Stay Hidden

by Paul Doiron

  I started to drive off, then remembered something I’d meant to say and put my foot on the brake. But by then she’d already vanished into the house.

  What I’d wanted to tell her was Don’t go roaming around the island again without me.

  Maybe it was for the best that I didn’t get a chance to issue my patronizing command.

  I had no right to insist she voluntarily confine herself to the cottage. She was an adult who had committed no crime. She was also a journalist with all the freedoms that came with being a member of the fourth estate.

  I drove slowly past the marsh and into the village. I made a detour to Bishop’s Wharf, where an arc light blazed all night long at the end of the dock. From a distance of twenty feet you couldn’t see the pole on which it was mounted, just the detached glow. It looked like a cold star in the fog.

  Pillsbury’s truck was still parked in the muddy lot at the base of the hill. Wherever he’d gone that evening, he hadn’t returned.

  The entire village seemed to be sleeping now, even the watchdogs some of the islanders kept to warn against ill-meant visits from their own neighbors. I navigated the sharp turn up to the Wight House and the church and the graveyard beyond.

  On my way up the hill, I met my phantom buck again. This time he wasn’t chewing on a hunk of roadkill; he was rubbing his thin coat against a telephone pole to leave a scent warning for other males to avoid his territory. The stupid animal had already rubbed off a patch of hair he would need to survive the winter. In the headlights I could see the exposed skin below the white undercoating of fuzz. The little buck gave me the stink eye as I drove past, then returned to mortifying his own flesh.

  Mrs. Wight had kindly left another of her notes under a plate of molasses cookies on the checkout desk.

  Good Evening, Warden Investigator Bowdoin.

  We hope you had a restful and relaxing day exploring the island!

  You seem to have forgotten to turn the do not disturb sign around to alert the maid to make up your room so we have taken the liberty of turning down your bed and providing you with fresh towels. You should not want for anything, but if you find yourself in need, please use this pad to leave a note and we shall attend to it at our earliest opportunity.

  Your hosts,

  Elmore and Ellen Wight

  How thoughtful of my hostess to disregard my wishes about leaving my room undisturbed. Mrs. Wight’s commitment to offering five-star hospitality knew no limits.

  Her cookies, however, were delicious. I brought the entire plate upstairs with me. I took a long hot shower and hung my salt-crusted clothes over the air vent to dry. Then I propped myself up on the bed with my laptop resting on a pillow, closed my eyes as if preparing to enter a meditative state, then opened my email program. Messages and forwarded texts cascaded down the screen.

  Many of them were from members of the media. Some bore the names of newspaper writers I’d known for years who wrote knowledgeably about the outdoors and with a modicum of respect for the unique difficulties of my job. Others had come from junior-level television reporters at the local stations; these bright-eyed young things had come to Maine to start their careers, often with no understanding at all of the state’s peculiar culture. Fewest but most frightening were the messages from writers for national publications and producers for TV news programs that millions watched with their morning coffee.

  What all of these journalists had in common was that they’d done an end run around the Warden Service media liaison in an attempt to score an exclusive with me. I deleted each and every request for an interview.

  The other emails were familiar and expected: Commissioner Maryann Matthews writing to tell me that the governor had a “special interest” in the case; Colonel Tim Malcomb making the same point in more pointed terms; Captain DeFord issuing a “request” for an update that was really a demand; Detective Klesko reminding me that I’d sworn to be his partner in this investigation; Assistant Attorney General Danica Marshall warning me against screwing up the case for her; Chief Medical Examiner Walt Kitteridge cc’ing me on his preliminary autopsy report minus the toxicology and ballistic tests; my former sergeant Kathy Frost, who emailed whenever she’d heard I was wrestling with a tar baby; Charley Stevens offering to risk his life to fly out in the deathly fog—words that brought tears to my eyes.

  Nothing more from Stacey, who must surely have heard from her parents about my latest trouble.

