indistinguishable beneath the drifts-toward the beacon.
I didn’t hear the dogs until I opened the door. Their cries were carried along on the howling wind, so that they seemed part of the storm itself. Larrabee had mentioned that he was also inviting his musher friend, Kendrick, to dinner, but I never imagined that the man would drive his sled here on a crappy night like this. I squinted into the side yard, where a few snow-laden fir trees were huddled against the cold, but I saw neither dogs nor sled. There was something eerie about that disembodied baying in the night.
I rapped hard on Doc’s side door and waited, shivering, for my host to let me in. After an eternity, he appeared. “I thought we might need to send a Saint Bernard looking for you with a cask of brandy,” he said.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“The snow’s supposed to stop later, so you should have a safer drive home.”
“Not if it keeps blowing like this.”
I stepped into the mudroom and stamped my boots to clean off the clumped snow. Doc had so many coats hanging from the hooks, there was no place for mine. After a moment, he realized my distress and said, “Let me take your parka. You can put on those moccasins, if you don’t mind removing your wet boots.”
I had never seen Doc without a coat, so this was my first gander at his spectacular belly. He looked as if he had swallowed a watermelon whole and it had lodged somewhere between his upper and lower intestines.
I sat down on a hardwood bench and began untying my laces. “Those must be Kendrick’s dogs I heard.”
“A storm like this is nothing to Kendrick. I think he’s half polar bear.”
A gray-snouted mutt came waddling on bad hips down the length of the hallway. Its tail swung slowly back and forth, and it held my gaze with two rheumy eyes. “Who’s this?” I asked, scratching its chin.
“This is Duchess.”
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen. Helen and I got her when she was just a puppy.”
A call came from the interior. “Hey, Doc! Where’s the hooch?”
“Excuse me,” Doc said, and with that, he disappeared down the darkened hall. The dog followed like his four-legged footman.
The moccasins Larrabee had offered to me were high-topped, flat-soled, and fashioned from bleached deerskin. They looked Indian-made, which would have made sense. The Passamaquoddies owned reservation land that brushed up against the eastern edge of my district.
I found Doc and Kendrick in a dimly lit room at the end of the hall. With its hooked rugs, birch rocking chairs, and horsehair sofa, it had more of the the feel of an old-time sitting parlor than a modern living room. Doc had the woodstove cranking, but its efforts were in vain. The storm was pulling heat from the building through every crack and seam.
I seemed to have caught Kendrick declaiming in mid-speech.
“There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.”
Kendrick paused and took a sip from a cocktail glass filled to the brim with amber liquid and ice. He was something to behold: a handsome brown-bearded man with wild, curling hair, dressed in a buckskin vest over a flannel shirt, and wool logger’s pants that were rolled up at the cuffs, exposing a pair of long bare feet. How in the world were his toes not freezing?
Doc was holding an empty bottle. With his free hand, he gestured at his other guest. “Kevin can recite ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee’ from front to back. That and ‘The Shooting of Dan McGrew.’”
“That’s because I’m from Alaska, where it’s mandatory you learn those poems in kindergarten.” He leaned forward on the couch and extended his strong, calloused hand. “Kevin Kendrick.”
“Mike Bowditch.”
“Doc was just telling me about your frozen zebra. That’s what prompted my little poetry recital. You might have tried defrosting it in a furnace, like they did with old Sam McGee.”
“I don’t think it would have helped.”
Kendrick raised his glass and the ice clinked. “Maker’s Mark?”
“I’ll have a cup of coffee.”
Larrabee left us alone while he went into the kitchen. I settled down in a rocker near enough to the fire to melt whatever ice had formed in my veins. The chair creaked alarmingly as I leaned back. Doc’s elderly mutt plopped herself next to the woodstove with a heavy expulsion of breath.
“That’s one old dog,” I said.
“Doc’s going to have to put her down one of these days, I’m afraid. She’s riddled with tumors. It’s the humane thing to do. But he can’t bear another loss after Helen.”
“I heard your dogs outside,” I said. “They were really wailing.”
“Those wimps just need some toughening up.”
“How so?”
“A night like this focuses their attention,” he said. “I’ve got fifty pounds of bricks on that sled to build their endurance. That’s what I like about canines. Their bad behavior is correctable.”
Unlike people? Charley Stevens had told me that Kendrick was a professor at the University of Maine at Machias. He had probably had his share of incorrigible students.
“Doc told me you’ve raced in the Iditarod,” I said.
“Anchorage to Nome by dogsled, twice. But that was a long time ago, when I was young and foolish. Now I’m just middle-aged and foolish.”
I would have estimated Kendrick’s age as being somewhere between mine and Doc’s, but exactly where he fell along the spectrum was hard to guess. People who spend a lot of time outdoors develop sun wrinkles and burst capillaries in their faces, making them look older than they actually are. But the professor had piercing eyes and an aquiline nose I suspected women found appealing.
As was my habit when I met a stranger, I let my gaze roam casually over him, looking for clues about his background and inner life. The buckskin vest looked handmade; I was guessing Kendrick had tanned it himself. Around his neck hung a necklace of three bear claws. When he leaned back on the sofa, I saw a big hunting knife in a sheath on his belt. His entire outfit seemed like a costume.
He crunched down hard on an ice cube. “Did you hurt your hand?”
“Excuse me?”
&n
bsp; “You’re rubbing your right thumb like it’s giving you trouble.”
I was unaware of doing this. “I broke a couple of bones last year, but they’re mostly healed.”
Doc Larrabee reappeared, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a new bottle of whiskey. He spilled a little whiskey over the rim of Kendrick’s glass. “You sure you don’t want a shot in yours?” he asked me.
I shook my head no and held the cup in both hands, warming them. Then I rocked back in my chair, looking at Kendrick. “Doc tells me you’re a professor at the University of Machias. What do you teach?”
“Environmental studies,” he said.
“I call Kendrick ‘the Last of the Mountain Men,’” Doc said. “You wouldn’t believe the crazy things he’s done in his life-hiked the entire Appalachian Trail barefoot, paddled in a kayak he made himself out of sealskin from Nunavut to Greenland, discovered three new bird species in the Amazon, lived for six months with cannibals in Papua New Guinea-”
“The Asmat aren’t cannibals anymore.”
“The New York Times wrote a whole profile on him a few years back. Tell me, Kendrick, how many nights did that pretty reporter sleep in your wigwam?”
Kendrick didn’t take the bait. “That story made me sound like some strange hermit or survivalist because I choose to live in the woods and practice primitive ways.”
“That’s the name of the survival school he teaches in the summer,” Doc interjected. “Primitive Ways.”
“It’s not a ‘survival school.’ I teach basic wood skills-friction fire techniques, wildcrafting, tracking.”
“You have to admit that you’re something of a guru,” said Doc.
“I’m just a teacher who wants his students to question their assumptions about the so-called superiority of the modern world.”
I remembered the story Rivard had told me earlier that morning. “Someone was telling me today that you had a drug overdose at your university last year.”
Kendrick looked at me with a curious expression. There was something about his eyes that reminded me of a dog’s: a copper color you rarely saw in human beings. “Trinity Raye.”