This, I believed. I started the engine and turned us toward shore.
A dozen or so units, local, county, and state, had responded to the report of the shooting. Smith was on his way to the jail in Houlton, handcuffed to the D ring on the floor of a deputy’s cruiser. Other deputies were engaged in executing a search warrant that had been granted before I could even change my socks. The district warden had been dispatched to the south end of the lake to tow back Smith’s boat, provided the aluminum hull hadn’t been pierced by the log it had struck.
The officer in charge was a state police detective named Zanadakis, and he had some questions for me.
He was a trim man with a tanning-booth tan who wore cologne purchased somewhere other than a drugstore. Beneath a navy trench coat, he wore a gray sharkskin suit that shone like silver and a tie with a houndstooth pattern. Forget about northern Maine, Nico Zanadakis would have been considered a dandy if he’d worked out of a precinct in Lower Manhattan’s Financial District.
We stood beside his unmarked cruiser while I towel-dried my hair. I’d had a few minutes to change into a fresh set of clothes before Zanadakis arrived. We knew each other from a case long ago: Two drug dealers had gotten lost in the woods in a blizzard. Then things turned violent. Since we’d first met, I’d been promoted, and he’d been transferred. But our shared history didn’t mean he held warm feelings for me.
“Why are you here exactly?”
A yellow paste of wet pollen covered the top and hood of the cruiser. My hand came away looking like it was smeared with mustard. “I got a report that Smith was dealing illegal taxidermy—migratory birds.”
“Isn’t that a matter for the feds?”
“I didn’t want to bother the Fish and Wildlife Service agents with it until I could scope him out myself.”
The lie had worked with Deputy Young, so why not again?
He jotted something in his reporter’s notebook. “So your visit here was unofficial, then?”
“Insofar as I’m not on the clock.”
“So he took off out the back when you knocked on his door. But if you never spoke to him, how did he know you were law enforcement?”
“Mr. Smith seems to fear individuals on both sides of the law.”
“But you are 100 percent certain that he fired at you after you identified yourself as police.”
“One hundred percent.”
“That’s the key thing here. You understand that, right? The attorney general’s office won’t go for an attempted homicide charge if there’s any wiggle room.”
“The neighbor, Glassman, heard the whole thing.”
“Speaking of which, Mr. Glassman said you pushed him out of his own boat.”
“Exigent circumstances required me to pursue Mr. Smith. I didn’t know his state of mind, and I realized I couldn’t put a bystander in harm’s way. Between you and me, how much trouble am I in with him?”
“My guess is that the satisfaction of losing Mr. Smith as a neighbor will prevail over Mr. Glassman’s hurt pride. But if he talks to a lawyer, all bets are off.”
One of the troopers on the scene called to Zanadakis. “Nico, you’ll want to have a look at what’s inside the garage. Remember the woman who reported all those fur coats stolen?”
If this had happened in southern Maine, Trooper Dani Tate might have been the one to discover Smith’s loot. I had sent her an email that morning but hadn’t heard from her yet. Her range qualification was a two-day commitment, though. Maybe she’d been pressed for time and hadn’t had a moment to respond.
The first rumble of thunder rolled up the lake. The clouds to the south looked oily, they were so black.
Detective Zanadakis snapped his notebook shut. “Keep your phone on.”
“I can’t promise I’ll have a signal where I’m headed.”
“You wardens always use that as an excuse.”
East of Houlton, Interstate 95 crosses the border into New Brunswick and joins the Trans-Canada Highway system that connects St. John’s, Newfoundland, with Victoria, British Columbia. The crossing is one of the busiest land-based ports of entry in the United States. Hundreds of eighteen-wheelers, carrying thousands of tons of cargo, pass back and forth between the two countries every week.
In a torrential downpour I left the interstate at the last exit and followed the cloverleaf down to a cluster of truck stops and fast-food franchises along Route 1.
I figured I would have better cell service here—across the street from a Walmart—than in the woods of Island Falls, and I was right.
“Grasshopper!” said Kathy Frost. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon, but I bet I know why you’re calling. It’s Dani, right? You’re calling for advice to the lovelorn.”
“What’s wrong with Dani?”
“There it is, right there—she misses you, man. You couldn’t have made time to see her since you’ve been home?”
“She told me not to. She said she was busy.”
“Oh, Mike. You’re so hopeless. Sometimes I think your wolf will be easier to domesticate than you.”
“What am I missing?”
“She was going to stay over at my house last night, since I live close to the practice range, but she didn’t want me to catch her bug. Your girl is seriously sick.”
“Do you think it’s bad?”
“When was the last time you remember that little badass admitting she was ill?”
I couldn’t recall a single instance.
Rain drummed on the roof. The windows began to steam.
“So if it’s not Dani,” Kathy asked, “what do you need?”
“Who says I need something?”
“It’s the only time you ever call me, my friend.”
Kathy’s last days as a Maine game warden, after she had been shot and nearly killed, were spent sitting in a cubicle in our Augusta headquarters compiling an official history of the Maine Warden Service. The higher-ups would not permit her to return to the field due to the severity of her injuries, and for once, I had been in agreement with my so-called superiors.
It had taken two weeks for everyone to realize that Kathy Frost was not cut out
