Widowmaker

by Paul Doiron

  “Do you know where Josh lives?” I asked.

  She sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “Why? You just talked to him.”

  “I might have more questions for him down the line.”

  “He has a house over in Rangeley, on the lake. Adam told me his dad bought it for him. That family is loaded.”

  Maybe I had been too quick to believe Josh Davidson. I had only his word about having met Adam outside the bowling alley that night.

  The glass eyes of the deer kept catching my gaze the way the eyes of a portrait seem to follow you around a room.

  “Whatever happened to Adam’s guns?” I asked.

  “His guns?”

  “Gary Pulsifer told me Adam was a serious hunter. He shot all these bucks, didn’t he? What happened to his rifles?”

  She cleared her scratchy throat. “Adam’s not allowed to own firearms. He’s a felon.”

  “I know. I’m just wondering where they went. Did you sell them for him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of rifles were they? How much did you get for them?”

  Her hands flew up into the air. “Who cares? Why does it matter? You saw the inside of that truck.”

  “Amber, the detective is going to want to know if Adam had access to a firearm.”

  “That fucking Pulsifer,” she said with a bitterness that shocked me. “I could tell you stories about Gary back in the day. You wouldn’t believe some of the stories I could tell you.”

  She’d recognized how curious I was about the guns and was trying to divert my attention.

  “Where are the guns, Amber?”

  “I told you he doesn’t—”

  “I’m trying to help you both. Please let me help you.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Adam’s past help. I know he is.”

  “Maybe, but you’re not.”

  Without a word, she turned and left the room. I switched off the light and followed her into her own bedroom. She had a fish tank that projected aqueous light on the ceiling and filled the space with the sound of bubbles. But I didn’t see any actual living fish behind the glass.

  She went down on her hands and knees beside the bed. She pulled out a long plastic box, the kind a person might use to store sweaters for the summer. Inside were two rifles: a scoped, bolt-action Ruger and a lever-action Winchester identical to the one I’d used to shoot my own first deer.

  “Adam gave these to me,” she said, sitting up again. “They’re mine, and no one can prove otherwise.”

  I knelt down beside her and inspected the bin. The rifles had recently been cleaned. I could smell the bore solvent and lubricating oil. There were boxes of rifle cartridges in .30-06 and .30-30 calibers. Also a smaller box that had once contained 9mm rounds. But when I shook it, I could tell it was empty.

  I held the box in my hand. “Where’s the pistol?”

  “What pistol?”

  “The one that fires these rounds.”

  She drew her lips back from her teeth in an unsuccessful attempt to appear affronted. “A friend of mine left those in my Jeep. We went target shooting once behind the Sugarloaf snowmaking ponds.”

  “Why would you keep an empty box of ammo?”

  She leaned past me and snapped the plastic lid back down on the bin.

  My legs were stiff from driving all day as I rose to my feet. “Does Adam have a key to your apartment?”

  “What? No. I told you he’s not allowed to be here.”

  “But he has been here. He came here, and he cleaned his guns, and he took a pistol that was also stashed inside that bin. Don’t deny it, Amber. I don’t know why you keep lying to me. I don’t know if you just can’t help yourself or if you’re keeping a secret you don’t want anyone else to know.”

  She stretched out her legs on the floor and leaned against the bed for support. “I told you he has enemies.”

  “Who? You’ve got to give me a name, Amber.”

  “I told him not to take that gun,” she said. “I told him he’d be sent back to jail if he was caught with it. But he wouldn’t listen. He said he needed it for protection. He said he’d rather risk being arrested again than get shot in the back of the head. He wouldn’t tell me who was after him.”

  “Do you know what kind of handgun it was—the make or model?”

  “Why?”

  “The police are going to need all the information they can get. If a gun turns up before—” I stopped myself from saying “before his body is found.”

  But she knew what I meant. “A Glock. I think that’s what he called it. Or maybe that’s from a movie. I don’t know.”

  “Is there a box for it? Papers?”

  “Not that I ever saw.”

  I extended my hand to her. “Get up.”

  She looked at my hand as if reluctant to touch it. Then, slowly, she stretched out her arm. I gripped her by the wrist and pulled gently until she was on her feet. She was wobbly but standing.

  “I offered to help you find Adam if I could. But that was before they found the truck he was driving covered in blood.” I put my hands on her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Tomorrow, we’re going to have a conversation with Detective Clegg. You’re going to tell him everything you’ve told me about the threats and the gun. You’re not going to hold anything back.”

  She had a way of pouting that reminded me of a little girl. “I thought you were on our side.”

  “I am on your side. That’s why I’m telling you to come clean. I don’t know what happened to Adam, but it looks bad whatever it was. I am not going to lie for you, Amber. And I’m not going to withhold information.”

  “But he’s your brother!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I swore an oath to uphold the laws of the state of Maine. I’m not going to break my oath.”

  “You never had a problem breaking it when Jack was in trouble.”

  “I told you the night we met,” I said, “I’m not that person anymore.”

  She shoved me in the chest. She wasn’t particularly strong, but she caught me off balance. “Get out!”