  There was a note from Dani Tate, which this time I read last:

  Hi Mike

  I tried your line before. Then I heard your phone got dunked. Skype me when you get this. Don’t worry about the time. I’ve got something you need to hear.

  Dani

  I was a novice user of voice chat, but I had downloaded the program to stay in touch with Stacey, only to find she rarely used it herself. Now I tried Dani. She must have had her laptop beside the bed because she answered in thirty seconds.

  The connection was poor, the picture was fuzzy.

  Dani had dirty-blond hair that she cut herself, less to save money than because she saw no point in hiring someone to do what she could do herself, and it was now a mussed mess. Her face was flat with a snub nose and gray eyes that changed color depending on the light. It was a face you wouldn’t look twice at most of the time. Then she smiled and dimples appeared beneath heretofore invisible cheekbones, and you had the thrilling sensation of having witnessed something beautiful that few people were gifted with seeing.

  “Sorry to wake you,” I said.

  “No, no. Don’t be. Hang on while I adjust this thing.”

  She repositioned the computer, or rather, she repositioned herself, in relation to the computer. Her gymnast’s shoulders were bare. Was she sleeping in the nude?

  To distract myself from the image, I said, “How did you hear about my phone?”

  “Good old-fashioned police work.” Meaning she had pestered her friends in the Warden Service.

  “Losing my iPhone didn’t endear me with DeFord.”

  “I bet it didn’t! I’ve heard that tomorrow he’s coming out there himself, along with a team of wardens, troopers, and county cops. Has he told you yet?”

  “I haven’t checked his most recent message.”

  “I’m sorry, Mike. But Maquoit has been all over the news today. That Ariel woman has really screwed you.”

  A pain shot up my already aching back. “What do you mean?”

  “She did an interview with NPR. The anchor treated it like she was being patched in from Antarctica instead of a tiny Maine island. She slammed the people out there really hard. I don’t even live on Maquoit, but I took offense.”

  I was surprised by how calmly I received this news. “Did she mention me?”

  “Not by name. But the host was asking her about what the cops are doing and she said, ‘They’ve assigned one guy to the case. He’s the only cop out here with me, and he isn’t even a real detective.’”

  I fought the impulse to slam the laptop closed. “That’s the truth, I suppose.”

  “Bullshit it is!”

  I pretended to be distracted by something in the room so she wouldn’t see my expression. “Thanks, Dani. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Wait! Are you OK, Mike? I’m having a hard time seeing you.”

  I kept my head turned. “I’m OK. Just tired.”

  “Listen, if you need to talk…”

  “I’m sure I will—when this is over.”

  “It’s a date, then.”

  “It’s a date,” I agreed as if the word didn’t have more than one meaning.

  The smart thing to do would be to begin tidying up, I thought. Answer the commissioner and the colonel. Write up my notes for DeFord to use when he assumed command of the investigation. Even respond cordially to Steve Klesko instead of burning that bridge, too. I would accept my failure with grace.

  But when in my life had I ever done the smart thing?

  By my reckoning I had eight or so more
hours until I was relieved of my responsibilities. I made a plan to get some sleep because I couldn’t keep going without rest. Then, in the morning, I’d check in on Hiram and see how he was suffering. I’d pay one last visit to Gull Cottage to confront Ariel Evans over her ill treatment of me on the radio.

  I knew there was no need to set an alarm. As I lay in the dark, staring up into yet another black void, I found myself thinking of Dani. Not with desire this time, but with gratitude.

  With the exceptions of my friends Kathy and Charley, everyone else who’d contacted me did so to satisfy their own needs. But Dani hadn’t asked a single question about my botched investigation. It wasn’t curiosity that had driven her to reach out to me. She was genuinely concerned for my welfare.

  38

  I awoke in darkness, but this time I knew exactly where I was and what I needed to do.

  My stay on Maquoit was coming to an end.

