Then the snow squall ambushed me from behind.
One second, the road ahead was clear, the next, a heavy cape of ermine had fallen across my windshield. Moments later, my Jeep was buffeted by a gust of wind so strong it nearly pushed me into a ditch. Heart hammering, I clicked on my headlights and hazards and pulled over onto the shoulder to wait out the microburst.
This was April.
The cruelest month? More like the most sadistic.
I thought about my mean-spirited uncle. The state was full of men like Denis Cormier. In the past decade alone, seven papermaking facilities had closed, forcing thousands of people out of work. Most of these proud hardworking individuals had painfully learned that running pulpers and after-dryer machines were not marketable skills in the so-called information economy. Consultants advised them to go back to school and learn coding or nursing—middle-aged men who might never have even graduated high school but had been collecting six-figure paychecks since they were in their twenties.
I had to remind myself that Denis had been an asshole even before he lost his job at the mill.
The bucket of arrows in his store intrigued me. Spider-Bite was a popular brand but not so popular that their products were available in every Walmart from here to San Diego. Also, most modern crossbows used longer bolts than sixteen-inchers since lengthier shafts offered greater accuracy in the field. That Denis stocked sixteen-inch Spider-Bite X2s suggested that the crossbowman had been a customer. Perhaps even a regular one.
Now if I could only persuade my scumbag uncle to give me a name.
After fifteen minutes, I saw the flashing yellow lights of a snowplow in my rearview mirror. Because the snow hadn’t accumulated more than a few inches, it wasn’t plowing so much as sanding and spraying the asphalt with brine. I followed the big, flashing truck for the next twenty miles until we came to a stretch of road the squall had bypassed.
Twenty miles back it had been blizzard conditions.
But here the asphalt was dry, the moon was rising, and it was a smooth ride all the way home to the Midcoast.
The Bolduc Correctional Facility had been opened during the Great Depression as a farm barracks to feed the prisoners housed in the old penitentiary. Over time, it had expanded to become one of the largest beef and dairy farms in Maine. There was still a silo and fields where the inmates grew broccoli, tomatoes, and squash for sale at a roadside stand.
These days, though, most of the minimum-security prisoners held work-release jobs in the communities—as construction workers, road-crew flaggers, even firefighters—and returned to the prison to eat and sleep. The Farm was famous for not having fences. Yet every once in a while, some inmate with only weeks left on his sentence would walk off into the night. Inevitably these convicts would be recaptured and returned to the main prison, with years tacked onto their sentences for their brief, inexplicable flights of fancy.
It was after eight P.M. when I pulled into the lot. Two other vehicles—a black SUV and a small hatchback—were parked under the pole lights. The main building resembled an elementary school more than a penal institution. There were even picnic tables on the brittle lawn. The contrast with the state prison up the hill couldn’t have been more stark.
I had already concluded I had little chance of being admitted. Hero or not, Billy was subject to the rules of the institution. When it came to visiting hours, jails never made exceptions.
Or so I assumed.
The guard behind the admittance desk responded to my request with exasperation. “You’ll have to wait. There’s already someone with him now. I swear to God we’ve never had a more popular inmate than Killer Cronk.”
“Who is with him?”
“I’m not at liberty.”
“Is it his attorney?”
“I told you I’m not at liberty. If you want to wait, be my guest.”
He gestured toward a row of chairs against the wall. I had barely settled my butt down before an interior door opened and through it stepped Novak Rancic. The suspended correctional officer was dressed in a black leather jacket, gray jeans, and motorcycle boots. His unshaven jaw was blue with stubble.
He froze when he caught sight of me. I rose to my feet. With the cold-blooded intensity of a cobra being stalked by a mongoose, he watched me cross the room.
“Officer Rancic.”
“Warden.”
“What are you doing here?”
His tone remained flat. “Extending my best wishes to your friend. He’s quite the hero. Pardoned and everything.”
“You disapprove of the governor’s decision?”
“It’s not my place to approve or disapprove.”
“I was under the impression you were on administrative leave, pending a decision by the attorney general on whether the shooting was justified.”
He smelled of cologne, and not the cheap stuff either. “That’s right.”
“Watching you at the hospital, it seemed to me you were pretty quick on the draw.”
“Chapman was a murderer. He’d already cut up that nurse. He would have cut you if I hadn’t discharged my weapon.”
“You might have hit her or me.”
“What can I say? I’ve always been a good shot.”
“Where are you from, Rancic? Not from Maine, I’m guessing.”
“What gave me away?” He exaggerated his New York accent. “I’ve lived here a while. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“How long have you worked in corrections?”
He smiled for the first time—if you can call an infinitesimal upturn of the lips a smile. “Have a pleasant evening.”
He retrieved his keys from the guard at the desk and continued outside. I followed him as far as the door and watched through the reinforced window as he remotely started the engine and lights of the SUV at the end. As the big vehicle pulled forward, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone in the front passenger seat. Whoever it was must have been waiting there in the dark and seen me drive in.
“You’re up, Warden,” said the admittance guard. “You know what to do with your sharp objects.”
Billy was waiting
