by Paul Doiron
I took a step backward and felt my lower back touch the railing. The wood creaked but held. It would have been a long way to the ground.
Before I could knock again, the door opened wide. A bespectacled man stood before me, dressed in a white shirt buttoned to the throat, creased black slacks, and white athletic socks. His neck was long; his wrists were skinny. He wore his graying hair in a buzz cut, white-walled around the ears.
“Yes?” he said.
“Brother John?”
“What do you want?” There was a twang in his voice that made me think of cattle roaming across distant prairies.
“I wondered if I could ask you a few questions.”
He inspected my badge and gun. “Is this an official inquiry?”
I gave him my best bullshitting smile. “No, but I hope you can help me with some information.”
He locked eyes with me for an uncomfortably long time. Then he nodded and stepped aside to make way. I entered a brightly lighted kitchen where a pot was bubbling on an electric stove and two cats were eating from cans on the counter. I could hear fake-sounding laughter coming from the television set in the room beyond.
Brother John padded off into the living room. One of the cats, a tabby, sprang onto the linoleum and began rubbing against my pant leg, leaving a residue of gray fur. I nearly tripped over it when I took a step forward.
The furniture in the living room consisted of a threadbare couch and a beanbag chair pushed beneath a reading light. The bone-colored walls were utterly without decoration. A big boxy television balanced on a table. Brother John pointed a remote control at it, and the picture winked off.
The woman had disappeared into the bedroom, but another cat, a calico, was curled up on the sofa. Brother John swatted at the cat, which gave a yowl and leaped onto the floor, hissing.
“Have a seat.” He indicated the cat-shaped depression.
I remained standing. “This won’t take long.”
“I’m going to sit, if you don’t mind.” He settled himself, stiff-backed, against the couch cushions. “I find this constant harassment wearying.”
“I’m not here to harass you, Pastor.”
“That’s what your colleague said this afternoon.”
“My colleague?”
“The woman warden.” He pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. “I had to ask her to leave.”
If Stacey had let him think she was a police officer, she could be fired, or worse.
“What happened?”
“I don’t want to have this conversation again.”
“Did she ask you about the hikers who disappeared in the Hundred Mile Wilderness?”
A cat jumped onto Brother John’s lap, and he began stroking it vigorously. “I’m not sure why it matters.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police that they had been here?” I asked. “You must have known that people were searching for them.”
“When they came in that morning, they introduced themselves as Christians.”
“They were.”
“My congregation isn’t some freak show to be mocked. Especially by two homosexuals.”
I tried to keep my face blank. “What happened?”
“They laughed at us. So I ordered them to leave.”
“You threw them out of your service?” I said.
“‘No one who practices deceit shall dwell in my house. No one who utters lies shall continue before my eyes.’ Psalm 101:7.”
The image I had in my mind of Samantha and Missy was that they were polite young women. I had a hard time believing they would have behaved rudely. But whatever they had been at the start of their journey, they no longer were when they arrived in Monson, at least according to the testimony of Steffi Ross. In reality, I knew very little about these women. Believing that the victims of violence are perfect little lambs instead of complicated human beings is a dangerous fantasy.
Maybe Samantha and Missy had behaved like brats; maybe Brother John had cause to ask them to leave the service. It still didn’t excuse his failure to report the incident.
“You should have told the police they were here that morning, Pastor.”
“And bring my church under suspicion?” His voice seemed to bubble up from the bottom of his throat like something viscous. “We had nothing to do with what happened to those girls.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because they brought it on themselves through their sinfulness.”
“What are you saying?”
“The Lord sent those wild dogs to tear them apart.”
Was this the point where Stacey had started screaming? Had she even made it this far? Steffi Ross had warned me that he was insane. It was all I could do not to punch the man in his self-righteous face.
“You really believe that?” I said. “You think their death was some sort of divine punishment?”
“God’s justice is not man’s justice.”
