Pulsifer came across the yard, heedless of the muck in his rubber-soled boots. “Quite a view, isn’t it?”
I’d been so focused on my forensic work I hadn’t appreciated the vista. There, below us, was the Sandy River Valley. I saw a patchwork of brown fields and pastures that were empty of animals but looked the right size for sheep or goats. Beyond the valley loomed a range of snowcapped mountains, above which dark clouds were building. The largest of the peaks I recognized as Sugarloaf, the second-highest mountain in Maine and home to the state’s largest ski resort. With the intermittent warm spells we’d been experiencing, their season would be ending soon.
“Do you know who owns those pastures there?”
He spat on the ground. “I already told you this isn’t my district.”
“Did Mary get under your skin?”
“If I’m being honest, yes,” he said. “But I’m learning to let things go.”
“You seem like you’re in a good place, Gary.”
“I am today, which is all I can ask for. On another topic, I never knew you were psychic. How did you guess Mary’s age?”
“I didn’t guess. Back at the Boom Chain, while you were in the bathroom, I ran her name through the system. She’s got quite a record of fish and wildlife violations. It explains her hatred for Landry. It seems Mary Gowdie enjoys poaching almost as much as she does making maple syrup and moonshine.”
15
A pair of ravens swept into view above the valley. The black birds were silent, but I identified them by their wedge-shaped tails, shaggy throats, and rowing wingbeats. Also they were soaring. Crows don’t soar. Finally one of the two let out a scolding quork—directed at me it seemed—and they continued on toward the next town over, where ravens were said to have a special attachment to a professor who had spent his life studying them at his cabin in the woods.
I roamed the edge of the field pondering a mystery. Why had Shadow taken refuge in Alcohol Mary’s woodshed of all places? He had been hemorrhaging blood, barely able to breathe, with an arrow through his lung.
He’d been raised by people, and maybe he still associated them with care and comfort, but he’d lived in the wild the past several years, avoiding hunters, bait piles, and snares. If he had been wounded by a human, it would have made sense for him to avoid all contact. How come he hadn’t found a den as far as possible from his enemies to await the coming of death?
I would likely never know the answer. But surveying Mary’s land, so near Tumbledown Mountain—a place frequented by snowshoers and cross-country skiers—made me increasingly certain that Shadow had been attacked at a lower elevation, somewhere in the valley below. Those visible pastures especially intrigued me. For reasons of his own, he had made the difficult climb up Number Six Mountain. Let no one tell you that nothing wounded goes uphill.
When I checked my phone, I found that I had a stronger-than-expected cell signal. There was a new message from Aimee Cronk:
Our lawyer says this pardon thing is for real. It might take a few days though. When the docs think Billy’s strong enough they’re sending him to the Farm. They figure he’ll be safer there from any buddies of Chapman or Dow looking for payback.
The Farm was the nickname for the minimal-security Bolduc Correctional Facility on the floodplain of the St. George River, a mile or so below the prison hilltop. The Farm had no fences. An inmate could walk away from the jail, but since most of the prisoners there were nonviolent offenders facing imminent release, few ever did. I doubted that the legendary Killer Cronk would have anything to fear from the check kiters and car thieves at Bolduc.
I replied:
That’s great news! Work’s taken me to the Sandy River Valley but I’ll swing by the hospital when I’m back there.
Aimee was online and her reply came fast:
If you feel the need.
This much was clear: it was going to be a while before Aimee Cronk let me off her shit list.
With a heavy heart, I tried the number of someone I hoped would be happier to hear from me.
Kathy Frost answered with her usual salutation: “Grasshopper!”
“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
Kathy had been the first woman in the history of the Maine Warden Service. Then its first female sergeant. Less noteworthy from a historic standpoint, she had been my mentor before a horrific gunshot injury had forced her into early retirement.
These days, she worked as a consultant to law-enforcement agencies across the country, teaching first responders how to train K9s to become better rescue and recovery dogs. In her spare time she traveled, as a volunteer, to disaster zones with her Belgian Malinois to search for missing persons.
“I heard about Billy Cronk. I was going to call you, but I’ve been … occupied.”
She placed an odd stress on that last word, but this wasn’t the best time or place for small talk. Given the unpredictability of cell phones, I cut to the matter at hand. “I’ll catch you up about Billy later, but I need your help first. Do you remember that wolf dog I rescued a couple of years ago?”
“Shadow? Of course! Did something happen to him?”
“Someone shot him with a crossbow, Kath.”
The pain in her voice couldn’t have been any more intense. “Please don’t tell me he’s dead.”
“The veterinarian says he will be soon.”
“Mike, I am so, so sorry. Who’s the vet taking care of him?”
“Lizzie Holman at the Pennacook Hospital for Animals.”
“I’ve heard of her. She’s got a good reputation. Have you identified the son of a
