Widowmaker

by Paul Doiron

  I passed the apartment complex where Amber lived but didn’t see her Jeep. Had she recovered enough from her grief to return to the Sluiceway and beg for her job back? Her manager didn’t seem to be a sympathetic sort.

  I decided to take the long way home. I followed Route 27 southeast through Stratton and Wyman Township, skirting the edge of the Bigelow Range. As I approached the Sugarloaf ski resort, I saw the first trails, across the valley, white against the dark green of the mountain. From a distance, I picked out the skiers and boarders, small as specks, and I thought of lines of ants exploring a bowl of sugar. I crossed the bridge over the Carrabassett River and came to the village at the base of the mountain. It reminded me somewhat of the string of businesses outside Widowmaker, the difference being that these seemed to be thriving.

  It was a picture-perfect day to be out on the slopes. When all of this was over, I promised myself that I would head up this way again. It had been too long since I had gotten out my old skis.

  An hour later, I arrived back in civilization in Farmington. I stopped for lunch at the McDonald’s at the edge of town. In my head, I heard Stacey’s scolding words about my miserable diet, the toll that cholesterol and sodium were taking on my arteries. I thought briefly of ordering a salad but broke down and got a Big Mac. And extra-large fries, of course.

  Someone had left a newspaper in the booth. I paged through it while I picked at my fries, until I came to the editorial page and saw a column written by Johnny Partridge titled “A Soft Landing for Sexual Predators.” It was an “exposé” of Don Foss Logging that portrayed the bare-bones compound as a woodland paradise where child molesters and serial rapists enjoyed luxurious accommodations and gourmet meals on the Maine taxpayer’s dime. I couldn’t find one true sentence in the piece, but that hardly mattered. All Partridge cared about was causing an uproar.

  Maybe Foss’s gravy train was about to go off the tracks.

  My phone buzzed. Half of my fellow diners were gabbing away on their own cells, so I felt free to take the call.

  “This is Bowditch,” I said.

  “Warden, this is Joanie Swette from Pondicherry. We met at the house with the wolf dog.”

  Preoccupied as I’d been with Adam’s disappearance, I had almost forgotten about Shadow.

  “Hi, Joanie. Thanks for calling me back.”

  “I tried you a couple of times yesterday, but the call kept dropping.”

  “I’ve been up in the mountains.”

  “Oh, it must be beautiful.” She waited to see if I would say something out of politeness, then plowed right ahead. “You asked me to call you when the DNA tests came back. It usually takes weeks, you know, but it turns out that Shadow has a tattoo.”

  “A tattoo?”

  “On his stomach. No one saw it at first. Shadow began showing signs of stress at the shelter, not aggression, but you could tell that he had some pretty bad associations with cages. He was fine in the carrier, but he really freaked out at the shelter. Eventually, Dr. Carbone decided to sedate him, because it was the only way he was going to be able to draw blood. He was afraid of being bitten.”

  That poor animal, I thought. I’d seen canids in zoos and wildlife parks, and almost without exception they’d worn grooves along the inside borders of their pens from nonstop pacing.

  “So that’s when he discovered the tattoo,” I said. “What did it tell you?”

  “It’s a registration number. It seems that Shadow’s from Montana.”

  “Montana?”

  “The number was assigned by the Montana Fish, Wildlife, and Parks Enforcement Division. Shadow is a high-content wolf dog. Almost pure wolf, basically.”

  The smell of the fried burger had begun to nauseate me. “How did he end up with a drug dealer in Maine?”

  “No one knows, but it seems his original owner died recently. The wardens in Montana contacted the relatives for us, and they didn’t even know their uncle owned a wolf dog. They’re ranchers, and they hate wolves. They said we should just put him down.”

  I pushed the tray away with such force, it nearly slid off the table. “Jesus.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “So what happens now?”