There was no point asking him where I might find Stacey. Even if he knew, this crackpot preacher wasn’t going to tell me. I tried to imagine what it must be like living inside his skull, seeing the world through his crazy eyes, but it was too much of a horror show.
I looked down at my hand and saw a fist. “I need to leave now.”
“I never should have invited you in,” Brother John said, as if I were a vampire. In his twisted mind, I was probably in league with the devil.
Two of the cats followed us into the kitchen. Whatever was cooking on the stove had started to burn.
As he closed the door on me, I said, “Can I give you some advice, Pastor?”
He hesitated. His eyebrows pushed against the tops of his glasses.
“When the state police show up at your door tomorrow, you should try giving direct answers to their questions. Homicide detectives aren’t big on psalms and proverbs.”
The door rattled in its frame, and the lock clicked. In the silence I could hear the drumbeat of my own pulse. I closed my eyes and tried to collect myself.
The investigators would want the names of every person who had been present at the church that morning. One of them might have been Chad McDonough’s man in the red tent. Maybe Samantha and Missy were the victims of a hate crime, I thought. People were still murdered in this world for being gay. It was a lot more plausible than a coyote attack.
I opened my eyes and gazed down on the village of secrets. In the houses below, televisions flickered behind drawn curtains, and woodsmoke rose like ghosts from chimneys. To the south was the oil-black lake stretching off into the void. To the north were the shadow-draped mountains of the Hundred Mile Wilderness. Darkness seemed to be closing in around the town of Monson. It felt as if the only candle in a room was dying and about to go out.
29
When I got back to my truck, I tried Pinkham’s cell, but he didn’t answer. I left a message, saying I had new information about Samantha and Missy. In the past, I’d found my offers of help rebuffed whenever I’d tried to assist a major crimes investigation. Detectives never took me seriously. Pinkham seemed different in that regard. The warden investigator hadn’t been so quick to dismiss my insights. Had I found a new ally in the department? I would know the answer to that question when and if Pinkham returned my phone call.
In the meantime, my search for Stacey continued.
Steffi Ross had said that the Cajun restaurant on the edge of the town was the place for nocturnal entertainment. I decided to stop in, figuring she might have come here earlier, since she hadn’t had dinner at the inn. Besides, I was running out of places to look for her.
A bayou bistro in the North Woods? The idea wasn’t so far out. The Appalachian Trail serves as a natural conduit for southern culture to the wilds of New England. And Mainers have a deep love of country music, which always surprises visitors who expect—I don’t know—sea chanteys. The way I had always thought of it was that we were just hillbillies with a different accent.
As expected, the place wa
s packed. All I’d had to eat since lunch was some trail mix. Maybe I’d get myself an oyster po’ boy.
I locked my SIG in the glove compartment and dropped my badge in my pocket. In my hooded jacket, jeans, and work boots I looked like just another backwoods barfly. The smell of roasting ribs greeted my nose when I opened the truck door. Lady Antebellum wailed through the window screens, and I saw the orange embers of cigarettes waving in the hands of smokers lined up along the porch rail.
A woman spoke from the darkness. “Hey, Warden!”
She was nobody I knew, just one of the half-drunk smokers. Then I realized that they’d seen me drive up in my patrol truck. So much for anonymity.
I went up the steps.
Every seat seemed to be taken inside. The crowd was a cross section of the North Woods in late September. The AT thru-hikers were recognizable by their flowing braids and beards, tanned skin, and hiking apparel. The locals tended to go for flannel, leather, and denim. I elbowed my way to the counter. A woman wearing an apron and a kerchief around her head was ladling dirty rice onto paper plates. Her face gleamed with perspiration. I took out my phone and pulled up a photograph of Stacey to show her.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“The bartender will take your order.”
At the bar, I watched a woman with tattoos on her forearms fill a pint glass with Pabst Blue Ribbon. She set it in front of a familiar white-haired man who looked like he had been there so long that he was becoming one with the stool. The bartender seemed to sense my presence without having to look at me.
