by Paul Doiron
The Neanderthal was proving to be a most intelligent sociopath. If I hadn’t caught Decoster attempting to move Kurt Eklund’s corpse off his property, he might well have escaped justice. His lawyer would need to get creative to explain the dead body with the 9mm bullet in its head.
Eventually, Jason Decoster was going to find himself behind the walls of the Maine State Prison, where I had a dangerous friend who was inclined to do me favors. The truth was, though, I would never ask Billy Cronk to bloody his hands on my behalf, not when he needed to keep his nose clean to keep his sentence from being extended. I’d already had an opportunity to take revenge, and I’d been unable to pull the trigger. One of the other things I’d learned about myself over the past months was that I was no vigilante.
* * *
I gave a honk on the horn as I passed by Weatherby’s. Jeff Jordan was out mowing his steep lawn, but his sweaty back was turned to the street, and he was wearing ear protectors against the noise of the engine, so he didn’t hear me. I’d have to catch up with him at dinner.
I crossed the bridge over the stream and saw fishermen on both sides. Word must have gotten out about the big salmon being caught in the river. I’d come back here with Charley some evening to try our luck.
West of town, I passed the roadside memorial to the young woman who had died in the car crash. There were fresh flowers to mark the spot. White roses signified remembrance.
I could have continued on to Moosehorn Lodge and my former cabin, but I’d already hauled away the cardboard boxes containing my life’s possessions, carted them off to my temporary home in southern Maine. And I hardly expected a warm welcome from Elizabeth Morse, if she even happened to be in residence. I wondered if I would ever see the lodge again, then caught myself being naive. Just because you close a chapter in a book doesn’t mean you won’t ever reopen it. That was another life lesson I was trying to absorb.
I made a turn onto the woods road leading to Little Wabassus. The light had a greenish quality from the sun filtering through the bunched leaves overhead. The cinnamon ferns in the ditches had unrolled their tight little fists since my last visit. As the summer progressed, some of their fronds would turn reddish brown, but on this day in early June, everything around me looked lush and full of life.
The Stevenses’ house was an old lakeside camp that Charley had thoroughly overhauled. He had added ramps in the front and back for Ora’s wheelchair and paved a path down to the boathouse, where he kept his floatplane and wide-beamed Grand Laker. My heart sped up when I saw that Stacey’s Outback was parked beside the van with the wheelchair lift. I’d been gambling that she would be home this afternoon.
Charley was sitting in the screened-in section of the porch, enjoying a cup of coffee and the breeze lifting off the lake. When he saw my truck roll up, he sprang to his feet and hurried to the mesh door. His German shorthaired pointer, Nimrod, pushed at his knee.
“Come in quick!” said the retired pilot. “And don’t bring any of them skeeters with you. This time of year, a man can lose a pint of blood going to the danged outhouse.”
Charley had a colorful way of speaking, which he’d learned in the lumber camps as a boy, but I’d noticed that he saved his best bons mots for me.
“Thank God for indoor plumbing,” I said.
He clapped me hard on the back, hard enough to rattle my teeth. “It’s good to see you, young feller. You cleaned yourself up a dite since your last visit.”
Charley Stevens had a lantern jaw, laugh wrinkles that radiated from his eyes, and a thick head of white hair that his wife trimmed for him with sewing scissors out in the yard.
“How was your Canadian vacation?” I asked.
“Just grand. The folks up in Newfoundland are the salt of the earth. I don’t think I ever met a merrier bunch. There was this one pub we liked in St. John’s. When Ora rolled up in her wheelchair, everyone inside would rush out to lift her through the door. And they’ve got the same rocky cliffs and highlands as in Scotland. It’s a damn beautiful place. You need to get yourself up there, pronto.”
“I’m not going to have vacation days for a while,” I said.
“I expect you won’t!”
“Is Ora here?”
“She’s trying to teach Stacey to pickle fiddleheads. Can you believe it? I didn’t think my daughter had a domestic bone in her body. ‘Every day brings a new surprise,’ my mother used to say.” He peered into the darkened interior of the building, holding his hand flat above his eyes in imitation of a Hollywood Indian. “Where are those girls? They know we have company.”
“I’m not in a rush.”
“But you’re not here to see a slide show of our vacation, either.”
“Maybe some other time.”
Charley pulled on his chin. “So Harkavy is out and Malcomb is in down in Augusta. I hope Tim is in the job long enough to make some overdue changes. The Warden Service could use a good spring cleaning.”
“He’s made a few changes already,” I said.
Before I could say anything more, Stacey and Ora appeared in the doorway. The daughter was pushing her mother’s wheelchair. They were both wearing aprons. Ora’s was pristine white, while Stacey’s was smeared with handprints.
“Mike!” said Ora. She had the same high cheekbones as her daughter and the same jade-green eyes. She’d pulled her hair back from her beautiful face and secured it in a small ponytail. “It’s so nice to see you.”
“And in uniform,” said Stacey with enough of a barb to sting. “You look like a new man.”
I rubbed my hand over my buzz cut. “I was getting tired of combing my hair.”
“Charley told us you’d rejoined the Warden Service,” said Ora. “What good news.”