  “Normally, we’d try to find someone to take him, someone with a license to possess wildlife. There used to be a wolf dog sanctuary just across the border in New Hampshire, but it went out of business.”

  “You said ‘normally.’ What does that mean?”

  She took a breath. “Under the law, the vet is supposed to euthanize a wolf dog if there’s a potential danger to the public.”

  I was having a hard time hearing above the clamor of the restaurant and felt compelled to raise my own voice. “But you said Shadow wasn’t aggressive.”

  “He killed a deer.”

  “What’s the name of the vet?”

  “Dr. Carbone.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “I’m not at the shelter. And Dr. Carbone is up at Sugarloaf for the weekend. He has a condo there.”

  The thought of swinging around and driving back into the mountains occurred to me before I realized how mad I would seem, showing up unannounced on the doorstep of the man’s second home. “Can you get a message to him? Tell him I’ll find someone to take Shadow. There’s no need to put him down.”

  “Dr. Carbone is a good vet.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “He doesn’t make decisions like these lightly.”

  “Joanie—”

  “I hate it, too, but—”

  “Joanie, I understand. But you have to promise me that nothing will happen to Shadow before I have a chance to talk to Dr. Carbone. Will you do that? Will you promise me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. He can call me anytime, day or night.”

  “I will let him know that.”

  It was only after I’d signed off that I realized that everyone at the surrounding tables was staring at me.

  26

  Two hours later I arrived home and discovered that the plow had erected a wall of ice and snow as high as my chest between the road and my driveway. Having no other choice, I ended up parking exactly where Amber had parked—in the middle of a dangerous curve—while I chipped away at the frozen barrier with a shovel and an ice chopper.

  I had spent two tiring days on the road, and for what? I had been too late to save Adam Langstrom, if he had even been worth saving. By all accounts, my half brother had been an arrogant asshole who had brought his problems on himself. And now he was probably dead. Did it even matter who had killed him or why? As a law-enforcement officer, I was supposed to think it did. But I was having a hard time caring about closure.

  Then I thought of Amber. She might have been a shallow and self-centered person, but I still felt heartsick when I envisioned her alone in her dark, smoky apartment, having lost the only thing outside of herself she had ever loved.

  Meanwhile, the wolf dog that I had ostensibly rescued was facing lethal injection, all because of me. I hated to imagine the existence Shadow might have had if he’d lived out the rest of his days with Carrie and Spike, but at least he wouldn’t be headed to the death chamber.

  How could I be so indifferent to the fate of my own half brother and so distraught about a dog I’d met for a matter of minutes?

  I was as lathered as a racehorse by the time I’d finally cleared a drivable path from the road to the garage. I parked the Scout inside and let the descending door plunge me into darkness.

  I carried an armload of hardwood into the living room and dropped the logs beside the stove. I thought of the Pulsifers’ house, full of loud children and scampering dogs, and realized how tired I was of living alone. Stacey and I had avoided discussing the idea of moving in together because most of her work as a wildlife biologist needed to be done up north. But that was just a bullshit excuse. The truth was, we were both afraid of commitment.

  After I had made a fire, I peeled off my dirty clothes and stood und
er the showerhead until the water began going cold. The stitched wound on my arm reminded me of a black centipede. I applied a clean bandage.

  I was shaving at the sink, with a towel around my waist, when I heard my cell buzz in the hall. The phone was still in the pocket of my pants, which I’d tossed on the floor.

  Even before I answered, I knew from the number on the screen who was calling me.

  “Hi, Charley,” I said, glad to hear from my old friend.

  From the background noise, I could tell that Stacey’s father was in an echoey space, surrounded by jabbering people.

  “Mike.” His voice sounded strange—flat.

  “I’ve been meaning to thank you and Ora for Christmas. You really didn’t have to go to all that trouble. And it was so nice of you to invite Aimee Cronk and her kids.”

  “Mike,” he said again.

  “What’s wrong?” I felt pressure beginning to build behind my eardrums.

