He was never seen or heard from again.
29
I awoke the next morning to fierce barking. I had fallen asleep rereading Pellerin’s report. Instinctively, I reached for the handgun I had concealed beneath the covers. In the process, I managed to send loose pages flying everywhere.
I crossed to the window and pulled back the blind. The sun hadn’t yet risen. The trees near the house were filled with a gray light that had the diffuse quality of cannon smoke.
From what I could gather from his barking, Ferox was still housebound, but something had happened to send him into a state of agitation. Kathy Frost, who had spent decades as a K-9 handler, had tried to instruct me in the subtleties of dog barks. “They use different sounds to communicate aggressiveness, defensiveness, fear, general excitement,” she’d said.
To my half-educated ears, Ferox sounded less like he wanted to chase a squirrel and more like he’d detected an intruder and wanted to feast on the stranger’s beating heart.
I pulled the blind wider and saw a sight that made my eyes pop.
Edouard was running, naked except for his white underwear, across the clearing between the house and the forest. While I watched, he cast a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the darkened driveway. Then he disappeared from my field of vision into the pines.
I dressed, laced up my boots, and tucked my Beretta into its holster under the hem of my shirt.
Kellam shouted for the Cane Corso to shut up.
I’d never heard a dog go so quiet so fast.
Next came a door slam. I dearly hoped it was Kellam locking up his monstrous mastiff.
I descended the stairs with caution and followed the natural predawn light through the rooms until I reached one of the plate glass windows, looking out at the dooryard draped in shadows.
A game warden’s patrol truck had rolled to a stop beside my Scout. It was one of the older F-150s, so scratched and muddied it was hard to imagine what it looked like washed.
The driver stepped out, a tall, straight-backed man, dressed in a fatigue-green uniform, a black ball cap, and neoprene boots. The ballistic vests patrol wardens wear make even skinny men look fat in the belly. But even wearing body armor, this guy had the physique of a decathlete.
Chasse Lamontaine.
His district lay fifty miles to the north, hard against the New Brunswick border. What was he doing at Moccasin Pond at this hour of the morning?
The lieutenant, when he appeared in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, seemed as surprised as I was.
“What the hell, Lamontaine?” I heard Kellam say through the glass.
“I got a message you called.”
“Why would I have called for you?”
Chasse was well into middle age, but like some blond men, his hair hadn’t changed color, and his wrinkles only served to make his features more ruggedly handsome. His natural gaze was a blue squint. Deputy Do-Right could have served as a stunt double for a midcareer Clint Eastwood.
I chose that moment to step outside. Chasse didn’t so much as blink at seeing me.
“Lamontaine, what are you doing here?”
“It’s a mystery to all of us,” muttered Kellam. “I didn’t call your house, Chasse.”
“Are you sure?”
“What do you mean am I sure?”
“The guy who spoke with C. J. said he was you. He said, ‘Can you tell your dad Stan Kellam needs to see him down at Moccasin Pond?’”
Kellam ran a hand across his flattop. “Let’s go inside and have coffee and figure this out like civilized men.”
In the kitchen, Kellam made us individual cups with one of those pod machines. Chasse asked for french vanilla decaf. Stan and I exchanged bemused glances.
“I want to talk to your son,” said Kellam.
“He’ll be asleep.”
“Then wake him the fuck up, Chasse! I want to know who’s pranking us.”
Both Charley Stevens and Kathy Frost had given me the same advice when I was a rookie. I thought it was hard-won wisdom they’d acquired on the job until I happened to read a particular Sherlock Holmes story. There on the page was the idea my mentors had been trying to hammer into my skull: “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”
So while I wanted to believe that Charley, the dramaturge, was behind Chasse’s appearance onstage, I knew not to jump to that conclusion.
Vaneese didn’t show herself. Edouard would likely remain in hiding all day.
Kellam and I listened as Chasse, speaking French, woke up his wife. My grasp of the language was limited, but she didn’t appreciate being awakened. Nor did she appreciate being asked to wake their son.
“Give me the phone,” barked the lieutenant. “Michelle, this is Stan Kellam. I’m sorry to get you up, but I need to speak with your oldest boy. Yes, it’s urgent.” While he waited, he addressed Lamontaine, looming in the middle of the kitchen. “How old is Chasse Jr. now?”
“Twenty-one.”
“What’s he doing for work?”
“Security at the mill.”
The just-awakened son came on the line.
“C. J., this is Lieutenant Kellam. Your father is here at my place and said you took a call from someone claiming to be me. No, it wasn’t. Can you remember what this man said exactly? His precise words? No, that’s fine. What about his voice? Can you be more specific? Great. Thanks for your help.”
“What did he say?” Chasse asked.
“That’s one observant boy you’ve got there,” Kellam said. “Tell me something, Lamontaine. You didn’t think it was out of the ordinary that I summoned you here without explanation? Or that I called your landline instead of your cell to do so?”
“I assumed you had your reasons.”
Kellam sat down heavily at the breakfast table. He cupped both hands
