by Paul Doiron
“He knows!” Brenda said. “Truman must have told him.”
The man pulled the mask loose, and for the first time in two years I saw my father’s face.
31
You cannot describe betrayal. To someone who has never suffered it, there is no adequate way to communicate the sudden loss of balance that comes when you discover you’ve been played for a fool. Especially when the person who has betrayed you is someone you love. In a single heartbeat, betrayal throws everything else in your life into doubt. If this was false, what else is? Shame and second-guessing set in immediately. The signs were there all along, so how did you miss them? Sometimes the humiliation of being betrayed is so powerful you retreat back into disbelief. Denial, after all, is a pretty strong narcotic.
But for me there was no escape back into self-delusion. When I discovered the marks around Truman’s wrists and found his rifle to be unloaded, it sent a surge of panic through me. Instinctually, I knew what these things meant, but I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge the full implications of what I was seeing. Now there was no looking away from the terrible truth.
My father’s eyes seared me with the consequences of my folly.
His face was deeply tanned with blue hollows beneath the eyes and more gray in the beard than I remembered-my face in twenty-five years, maybe, if I lived that long. He looked big, barrel-chested, and broad-shouldered in his camouflage shirt, but not as big as he had once seemed to me.
“Truman must have told him,” Brenda said.
“No,” said my father. “Mike shot him before he could say anything.”
She looked confused, frantic. “How did he know then?”
“The ropes,” I said from the ground.
He swung the rifle off his shoulder and tucked the stock under one arm casually so that he could fire it with one hand if he needed to. “Get up, Mike. Slowly. This situation has already gotten too far out of hand. And I know you’re prone to stupid heroics.”
I pushed myself up on my knees. I felt as though I’d had the wind knocked out of me.
“That’s far enough.”
“You wouldn’t shoot me,” I said with all the confidence I could muster.
“I would!” Brenda, her face flushed with anger and alcohol, waved the.44 in my face. “What’s he talking about? What ropes?”
“You wanted to frame them,” I said. “Pelletier and Truman-you wanted to frame them for those murders. That’s why you came back here.”
He scratched his beard as if waiting for me to continue.
“You kidnapped Truman back in town and drove him out here in his truck. Then you shot Pelletier. You stabbed Truman with Russell’s knife, and cut him loose so he would run. You wanted him to bleed to death. You wanted to make it look like they killed each other, but you messed up. The ropes you tied him with left cuts and burns around his wrists.”
“What else?” Like any failed trapper, he wanted to know how he’d given himself away.
“Truman’s rifle,” I said. “It didn’t make sense it was unloaded. You planted that rifle there to incriminate him.”
“How’d you figure it all out?”
“I remembered something you told me when I was a kid. You said the secret to trapping is covering your own tracks.”
He smiled a rueful smile. “I taught you a good lesson.”
“You didn’t teach me a damned thing.”
The smile went away. “You got your mother’s smart mouth, that’s for sure.”
I thought of my mom. We had both believed in him, both argued on his behalf against Neil. Now my father was bad-mouthing her. “How’d you know I’d come out here?” I asked. “You couldn’t have planned that. There’s no way.”
“We didn’t,” he said.
Brenda jumped in. “We just wanted the cops to go to Truman’s place again so they would start looking for him. Then, after Jack took care of things, I was going to call in them two killing each other. We never figured that old fart would fly you out here.”
The mention of Charley gave me a fleeting sensation of hope. He should be here soon, I thought. But was he bringing the police with him? Either way, I needed to stall them.
I looked my father hard in the eye. “So what did you plant at Truman’s apartment to make the cops think he was the killer? It couldn’t have been the murder weapon since you brought that here.”
“My boots, the ones I wore that night. I left them on the porch for the cops to find.”
“Not too subtle.”
“Yeah, well, Truman was an idiot. He’d do something that dumb.”
In my mind’s eye I saw the headless body again. “Everyone thinks you’re in Canada.”
“I know.”
“That’s why you called Mom from across the border,” I said.
“What’s he talking about?” said Brenda, slurring her words.
“I called Marie,” he said.
The muscles in her shoulders tightened. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I wanted them to keep looking for me in Canada.”
Her eyes blazed. “Now what are we supposed to do?”
My father reached into the pack on his belt. I saw Brenda flinch as if she half-expected him to produce a handgun to shoot her. But he only drew out a tangle of bloody rope.
“I’m sorry about this, Mike,” he said. “But until we can talk this out, it’s the only way.”
He tied my arms behind me with the same red-stained cord he’d used to bind Truman. I thought of resisting, but then decided not to. I’d seen what he’d done to Pelletier and Truman and Shipman and Brodeur-four men dead at his hands. But even now, I couldn’t believe he was really capable of killing me. Brenda, however, was another story. Adrenaline and alcohol had given her eyes a bigpupiled glassiness that worried the hell out of me.
