“What did the Michauds say when they were confronted with Pellerin’s disappearance?”
“They said they had no idea where he’d gone. They pretended not to know he was a warden. That was how Charley knew there was a conspiracy to murder Scott, because they all told the same exact story. Normally, the details of their accounts would have differed.”
“So Michaud and the others were interrogated?”
“The detectives held the poachers as long as they could. Scott had recorded evidence to charge a few of them with crimes, but they had to let the father go after forty-eight hours. Pierre had been careful around Scott and never broke the law in his presence.”
“Ora, this is difficult, but I need to know what Charley told you about how Pierre Michaud died.”
“The police and wardens went back to St. Ignace a few nights later. They had new evidence against Michaud. They used flash-bang grenades when they stormed his house, but he must have rigged it with explosives or incendiaries, because it went up in flames and took two other houses with it. Charley says it was a diversion to cover Michaud’s escape.
“They searched for him for days. Charley did aerial surveillance, of course. By sheer luck, he spotted a canoe crossing Beau Lac late at night. The moon had broken through the clouds. Charley landed the plane on the water—you know how difficult that is at night—and Michaud fired at him, and he fired back. The man would have lived if he hadn’t tried to swim in that cold water. Some people, including the press, called it an act of revenge, but Michaud was the only one who knew where Scott’s body was hidden. They never did find it.”
Secretly, I understood the reluctance of people in the St. John Valley to accept this story as the truth. Hundreds of men had been searching thousands of miles of dense forest for the fugitive. What were the odds of Charley Stevens flying over Beau Lac at the exact hour Michaud had chosen to cross the border?
“You need to go see Stanley Kellam,” Ora said. “Stanley used to go out on his own time for years afterward, looking for clues that would lead him to the truth. Charley said he was guilt-ridden for sending Scott to his death.”
“Do you have a phone number for Lieutenant Kellam?”
“I remember Charley saying that Stanley left the state after he retired. It sounds crazy, but I thought he said the man was going back to college!”
“Do you have any idea where?”
“I’ll check the Rolodex and give you a call back. Oh, Mike, I’m sure this is the explanation for why Charley is acting so strangely. Something about this badge has made him think he can find Scott.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said. “And you’re certain you’ve never heard the name Duke Dupree?”
“I’m sure I haven’t.”
I put the phone down beside me on the bedspread. Then I found the complimentary pen and notepaper from the motel desk and began scribbling down as much information as I could recall from my conversations that evening.
The idea of Stan Kellam going back to college after his retirement wasn’t as far-fetched as Ora thought. He had been one of those larger-than-life characters who often rise to positions of power. We hadn’t crossed paths in years, but I found I could see him clearly in my memory. A massive brute of a man. Gray eyes, dirty-blond hair, a perpetual pink sunburn. And one of the most brilliant minds in the history of the Maine Warden Service.
While many of the old-school wardens boasted twelfth-grade educations at best, Kellam had graduated from Rutgers, and he had not abandoned his studies over the course of his long career. While overseeing Division E—a job that must have consumed sixty hours a week—he had quietly obtained a master’s degree in criminology from the University of Maine. At his retirement roast, he’d joked about getting a Ph.D. next.
I also recalled that Kellam had come into a considerable bit of life insurance money when his most recent wife died in a car crash. There was some gossip that Stan might have played a role in her convenient demise. Not all the gossip was kidding.
There were no messages from Dani: no voice mails, no emails, no texts.
This was unusual for her. Unheard of would be the more accurate phrase. Charley had already dropped off the radar. I didn’t need my girlfriend following suit.
Ora phoned me back before I could call Dani.
“All I could find for Stanley was a post office box in Portage,” she said. “I thought the address must be out of date, so I made a call to Tim Malcomb.”
She was referring to the head of the Warden Service. “What did the colonel tell you?”
“Stanley’s back in Maine!”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“He purchased an old sporting camp west of Portage and turned it into his own private compound. It’s over on Moccasin Pond.”
“I think I know the old camp Kellam bought.”
I remembered seeing it advertised in The Maine Sportsman and the Northwoods Sporting Journal. It had been on the market for $1 million.
“I just wish Charley would let me know he’s OK,” said Ora.
“He is.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because of you.”
“Me?”
“If something had happened to Charley, you would have sensed it.”
“I’m not clairvoyant, Mike. I just get feelings.”
“Those are called premonitions. Have you had any about your husband?”
“No.”
“Then you need to trust yourself.”
“Since when have you started believing in premonitions, Mike Bowditch?”
“I’ve seen too many things I can’t explain,” I said. “Human mysteries are nothing compared to the mysteries of the universe.”
The air coming through the window screens was so saturated with moisture that it formed dew on the sills. I tried closing the windows and running the AC, but the unit made a