  I shaved and put on clean clothes. A flannel shirt and jeans over thermal underwear. My Bean boots. My leather-trimmed peacoat. My black watch cap. There was no point in being the only one on the island dressed in blaze orange. Whatever happened today, I would not be shot by a hunter who had confused me for a deer. And if I was, what a fitting end to my absurd life that would be.

  I took one last look at my messages. There were two of note.

  The first was a text from Klesko:

  I’m not sure how you came to see me as another of your enemies. Was it because I withheld my unconditional support that you were up to the job? Nothing you’ve done since then has helped you in that regard. Maybe if you actually hung out with some of your fellow officers, you’d realize we aren’t all such bad guys. The lone wolf thing doesn’t work, Mike. For your sake, and Ariel’s, I hope you learn that lesson sooner rather than later. If you have a problem with any of this, I’ll be on the boat this morning.

  The second message was an email from Stacey.

  The subject line was “News.” I didn’t dare to open it at first. Then realized I had no choice.

  Dear Mike:

  I’ve been sitting here crying—yeah, me, I know—because you’re on Maquoit alone and it’s your first hunting homicide and I’m three thousand miles away. It might as well be a million.

  I would give anything to be with you. But I know I would only cause you more trouble than you’re already dealing with. Being on my own again has made me aware that I’m not a healthy person to be around. For example, the most important thing in the world to me is that you are happy, and yet I can’t bring myself to tell you to go find someone else. Somehow I want to believe that I’ll get myself together and you’ll be back home waiting. But what if I never get myself together?

  Even this email is toxic, I realize. I should say goodbye, but I can’t say goodbye. So I’m doing that yo-yo thing to you again. I wish I were better, Mike. You deserve better.

  I will always love you,

  Stacey

  I reread the message again.

  Then, because I knew that I needed a clear head for what was coming, I deleted it.

  Downstairs at the checkout desk, I left an envelope with ten dollars for “the maid” (probably Mrs. Wight herself) and a note addressed to my hosts, thanking them “both” for their hospitality.

  The fog had become so familiar I couldn’t imagine ever seeing the sun again. I tossed my briefcase and rucksack on the passenger seat and started on my way into town.

  It was 4:25. Less than two hours until sunrise. Four or five hours until the boat appeared carrying DeFord and his team of officers.

  My spike buck hadn’t come out to wish me a bon voyage. He was probably off dining on a dead gull.

  As usual, Maquoit had awakened before dawn. Lights were on in the kitchens of the fishermen’s houses, and the smell of wood-burning stoves hung so thickly in the air, it would have been easy to mistake the mist for smoke. I drove directly to Hiram Reed’s decrepit house and found the windows there aglow. His blue pickup was parked as it had been the night prior, but Harmon had departed in his silver GMC.

  I rapped at the screen door.

  The silhouette of a woman appeared in a first-floor window, and a minute later Martha Reed stood at the door. She was dressed in her flannel nightdress, and her gray hair still hung in twisting tendrils around her face. But there was nothing haggard in her expression. Nor did her shoulders stoop. Caring for her sick son seemed to have enlivened her in ways unforeseen.

  “How is he?”

  “He had a bad night. His gut is hurting him wicked bad, and he sweated so much there was an actual puddle on the bed. It’s the muscle spasms that are the worst—for me at least. Watching him twitch and shake like he’s about to have one of them epileptic seizures.”

  “I noticed that Harmon left.”

  “He went home an hour or two ago. Harm’s never been as hard a man as he lets on. He’s tender under that tough skin. I’m sorry about the way he acted toward you folks last night when you were trying to help.”

  It wasn’t for his wife to apologize. “I appreciate that. How are you holding up, Mrs. Reed?”

  “I could use some tea. Hiram doesn’t drink it.”

  “I can get you some from Graffam’s if you like.”

  “That would be dear of you, but it don’t open until five.”

  “It was incredibly brave what you did, concealing Narcan from your husband knowing how he felt about drugs after what happened to Heath.”