  “Amber—”

  “Get the fuck out of my house!”

  There was nothing left to say. She followed me to the living room. She yanked open the door, letting in a blast of cold air that passed through me as if I were a ghost.

  “I thought you were different,” she said. “But you’re just like all the other assholes.”

  “You should get some sleep,” I said.

  “I thought you were a good person. I thought you were loyal. But you’re just as much of a heartless bastard as Jack was. What kind of asshole son doesn’t even claim his dead father’s ashes?”

  I had no answer.

  20

  Gary Pulsifer lived on a hardscrabble farm outside the little town of Flagstaff, in the shadow of the Bigelow Range.

  Back in the 1940s, Flagstaff had been the epicenter of a political fight between the Central Maine Power Company, which had wanted to build a dam at Long Falls to generate electricity downstream in Moscow, and conservationists, who had opposed flooding most of the valley. The dam would have meant the demise of Flagstaff and the neighboring village of Dead River, the residents would have been displaced through eminent domain, and both communities would have vanished beneath the rising waters of Maine’s newest lake.

  But in the end, the opponents had managed to mobilize a public outcry, and the project was abandoned. In recent years, the developers had quietly returned. They had revoked the leases of dozens of camp owners on Flagstaff Pond, including my friends the Stevenses, and clear-cut massive tracts of timberland. They had pushed forward schemes to build wind farms atop the scenic mountains. Such is life in remote, unpeopled places. Every victory is inevitably short-lived.

  I knew I had found Pulsifer’s farm when I saw his patrol truck in the dooryard. The blowing snow had pushed a drift clear over the hood and halfway up the windshield. I parked beside his pickup in the lee of the wind.
/>   Someone must have seen me coming. The front door opened and two curly-haired little dogs came bounding out at me through the snow, yipping and yapping.

  “Don’t mind them!” a woman called through the open door.

  They were English cockers. Pulsifer had told me they were the best upland hunting dogs in the world—also the most headstrong and mischievous. It sounded like the perfect breed for him. I leaned down to pet the spaniels, but they sprang away with tails wagging, as if inviting me to give chase back into the house.

  Lauren Pulsifer stood in the doorway, surrounded by a light that made her look like a movie angel. She had short blond hair, wide-set gray eyes, and a figure that suggested she had borne multiple children. I remembered Pulsifer saying that she used to be a teacher until the demands of the family and the farm had forced her to quit. She still did some substituting for extra cash, he’d said.

  She stepped aside to let me into the mudroom. “Thank you for putting me up,” I said.

  Her eyes told me I should remove my boots.

  “Gary’s taking a shower.” She hung my wet coat from a deer-foot rack on the wall. I hadn’t met a game warden yet whose house wasn’t a showcase of taxidermy. “Here, let me show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

  The house had a pleasantly earthy smell, a combination of apples, wood smoke, dried flowers, and wet dogs. Children’s finger paintings hung on the walls.

  “How many kids do you have?” I asked out of politeness, already knowing the answer.

  “Four. But Glen is away at college, and Jodi is staying at a friend’s in Kingfield. You’ll meet the others in the morning. We don’t need an alarm clock in this house. Those kids are up before the rooster.”

  She showed me into a first-floor guest room with an ancient brass bed, an obviously homemade quilt, and a requisite deer-head mount to watch over me while I slept. She directed me to the nearest bathroom, then said to join her in the kitchen after I’d had a chance to clean myself up.

  After she’d closed the door, I threw my duffel on the floor and sat down on the bed, feeling the weight of the day settle on my shoulders. Stacey had been right about Adam. Now that it seemed he had been murdered and that we would never meet, I found myself feeling a sadness that approached physical pain.

  I missed Stacey so much and was so mad at myself for having lied to her. I checked my phone and found nothing—no voice mails, e-mails, or texts—from her. I considered calling but dreaded the prospect of her hanging up on me again.

  Coward that I was, I sent her a text message instead.

  I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. I am such an idiot. Please forgive me.

  I’m spending the night at Pulsifer’s house in Flagstaff. Long story. I hope your cold is better. The room is cold here and the bed is small. I miss you, Stace.

  I love you,

  Mike

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” I said.

  Pulsifer poked his head in. His hair was still damp from the shower. “I’ve got coffee brewing.”

  The spaniels surged past his legs suddenly and leaped onto the bed beside me.

  I scratched both under their ears. “So what are these guys’ names?”

  “Flotsam and Jetsam,” he said. “Don’t blame me. The kids named them. Come on, I want to hear about your day.” He held up a finger, as if remembering something important, and stepped into the room. He closed the door and lowered his voice. “One word of warning: Lauren really hates Amber Langstrom. It goes back to when we were kids. Anyway, if she starts acting weird, I wanted you to know why.”

  I remembered the unopened pint of bourbon in my coat pocket. Should I offer it as a gift for putting me up? On my way to the kitchen I stuck the bottle in my back pocket.

  Lauren was frying pork belly and onions to make baked beans. The smell was intoxicating. The Pulsifers had an enormous wood-fired cooking stove that radiated so much heat, she had been forced to crack one of the windows.

