“For Christ’s sake,” I said aloud.
Inside the trap was the fattest raccoon I’d ever seen. Fat like a furred basketball. A stomach swollen with doughnuts and bacon. Heavy enough to trigger the door when it clawed at the bait bag.
I opened the door and stood aside, waiting for the raccoon to come out, but it seemed content to huddle at the gate-end, as if it had decided to take up residency inside the trap. Finally, I had to go around to the opposite end and poke a stick at it through the grate to get it to move. The gluttonous animal edged out of the culvert and plopped heavily to earth.
I came around the side of the trailer. The coon glanced over its shoulder with an expression that showed its disdain for me and then waddled down the dirt road toward the swamp. As it wobbled away, I was reminded of a very drunk man making a last shaky effort to preserve what remained of his battered dignity. I knew exactly how it felt.
14
The only thing I could do was work, so that’s what I did. I patrolled my district from end to end. I checked fishing licenses and boating registrations. I responded to a call about a possibly rabid fox that had disappeared into some cattails by the time I arrived on the scene. The day got hotter and hotter until every road was shimmering with mirages.
Somehow I managed to miss lunch at the Square Deal.
The call finally came late in the afternoon. It was Lieutenant Malcomb. I pulled over onto a sand shoulder to speak with him. He said, “They found the ATV. It was hidden outside a camp in Eustis. The owner claims the place was broken into sometime last night. She says lots of stuff was missing-camping supplies, food, a rifle. She says your dad stole a car, too.”
“So he could be anywhere,” I said, trying not to sound relieved.
“We have an APB out on the vehicle. The Canadians say he hasn’t tried to cross the border today, but I doubt he’d try Coburn Gore or Jackman. He’d cross on foot in the woods.”
“Are they still holding Wally Bickford?”
“Yeah, they’ve got him over at Skowhegan, awaiting a bail hearing.”
I didn’t answer.
“Stay away from this, Bowditch,” he said. “You’ve got the sheriff pissed off enough as it is. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Focus on doing your job. It’ll get you through this. It always does.”
His advice was easier said than done. The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I chased my thoughts down every back road in the district and accomplished exactly nothing.
If I were my dad, where would I run? He’d already managed to slip past the roadblocks, and with the kind of head start he’d had, he might be in New Hampshire, Vermont, or even Massachusetts by now. The town of Eustis was less than thirty miles from Canada, but there was no chance he’d risk the official border crossing at Coburn Gore. He’d ditch the car soon, knowing it would be reported stolen. Which meant he’d have to find another vehicle or at least a secure hiding place.
By the time I turned toward home, the light had softened to a shade of almost purple, and the fireflies had begun their slow dance in the fields along the road. I switched on my headlights for the drive back to my rented house on the tidal creek.
Sarah was waiting for me when I got there. Coming up the dirt drive through the pines, I saw her little red Subaru parked beside my Jeep. It was all I could do not to pull a U-turn.
On the June day when Sarah moved out we’d both told ourselves it was for the best. She was on the edge of tears that whole rainy afternoon, and if her sister Amy hadn’t come along to help, she might even have changed her mind. But Amy was resolute. She was convinced her gorgeous little sister could do better than a loner like me. And she was certainly right.
Now, after nearly two months of giving Sarah the space she’d said she wanted, I found her sitting on the back steps of the house we’d once shared. She was looking out at the tidal creek slowly dissolving into the dusk. She was wearing shorts and a baggy green T-shirt, and she’d taken off her sandals and set them beside her bare feet.
She slapped her leg, flattening a blood-swollen mosquito. She looked at her hand in disgust. “One thing I certainly don’t miss about this place is the bugs.”
“Just let them bite you. That’s what I do.”
“Always the stoic.” She stood up, appraising me, uncertain at first whether to attempt a hug and then deciding no. “You weren’t going to call me, were you?”
“No.”
“That’s what I figured.” Her short blond hair was cut even shorter since the last time I’d last seen her. “Have you heard anything about your dad?”
“They’re still looking for him.”
I motioned to the door. “Do you want a beer or something?”
A big smile broke over her face. “God, yes.”
We went inside and sat down at the kitchen table. She glanced around at dust-covered countertops, and the bare walls stripped of all those bright paintings she loved. “This place looks worse than I imagined,” she said. “It’s pretty pathetic, even for you.”
“Let’s not get into my cleaning habits.”
“All right. I thought you were going to offer me a beer.”
I opened a bottle for her, then excused myself to go change clothes. She called after me: “You’re really strict about that, aren’t you? Not drinking in uniform, I mean.”
“It’s the law.”
“You’re in your own house!”
I came back, barefoot, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. “How’s summer school?”
“They’re little monsters, but I love them.”
Sitting across the table, she studied me as she sipped her beer. “You look tired.”
“Yesterday was a long day.”
“When I saw your dad’s face on the news I felt like somebody had punched me. It still doesn’t seem real.” She leaned forward across the table. “Mike, what the hell is going on?”
Sarah never made a secret of her curiosity; she thought nothing of asking total strangers the most direct, personal questions. Usually, during our conversations, she acted the role of irresistible force. I was the immovable object.
“A deputy named Twombley went out to Rum Pond yesterday morning to talk to my dad. I don’t know what information he had, but there was a fight, and Twombley arrested him. On the way back to Skowhegan, the cruiser went off the road and my dad escaped.”
“The search-what they showed of it on TV-looked like a military operation.”
“I was up there last night until late, but they sent me home.”
“What for?”
“Because I’m the fugitive’s son and they don’t want me fucking up the investigation.”
“But you’re a game warden.”
“I’ve also been telling people my dad’s innocent.”
“Oh.” She began chewing on a troublesome cuticle. “Why do you think that?”
“My dad’s no terrorist. You met him. Can you picture him getting involved in some plot to murder a police officer and intimidate Wendigo Timber?”
She looked doubtful. “You have to admit he’s violent.”
“He’s a bar brawler. He doesn’t care about politics. All he cares about is drinking and hunting and getting laid.”
“Do you have any idea where he is?”
“None whatsoever. And I don’t really care, either.” I felt my face warm with blood. “I’m just trying to do my job