Gently, my father directed me inside the lodge. He guided me back to the dining room, with its long tables and its view of the lake through plate-glass windows. Clouds darkened the sky above Holeb Mountain. “Sit down,” he said.
The smell of burnt coffee hung in the air.
Brenda perched across from me, sitting on a tabletop with her dirty feet on the bench and her denim-covered crotch level with my eyes, resting the heavy handgun on her knees.
My father found a bottle of whiskey in a cabinet and brought it out. He took a slug.
“I want some of that,” she said.
He splashed a little whiskey in a coffee mug and handed it to her. “You want a drink, Mike?”
“No.”
Brenda wiped her mouth. “So what do we do now?”
“That’s up to Mike.” He softened his voice. “I know this is hard for you, son. Hell, it’s hard for me. I never wanted any of this to happen, but it did, and now my neck’s on the chopping block. You think I could actually surrender without some pissed-off cop popping me first?”
My voice broke. “I believed you. I told everyone you were innocent. I came up here to prove it.”
“I appreciate that, and I’m sorry I had to mislead you. But I needed your help. I still do.”
“I’m not going to lie for you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He shook his head, sadly. “You don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? You killed four men-one a police officer and three others just to cover your own tracks.”
He raised three fingers. “I killed three men. You killed Truman.”
“After you stabbed him.”
“But you were the one who shot him. Do you think the police are going to believe your story? They’re going to think you were part of this from the start, the way you ran around trying to pin the shootings on Truman and Pelletier. How do you think it’s going to look to them when we tell them you killed Truman.”
I felt like I’d been spat upon. “So now you’re trying to blackmail me?”
“I’m just laying out the situation so you see what’s in all of our best interest.”
“I’m not
to going to keep quiet. I’ll tell the state police what I know. I don’t care how the hell it looks. And if you run, I’ll do everything I can to help them catch you.”
My father took his hat off and set it down on the table and ran his hand through his gray-flecked hair. I saw the exhaustion in the slump of his shoulders, the shadowed sockets around his eyes. Maybe I could capitalize on that exhaustion until help arrived.
“What I want is to know is why you did it,” I said.
“What does it matter?”
“It matters to Jonathan Shipman’s children.”
“Who?”
At first I thought he was joking. Then it came to me. “It was never about Wendigo. All this time everyone thought Shipman was the target. They assumed the deputy just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it was the other way around. It was Brodeur you were after.”
He stood at the broad window with his back to us, the rifle slung over his shoulder, holding the liquor bottle and gazing out at the chop blowing across the lake. Gray, watery light streamed around his bulky silhouette.
“But why?” I asked. “Why’d you do it?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Brenda gulped down the rest of her bourbon.
“It was because of you, wasn’t it?” I said to her.
“Screw you.”
“Did you fuck Brodeur-is that it?”
My father turned around, his face dark with warning.
“That pig raped me,” she said.
“Just like Russell Pelletier tried to do?”
“Shut your mouth, Mike,” my father said.
“She’s lying.”
“I am not,” she said. “He raped me and he got what he deserved.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think that’s what happened. I think that’s what you said happened when my dad found out about you two.”
“You’re full of shit.”
I spoke past her to my father. I knew I had his full attention. “She told you Brodeur stopped her one night driving back from the Dead River Inn, right? Sally Reynolds said she used to drive drunk all the time, and Brodeur used to stake out the inn. I bet she said he forced himself on her.”
“He did!” she said.
“No, I think what happened is you made a deal with him. He was going to arrest you for driving under the influence, so you offered to have sex with him. Maybe it became a regular thing after that for you two.” I glanced over her shoulder at my father’s dark silhouette. “Is that how you found out, Dad? You came home and found the deputy here and wondered what was going on. You were suspicious and angry and you scared her and that’s when she told you about the rape.”
He put down the whiskey bottle and studied the back of her head for a long time before speaking. “She said he wouldn’t leave her alone.”
“Don’t listen to him, Jack.” She slid off the table and approached him, holding the.44 loose in one hand. “He’s just trying to confuse you. That’s why he’s saying these things.”
“You said that cop was stalking you.”
“He was!” She pressed herself against his chest and gazed up into his eyes. “Why would I help you kill him after that meeting? Why would I tell you where to ambush him if I didn’t want him dead?”
“Because you were afraid,” I said. “You knew what my dad would do to you if he found out the truth about you and Brodeur.”
“Screw you!”
“She set you up, Dad. You killed those men because of a lie she told you, and now you’ve killed two more. All because of her. She’s played you, and she played me.”
She pressed one hand flat at the base of his throat. “Don’t listen to him.”
“She tried to seduce me, too,” I said.
He shook his head as if he hadn’t heard me clearly. “What?”
“Less than an hour ago in your cabin. She took her clothes off.”
She spun around and aimed the handgun square between my eyes. “I swear to God I’m going to shoot you if you don’t shut your mouth.”