  “There’s been an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “A Forest Service chopper went down an hour ago near Clayton Lake. Some ice fishermen out on Lake Umsakis said they saw it crash.” He paused and I heard my pulse pounding in my head. “There are rescue teams heading to the scene. A buddy of mine out of Ashland just got through to me.”

  I could only manage one raspy word. “Stacey?”

  “The fishermen said it went down hard and fast in a pretty dense woods. There was no distress call.”

  I rushed to my closet. “I can be on the road in five minutes.”

  “It’ll take you seven hours to drive that far, Mike.”

  “Then fly down here and pick me up!”

  “I’m in Bangor, at the hospital with Ora. I brought her here for a colonoscopy. I can’t leave before she wakes up. I couldn’t do that to her. My Cessna’s back in Grand Lake Stream. But I’ll probably bum a ride with someone over at BIA. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can do right now, young feller.”

  “There’s got to be something.”

  “Say a prayer for my little girl, and don’t give up hope. Stacey’s a tough one. Toughest there is.”

  And then he was gone.

  Not again. Not again.

  Eighteen months earlier, one of the scariest men I’d ever met had held a gun to Stacey’s head, and I’d discovered, for the first time in my life, what it was like to feel helpless when someone you love is in mortal danger.

  Not again. Not again.

  I didn’t care if Clayton Lake was half a day’s drive from my house. I would race up there with lights blazing and siren screaming.

  I grabbed my field uniform from the closet and my combat vest and my gun belt. I would call the Division G headquarters in Ashland once I was on the road. The IF&W office up there would have more information.

  It felt as if the volume had been cranked up in my head. My thoughts were louder than normal. The last time we’d spoken together, we had argued over my having lied about my injuries: “You should have called me from the hospital. If you don’t understand how much that breaks my heart, there’s nothing more to say. I’m not interested in being with someone who’d rather be lonely than be loved.”

  And then her final text message to me: “I am having trouble forgiving you.”

  If that was it—if those were her last words to me—I couldn’t imagine what the rest of my life would be like.

  I started up my patrol truck and I backed out so fast onto the road that the driver of an oncoming car had to slam on her brakes. I pulled forward to let her pass.

  She gave me an annoyed toot on her horn.

  I needed to calm down before I killed someone or myself. Slowly, I backed out onto the road and turned in the direction of Windham, where I could pick up the Maine Turnpike and begin my journey north.

  Amber had said she’d felt the moment of Adam’s death as a physical blow. But she had been his mother.

  Mink claimed to have psychic powers that forewarned him of bad things to come.

  But I felt nothing except a buzzing in my nerves, as if they might short-circuit at any second.

  I reached for my cell to push the autodial for Division G. Just as I did, the phone vibrated in my hand. The screen showed the number of the Ashland office.

  “Yes?” It was more of a rattle than a word.

  “Mike?”

  I braked so hard against a snowbank, I heard ice scrape paint from the side of the truck. “Stacey?”

  “It’s me,” she said. “I’m all right.”

  My mind wouldn’t believe the evidence of my ears. “What happened? Where are you?”

  “There was a crash,” she said, her throat thick with mucus. “The helicopter.”

  “I know.” The words were coming out as gasps. “Your dad just called me.”

  “He did? How did he—”

  “It doesn’t matter. Where are you, Stacey?”

  “Ashland. Graham wouldn’t let me go up with them. We argued about it. He wouldn’t back down. Told me to go back to bed. Everyone in the office thought I was on board the chopper. They didn’t know I’d gone back to my place.”

  I covered my eyes with my cupped hand, as if in shame, and my palm came away wet. I had never felt so happy, so relieved, so overcome with disbelief. And then I realized how selfish these emotions were.

  “They’re all dead, Mike,” she said, sobbing. “Graham, Marti, Steve. We just got word.”

  “Oh God.”

