I had been in Florida for a full week, where half a dozen “new” tropical diseases, from yellow fever to West Nile virus, were sending people to hospitals and graveyards. And yet I had emerged from the Everglades with mosquito bites that had already stopped itching.
Meanwhile in Maine, a state everyone assumed was safe from such insect-borne plagues, my girlfriend had seemingly contracted a rare illness that might yet kill her after a single tick bite.
The situation was simultaneously ironic and terrifying. What made it worse was the likelihood that Dani’s case was a harbinger of American life as we would experience it in the coming decades, with death’s emissaries breeding in every backyard birdbath and in every unmown plot of grass. If she even lived to see that dystopic future.
That disquieting sensation of not having escaped the swamps of South Florida returned. I felt nauseous. But the sickness might have been as much out of guilt and fear for Dani.
“I am so sorry for not being there, Nicole.”
“She wouldn’t have known if you were. Well, maybe she would have. She was delirious when I got here and thought one of the nurses, a young man, was you. She was mad at him. She said she knew he cheated on her. She was delirious, like I said. It didn’t mean anything.”
Like hell it didn’t.
“I’m headed back in the morning. I’ll catch a plane first thing.”
“Did you find your friend, at least?”
“Yes.”
“I hope it was worth it.”
Afterward, I caught a ride with Chief Plourde to my Scout on the far side of the river. During the drive, he regaled me with the culture and tragic history of the Acadians in the St. John Valley.
“We are a displaced people,” he told me.
Plourde might have made a good tour guide if my thoughts weren’t so haunted.
I wondered if anyone had contacted the warden colonel yet with the news about Chasse Lamontaine and Stanley Kellam. The duty was mine by all rights, but I found myself hoping that someone else had reached him first.
Tim Malcomb would be livid. Knowing the man’s sense of honor, I imagined that he would feel it necessary to resign over the inevitable scandal. He had stayed too long in the colonel’s job anyway, and it had eroded some of his better qualities.
I didn’t envy the man who succeeded him. The Maine press would rake the Warden Service over the coals for what our two officers, Lamontaine and Kellam, had done.
Maybe Chasse was right; this valley had never been a good place for game wardens. Borders are always places of temptations. Drawing a line creates an open invitation for people to cross it. Not just men like the Michauds but Charley, too. I found myself impressed by his courage and ingenuity—everything he’d done had been for Scott Pellerin—but I was disappointed in him, as well.
In an odd way, he had paid me a compliment; he had respected my abilities to do what he lacked the capacity to accomplish himself. My love for the old man was close to unconditional. But this day signaled the end of my apprenticeship. I had no doubt that Charley Stevens would continue to teach me life lessons, but only small boys and fools worship other men. The point of life is to find heroism in yourself.
Plourde dropped me at my truck.
The police were still mopping up the crime scene when I returned. Too much had happened that needed to be recorded and collected. A trooper directing traffic told me that the attorney general himself was flying to Fort Kent to be debriefed. No doubt Colonel Malcomb would be accompanying him. For once I was glad not to have cell service.
I found Charley and Nick again by searching for the silver Jeep. They were seated side by side on a guardrail, waiting to be interviewed by Zanadakis. Nick held a cigarette pinched between his fingers.
“How’s Dani?” Charley asked. “That tick virus is the real deal.”
“How did you—?”
“I just got off the phone with Ora, who spoke with Kathy. You must’ve been worried sick.”
“Not as worried as I should have been.”
When a mosquito circled my head, I caught it in midair and gave it a squeeze. I opened my palm but found that it was too late. The insect had already drawn blood.
“Ora and I often say we’re ashamed of the overheated world we are leaving our grandchildren.”
“You’re no more responsible for the dismal state of affairs than anyone else.”
“No less responsible neither.”
“You’re never going to be able to make this up to Ora, you know. The fear you put her through the past few days. You’ll need to clean out an entire flower shop.”
“She’s forgiven me for worse,” he said, meaning the crash that had left her paralyzed. “But you’re right that I have a lot to atone for.”
“I need to catch a plane as soon as possible.”
“Of course, but Zanadakis will need to interview us first.”
“Do we have a story we’re sticking to?”
“The truth.”
“Which truth?”
He showed me that jack-o’-lantern grin. “That’s always the question, isn’t it? I’m sure we can get going by midmorning at the latest. Hopefully soon.”
“I don’t suppose you have a buddy with a plane, willing to give me a ride down to Portland.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Then he rested a hand on my shoulder. Sometimes I forget the simple power of human touch to soothe one’s anguish.
After our interviews, Nick Francis drove Charley and me to the grass airstrip outside Fort Kent. I had left my Scout in the care of Plourde. The chief said his nephew was a prodigy when it came to auto-body repairs. I would find my véhicule better than new when I returned to Fort Kent, Plourde proclaimed with characteristic grandiosity. I didn’t dare hope.
Nick pulled to a stop outside the single hangar and long strip of grass that comprised the Fort Kent airport. An orange sock was filled
