The phone rang before I had driven a mile clear of the game ranch. It was Rivard.
“The autopsy came back,” he said. “Tommy Winters had seawater in his lungs. He also had scratches on his abdomen and blood under his nails where he tried to get the lap belt off. He must have had second thoughts at the end.”
“Survival is an animal impulse,” I said.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have an odd way of putting things?”
I’d set the toy badge on my center console. Was that why Tommy had chosen to impersonate a game warden and not a deputy or some other kind of cop? That silly piece of plastic?
“Have you told Tim Winters yet?”
“Rhine tried but couldn’t get him on his landline or cell. He’s probably still sleeping off a drunk. Not that I blame the SOB.”
I cruised along. “Marc, there’s been something bothering me. I’m still puzzled why Tommy Winters chose me of all people to impersonate when we had no connection. You wouldn’t have happened to mention my name when you were at the Narraguagus Sporting Club?”
“Why would I have mentioned your name?” he said at last.
“I have no idea.”
In fact, I could easily imagine Marc Rivard bitching about the troublesome new warden he’d been assigned.
“It’s a mistake trying to get in the minds of nutcases. Listen, I’ve got another call coming in.” He paused to check the number. “Christ, it’s Joe Brogan. What does he want?”
I could only imagine.
Without really making a decision, I started west toward Aurora. I made a pass by the Winters house, but the Mustang wasn’t in the driveway or parked inside the shadow-webbed barn. Maybe Tim had run off to the corner store for another case of Coors and another box of Montecristo cigars.
My phone rang again as I was driving home to Washington County. I feared it was Rivard calling to lambaste me for visiting the Call of the Wild. Instead it was Reese Brogan.
“I wasn’t completely honest about everything before,” she said. “I kind of know who the driver of the yellow car was. I didn’t recognize him, but later I found out it was this guy named Luke Merrill.”
“From Roque Harbor?”
“I don’t know where he lives. I heard he was passing by and saw there was something fishy going on. I heard he chased the fake warden and forced his truck off the road and beat the shit out of him.”
“What about the yellow car?”
“He was just test-driving it. He was gonna buy it off some dude selling it on craigslist, I heard. If you talk to Luke Merrill, please don’t tell him it was me who gave you his name. My friends say he’s got a wicked temper.”
I promised her I wouldn’t. “What made you decide to call me, Reese?”
“I was wondering if you had a girlfriend.”
My next stop was Roque Harbor. I had a few questions about Luke Merrill.
As I passed the boat launch, I saw a trio of kayakers floating in the approximate area where Tommy Winters’s truck had settled. The paddlers were peering into the turquoise water, trying to catch a glimpse of the still submerged vehicle.
I pulled up outside the low, weathered building where the lobstermen bought their diesel fuel and hung out before and after their long days on the water. I parked beside a line of rust-pitted pickups and entered through the bay doors of the fishermen’s co-op.
The room was unlit except for the sun shining in at the edges, and it smelled of salt water and the seaweed used to pack live lobsters into crates for shipment to exotic destinations.
From the dark a voice exclaimed: “Well, if it isn’t the dead man!”
I squinted and saw Twelve-gauge Gaynor sitting at a card table with several other men.
“Hello again,” I said.
“Heard you identified the Great Pretender?”
“Word travels fast,” I said.
Gaynor smiled, showing off coffee-stained teeth. “We’ve got our sources. Also heard it was a suicide.”
I pretended not to hear the last part. “Is Luke Merrill around?”
“He’s still out hauling. Should be back before dark. Whatcha looking for him for?”
“Which boat is his?” I said.
“The Sweet Caroline,” Gaynor answered, his smile gone now, his tone flat.
There was another silence, this one even longer.
“Which boat is really Luke’s?” I said.
From behind me a voice said, “Miss Conduct.”
It was Merrill. He’d been eavesdropping from the kitchenette. Now the tall young man came striding across the wet floor. He had blond scruff, a deep tan that probably ended above his short sleeves, and hair pressed down from wearing a baseball cap all day.
“How about we step outside?” I said.
“We can talk here,” he said. “These guys are just going to gossip about us anyway.”
I shrugged. “You were the driver of the yellow car, the one who chased down Tommy Winters on Route 9.”
“I never knew his name before today. But yeah, that was me. I knew he wasn’t no warden, and I was worried he might try to molest those girls. I caught up with him and set him straight.”
“With your fists?”
“No, I persuaded him with my silver tongue. You just said the guy offed himself. What’s this really about?”
“The drugs he stole are still missing.”
“And you think I know where they are?” He let out a rasping laugh. “Look, man, as far as I’m concerned, I performed a heroic act, beating the shit out of that gimp.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know Dylan LeBlanc, would you?”
“I might’ve heard the name.”
“You don’t know him personally?”
He studied me, then raised a finger to one nostril and expelled a snot rocket onto the floor. “If that’s all you’ve got for questions, I’ve got shit to do.”
He stepped through the bay doors into the sunlight. I watched him climb into a black Camaro. He revved the engine long enough for the noise to echo through the co-op. Then he peeled out.
“Well that went well,” Gaynor said.
I turned to the old man and found him grinning at me with ocher teeth.
Somehow,