  “It’s the nurse on the Star of the Sea who deserves the credit. She said to me, ‘Martha, you’ve lost one son to this scourge. Do you really want to lose another?’ I hoped I’d never have to use it. Hiram did so well for so long.”

  “Until Miranda Evans arrived on the island.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I was sorry what happened to her. Is it true that you have no leads or suspects at all?”

  “Not quite true.”

  The muscles in her neck tensed. It was the first time I’d glimpsed any guardedness in her open face.

  “There’s a boat coming over from the mainland today,” I said. “It’s bringing more wardens and police officers to assist in the investigation. They can take Hiram to a hospital onshore.”

  “He won’t want to go. Can they make him go?”

  “It would be easier for everyone if he agreed. I’d like to talk with him if it’s all right with you.”

  “About going to the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  The statement was not a lie, but it was deceptive, and I felt a measure of guilt for using this woman’s motherly concern to obtain one last interview with her sick son.

  “Come in.” She led me into the house and up the stairs. Halfway there, I began to smell Hiram. The odor coming from his bedroom smelled like a stew of bodily fluids.

  Martha poked her head through the door. “The warden is here to see you, Hiram.”

  “Tell him to go away.” His throat sounded raw and painful.

  “There’s a boat coming for you, Hiram, to take you to the hospital in Ellsworth.”

  “I won’t go.”

  “They’ll have medicine to make you feel better.”

  “I don’t want to feel better! I want to die! Why won’t you people let me die?”

  Martha turned to me with her brow knitted in despair.

  “Let me try,” I said softly.

  She flattened herself against the wall to let me past.

  Hiram’s shirt was gone, as were his pants, and he lay in dingy Fruit Of The Looms. He clapped a hand over his crotch, a gesture of surprising modesty. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I know what you’re going through, Hiram.”

  “Like hell you do.”

  “As bad as it is now, it’s going to get worse, and when it does, you’ll be glad to have medical care.”

  He winced so hard, tears flowed from the corners of his eyes. “Why are you bothering me? This is none of your business.”

  “The drugs I found in your possession ar
e my business. I could arrest you now if I wanted.”

  Martha Reed bristled. “You didn’t say you were going to arrest him!”

  “Whether I do or not is up to him. I have a strong suspicion that your son knows something about what happened to Miranda Evans that he’s not telling me. I think he may be protecting someone.”

  Hiram tried to rise up in anger, but the sudden motion caused him to roll off the bed and knock his head against the nightstand. Trapped between the mattress and the cracked drywall, he wailed like a small child.

  “Oh, baby,” said his mother, rushing to his side. There wasn’t space enough for me to help him back onto the bed. Nor would my assistance have been welcomed. Her eyes blazed at me as she helped him up. “You should be ashamed of yourself. I want you to leave this house and not come back.”

  Most cops won’t admit it, but almost all police work is premised on the shaky concept of the ends justifying the means. “Whatever it takes” is the motto of many of the officers I have known. This mind-set secures prosecutions against very bad people who would otherwise continue to victimize the most defenseless members of society. But that same line of thinking is also responsible for the worst abuses committed by those individuals who disgrace my profession.

  Which is to say I was ashamed and not ashamed.

  I paused when I reached the bottom of the steps to scan the room, not having had a chance to do so the night before. The entire house seemed to be one multichambered man cave. The sofa and armchairs were made of leather, scratched by the claws of a big dog no longer in residence. Over the open fireplace was mounted an honest-to-goodness trophy deer head.

  Lots of older mounts have eyes that are so fake looking they look like black marbles. This deer had the newfangled glass models that aren’t one color but have depth to them, concentric circles of ever-darkening brown all the way to the obsidian pupils. I had paid extra myself for a similar pair of realistic eyes for the twelve-point buck I had shot just the year before.

  A man’s deep voice startled me. “What are you doing here?”