Reaching out, faster than I could have imagined possible, my father jerked the Ruger from her hands. I was surprised it didn’t go off as he pulled it loose.
He leaned his face close to hers. “Is that true?”
“No! He’s lying again.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I swear.”
“You little bitch.” He raised his hand as if to pistol-whip her.
“It wasn’t like that! I just wanted to keep him from coming over here until you had a chance to do what we said.”
“So you spread your legs for him?” he said, his hand still poised to strike.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You know I love you.”
“You don’t!”
“I do. I do. Please, Jack. I’ll be good, if you let me go. I’ll be a good girl for you. Please.”
For an instant I thought he might punch the pistol grip into her face. But instead he tossed her down to the ground. She collapsed in a ball at his feet.
My father and mother had fought like this. I remembered how many nights the threat of violence had hung in the air of our rented trailer. But, unlike Brenda, my mother had never been a drunk. There is no desperation like that of two alcoholics clinging to each other even as they drive each other to madness. I felt as if I was witnessing something between them that no third party ever should. Was this why he came back for her-because she shared his particular insanity?
His eyes were wet with tears. “Why do you do this to me?”
She shook her head and sobbed. “I don’t know.”
I had been trying to wriggle my arms free, but it was no use. The ropes only tightened. The nerves in my hands began to tingle as the blood flow dammed up.
He tucked the.44 into his belt. “Get up,” he commanded her.
She crawled to the nearest bench and pulled herself up to a sitting position. She hung her head so that her dark hair hid her face and she rubbed her wrist with her good hand. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
My father stood over her, breathing heavily. “I don’t, either.”
Brenda raised her head suddenly. “What’s that noise?”
At first I heard nothing but the refrigerator whirring in the kitchen, then I became aware of a faint drone, almost a whine, growing louder. I’d forgotten about Charley in all that was going on.
“It’s that old game warden!” she said. “They were on the phone before.”
“You didn’t tell me he was coming back.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It’s not just Charley Stevens,” I said. “The police are on their way, too.”
The plane was approaching fast. Through the plate-glass window we saw it zip suddenly into view, headed down the lake away from us-white and red against a smoke-gray sky. In a few seconds Charley would circle around to bring the plane down on the water, facing the camp.
“Please, Dad,” I said. “You’ve got to give yourself up. It’s not too late.”
My father twisted around, his mouth tight with rage. It was not the expression of a man about to surrender. I felt a shudder ride up my spine. Then he slid the hunting rifle off his shoulder and shoved aside the door.
“No!” I said, rising to my feet.
Brenda rushed to the window and pressed both palms to the glass.
As Charley turned the Super Cub toward the camp I saw my father, standing with his back to the window, legs planted apart, lift the semiautomatic rifle and aim it carefully at the cockpit of the plane. The shots were sharp, percussive, and evenly spaced-one after the other after the other-and the plane gave a sudden jerk, like a flying bird wounded on the wing, and rolled to one side. I saw the exposed white belly of the plane and thought it might spin completely over, but instead it righted itself briefly and turned away again, steadying.
But already my father was taking aim again. More shots rang out. The plane began to wobble as it retreated farther
and farther down the lake. Charley couldn’t hold the wings level.
The plane hit the water first with its pontoons but it bounced up again and when it hit the second time, it came down at an angle. One wing knifed the surface and broke apart. Far down the lake, half a mile or more, too far for me to see anything clearly, I watched the wing fly off and the aircraft go sharply down. With a tremendous, soundless splash it came to rest, floating, no longer a plane, just a white and red wreck. It was gone in less than a minute. I stumbled backward, knocking against a table.
My father loomed in the door. He had the face of a stone statue.
I couldn’t answer, couldn’t speak.
My heart was as big as the room.
32
For the longest time I couldn’t will myself to move. Then rage began welling up inside of me, and the numbness went away. I struggled against the straitjacket of knots.
“You son of a bitch!”
“You should have told me he was coming back.” He lifted the whiskey bottle from the table and drank as if to quench a desperate thirst.
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” I said.
He wiped his mouth and shook his head as if he felt sorry for me. He knew exactly what he had done.
“You’re a goddamned coward,” I said.
“Shut up, Mike.”
“Fucking coward!”
The punch he gave me across the chin felt like a glancing blow from a sledgehammer. It snapped my head around, and I lost my balance and fell backward across a table. I tried to get up, but he grabbed me around the throat with one hand, thumb and forefinger digging into the nerve bundles beneath the jawbone, and he held me down with his weight until fireworks exploded across my retinas.
“I told him to call the police,” I gasped. “They’re coming right now.”
He brought his face close to mine. He stank of whiskey and sweat-drenched clothes and long hours spent wading through rotting peat bogs. For a moment he stared into my eyes-so similar to his own in color and shape-and I knew he was trying to gauge my truthfulness by looking for the telltale signs of deceit in himself. What he saw, I don’t know, but he let go of me, making a noise almost like a growl, and I slumped back onto the table.