“I wasn’t sure they’d take me back.”
“After what you did for Kathy Frost? I don’t see how they could have said no. How is she doing? Have you seen her?”
“She’s recovering, but it’s going to take a while. She’s already thinking about coming back to work, but she’s worried they’ll put her behind a desk until she retires.”
“She shouldn’t hurry things,” said Ora in her most motherly tone.
“Have they given you your old district back?” Charley asked.
“They offered it to me,” I said. “But I said it belongs to Dani Tate now. For the time being, they’re moving me around to cover vacant districts. I’m not sure where I’ll end up.”
Stacey untied her apron from her neck, as if she’d suddenly gotten self-conscious about it. She was wearing a waffled long underwear shirt, which clung to her chest and shoulders, and her usual blue jeans. “So what brings you back Down East?”
“I thought I might take you to dinner.”
“What?”
“I have a reservation for us at Weatherby’s.”
“This is a joke, right?”
“We can drive around awhile, and I can show off the fancy new truck they gave me.”
Charley put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.
Stacey touched a loose strand of brown hair that had fallen onto her forehead. “You’re asking me out on a date? In front of my parents?”
I’d had misgivings about the timing because I didn’t want to put her on the spot. But I already knew I was rolling the dice. It would be a gamble however I played it.
“They’re welcome to join us. But I made the reservation for two.”
“That’s nice of you, but we have other plans,” said Ora.
Stacey glared down at her mother. “You do not!”
“So what’ll it be?” I said.
“This is too weird.” She gave that snorting sound she made when she was in disbelief. Then she rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I’ve got to take a shower.”
Without another word, she stepped around the wheelchair and me and pushed open the screen door. The three of us watched her cross the pine-needled yard to her cabin.
I turned to Charley with my eyebrows raised. “Was tha
t a yes or a no?”
“It was a yes,” said Ora. Her husband’s big hand was still on her shoulders. She looked up at Charley with a smile. “A man in uniform is always hard to resist.”
“I always said you’d regret leaving the service,” Charley said.
“You were right, as usual.”
“What made you decide to come back?”
The question had been turning in my mind for weeks. Colonel Malcomb had asked me the same thing in his new office when I’d taken the oath again. I’d fumbled for an answer then, but now the words came to me clearly, as if someone else was whispering them into my ears.
“I realized it was the best job in the world.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction, but it contains references to actual places and organizations. Among these is the 488th Military Police Company of the Maine Army National Guard, which served with distinction in the War in Afghanistan. I am grateful to Specialist Erick Helpin for educating me about the mission, equipment, and daily challenges that the “Guardians” faced at Bagram Air Base—and I honor his service and that of his company. The character of Jimmy Gammon has no real-life counterpart among the MPs of the 488th, but his troubles reflect the difficulties many wounded warriors are dealing with in the aftermath of the longest armed conflict in this nation’s history.
I am indebted to Corporal John MacDonald of the Maine Warden Service for answering my questions about the protocols wardens use to manage crises in the field. Maine Today Media’s investigative series “Deadly Force: Police and the Mentally Ill” provided me with a solid bedrock of information about police shootings in Maine. To those who would learn more about conditions in Maine’s prison system, I would recommend the many articles that award-winning journalist Lance Tapley has written for the Portland Phoenix since 2005. Thank you, Lance.
Many friends, relatives, and colleagues assisted me during the research, writing, and publication of this book. First and foremost is my wife, Kristen Lindquist, who also happens to be my best critic as well as my best friend. CB Anderson helped me make the writing better. Jeff McEvoy treated me like a celebrity at Weatherby’s in Grand Lake Stream (and showed me some guiding tricks). Tom Judge and Eric Hopkins shared their stories about LifeFlight of Maine and the indispensable role its helicopters play in saving lives in the most rural state in the country. My father, Richard Doiron, formerly Director of Psychology at Maine Medical Center, gave me a tour of the fast-growing hospital.
Thanks to the people in the Flatiron Building: Charlie Spicer, Andrew Martin, Sally Richardson, the late Matthew Shear, Hector DeJean, Sarah Melnyk, Paul Hochman, and my unsung team at Macmillan Audio.
Ann Rittenberg, I am so grateful for all you do on my behalf—especially the work behind the scenes.
Last but not least, thanks to the many booksellers and librarians who have pressed one of my novels into the hands of a new reader and said, “Here’s a book I know you’re going to like.”
ALSO BY PAUL DOIRON
Massacre Pond
Bad Little Falls
Trespasser
The Poacher’s Son
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PAUL DOIRON, a native of Maine, attended Yale University, where he graduated with a degree in English, and holds an MFA in creative writing from Emerson College. The Poacher’s Son won the Barry award and the Strand award for best first novel, and has been nominated for the Edgar, Anthony, and Macavity awards in the same category. He lives on a trout stream in coastal Maine with his wife, Kristen Lindquist. Visit his Web site at www.pauldoiron.com or follow him on Twitter @pauldoiron.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE BONE ORCHARD. Copyright © 2014 by Paul Doiron. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photograph © Dirk Wustenhagen / Trevillion Images
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-03488-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-03487-8 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781250034878
First Edition: July 2014