“What can I get you?” she shouted above the music. Toby Keith had begun to growl over the speakers.
I showed her Stacey’s picture. “Have you seen this woman here tonight?”
She glanced at the phone for all of two seconds, then returned to washing glasses. “Sorry.”
“Are you sure?”
The old man reached a liver-spotted hand toward my outstretched arm. He was a little fellow, wearing a plaid shirt and blue Dickies held up by suspenders. “Can I see that?”
I turned the screen to him.
“She’s the woman who’s been at the store this week,” he said. “The biologist tagging the coyotes.”
“Have you seen her today?”
“Not here.” The odor of alcohol leaked from his pores. “I passed her truck on my way into town. I waved at her, but she didn’t wave back.”
He sounded offended. In the Maine woods, it is considered a politeness to wave at drivers going in the opposite direction, even if they are strangers. It was unlike Stacey to ignore this unwritten rule of the road.
“Which way was she headed?” I asked.
“Over to Blanchard.”
What was Stacey doing in Blanchard Plantation? It was even more of a ghost town than Monson. “What time did you see her?”
“Five o’clock or so. Before dark.”
I felt a strong arm wrap itself around my shoulders. A man pressed his unshaven cheek against mine and exhaled a blast of beer breath. “Warden Bowditch! Hey, Lindsey, get my friend a PBR!”
Troy Dow’s eyes glowed like chips of amber with prehistoric bugs trapped inside. His copper-brown hair was pushed away from his forehead and tucked behind his ears. He was wearing a denim jacket over a long underwear shirt, duck pants, and steel-toed boots.
I peeled his dirty fingers off my coat. “No, thanks. How are you doing, Troy?”
“It’s Friday night, and I’ve got a buzz on. Life is good.”
Four men—Trevor Dow and three others—stood behind him. They all had the same light brown eyes and copper-colored hair, but their bodies ran the gamut from spindly to bruising. Pearlene had told me the Dows were legion. I thought about the SIG pistol locked in my truck and the Walther PPK/S I sometimes wore at the small of my back but which was currently secure in my gun safe at home.
The old man on the stool tried to shrink away, but Troy clapped him hard between the shoulder blades.
“Roland! How goes it, bud?”
“Good.”
“When you gonna let us take down those white oaks near your house? Those things are fucking hazards. The next nor’easter is going to knock those trees right through your roof. We’ll cut them down and haul the wood away, no problem. Five hundred bucks.”
“I’ve been planning on logging those trees myself, Troy,” Roland said.
White oaks were one of the most valuable species in the forest.
Troy stood with his feet apart, as if balancing on the deck of a ship in heavy seas. “An old guy like you? You’ll just hurt yourself, bud. Let us take care of it. Peace of mind is worth the money. How about we come over tomorrow?”
“I don’t—”
“We’ll be over around seven.” Troy leaned in close again, close enough that I could see potato chip crumbs in his mustache. “Hey, I heard about that hitchhiker. I can’t believe someone just ran the poor guy down and took off. What kind of son of a bitch would do that?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Troy took a staggered step backward so the others could crowd around me.
“Do you know my brother, Trevor?” he said. “Oh yeah! You do. This is my uncle Trent, and my cousin Todd, and my other cousin, Terrence. Guys, this is that hard-ass game warden I was telling you about.”
I addressed the pack. “Gentlemen.”
Troy waved a finger at me. “Are you off duty? You look like you’re off duty.”
“I’m off duty.”
Old Roland downed his Pabst, slid off his stool, and made a beeline for the bathroom.
Five against one. I shook my head and started to laugh.
Troy’s bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits. “What’s so funny?”
“I was just thinking about the woman who works at the gatehouse on the KI Road. You’ve really got that poor woman fooled. She said you weren’t like the rest of your family.”