  “It could have been me, should have been me.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Graham was always so funny.” She sounded horrible. “I can’t believe he’s dead. And poor Marti—she just graduated. And Steve was such a big soul, so full of life. I’m having chills, Mike. I can’t stop shivering.”

  Suddenly, I, too, was shaking. “I know, I know.”

  “I need to sit down.”

  “Do they know what happened?”

  “The chopper just went down. Steve never even radioed that there was a problem. It’s a beautiful day up here, too. Light winds, clear skies. It doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

  “Maybe there was a mechanical malfunction.”

  “It’s a fucking brand-new Bell.” She coughed away from the phone. “Steve was always going on and on about what a dream it was to fly.”

  “Could something have happened to him in the air?”

  “Like a heart attack? Maybe. I can’t believe they’re dead. I keep expecting to hear them coming back from the helipad.”

  “How come no one knew where you were?”

  “I stormed out of the office when Graham said he didn’t want me coughing and sneezing on everyone again. I was so pissed.” She took a sharp breath. “Oh God! That was our last conversation. I can never take back the things I said.”

  It was the same harrowing realization I’d had a few minutes earlier, when I’d thought about the last time she and I had spoken.

  Stacey began to sob harder. “So I went back to my room. I tried to sleep, but the medicine made me jittery. When I walked through the door, people looked at me like I was a ghost. Everyone thought I had been on the chopper. I feel so horrible now. I should have been with them. It doesn’t feel right that I’m alive and they’re dead.”

  I rubbed my forehead with my hand. “But you’re not! You’re alive, Stacey. I wish I could be there with you.”

  “Why?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

  “To comfort you.”

  “I’m not the one who needs comforting. I shouldn’t be sitting here sobbing. My friends’ dead bodies are still out there in the wreckage, and their families are sick with grieving. I need to do something.”

  “You should think about your own family. When your dad finds out you weren’t on the chopper—you need to call him. You need to call him right this second.”

  “Right. Of course. Shit.”

  “Call me later.”

  “I’ll call you when I have some news. I can’t promise when tha
t will be. Good-bye, Mike. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  A big eighteen-wheeler went barreling past and caught me up in its wake. For an instant, my truck rocked from side to side in the slipstream. I finally remembered to hit my hazard lights, but it seemed a little late at that point.

  27

  When I returned home, the house seemed altogether different. No one else had been there while I had been away. The temperature was more or less the same as when I’d taken off down the road.

  And yet I found myself overcome with that paranoid feeling you sometimes get when you step into a favorite room and you perceive that some small item has been moved. You can’t put your finger on what it is, but your subconscious can sense that something is different. The more you try to identify what has been changed, the more agitated you become. It is how some people end up pulling out their own hair.

  I found myself wandering from room to room, unable to sit still. I removed my combat vest and gun belt again, changed out of my uniform and back into jeans and a T-shirt, then decided I should run a few miles on the treadmill in the basement to burn off some steam, which meant putting on my shorts and sneakers. But I had barely started running when my legs started cramping and I was overcome with exhaustion, and I found myself sitting down on the weight bench with a towel over my head.

  It wasn’t until I lifted the towel that I felt the fabric was wet. My hands slid down my cheeks when I touched them. I had been crying without even realizing it.

  I made my way upstairs and removed the bottle of bourbon from the cupboard. I held the label up to my eyes for a long time, examining the elegant signature of James B. Beam, then dumped every last drop down the sink.

  Eventually, I wandered into the living room and threw my sore body across the sofa. I closed my eyes, but the bulb overhead was so strong, it made the inside of my lids turn bloodred. I thought about getting up to turn it off, but I didn’t really want to go to sleep, either. My nerves were still too raw.

  I reached for the television remote and was surprised to find that the New England Patriots were playing a night game. It must have been the play-offs. I started to watch, but the loud voices of the announcers sounded like air horns in my oversensitive ears, so I hit the mute button.