Lamontaine’s voice hardened. “Did you come all the way up here to insult me, or are you accusing me of something? I had nothing to do with Scott Pellerin’s death.”
“I think you did,” said Charley. “I think you went to work as a deputy warden with an agreement to cover for Pierre Michaud. You promised him protection in exchange for a cut of his profits. You’ve always boasted how you grew up here and know everyone in the Valley.”
“I was just a deputy. I had no authority.”
“But you had information about where the wardens would be laying their ambushes. You made it easy for the Michauds to stay one step ahead—and then you tried to use the situation to secure a full-time job where you would’ve been even better positioned to protect their illegal activities.”
The accusation amused Chasse. “Are you accusing me of being Pierre’s mole in the service?”
“Not a good one. He must have been pissed that you failed to recognize Scott Pellerin when you met,” I said, taking a shot in the dark.
Chasse’s reaction—his refusal to rebut the statement—confirmed my guess.
“If you guys are accusing me of being a party to a criminal enterprise, let alone a cop killing,” he said with a sneer, “then go ahead and prove it. You won’t be able to.”
“How about showing us your shoulder, then?” I said.
“My shoulder?”
“I suspect you have a brand on it from the hot iron that Pierre used to implicate the men in his crew.”
“Fuck you, Bowditch.”
“It had to be you, Chasse. When I showed up at Angie Bouchard’s house, asking about the badge that linked her mom to Scott Pellerin’s death, who did she seek out for advice?”
Somewhere out in the channel, a big fish thrashed in the water, chasing bait—it could only have been a muskellunge.
“You’re the only warden she knew,” I continued. “She wanted you to tell her that her mom had no connection to Pellerin’s murder. Children hate to believe the worst about their parents.”
“You know, Bowditch,” Chasse said, “not all of us are as bloodthirsty as you are. How many lives do you have on your conscience now? I have never personally killed another human being in my life. Besides which, I have an alibi for the time of Angie’s death.”
“Does your son C. J. have one, too?” said Charley with some of the old menace. “I bet he doesn’t.”
“You sent C. J. to meet Angie at the motel,” I said. “Maybe you just wanted him to get some information out of her, but he took matters into his own hands, so to speak. You’ve raised a fine boy, Chasse. You’re the father of the year.”
“You can’t prove any of this.”
There was a catch in Chasse’s voice as he spoke these words. He had been so careful himself, but he knew what a hothead his son was.
“We can prove that C. J. was the one who ran me off the road the other day,” I said.
“I was there,” said Charley. “I was too late to intervene, but I passed his truck going the opposite direction and got a decent glance at the driver.”
This, I happened to know, was a lie, since Charley had been following me, but Chasse wouldn’t have known.
He seemed rattled now. “How are your eyes these days, old man? Sharp enough for a jury to believe you could ID someone speeding in a pickup on a rainy day?”
“I’m sure the paint on Mike’s bumper matches your boy’s bigfoot.”
It was slang for a pickup modified for off-roading.
Some of Chasse’s cockiness returned. “My son doesn’t own a bigfoot.”
“Oh,” said Charley. “I am sure you ditched it in some bog where it won’t be found. But when the state police start asking around about your son’s recently disappeared pickup, I’m sure plenty of people will recall certain identifying details.”
Now Chasse’s smile became arrogant. “You’ve always been a talker, Charley. But you can’t prove any of this. If you could, we’d be having this conversation in an interrogation room and not on a sandbar in the middle of nowhere.”
“Let’s have Detective Zanadakis take a shot at your son, then,” I said. “How confident are you that C.J. won’t slip up?”
I wasn’t sure what I expected. I thought his self-confidence might waver for a split second. Instead Chasse Lamontaine somehow had his gun in his hand, pointed at Charley. He had the quickest draw I had ever seen outside a western.
My reflexes took over. I drew my own sidearm and leveled the barrel at his Adam’s apple. There is a hollow at the throat left exposed by the ballistic vest. From this distance, I couldn’t have missed the mark.
Charley kept his revolver aimed at the ground.
“Probably a good time for you two guys to drop your guns,” said Lamontaine.
“Can’t you count, Chasse?” I said. “You’re outnumbered here.”
“Am I?”
Suddenly, Charley collapsed beside me like a marionette whose strings have been cut. A split second later, I heard the rifle shot.
44
The night became electric with gunfire. It seemed to be coming from every direction, from places it couldn’t possibly be coming.
Without a single conscious thought, I threw myself on top of the old man. I would take whatever bullet came next before I allowed him to be shot again. I landed pretty hard.
I raised my head and swung my gun around in an arc, trying to find Chasse Lamontaine. But he had disappeared. My thought was that he’d ducked down into the water behind his Grand Laker or possibly even Egan’s boat.
Then came a cry from the bridge above. “I’m hit, Dad!”
Charley groaned in my ear. “Get off me, you damned fool.”
I realized that his body, under the ill-fitting coveralls, felt as hard as a suit of armor.
“You’re OK?”
“I’ll be better if you let me breathe.”
I rolled onto my backside and held my sidearm in a