“Come on, guys!” the female bartender said behind me. “This isn’t the O.K. Corral.”
“Maybe we should all go outside,” Troy said. “What do you think, Warden? How about some fresh air?”
The Dows would be on me the minute I stepped through the door. Two of them would pinion my arms while a third got me into a stranglehold. I would be at their mercy—to be choked unconscious, knifed in the stomach, or shot with a hidden handgun. Real-life brawls aren’t like the ones in movies. Brute force and a willingness to do whatever it takes—gouge an eye, kick in a knee—matter more than martial arts training. The dirtiest fighters are the ones who always win.
Glancing to my left, I saw an empty Heineken bottle on the bar. I might get one chance to break it over Troy’s skull before the others tore me limb from limb.
One of the Dow cousins—I wasn’t sure if it was Todd or Terrence—reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a ringing phone. He held it up to one ear.
“What are we waiting for?” Trevor snarled.
I placed my left hand on the bar, inches from the bottle.
The skinny Dow with the phone squeezed Troy by the shoulder. He brought his mouth close to his cousin’s ear.
Troy snapped his hairy head around. “What?”
“We’ve got to get back home!” his cousin said over the music.
Troy sucked one end of his mustache into his mouth. Now was my chance to coldcock him, but I had a feeling Lady Luck had just dealt me a new card.
He spit his mustache out. “To be continued.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
The five Dows piled out of the restaurant. Lindsey, the tattooed woman pouring drinks, picked up the empty bottle I had been planning to use as a weapon.
“Are you sure you don’t want that beer now?” she asked.
Roland emerged from hiding in the bathroom and returned to his stool. I recognized him now: He was the old man I’d seen buying beer at the store first thing in the morning. He tapped his glass.
“Another, please.”
“You don
’t have to let the Dows bully you into taking down those oak trees,” I said.
The old man rubbed his eyes. “I’m not as brave as you.”
“Can I give you another piece of advice, then? Grab a ride home with someone. You’re in no shape to drive.”
Roland nodded, but I knew he wouldn’t voluntarily give up his keys.
I left the restaurant, mindful that the Dows could have been playing a game with me and might be lying in wait in the shadows. I decided to risk it. More smokers had joined the crowd on the porch.
“Bye, Warden!” It was the same woman as before.
If I had been wearing a cap, I would have tipped it to her. I made my way out of the lot and along the row of vehicles parked on Main Street. As I neared my patrol truck, I noticed that it seemed to be abnormally low to the ground. There was a reason for this. All four tires had been slashed.
30
The cuts were in the sidewalls, not the treads, which meant the tires were unfixable. I would need to get all four of them replaced. Because I was using my patrol truck for personal business, I couldn’t very well call the Warden Service for roadside assistance. I found only one garage listed for Monson. The man who answered the phone said he had to pull a car out of a ditch in Guilford, eleven miles to the south, before he could get to me. I sat behind the wheel and waited.
I took the opportunity to put my holstered pistol back on my belt. I wouldn’t be taking it off again soon. Then I decided to call Charley and fill him in on my unsuccessful attempts to locate his daughter. I could only conclude that he’d been sitting up beside the phone, he picked up so quickly.
“I’m still looking for her,” I said. “Has she called you?”
“No.”
“An old guy at the Cajun place outside Monson told me he saw her truck over in Blanchard a few hours ago.”
“What was Stacey doing in Blanchard?”
“It must have something to do with Samantha Boggs and Missy Montgomery.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Since she left the store, Stacey has been driving around, asking questions. She’s already found one piece of evidence the detectives missed. On the morning they left Monson, Samantha and Missy asked about local churches, and Steffi Ross mentioned the Lake of the Woods Tabernacle to them as a joke. Stacey had a hunch the women might have gone to services there. It turns out she was right. The creep who runs the tabernacle calls himself ‘Brother John.’ He said he made Samantha and Missy leave because they were laughing during the service and because he realized they were gay.”