“That’s one version,” Nick said, exhaling smoke I could taste on the tip of my tongue. “Everyone who was there that night tells a different story. Keep in mind I only know what I heard. I was the police chief in Indian Township at that time and had enough shit to handle with my own people.”
“You’re saying that Charley was the one who shot and killed the ringleader? This Michaud guy?”
“That’s right.”
“How is it possible that I never heard about this?”
“The exchange of gunfire happened at night on Beau Lac. That’s almost as far north in Maine as you can go. The international border runs right down the center of the lake. Charley only winged the man, but the shot knocked him out of his canoe. Michaud drowned trying to swim to the Canadian shore.”
In the darkness of the rain-soaked field, I was half hypnotized by the orange glow of his cigarette as it danced through the air like yet another firefly.
“You didn’t answer my question. How have I never heard about this?”
“The Warden Service got raked over the coals pretty good, like you said. Both the U.S. attorney and the Maine attorney general found Charley was justified in his actions. Michaud was a cop killer. Everyone had an interest in putting the scandal to bed.”
“But they never found the undercover warden.”
“No matter how hard they searched.”
I closed my eyes and tried to see the granite memorial in Augusta devoted to law enforcement officers who had died in the line of duty.
“Scott Pellerin,” I said. “That was his name?”
“Smart kid. Too cocky for his own good, though. Charley said it must’ve been how he blew his cover—overconfidence.”
The occasional rumble of big rigs passing along the highway made me think the storms were returning.
“How does the badge fit into this?”
“Both Pellerin and Dupree are French names. You should check out if they were related. There might be a connection.”
“You seem to be working on a theory,” I said.
“Am I?”
“That Charley always regretted Michaud’s death because it kept him from finding Pellerin. That’s why he kept that picture in a box with his other ‘trophies.’ For some reason, the reappearance of Duke Dupree’s badge has made him rethink the events of fifteen years ago. He realized he had been misled.”
“Is that my theory?” said Nick. “I’m smarter than I thought.”
“It explains why Charley would want to check things out on his own—in case the man who murdered Pellerin has been preparing for the day when he was finally found out.”
Nick tossed the orange ember of his cigarette into the weeds. “It also explains why he took his truck instead of his plane. He might have had a bunch of stops to make, people to talk with along the way. That old Ford Ranger of his is distinctive. Folks might remember it if you ask.”
“It sounds like you’re encouraging me to go after him.”
“You’re going to do what you’re going to do. That’s your MO, I’ve heard.”
“So if Michaud didn’t kill Pellerin, who did?”
“One of his confederates.”
“In his letter, Charley said he didn’t want to put his family or me in danger. From whom, though? Some poacher who wasn’t caught in the raid? Sure, a guy who thinks he got away with killing a game warden is going to be dangerous. But you did this job, too, Nick. We’ve all dealt with scarier people than some toothless old night hunter.”
“A toothless man can put a bullet in you just as fast as one with a mouthful of choppers. Fifteen years ain’t that long ago, either. This mystery man might not be that old.”
“I was speaking metaphorically.”
“Seems like Scott Pellerin got killed for underestimating the men he was infiltrating. That’s a mistake Charley isn’t going to make. You’d best follow his example and keep your guard up.”
I listened to a toad trilling across the field. “So where do you think Charley is now?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“He’ll want to talk with the girl who sold Smith the badge,” I said.
“That would be my assumption, but he can’t risk giving himself away. He’s the man who shot Pierre Michaud, remember. People in the Valley have long memories, even if the rest of the world has forgotten what happened up there.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“So you’re determined to pursue this?”
“In the morning.”
“I can recommend the motel across the parking lot.”
“Is that where you’re staying?”
“I have a lady friend up in Mars Hill.”
Nick Francis had lots of lady friends, from what I’d heard.
“I don’t suppose you want to come with me tomorrow—play investigator again.”
He had a chain-smoker’s laugh. “Old men shouldn’t be running around, chasing after thrills. They should be content in the arms of their family. Besides, I have to stick around Houlton until Tuesday.”
“What happens Tuesday?”
“My son is being arraigned. And he’s going to need me to pay his bail again.”
Following Nick’s recommendation, I took a room at the motel across from the truck stop. A sign on the dresser threatened anyone caught smoking with a $250 fine. Based on the odor baked into the rug, the penalty hadn’t deterred a prior occupant.
It could have been that I was smelling the residue of Nick Francis’s cigarettes. My clothing reeked of American Spirits. I hung them from the shower rod with the window open to air out.
I was curious about Nick’s son, Molly’s dad. The fact of the younger man being in jail might have explained the bandage on the father’s forehead.
One of Charley’s favorite sayings came to mind: “Some people are more than they appear. And some people are less than they appear. But nobody is the way they appear.”
But surely,
