He probably had.
As he was always quick to remind us, Chasse Lamontaine had grown up on this river.
43
The game warden we’d mocked as Dudley Do-Right was dressed in his fatigue-colored uniform, wearing his duty belt and his ballistic vest fortified with ceramic plates in the front and back. He had eschewed a personal flotation device. He kept his hand on the grip of his sidearm, a SIG P226 with a magazine holding twelve .357 rounds. He probably had a bullet in the chamber, too.
“Charley Stevens, you’ve lost your hair.”
“Misplaced it is more like it.”
“There must be a mistake. I heard a distress call about an Indian getting himself stranded on this island. But instead of finding Crazy Horse, all I see are three horses’ asses.”
Who was this man? Even his voice sounded different. Quick and confident.
“I never knew you were funny, Chasse,” I said.
“One of many things you didn’t know, I expect. Why’s your hand on your sidearm, Mike? We’re all fellow wardens here. No need to be jumpy.”
I kept my hand where it was.
“So you’ve come to rescue us, then?” said Charley.
“Do you need rescuing? My first thought was that this was a prank you decided to play on me. I’m used to being the butt of jokes. I know wardens think I’m some naive Boy Scout.”
“It must bother you,” I said.
“The opposite,” he said. “People are never so dumb as when they think they’re putting something over on somebody smarter than they are. Charley, that shaved head of yours is freaking me out. Were you afraid to come back here except in disguise?”
“More like I wanted to keep a low profile.”
“Too low, I think, given where we are.” He cast a glance at Egan, who had gone as motionless as a fawn hoping not to be noticed by a predator in the tall grass. “You’ve looked better, Jon.”
“Chasse.”
“So, seriously,” said Lamontaine, “what’s this about?”
Charley tossed a small object into the light cast by the burning driftwood. It landed with a clink on the river-polished gravel. A miniature metal shield.
“I suppose you recognize this,” said the pilot.
“Looks like a toy badge. You get it out of a gumball machine?”
“It’s real enough. And you have no idea whose badge it is?”
Chasse let out a pretty convincing chuckle. “It’s kind of hard to identify from twenty feet away.”
“Come have a closer look,” said Charley.
“I will when you gentlemen take your hands off your sidearms.”
“The badge belonged to Scott Pellerin,” I said.
“Pellerin was undercover,” said Chasse, sounding genuinely mystified. “He wouldn’t have had a badge with him.”
“Actually, it belonged to Scott’s grandfather,” said Charley. “Emmeline Bouchard found it hidden in the room Scott was renting at the Valley View. No doubt Pierre had told her to search the place from time to time. Scott must’ve gotten careless hiding the thing.”
“So that’s how Pierre found out that Pellerin was a warden.”
“You’re acting like this is news to you,” I said.
“Of course it is! Pierre never told anyone before he died, except Emmeline, of course. I’m surprised she didn’t let that slip later—when I would visit her at the motel.”
So Chasse had had an affair with Angie’s mother, too. Emmeline Bouchard’s taste in men couldn’t have been worse.
“You remember what a cold-blooded bastard Pierre was,” Lamontaine continued. “Killing that man was the best thing you’ve done. I know you’re too ‘honorable’ to admit that. Or maybe that’s another lie you tell yourself.”
“I’ve told myself plenty, that’s true.”
“Maybe you don’t like to remember what you did.”
“Maybe,” Charley said. “It’s true my memory’s gotten more selective. But I remember one thing from that manhunt as clear as last night. It concerns you, Chasse. I remember how it was you who kept asking to go with me in my plane to look for Pierre. You said you knew this land better than any outsider, even though you were just a deputy warden back then.”
“It was the truth. I know every inch of this river and its tributaries.”
“I hurt your pride when I refused. I told you there was only room in the Cub for two and I trusted Nick Francis.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It was your prerogative.”
“What I didn’t admit—to myself or to you—was that I already had a sneaking feeling about you.”
“Why was that?”
“Because of how insistent you were that we fly over Beau Lac. You said Pierre kept an old canoe chained to a tree there. You said he would try to cross before the clouds cleared and the moon came out. Nick and I thought you were just trying to prove your own importance. We were surprised when we actually flew up that way and there was a man in a canoe trying to slip across. I’m not sure we gave you the credit, though.”
“No,” he said, sounding piqued. “You didn’t.”
“Not that you wanted it, I’m guessing. It wasn’t the moment for you to call attention to yourself.”
“Charley, are you accusing me of helping Pierre Michaud escape?” The suggestion seemed to amuse him.
“The opposite! You wanted to make sure Pierre didn’t escape.”
“And why would I do that? He deserved to die for what he did to Pellerin. I believed it then, and I believe it now. Why else did you shoot him if you didn’t agree?”
“Nick and I did everything in our power to save that son of a bitch’s life—despite his horrible crimes.”
“Sure you did.” The Boy Scout had turned out to be as cynical as a career criminal. “Suppose what you’re saying is even half-true. Suppose I had a hunch where and when Pierre was going to try crossing the border. So what?”
“The word you’re looking for is complicity,” I said.
“Shut up, Bowditch,” he said. “No one cares what you think.”
“You stage-managed Pierre Michaud’s death,” I said.
“Prove it.”
“We can’t,” said Charley.
He actually laughed at that. “So what are we all doing here?”
The gravel rustled as Charley shifted his weight. “I consider myself