  Pulsifer removed two mugs from a cabinet and set them on the table.

  “I don’t know if my stomach can take any more coffee,” I said.

  “Do you want me to make you some decaf?” asked Lauren.

  “Decaf?” said Pulsifer with a shocked expression. “What in the world is decaf? It sounds like an abomination.”

  The dogs plopped down, one on each of my feet. I removed the pint of Beam from my back pocket and set it on the table. “I brought you this.”

  Lauren set down her wooden spoon and smiled at me with her teeth together. “We don’t keep alcohol in the house.”

  I thought I remembered drinking beer with Pulsifer some years back after one of our qualification days at the Maine Criminal Justice Academy. Maybe he’d given up the sauce. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, returning the pint bottle to my pocket.

  “How about cider?” Gary said. “It’s from our own orchard.”

  “That sounds great.”

  “Maybe I’ll have some, too.”

  Pulsifer filled my mug with apple cider and sat down at the table. There was a wooden bowl filled with dusty-looking apples between us. He took one out and began to shine it against his pant leg. “Before you tell me what you’ve been up to all day,” he said, “I have another question. How is she doing?”

  Amber, he meant. “Pretty much what you’d expect. She’s convinced Adam’s dead.”

  “That makes two of us, then.”

  “I found out one interesting thing. She was hiding guns for him, including a Glock Nine, which he’s been carrying around ever since he got home.”

  Lauren began pouring beans into a cast-iron pot. “Of course she hid guns for him.”

  “Honey,” said Pulsifer.

  “That woman is the most dishonest person I’ve ever met. Remember how she was in high school?”

  “That woman just lost her son,” said Pulsifer.

  “Her son, the rapist. And why are you, of all people, defending her?”

  So Gary and Amber had some history? Why was I surprised? The big question was, How long ago had they been involved—before or after his marriage?

  Lauren’s face flashed orange from the fire as she slid the pot of beans inside the wood stove. “If you ask me,” she said, “both of them are finally getting what they deserve. God knows, it’s taken long enough.”

  “Lauren!” Pulsifer seemed genuinely surprised by his wife’s lack of compassion.

  “I had Adam in my third-grade class,” she said. “I always knew he was going to end up in jail. That kid is a bad seed.”

  I looked down at my hands.

  “Lauren, that’s enough,” said her husband.

  “She’s always felt superior to me because she used to date you,” she said. “Like I was pathetic for marrying one of her rejects.”

  Pulsifer stood up from his chair. The apple rolled hard off the table and both sleeping dogs sprang to their feet. “I said that’s enough!”

  They glared at each other for a long time—long enough for me to become aware of my heart beating faster—and then she went down on one knee and retrieved the fallen apple with her thumb. She examined the bruised spot, then she tossed the damaged fruit into the trash can.

  “Mommy?” The voice was faint, coming from the top of the nearest stairs.

  “Wonderful,” Lauren said to her husband. “I should make you put her back to bed.”

  “Fine.”

  “No, you stay here with your warden friend.”

  After she’d left the kitchen, Pulsifer tilted back in his chair, holding on to the table with both hands to keep from toppling over. “I told you she was touchy.”

  “So you and Amber, huh?”

  “You ever wish you had amnesia?”

  “I used to.”

  The familiar foxlike smile of his made a reappearance. “I bet you did. You kept me pretty busy when you were a rookie. Every time you got called up on some new charge, I�
��d think, This is it. Bowditch has finally gone too far. He’s done this time. And yet somehow you kept managing to dodge the bullets.”

  “I didn’t dodge that knife,” I said.

  “Something saved you,” he said. “Those vests aren’t stabproof.”

  “So I have recently learned. I must have turned in time or something. The whole thing was a freak occurrence.” I took a sip from the mug. “This cider is good.”

  “It’s my own secret brew. You want a mix of sweet, bitter, and sharp apples for good cider.” He seemed to cock an ear to the stairs. “Let me see that bottle of Beam.”

  I felt reluctant to hand it to him. Lauren definitely would not have approved.

  Pulsifer unscrewed the top and splashed some bourbon in both of our mugs. “Here’s to Amber.”

  The bourbon gave the cider a kick and an added sweetness. But I found that I had no real interest in getting drunk. And I was thinking I might have done something wrong in tempting Pulsifer.

  “I appreciate your putting me up for the night,” I said.

  “I didn’t want your ghost haunting me if you decided to sleep in your Scout.”

  “Do you mind if I ask a personal question? What made you sign up to be the union rep? It just seems like a shitload of aggravation.”

  “You want the truth?” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “I thought it would put me in good with everybody. Instead, the reverse happened. The thing about being the union rep is that you end up learning people’s worst secrets. Drinking problems, domestic issues, gambling, drugs—you name it. Some guys are grateful to me for helping them out of a jam, but others resent me because of what I know about their personal failings.”

  “I’m grateful. You saved my ass more than once.”

  “The people you should be grateful to are Frost and Malcomb. How is Kathy doing anyway? I was sad to hear she’d retired. That woman was the original badass bitch.”