Standing behind him, I couldn’t see Winters’s face. But I heard his voice crack when he spoke.
“I need to use the facilities.”
There was still the open question of what Tommy Winters had done with the opiates he had stolen, but the drug-sniffing dog detected nothing in its search of the house and the property.
I roamed around a bit, made small talk with some of the troopers, tried to stay out of the sun. I peeked in the barn and saw that Winters was in the process of restoring a Trans Am that was scarcely more than a steel shell. The concrete floor was dappled with red paint.
I crossed paths with Rhine again in the driveway. She was watching the afternoon breeze ruffle the leaves of an ancient elm standing sentinel on the property: the sole survivor of a scourge that had wiped out nearly all of its species.
“So now what happens?” I asked.
“I go back to Machias to type up my report in air-conditioned comfort. And I presume the Warden Service would appreciate you returning to your official duties. On a scorcher like today you could probably write up a dozen drunk-boaters on Gardner Lake—not that I’m telling you what to do.”
Instead of following her advice, I made my way back down to Mopang Plantation and drove in on the Jeep trail to see if luckless Alvin Payne had returned to live in his Airstream.
I shouldn’t have been surprised to find the trailer gone. Payne had been squatting on the land. Following the home invasion, the sheriff’s office would have informed the property owner who, in turn, would have evicted his unwanted tenant and dragged the silvery camper off to an impound lot. The cinnamon ferns and bracken had sprung back so quickly that the impression left by the heavy Airstream was scarcely visible.
I stooped to collect a discarded beer bottle and that was when I noticed something gold glinting from between the grass blades. The mystery object hadn’t been there the night of the home invasion or the searchers would have found it. Someone must have just dropped it in the days since.
It was a pin-on badge. Not even made of metal. Just a cheap piece of plastic I myself had given away on school visits. Imprinted on the front were the words JUNIOR MAINE GAME WARDEN.
The next morning, just after sunup, I drove out to the Call of the Wild Guide Service and Game Ranch.
Brogan’s guides all used the same white monster trucks, but the vehicles owned by the lodge guests tended toward expensive SUVs that had never been driven off-road, plus a handful of sedans representing the pinnacle of Teutonic engineering.
I made my way up the board stairs to the porch and inside. The lobby was “decorated” with the heads of trophies taken at the ranch. There was a red deer, a bison, and a perplexed-looking zebra that should never have been transported to the woods of Maine.
I could hear loud conversation and plates rattling in the adjacent dining room, but there was no receptionist behind the check-in desk. My hand hovered above a bell guests and visitors were expected to ring if they found the lobby empty. I brought my palm down three times in quick secession.
A teenage girl appeared from an adjoining room. She had thick, brown hair that grew low on her forehead, heavy eyebrows, and a mouth that was disconcertingly sensuous in a person so young. She wore a camouflage-print shirt and the annoyed, slightly bored expression that is the default among so many adolescents.
I flashed my best smile. “You must be Reese. I’m Mike Bowditch. I’d like to talk with you about that incident with the fake game warden.”
“Everyone’s saying he’s dead.”
“We’re still trying to answer some questions about why he did what he did.”
“How do I know you’re really a game warden?”
“I can show you my badge.”
“The freak who stopped us had a badge.”
“Mine’s not made of plastic.” I smiled again and this time she smiled back. “I just want to ask you a few questions. There are still a few loose ends we need to wrap up.”
“I heard you haven’t found those drugs he stole.”
“You seem to hear a lot.”
“I’ve got ears.” She glanced toward the dining room, then back. “You’re the one he was impersonating.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look like him at all!”
My God, she’s flirting with me now.
“The first question I have is about the yellow car you saw the night he stopped you and your friends. Was it your sense that the impersonator—his real name was Tommy Winters—recognized the driver?”
“All I can say he was scared shitless.”
A voice boomed from staircase leading to the second-floor rooms. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Joe Brogan was not a big man, but he was burly with the callused hands of a former logger. He had a heavy, brown beard and hair so thick it reminded me of a beaver pelt. He smelled heavily of bug repellent.
“I was just talking to your daughter about Tommy Winters, the man we found dead in Roque Harbor yesterday.”
He lowered his bushy eyebrows over his dark eyes. “Does Rivard know you’re here? I told him I didn’t want to see you around my place.”
“I apologize if I’ve caught you at a bad time,” I said.
“There’s no good time where you’re concerned,” Brogan said, closing the distance between us. “Honey, get Sergeant Rivard on the phone.”
“Do I have to?” Reese Brogan said. “That guy creeps me out.”
Brogan’s face turned a deeper shade of red. “What’s that?”
“He’s always looking at my tits.”
“You never told me that!” Joe glared at me as if I were to blame for my sergeant’s lewd behavior. “You game wardens. You call that guy an imposter, but in my book, you’re all a bunch of fake cops.”
“Just answer me something, Brogan, and then I’ll leave you in peace. What would you have done if you’d found out it was Tommy Winters who terrorized Reese?”
“I would’ve gone over to his
